It was during Farentina’s twenty-third year with the company when she finally decided she had had enough. She was trudging through knee-deep snow that crunched into slush under her boots, following the eccentric group of performers with their scarves wrapped around their throats like a second skin. Their ragged coats concealed their skin-tight suits of patterned shapes and colors, making their group look more like a somber funeral procession than a traveling circus.
The clearing was still a mile away, and Farentina could already feel the torturous cold of the early morning frost deep in her bones. She had mastered the ability to shrug it off, to force her mind to trail off to thoughts of summer, of the sun’s warmth that used to caress her skin, of the sticky sheen of sweat on her brow—all were now distant memories. Those feelings were dearly missed and nearly forgotten. But the cold always persevered, the shadow of its frosted hand always looming over their bowed heads, casting them under a spellbound trap for all of eternity.
Tonight, the cold will not matter—it never did. The show will go on as it always had for the past twenty-three years. They will shed their coats and scarves like caterpillars leaving their cocoons. They will embrace the chill, loosening their muscles to stave off shivers as they juggle bowling pins atop a unicycle, teeter on a tightrope with capuchin monkeys perched on their shoulders, and execute gymnastics tricks on the back of a prancing horse.
“Entertain without refrain,” that was The Vernal Caravan’s motto. They would risk it all to earn a crack of a smile from their audience, because when that day comes, they will find themselves freed from this morbid curse of everlasting winter.
*****
There had been no applause that evening—another fruitless performance that only deepened their depression and desperation. Blame had once been prevalent among them, but what was the point in pointing fingers if none of them suffered more than the other?
Farentina sat on the edge of her cot, massaging the heel of her foot that throbbed endlessly. Her fouettés were leveled, polished, and even graceful. She had taken center stage longer than usual, extending her dance sequence by executing multiple at a time, hoping that at least one person from the audience would display a hint of amusement in their sullen eyes.
Even that would have been enough to counter the curse, but no—not even a single spark.
Sleep did not come to her as easily as it used to. Instead, she found herself pacing inside the wardrobe tent with her back hunched and her frame bunched under layers of quilt. A wave of intense helplessness flooded her senses, keeping her on her feet. Her light footsteps on the canvas floor produced a steady rhythm that disconnected her from her surroundings, keeping her from noticing the masked figure standing by the threshold.
“Torturous, isn’t it?” A guttural voice sliced through the thin air, making Farentina clutch her pearls. The figure towered over her, its face concealed by a mask she recognized as part of the marionette’s discarded costume. She knew each performers’ voice by heart—not this one, though.
“I know that which your heart desires; a long-time wish that settles in your gut like the wildest of fires,” it began smoothly, as if reciting lines from a manuscript.
“In due season, thou shalt perform a last rite, one accompanied by the music I write.”
A thud followed his voice—the figure had flung a sheaf at her feet.
“Take heed and rid yourself of your gloom; for in your sacrifice, spring shall then come,” it ended, bowing its head in return.
Farentina crouched down to observe the package closely. She turned it over in her hands: a tome of sheet music.
“Spring?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper amid the tremor that hummed between them like a silent drumroll.
Her question drifted away, unanswered.
The figure had gone, as if it had never appeared at all.
*****
It was during Farentina’s 25th year that the ballet was finally completed. Whoever the figure was, they were an artist—an accomplished one with a steady hand and an educated mind. For the past two years since their encounter, she had hoped to see them again.
Farentina never did, not even in her dreams.
She wished to thank them, for the time had become the long-awaited answer to her prayers.
Farentina discovered a blossoming peony beside her tent after their first week of rehearsals. Months later, grass peeked in tufts beneath the frosted ground. The air grew strangely warmer each time the first chord had been plucked, accompanied by a faint hint of mildew that filled their lungs.
Tonight is the night. She felt it on her skin and tasted it on her tongue. With every pirouette, a vine tendril crept across the tent rafters, slithering like eager serpents until they were dense enough to fade out the torchlight that illuminated the stage.
The brass and violins exploded in a total crescendo, heralding a tumultuous shift that broke through the audience’s steady repose, causing them to lift their drowsy heads to marvel at the prima ballerina who was dressed in glittering white.
“Dance for me, and sunlight you shall once again see!” a voice boomed from the stands amidst the scream of the trumpets, deftly surrounding her. Without looking, she knew who it was.
“Faster,” Farentina urged herself, fluttering her eyes shut as she executed blindingly fast chaîné turns that were enough to make a novice stumble.
The lights faded out completely, blinding the audience and the spectating performers, and still she went on. Amid every graceful turn, the tips of her fingers met the ruffle of leaves. The ground below her shifted unevenly, giving way to an emerging root.
The music had long ceased, but it looped in her mind, allowing the melody to lead her into a trance.
“It is nigh! Heave a sigh and say goodbye!” the voice cheered.
*****
As quickly as it faded out, the lights made their steady return.
Every eye blinked, allowing their visions to adjust to the abruptness of it all.
To this day, no one understood how and why the Vernal Caravan had been freed from their curse, nor why a lone hibiscus stood unyielding come rain or shine on the barren clearing that had once been the ballerina's final stage.
