Archive of Our Own

A pair of gloved hands slowly slid open the lid from a crudely-shaped pine box. The anticipated contents were purchased at the last fair- new costumes, props, and makeup for the motley troupe’s performances. Gwynplaine, better known to the public by his unfortunate alias of the Laughing Man, opened the crate with a grin on his face- not because he looked forward to seeing what was inside, as he dreaded his stage appearances, but because it had been permanently carved into his face when he was a child. His eyes betrayed his true emotions as a gasp escaped his frozen mouth- pure shock as he gazed upon not circus supplies, but a limp body inside the crate, pale and gangly, with a mop of unkempt dark hair and deep shadows under the closed, sunken eyes.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” a gentle voice called, and a pair of soft, familiar hands steadied his arm. Dea’s acute senses more than made up for her lack of sight, and Gwynplaine’s cry of distress sharply pierced her ears, subdued as it may have been.
“In the crate… ”
Her hands outstretched, Dea knelt down, each finger searching for the most delicate of textures until they collided with the roughness of the box before them. They made their way to the edge of the box, then inside, coming upon what felt like tightly-knit fabric.
“Dear, these are our new costumes, are they not? Or perhaps a yard of cloth…”
“Be careful! It’s-”
Dea felt along the inside of the crate until her hands recoiled in shock. Where the knit material had ended was something smooth, clammy, and cold to the touch- unmistakably human skin.
“Love, it’s all right!” Gwynplaine helped Dea to her feet, smoothing her hair as he held her close. “He won’t hurt us.”
“He? Do you mean…”
“I believe he’s dead.”
Cautiously, Dea felt inside the crate again, until her hand rested on the fabric- some sort of clothing, then. It was difficult to make out, but underneath the fabric, something rose and fell, ever so slightly.
“He’s breathing. He’s alive.”
“Alive?” A man made his way past Gwynplaine and Dea- Professor Ursus, the leader of their troupe and the guardian of the two. Gwynplaine pulled his scarf over his mouth.
“Impossible!” he cried, gazing upon the figure in the box. “I picked this box up at the fair just yesterday; I could have sworn it had props inside! There must have been some sort of mistake!”
“Perhaps it’s a mannequin?” Gwynplaine offered helplessly, although he knew there was no way it could have been. He and Dea clung to each other, neither knowing how this had happened.
“A mannequin?” Ursus gestured to the man inside the box. “No, my boy! This must have been one of the attr- my apologies, the performers at the fair! How was I to know, with this plain box he’s in?”
Gwynplaine stared at the man. Although his otherwise featureless black leotard was banded with white stripes at the high neck and cuffs, and his face was painted, he didn’t look like any circus artist or attraction he had ever seen. His white face and the dark triangles at his eyes perhaps gave him the appearance of a clown, but what would a clown be doing in a box? His sleek clothing and thin, angular frame perhaps meant he was a contortionist, which would also explain the box, but that still didn’t account for why he appeared to be unconscious. Perhaps he had somehow been trapped inside while doing his act, and had fainted due to a lack of oxygen?
“Is he…”
“He’s asleep,” Ursus said. “He’s a somnambulist- a sleepwalker. And if my mind serves me correctly, he’s one of the most famous travelling acts around- like you two, but... This is bad. This is very, very bad.”
“Asleep?” Dea asked. “But he’s been in that crate since yesterday, at least!”
“Exactly,” Ursus said. “They say he has been sleeping for all his life. We must return him to his master; if he finds out his prize attraction is missing… ”
His master? Prize attraction? Gwynplaine thought, pity striking within his heart. He was used to this sort of talk from circus folk, even Ursus himself, but it still stung to hear nonetheless. Ursus, at least, treated his performers well, but Gwynplaine didn’t dare let him know how humiliating every night of performing had been, every mocking laugh his face drew from the audience a crushing blow. He knew that he and Dea were lucky to be displayed in carnivals and fairs, as opposed to the fates they both nearly suffered. It paid well, and kept them alive, so who was he to complain?
With a sigh, Ursus placed the lid of the box back overtop the sleeping man. “I don’t expect him to wake up, but if he does, we don’t want to shock him. The fair is in town for three more days,” he said. “We should make it there in time… hopefully.”
He left them in the back of the caravan, and minutes later, the wheels began to turn as it plodded back down the road.
-
The fairgrounds pulsed with excitement as a crowd made its way around a tent. Dr. Caligari’s exhibit was all anyone seemed to talk about, leaving the other sideshow attractions forgotten- even the famous five-legged cow. A banner outside his tent displayed an image of what they had all come to see- the miraculous Cesare, advertised as the eighth wonder of the world, able to see both the past and future. What was more, rumours had spread that Dr. Caligari had left his first town fair with Cesare after a series of mysterious murders- which only made the spectacle all the more intriguing.
Waves of chatter ground to a halt at the clanging of a bell, as the Doctor himself emerged from the tent, his long cape and top hat adding to his sinister air. He lowered the bell once silence had fallen over the crowd, addressing them in a booming voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “I have come to this town with a marvel unlike anything any of you have ever seen! Within this tent, you will find something seemingly plain to the eye, but containing a sight to frighten and amaze! Follow me inside- if you dare!”
The crowd streamed into the tent after Caligari, where he gestured to a tall, black box with his cane.
“Inside this cabinet is the amazing Cesare, a somnambulist gifted with extraordinary powers. He has been asleep for all twenty-three years of his life, and yet is gifted with knowledge more boundless than you could possibly imagine! Shortly, I will wake him from his slumber, and he will be able to answer any question for you- past, present, or future!”
The crowd held its collective breath. With a flourish of his cape, Caligari gestured broadly to the cabinet.
“Awaken… Cesare!”
He swung open the door of the cabinet- and a pile of colourful fabric fell harmlessly onto the floor. Juggling balls, wooden swords, and comical masks spilled out after it, eliciting a stunned silence, then laughter, from the audience. Dr. Caligari stared at the innocuous carnival props in shock, rage quietly settling inside him as he processed the only thing that could have happened.
Someone had humiliated him and stolen his somnambulist- someone who, he vowed, would not live to see the break of dawn.
-
Gwynplaine couldn’t stop staring at the box in the caravan, knowing what was inside. Part of him felt guilty- after all, he knew exactly what it was like to be stared at and treated like a novelty, and the doubts in his head told him he was doing just that. Still, he convinced himself, he pitied the man.
At least he’s asleep during his act, he thought. He probably can’t even hear the crowd, let alone see them. He wondered how he could breathe inside the box; certainly it wouldn’t harm to open the lid, just a bit. He glanced around; Ursus was driving the caravan, and Dea was asleep. Quietly, he crept towards the box, lifting open the lid and expecting to see the sleeping face inside.
Instead, two wide, penetrating eyes stared up at him, the black mouth twitching violently, wordlessly. Gwynplaine noticed his scarf had slipped; was the man afraid of his face? Hurriedly, he readjusted it, cursing his repulsive appearance.
“You needn’t fear me,” he said softly. “I mean you no harm. My name is Gwynplaine, and yours?”
The mouth parted, and a raspy, cracking voice like dust wheezed forth from the man’s throat. “Ce…sa…re,” he managed, each syllable seemingly laborious.
“Cesare? I’m pleased to make your acquain-”
A pair of bony hands burst from the box with a sudden speed, lunging at Gwynplaine’s throat. Cesare rolled himself upwards, vertebra by vertebra from his abdomen all the way to his head, and swung one spindly leg, then the other, out of the box, until he stood upright, eyes bulging as he grabbed at the folds of the scarf. Gwynplaine grappled with him, his strength matched by Cesare’s agility, fending off attacks as Cesare glided with an elegant, yet deadly precision about the caravan. His needlelike fingers were cold around Gwynplaine’s neck, scraping against his exposed teeth, but Gwynplaine managed to pull them away, wrenching Cesare from his throat. He grabbed a rope out of a supply box, tying Cesare’s hands and forcing him back into the crate.
“I have no quarrel with you, Cesare,” he said, “but you will not bring any harm to me or my friends, do you understand?”
Cesare didn’t answer, but writhed against the crate, his eyes wide and unblinking. Again, Gwynplaine pitied him, thin and pale and tied inside the box; seeing Gwynplaine’s unceasingly leering face must have worsened the humiliation he must have felt- if he felt anything at all. He probably attacked out of fear, Gwynplaine decided; perhaps Cesare thought he’d been abducted, which he was, albeit unintentionally. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t risk an attack on Dea, who stirred in her sleep, as if having a bad dream. Abandoning Cesare momentarily, Gwynplaine stroked her shoulder, and she sighed contentedly, settling once again into a peaceful sleep. Gwynplaine looked over his shoulder to see Cesare sitting upright while watching them with his blank, sunken eyes, and shuddered.
“We’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow,” Gwynplaine told him once he returned to the crate. “Again, we mean you no harm. We only wish to return you to your…”
Cesare gasped again, straining against the ropes. “My… mas…ter,” he wheezed. “Cali…gari.”
With that, he dropped suddenly backwards, his eyes shut once again. “Caligari,” he murmured in his sleep. “My master, Caligari… Caligari, my master… Caligari… ”
Cesare was absolutely still by the time the lid was placed over him once again.
-
His eyes still closed, Cesare’s long fingers began prying at the ropes that restrained him, carefully undoing the knots. Once his arms were free, he pushed up at the lid of the box, silently sliding it open. Of course, he wasn’t the slightest bit conscious as to what he was doing, or what had happened. He just followed what Dr. Caligari told him to do- the voice that constantly rang in the depths of his dormant mind. Caligari’s will was his own, and it was Caligari, Cesare had been told countless times, that he owed everything to.
Somehow, he’d been woken up, which meant it was time. The order was always the same- usually, there was a name whispered into Cesare’s ear and a knife placed in his hands, and then he would stalk his way through the streets until he came upon his- Caligari’s- target, and he would follow through with the command. This time, there was no whisper, not even the knife, but Cesare had still been propelled by some force he was not conscious of, to try to kill whoever it was he saw standing over him- who clearly was not Caligari.
He’d never been away from his master this long before. Usually, it was Caligari who gave him his orders, opened and closed his eyes, cared for him and insisted to him- It is I who made you, I who am your conscience. I am the Doctor Caligari, and you are Cesare, the omniscient somnambulist. He raised himself out of the box, still asleep, taking slow, shaky steps as he felt about his unfamiliar surroundings. There was something… off about this place, not just the lack of Caligari’s presence, but something that threatened his hold over Cesare. And that was frightening. Cesare was nothing without his master; just a lifeless husk asleep in a cold, dark box. It was Caligari who gave him life, fed and clothed him, assured him of his incomprehensible value- for without his somnambulist, he could not be Caligari. Cesare didn’t quite know what that meant, just that it was very, very important- without him, there would be no Caligari, and if there was no Caligari, there was no Cesare.
His eyes flew open again as he searched for the grinning man, the one who had somehow been able to thwart him. Cesare silently tiptoed over to a bed, where the man slept, a smile frozen on his face as he cradled a woman with golden hair. Cesare had never slept in a bed, just cold wooden boxes, but he always found himself approaching them before his arm would raise with the knife, and then screams would tear the silence of the night without reaching his ears. He would kill both of them, then make it out of here and return to Caligari- for without Cesare, there would be no Caligari, and that would be very, very bad. The woman’s white neck was thin and exposed beneath her curls; it would snap easily. As for the grinning man, Cesare knew he could not best him in a fight, but he could dispose of him the way he did all his other victims- in his sleep.
The woman first, then the man. Cesare’s arm slowly floated upwards as he stared at them, nestled defenselessly together, peaceful and delicate and…
They shared something Cesare would never have. Caligari fed him tasteless porridge and kept him under his roof, but his caresses were hungry and devoid of warmth. Cesare’s hand subconsciously gravitated to his own bony cheek, which he grazed with his fingertips, shuddering at his own touch. The tender embrace he witnessed was something completely alien to him, and yet he couldn’t look away. Something deep inside him stirred- was it fascination? Resentment? Rage? Whatever the case, it was a far cry from Caligari’s ravenous hands jolting him out of his slumber, forcing him upright or running, spiderlike, through his hair. He extended his hand once again, except now, he paid the woman’s pale neck no mind, but rather her beautiful hair, spilling over the pillow and into the hands of the grinning man. If he touched its softness, how would that feel? If he knew, would someone ever touch him with that same tenderness, that same…
What was it?
His fingers were just inches away from her curls, when the man suddenly woke up. “Dea!”
His eyes were wide with fear, but his mouth still grinned. The woman, likewise, opened her sightless eyes, screaming at the sense of Cesare’s fingers on her hair. The caravan ground to a halt; her scream must have alerted the driver. Cesare stumbled back, his hands outstretched in front of him as his mouth hung open. His plan of killing the two forgotten, he fled, into a shadowy corner of the caravan. There was only one other time something like this had happened, and it was what made Caligari decide they must leave town, that Cesare had put both of them in danger because he couldn’t carry out an order. A flaw that had made the experiments start again in order to remedy it, because Cesare, as it turned out, was imperfect.
“I… must… be… good,” Cesare whispered to himself. If he were good, the experiments would never happen again. Caligari would be his protector, not… It didn’t matter. He needed to kill the inhabitants of the caravan, prevent any imperfections from ever happening again. He needed to be the perfect Somnambulist, or else, he noted with a shudder, there would be no Caligari.
-
“Is everything all right? Are you hurt?” Professor Ursus burst into the caravan after stopping it, looking from Gwynplaine and Dea huddled together, to the silhouette lurking in the corner.
“He attacked me,” Gwynplaine said, “and then… I think he was after Dea.”
“The somnambulist?” Ursus swung his lantern towards the corner, a beam of light thrown onto the figure, whose limp body splayed out across the floor, eyes closed. “How’d he get out of the box?”
“He… he just got up. I saw him.”
“He touched me,” Dea added. “His hands were so cold.”
“Well, I don’t want to leave you two alone with him, but perhaps he didn’t mean any harm. If he was sleepwalking, he wasn’t conscious of what he was doing. If he woke up, maybe he may have panicked, not knowing where he was. I’ll keep an eye on him, but maybe we ought to try and make him a little less stressed and see if that calms him down.” He took a pillow from the bed and a quilt, placed them in the box, then picked up the seemingly lifeless body, setting it down on the quilt.
“Good night, Mr. Somnambulist,” he said. “We won’t cause you any harm; we just want to get you home.”
Provided you don’t harm us, Gwynplaine thought.
-
The pillow felt strange under Cesare’s head, the quilt unfamiliar. Stranger still were the words directed to him- good night. He didn’t quite know what those words meant, but they sounded… pleasant? He wanted to hear them again. And the warmth surrounding him- what was that? It almost disturbed him, he was so used to the texture of cold pine boards under his head, not…
I must be good.
The experiments couldn’t happen again. If they did, it was his fault. He would be imperfect, and there would be no Caligari without a perfect Cesare. He didn’t want that to happen. He needed to kill not just the woman and the grinning man, but also this other man- the one who had given him the quilt and the pillow and told him good night.
He pulled himself up from the box. All three were asleep. That would make it easier. He’d return to the Doctor after the task was done, and things would go back to normal, without any strange sensations or questions (questions!) in his head. And if he could do it, there would be no more experiments, either. That was the important part. No more experiments, and…
He decided to go for the old man first. In the light of the lantern on the floor, Cesare’s shadow loomed over him, his skeletal fingers cast across the wall. He was fast asleep; it would be too easy. But…
Good night, he remembered.
Why was it so hard? This was the second time that night. He’d killed plenty of people in the past; why should it be so complicated now? The experiments- he didn’t want any more experiments. And Caligari needed him; Caligari, whom he owed everything to. What was wrong with these people- with him? Was he really that imperfect?
Not imperfect. Just waiting. If he was being taken back home, as the man had said, then they would take him back to Caligari, and once they had outlived their purpose, then he would dispose of them. But they were already suspicious, and he had been taught to strike carefully.
-
The tent had been deserted in seconds, leaving Dr. Caligari fuming. As he stared at the carnival props spilled across the floor, one guest remained at the entrance to the tent.
“The exhibit is closed!” he called.
The guest responded with a rich laugh as she approached him, wearing an ornate ballgown hastily disguised with a worn cloak. Her eyes were as cold and as hungry as his, and he felt his heart stop as she smiled at him.
“Do you know who I am?” she said. “Like you, I have an interest in… curiosities.”
“The exhibit is closed,” he said again, staring as the cloak fell from her shoulders.
“I am the Duchess Josiana,” she answered, nonchalantly kicking the cloak away. “I saw how humiliated you were today, and it reminded me of my own predicament. I too had suffered a brutal, public insult at the hands of a carnival freak- a hideous laughing clown. So, Doctor, I’ve decided to offer you a proposition. You help me capture this clown, and I’ll help you find your… ”
“My somnambulist.”
“Right.”
“What payment do you require?”
“Oh, none at all,” she responded. “The clown is enough. We have… unfinished business to attend to, him and I. After everything I offered him, I can’t believe he had the nerve to insult me the way he did!”
“I think I understand you, Duchess,” the Doctor replied. “I dedicated my life’s work to my Cesare. He was admitted to me in a pitiful state, impossible to wake from his lifelong sleep until I devised my own methods of reviving him. I pain to think what may have happened to him, had he not come into my care. Who knows where he could be now?”
“You said he remains asleep?” the Duchess asked.
“Yes, unless he is awoken. And once he is, he follows my every command- imagine, if someone horrible has gotten their hands on him!”
Imagine, the Duchess thought. She couldn’t believe her ears- another carnival freak, but one that would be completely obedient to her! The clown had been an exciting enough novelty, but with this new curiosity- this somnambulist- she wouldn’t risk the same dreadful humiliations that the clown had brought upon her. This one would be entirely her own, to do whatever she wished with…
“I’ll take you up on your offer, then,” she answered, smiling sweetly. “I’ll have your somnambulist in no time.”
So she thinks me a fool! Caligari thought as he watched the Duchess exit his tent. Her words did not convince him; more suspicious still was the fact that she did not ask for a price, other than the clown. He knew she was after Cesare, for reasons he wasn’t sure of. Well, if it was Cesare she wanted, he decided, she’d get him- but not before Caligari gave him an order before sending him to the palace. As for the clown, he’d find him for sure; he could prove to be a useful bargaining tool. But how to find a specific “laughing clown”? Unless…
-
“I know how you feel about it, trust me. But who else can bring joy to so many people?” Dea insisted, her hands resting on Gwynplaine’s shoulders as he sat at his mirror, his head in his hands. Once they’d arrive at the fair, another show would be in demand, which meant another day to get by on. This routine was familiar to them, even moreso than the ones they performed on stage.
“What’s the point if their joy is at the expense of my sorrow?”
“At least you know real joy,” she responded. “Us. As much as they may laugh, I know the real you makes me happier than they could ever know.”
He took her hand, and pressed it to his mouth- a secret ritual they shared. While he wouldn’t let anyone else near his mouth, the warmth of Dea’s palm on his lips immediately filled him with a sense of bliss. They stood together quietly, until Gwynplaine looked up, startling at the reflection of his mirror, where he could see Cesare’s fixed, wide-open stare looming behind him.
“You again! Can’t the two of us have some privacy?”
Cesare, who had a habit of climbing into people’s windows at night in order to dispatch them, had no concept of “privacy.” He didn’t respond, but slowly raised his arm, settling his hand on Gwynplaine’s shoulder, staring straight ahead into the mirror as he did so. Gwynplaine jerked away, and Cesare withdrew his hand shakily.
“Is it… him?” Dea whispered.
“Ce…sa…re,” Cesare groaned.
“Cesare.” She felt around until her hand met his face. “What were you trying to do last night?”
He didn’t answer. Gwynplaine looked at him uncomfortably, ready to retaliate if Cesare were to attack again. Still, he remembered what Ursus had said, and stayed silent; perhaps he was right, and Cesare had only panicked.
“Were you frightened?” Dea asked.
Frightened? Cesare continued to stare ahead. What is “frightened”? It was how he felt during the experiments, and when, that one night, he stared into a pair of eyes just like his and then, all of a sudden, he didn’t want to kill, and without knowing it, he was hauling something heavy over the rooftops- what was it?- and he was being chased, and he saw, just for a moment, that he was a monster, something to be hunted and destroyed, something imperfect, and if he was imperfect, there would be no Caligari, and that was the worst thing that could happen and it would be all his fault and there would be experiments again in that horrible room, the one with the strange patterns on the walls…
A strangled scream burst forth from his throat, high and piercing. He’d never screamed like that before.
“I must be good!” he cried, clawing at his hair. The room was spinning, and his stomach twisted.
“Cesare! Cesare, it’s all right.” Dea called, and she took one of his hands in hers. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. Gwynplaine and I are helping you.”
Helping.
Helping was what Caligari told him he was doing, every night he handed him a knife. He would be helping his master become Caligari. He didn’t know what that meant, but it was very important, so he did it. Caligari had also said that the experiments were helping, too.
“Will… you…”
Why didn’t he kill them when he had the chance?
“Will you… do… ex…periments?”
Gwynplaine narrowed his eyes, turning towards Cesare. “What did you say?”
“Ex… ex…”
Caligari wouldn’t want him to tell anyone about the experiments. Why did he do something if Caligari wouldn’t have wanted him to do it? What was happening?
“Cesare,” Gwynplaine said, his voice stern despite his perpetual smile, “did you say experiments?”
Cesare wanted to go back to sleep, but something was keeping his eyes wide open. All of a sudden, he longed for the dark safety of the box, and the barely-registered texture of the porridge, and Caligari’s reassuring hands on his back.
“Did somebody make you like this? So you could be a carnival attraction?”
A carnival attraction? That wasn’t it; the carnival was just so they could…
“Answer me, Cesare. Who did this to you?”
Cesare’s mouth twitched. Answer me. A command. But- he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, especially if they said they were helping, because helping meant… and he was frightened, and he couldn’t just kill them, because they were taking him back to Caligari and he needed to wait, but also… but also…
“It’s all right; you can tell us. We want to help you.”
“Help,” Cesare echoed. “Help… me. Help… Cesare.”
“Yes. Yes. But I want to hear more about this Caligari. Tell me, what kind of a man is he?”
How was he supposed to answer that? Did he even know? And if he did, did he have the words? Caligari was… he was…
Cesare crumpled, asleep once again.
Gwynplaine wasn’t sure what had just happened. When he was conscious, or at least as close to conscious as he could be, Cesare hardly talked, and on the rare occasion that he did, he only spoke in fragments. He kept saying I must be good; what did that mean? And what was that he said about experiments?
Sweat beaded on his painted face, and for once, his forehead felt warm to the touch. Gwynplaine suspected that he clearly wasn’t fit for the rigorous life of a sideshow performer; whatever he did in front of an audience, odds were it wasn’t voluntary. What sorts of things was he made to do unconsciously? Was he completely unconscious, or was there some small, dark corner of his mind that was fully aware of the abuse he suffered, but was powerless to stop it? Was that why he screamed?
Suddenly, Cesare picked himself up off the ground, still asleep, and lumbered towards the box. Gwynplaine watched him, slightly bewildered, before taking his arm and leading him to the bed.
“Go on,” he said, not sure if Cesare could hear him. “A box is no place to sleep.”
Cesare, eyes still closed, didn’t respond.
“Yes, even for you. Nobody should have to sleep in a box, or subject themselves to being laughed and stared at on stage. You’ve probably gone through the same things I have, haven’t you? Turned into some horrible thing, and having to perform for whole crowds of people who don’t even see you as a person. I hope that whoever we’re taking you to, he treats you as well as the Professor treats us… or even better.” Still, he had a notion it was just wishful thinking; there was something clearly wrong with Cesare, something broken, perhaps even irreparably so. But what?
Cesare felt the covers and pillow before hesitantly making his way onto the bed, something stirring in his expression. His eyes momentarily opened- was that surprise on his face? He seemed bewildered, running his hands over the bed as if to make sure it was real. Gwynplaine silently hoped they weren’t leading him to his doom, and turned away. Back to the mirror, and soon, the fair. His mind preoccupied, he almost missed the quiet, muffled voice from the covers.
“Good… night.”
-
“Stop the carriage.”
Josiana couldn’t believe her luck; while on the road coming from the fair, she’d happened across a dilapidated green caravan, unremarkable aside from the writing painted on the side in bold letters- Gwynplaine, the Man who Laughs, and Dea, the Beauteous Blind Maid.
Josiana snorted. “Beauteous” is a stretch, she thought, recalling the circus wench in her mind. She’s lucky she can’t see her own reflection. It was impossible to understand how the clown had chosen her over Josiana’s riches, ravishing beauty, even the prospect of being a Peer in the House of Lords- and for what?
Both of them will pay for this, Josiana told herself. After all, it wasn’t her heart that had been scorned, but worse- her reputation. She was the subject of gossip and mockery around the palace, as not only had a Peer publicly refused her hand, but a carnival freak; she couldn’t even secure a marriage with the most hideous-looking man imaginable, let alone a worthy suitor. And he had decided to mock her further by running off with some blind simpleton!
She exited the carriage, observing the figures outside the caravan from afar. There they were- the clown, with his unmistakable grin, the blind girl groping about aimlessly, that idiot barker who called himself a philosopher- and someone new.
He was dangerously thin, his slim frame accentuated all the more by a black leotard. His painted face gave him the appearance of a living corpse, deathly pale with dark triangular shadows at the eyes. Josiana caught her breath- he matched the depiction outside the Doctor’s tent back at the fair! Both him and the clown, in the exact same spot- what were the odds? He was staring at the trees that surrounded them, a look of complete awe on his face, almost as if he’d never seen a tree before, swaying slightly on his long legs, which Josiana’s eyes lingered on a bit too long. He’d be an interesting amusement, she decided; a peculiar ornament to decorate her chamber. His slender fingers reached towards the branches that hung overhead, and she imagined all the other places she would make them reach. The clown had repelled her advances (as if he was too good for her!), but this curious, horrid, wonderful thing…
It would be all too easy.
-
Cesare had never seen this much green before. The trees, the grass- everything was so green it almost hurt, and soft, not like the dead wood that so often enclosed him, but bright and vivid and… alive.
What is “alive”? Am I alive?
He knew the people whose names that were whispered into his ear were alive, before he raised the knife, and afterwards, they weren’t. The man who always smiled and the blind lady and the old man were alive- the most alive people he had ever seen. They made him feel something he had never felt with Caligari. He liked how the old man had told him good night, and how soft the blind lady’s hands were, and how the smiling man let him sleep somewhere that wasn’t a box. He liked what they had been doing all day- how they gave him food, real food called “apples,” and let him look at the trees, and told him what stories were, and how to sing songs.
They felt like… he didn’t know, but he wanted more of that feeling. He wanted it forever. They felt like the opposite of experiments in the awful room and angry crowds of people and boxes and sleepwalking and horrible porridge and murder and C-
It was a shame he would have to kill them all.
The thought of killing them made something lurch in his stomach; something bad. Something he only felt once before, in that big room with the sleeping lady- that’s right, he remembered, it was a lady- who he didn’t want to kill, just to-
He was imperfect. Terrible at being Cesare.
He could no longer deny there was something wrong with him, and the only way to fix it was to either kill, or to undergo enough experiments until killing didn’t bother him anymore. That was the only way he could be perfect- how he could exist. He didn’t want to kill now, or maybe even ever. What had these people done to him?
He had to be cured. To return to the horrible room and experiments and boxes and porridge and C-
Cesare began to trudge away from the caravan. If he ever came back, it would be with a knife in his hand and no memory of it afterwards.
“You there,” a voice suddenly commanded.
He was alone in the place with lots of trees. The woods. He looked up to see a woman standing in front of him. She looked hungry.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Ce…sa… re.”
“Cesare,” she repeated, drawing closer to him. “I want to take you with me, Cesare. All the way across the ocean, to the palace. Have you ever been in a palace before?”
He stood there motionless.
“Kiss me,” she insisted. “I command you to kiss me.”
She came closer, and touched his face- not like the blind lady. Cold and ravenous, like C-
Her lips were on him, and her hands moved lower, down his neck, and his chest, and everything felt hot and cold at the same time, and his head was spinning, and all of a sudden he wished he had never gone into the woods, that he was back where it was dark and safe with-
“Duchess?” a familiar voice shouted. “What the hell are you doing!?”
Cesare jolted to see a squat figure wearing a top hat and cloak, a cane in his hand- Caligari!
The woman dropped her arms away. “I found your somnambulist,” she said innocently.
“I can tell that as much!” Caligari snapped. “Despite our deal, I didn’t trust you for a moment. I followed you out here, and it turns out I was right to be suspicious! Cesare, come here.”
Cesare didn’t need to be told twice. He took his place by Caligari’s side, and reached for his hand, the way he had seen the people in the green caravan do. Caligari brushed his hand away.
“Cesare,” he said, taking a knife out of his cloak and handing it to him, “kill her.”
Cesare’s hand closed around the handle of the knife. This woman had- he wasn’t sure what she had tried to do, but it scared him. Caligari had never made him kill anyone during the day, but what difference did it make now? Here was his chance to prove he wasn’t imperfect, that everything was as it should be.
He prowled forward on his spindly legs, a walking shadow. The woman fled as he approached, and he lunged as she tripped over her long skirt, the knife raised right above her beating heart-
And then he saw her eyes. They pleaded silently with him not to hurt her, that she was alive. Did it make any difference? He didn’t even know if he was alive or not. All he had to do was stab her, like he had stabbed countless people before, and Caligari would see that he wasn’t imperfect. There would be no more experiments.
But if he killed her, what would the blind lady and the smiling man and the old man who told him good night think? They would think he was a monster and wouldn’t want anything to do with him. If he killed her, what would stop him from killing them, too?
He dropped the knife.
“Pick it up,” Caligari said from behind him.
Cesare’s hand gravitated towards the knife, but he froze. He didn’t want to.
What did it mean to want? He handed the knife back to Caligari.
“No,” Caligari said. “Cesare, you know what to do.” He held the knife out again, but Cesare didn’t take it. Caligari took his arm.
“It’s happened again, hasn’t it,” he said. “It seems that I need to fix you.”
Cesare allowed himself to be led back through the woods, to the green caravan. As soon as he saw it and the three people outside, he broke free of Caligari’s grasp and started towards them. The smiling man saw him and waved, hurriedly pulling his scarf over his mouth. Cesare awkwardly raised a hand in response. He wanted to go back with them, these people who made him feel safe and gave him things like apples instead of knives, and everything would be-
“Cesare!” Caligari called. Cesare turned around, and thought of the experiments and boxes and porridge, and before he knew it, broke into a run towards the caravan. Once he was inside, he wouldn’t have to sleep in a box ever again-
“Sleep,” Caligari’s voice echoed in his mind.
His vision grew blurry as his limbs suddenly felt weighed down. Every step felt like a thousand, and he could hear his heartbeat in his head slow. The smiling man and blind lady ran towards him- he was almost there, and they would take him far, far away from everything, and he would be safe forever…
The last thing he felt before he lost consciousness was a pair of starving hands on him as they screamed, much too far away.
-
“Cesare, wake up.”
He opened his eyes to find himself sitting upright on a stool, Caligari smoothing his hair. They were in a tiny, familiar room- Caligari’s own caravan. A pine box lay in one corner, a knife on the countertop.
“Cesare,” Caligari said as soon as he opened his eyes. “My Cesare.”
My Cesare. The words almost sounded comforting, but… something was wrong about them. Still, he made no reaction, waiting to see what else Caligari would do. Was he relieved to see him again? Worried about him?
Caligari simply looked him up and down. “No physical damage is apparent,” he said. “As for psychological damage… that remains to be seen. After the carnival tomorrow, I’m taking you back to the asylum. You’re long past due for an evaluation.”
“I am… pleased to… see you… again,” Cesare said. He didn’t know if it was true or not, but he couldn’t help but be bothered by Caligari’s indifference.
Caligari narrowed his eyes. “Who taught you to say that? You aren’t supposed to speak unless I command you to, Cesare.”
Cesare hung his head. “Under… stood.”
Caligari sighed, beginning to stroke Cesare’s hair once again. Cesare tried not to shudder. Something felt very, very wrong, even though it all seemed very familiar to him.
“Do you see why I do not want you straying from my sight, Cesare?” Caligari said. “What that woman did to you… the world is crawling with people like that. It’s no place for someone like you, with your somnambulance and your clairvoyance. One makes you vulnerable; the other makes you valuable.”
Clairvoyance? Caligari had always said before every show that he knew everything, even the future. If there was one thing Cesare knew now, it was that he hardly knew anything. What else was Caligari wrong about?
Caligari took his face in both hands. “I am the only one who cares for you,” he said. “Everyone else- they see you the way she did, or worse. Like some freak, a horrible creature to be destroyed. You are useless to their society, despite your gifts. That is why their lives mean nothing to us. You mean nothing to them.”
“Good… night,” Cesare muttered.
“What was that?”
Cesare didn’t bother to repeat himself. He wished Caligari would stop touching him; his hands were so cold. If he tried to escape, would he have any chance of surviving on his own? Death would be preferable to the asylum, where he knew he would be headed after tomorrow.
Caligari opened a small cabinet and took out a bowl and a box of something, mixing the detestable porridge into a thick paste. “Tell me what your diet has been since you went missing. What you’ve eaten.”
Cesare thought for a moment. “Bread,” he said- that was soft and warm. “Cheese,” which was tangy and sweet. “Chicken…” that was tender and juicy, although there were bones inside for some reason; he didn’t know that food could have bones. “Oh… and apples,” he finished, the corners of his mouth turning up at the memory of what had quickly become his favourite, the first thing he had tried since the porridge. They were crisp and crunchy and a wonderful bright red, and lots of them grew on trees, and he found he enjoyed stretching up on his toes to pick the fruits from the branches, and even eat them without anyone’s help. “I… I do like apples, if you have them… ”
Caligari blinked, surprised at how talkative Cesare had become, his expression of liking something. That was dangerous; another variable to deal with. “You are on a strictly controlled diet. Anything other than the exact measurements of nutrients you have been consuming may make it difficult for you to… work. Do not talk unless you are directly answering my questions.”
Cesare looked away. He felt the spoon jab at his lips, and he obediently opened his mouth, something dreadfully sticky and dense sliding into his throat. It tasted bitter, like dirt, and left a stale aftertaste. He coughed it up, spewing a glob of it out of his mouth, which landed at Caligari’s feet.
Caligari stared at him, dumbfounded. “Cesare,” he said, “eat.”
Eyes wide and furious, Cesare kept his mouth sealed tight. He would never allow so much as a spoonful of it to pass through his lips again.
“Cesare,” Caligari said again, an edge to his voice, “I told you to eat.”
Cesare shook his head, his nostrils flaring.
“Cesare, who did this to you? Who ruined you and stole you from me? Tomorrow night, I’ll have you kill whoever it was, and if you fail me again, well… you don’t know half the things I could do to your brain. Am I clear?”
Cesare stared him down, unflinching.
“I am going to tell you one more time,” Caligari said, spooning more porridge from the bowl. “You are going to open your mouth, and you are going to eat every bit of this. And then, you will go to sleep until I wake you at the fair, you will kill whoever destroyed you, and I will fix your mind completely so that we- you can continue to exist. Now, eat.”
He raised the spoon to Cesare’s mouth. Cesare leapt from the stool, knocking both the spoon and the bowl from Caligari’s hands.
Time seemed to stop as he stared at the shattered bowl, the porridge spattered across the floor like blood. He couldn’t believe he’d done that. It meant he was imperfect, that he was… he was…
Caligari grabbed his arm, slamming him against the wall. “Do you want to go back to the asylum? Is that what you want? Do you want me… me to not be Caligari? Everything I have worked for and provided for- for you? I am the Doctor Caligari, and you are Cesare, my somnambulist!”
“No,” Cesare responded, his chest heaving. The knife was still on the countertop. He reached for it with his free arm, raising it above his head as he had done so many times before. At last, he was ready.
“I… am… awake.”
His arm came down, the knife glinting in the dim light that filtered through the crooked window. Caligari caught his wrist, grappling with him. Cesare, fueled by a rare burst of adrenaline and the far more sustainable meals he had been eating recently, was energized and more than prepared to fight. It was Caligari who had destroyed his humanity, Caligari who kept him asleep and performed the experiments. All Cesare had to do was bring the knife down, plunge it past the layers of that black cloak into his vile, monstrous heart, and he would be free.
But Caligari had kept him alive, cared for him and protected him…
No. He hadn’t been alive until he had been shown what life was like outside of boxes and murder and all things Caligari. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to win this fight, but for the chance of living, he was willing to try.
With a screech, he pushed himself off the wall, sending the knife downwards, flashing, sinking deep, deep into the cloak, all the way up to the hilt. Caligari screamed, stumbling backwards, the knife fully buried in his shoulder. Cesare had missed his mark.
“You-!” Caligari roared, seething with hatred. “Your defiance will cost you everything. Do you know what you are, Cesare? What you have become?” He grabbed the collar of Cesare’s leotard, wincing from the knife in his shoulder. “You are far, far worse from imperfect. And I am not only going to fix you; I am going to obliterate even the potential for this to ever happen again from your useless mind. You belong to me, Cesare. It was I who created you. I own you.”
“No!” Cesare protested, the cry so loud it hurt his throat. He reached for the knife again, but Caligari shoved him forward, pinning his arms behind his back. He struggled with every fibre of his being, screaming at the top of his lungs, as Caligari pushed him towards the box.
“No boxes!” he pleaded. His eyes hurt. He didn’t know why, but they were wet. “No more boxes! I hate boxes!”
“You aren’t allowed to hate,” Caligari growled, forcing Cesare forward.
Cesare stared down the open box, the darkness inside. It yawned up at him, almost threatening to swallow him whole. He tried to twist free, but Caligari shoved him into the box, raising the lid.
“I… hate… you,” Cesare spat as the box closed over him, blocking the image of Caligari’s sneering face looming over him.
“Sleep, Cesare.”
No. No. No. I don’t want to sleep. I can’t sleep. If I sleep, I will…
The words sunk deep into his mind, as much as he tried to fight them. His eyelids grew heavy, far too heavy for him to keep open. Everything around him was so dark, it was impossible to tell when they closed.
-
Everything was back to normal, Gwynplaine attempted to convince himself. He, Dea, and Ursus didn’t have to worry about Cesare anymore; he was with Caligari now, whom they had been trying to take him back to in the first place. Now, they could focus on preparing for tomorrow’s show, without having to concern themselves over deciphering Cesare’s cryptic mutterings or being woken up by his bouts of sleepwalking during the night. Everything was as it should be.
And yet, he remembered how Cesare writhed and screamed when Caligari came to take him away. He didn’t want to go back. Over the few days they had spent together, something had changed about him- when he’d first arrived, he was largely unresponsive, nearly completely silent, and at times prone to inexplicable violence. As time passed, he’d become inquisitive, fascinated by everything around him, and even almost amicable. He’d left his presence all over the caravan- a bundle of flowers and leaves here, a discarded apple core there. Dusty footprints tracking in circles along the walls.
“He sounded so afraid,” Dea said, her hand on the box that Cesare had arrived in. “Do you think he’s all right?”
He was all either of them could think of since he’d been taken away. “I don’t know,” Gwynplaine said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“They’re going to the fair, too, you know. Maybe we could…we could try to find him.”
“He said something to us once,” Gwynplaine remembered. “Something about experiments. You don’t suppose that… I couldn’t help but wonder if whatever happened to him was also what happened to me. I should have said something sooner. It’s my fault he’s gone.”
“No, no. Don’t say that. I understand why you didn’t say anything; it’s horrible just to think about. You were scared, weren’t you? That someone else could have gone through the same thing as you?”
“Yes,” he answered, squeezing her hand. “I didn’t know what this Caligari was like, and I tried to ask once, but Cesare wouldn’t answer me. I was hoping that maybe I misunderstood. But when he dragged him off… that’s when I knew I was right all along.”
“What did… what did you see?”
“It was horrible. Cesare was running towards us, until that man said something and he just- the fear in his eyes was almost animal. And then he fell asleep, and the man threw him over his shoulder and left. If he wanted to go with him, he wouldn’t have tried to escape.”
“Poor Cesare!” Dea gasped. “We have to get him back.”
“How? The fair is always so crowded, and the Professor said he’s one of the most popular acts there. There’s no way we’d be able to get away with it.”
Dea put her arms around him. “Am I talking to the same Gwynplaine who renounced his own peerage, fled the palace, and fended off an entire mob of guards, all for the sake of love and freedom?”
“I had some help.” Gwynplaine blushed modestly. “Now, tell the Professor we’re going to need a plan. I’m going to get ready for the fair.”
-
I can’t fall asleep. I need to stay awake.
Cesare didn’t even know if he was asleep or not. Perhaps everything that happened was all a dream; he had those sometimes. Maybe nothing had changed. He tried pushing at the lid of the box, but found his arms were far too weak, and he felt very, very tired. What’s happened?
Suddenly, a burst of light flooded his eyes, nearly blinding him, as the cacophonous clanging of a bell rang in his ears. Caligari’s voice was shouting something to a crowd of people, gathered around him and staring, pointing and shrieking…
Where am I? What’s going on? Cesare found himself standing upright in a cramped cabinet, carnival music mixed with unintelligible chatter coming from all sides. Above it all, the bell continued its horrible metal noise, like a sledgehammer to his ears. He retreated further back into the cabinet, pressing against the back to make himself as small as possible.
“-Cesare knows all, the past and future!” Caligari proclaimed to the crowd, continuing to clang at the bell. “Ask him any question, and he will answer with utmost precision!” He glanced back at the cabinet, clearly expecting Cesare to have stepped out by now. “Cesare, come out! You see, everyone, he’s a little shy today; he must be wanting to go back to sleep on such a fine day as this!” He stepped in front of the cabinet, ringing the bell in Cesare’s face. “Look how many people are here to see you, Cesare! Don’t be shy; come out and answer their questions! You can go back to sleep right after you show them what you can do!”
I don’t want to go back to sleep, he thought, frozen inside the cabinet. I never want to go back to sleep again.
An uproar started from the crowd; they were calling his name. Caligari kept ringing the bell.
He wants to kill them, Cesare thought.
He wants me to kill them.
The noise only grew louder; Cesare couldn’t take it anymore. There was only one way to get it to stop. As he had done many times in the past, he took a few shaky steps out of the cabinet, staring blankly at the crowd of stupefied onlookers. They surrounded the stage on all sides; there was nowhere to run. He wanted to retreat back into the cabinet and not come out until everyone had gone, but that would only make the noise start up again.
Eyes wide, he searched through the crowd for any sign of a familiar face, but couldn’t recognize anyone, just Caligari with his horrible bell, and that sight was hardly reassuring.
“Go on, everyone! Ask him your questions, and see your future revealed!”
“Good night,” Cesare whispered to himself, trying desperately to take comfort in the phrase that had come to mean so much to him.
-
“Do you think I’ll stand out?” Dea asked as Gwynplaine helped her into her disguise- a modest dress and a shawl over her long, golden hair.
“Not at all,” he reassured her. “But you’re still no less beautiful.”
“Save the sweet-talking for after we rescue your friend,” Ursus advised. “We’re going to need to keep our heads if we want to have any chance of pulling this off.”
“Your shirt’s on backwards, Professor.”
“So it is.”
Gwynplaine pulled his scarf over his mouth, making sure it was secured tightly. While the three of them were bound to stand out, he hoped to be as inconspicuous as possible. If everything went according to plan, they would be able to get Cesare back without anyone noticing, at least until they were far enough away from the fair. He looked back at the box Cesare had arrived in, wondering if they would be so lucky as to make the same mistake twice.
“Make sure not to lose each other,” Ursus warned, wheeling out the box underneath a red curtain. “You know how crowded those fairs can get, and we don’t want any trouble like last time. We go in, we get him, we go out. Understand?”
“What if they notice he’s gone during our show?” Dea asked. “What are we going to do then?”
“Nevermind the show,” Ursus said. “I’ll come up with an excuse to cancel it for tonight. This is more important.”
Under his scarf, Gwynplaine smiled- genuinely. “Thank you,” he said.
-
“Do you see him?” Dea asked as she and Gwynplaine made their way through the crowd, her hand on his arm.
Gwynplaine looked around. “Lots of acts around,” he answered. “Acrobats, a fortune teller, there’s the five-legged cow… I hope we’re not too late.”
“A five-legged cow? How many legs does a cow normally have?”
“Not five, I suppose.”
The crowd appeared to gravitate towards a tent in the center of the fair, getting denser and denser as Gwynplaine and Dea made their way through. Gwynplaine looked up to see the banner in front of the tent, displaying a crude but recognizable image.
“Over there!” he said. “There’s a picture of him by that tent. Let’s see if we can get in.”
Dea held tightly to his arm as they shoved their way to the front, upsetting the people around them. They came to the base of a stage, where Gwynplaine could see a man in a black cloak ringing a bell- and Cesare, standing at the edge and looking petrified.
“There he is,” Gwynplaine whispered. “On the stage.”
“How does he look? Is he hurt?” Dea whispered back.
“I don’t think so. But he looks… ”
Gwynplaine looked up again at Cesare’s shaking legs and darting eyes, knowing exactly how he felt. He had learned to hide his own despair on stage, but seeing it reflected in Cesare was too much. He pulled up his scarf even higher, in order to hide the tears in his eyes.
“Go ahead, now!” the man called to the crowd. “Who will be the first to have their future foretold by the magnificent Cesare?” He pointed to a raised hand in the crowd, behind Gwynplaine and Dea. “You there! What is your question?”
“Does my husband know I’m aware that he cheated on me?” a voice in the crowd called.
Caligari blinked. “That’s- that’s your question?”
“You said your somnambulist knows everything.”
“Yes! Yes, of course he does! But of all the questions you could ask the magnificent Cesare! Wouldn’t you rather want to know something more important, like the exact time, date, and location of your death? Just as a general example, of course.”
“No, not really. Who would want to know that?”
“Lots of people! Ladies and gentlemen, who among you would like to know the exact time, date, and location of your death?”
One hand in the back slowly raised.
“Well?” the lady called. “Is he going to answer me or not?”
“Very well!” Caligari answered. “Cesare, does her husband know she’s aware that he cheated on her?”
Cesare blinked.
“There’s no way he actually knows,” Dea whispered to Gwynplaine. “Just yesterday, he was bewildered to find out what a squirrel was.”
“Yes,” Cesare answered. A gasp rippled through the crowd.
“Next question! You there!”
“When will my father come back from buying milk?” someone asked.
“How is that a- you know what? Fine.” Caligari replied. “Cesare?”
“After eighty-three years,” Cesare responded.
Confused murmurs rose from the crowd. Cesare stared ahead silently.
Caligari balked. “He’s been asleep all his life,” he said, “so he gets a bit confused sometimes, especially when it comes to time. Isn’t that right, Cesare?”
Cesare had nodded off, causing the crowd to laugh.
“Cesare!” Caligari shook him awake.
Gwynplaine clenched his fists. “How dare he-”
“Not yet,” Dea cautioned, a hand over his. “We need to wait, remember?”
“You’re right,” Gwynplaine sighed. “After the show.”
-
“What were you doing out there?” Caligari demanded after the guests had left. He dragged Cesare by the hand through the tent, back to his box. “You embarrassed us. I’ll have you get rid of those people tonight, the ones who asked those idiotic questions, and if you refuse, you know what happens. I haven’t taken you into that room in a long time, but now that you’ve been acting this way, there are some things I’ve been dying to try, starting with your linguistic construction abilities. They’ve developed rapidly in an unprecedented amount of time; I’ll have to figure out what caused this acceleration and then reverse it.”
“What is…?”
“I’m going to limit your ability to talk, Cesare.”
Cesare liked talking. It was difficult at first, especially after he’d gone silent for so long, but the more he talked, the easier it became, and the more he could express all the new and complicated things that he felt.
“Things used to be so perfect,” Caligari insisted. “Back when I could trust you. I don’t want to hurt you, Cesare. It pains me even more than it pains you, but you know I want nothing but the very best for us.”
He reached to stroke Cesare’s hair, but Cesare slapped his hand away.
“Do… not… touch… me!” he gasped through clenched teeth.
“All this anger you’re feeling- you won’t feel it anymore after we’re done. No more confusion or anger or guilt- don’t you want that, my Cesare?”
He drew himself up, towering over Caligari. “I… am not… your… Cesare.”
“You are mine,” Caligari insisted, “and the more you resist, the more painful I will make things for you. Who will come to your defense, my Cesare? Who would actually want to help you, other than me? Who is stopping me from taking you back to the asylum and purging your brain of every imperfection?”
Cesare took a deep breath. “My… friends,” he said.
Caligari smiled. “Your friends? And who are these friends of yours?”
Cesare opened his mouth to answer, but realized that Caligari would likely tell him to kill them, and after an exhausting day in the exhibition, he didn’t know if he had the strength to resist. If he told Caligari something else, what would happen?
“The… stars,” he lied. Cesare had never lied to Caligari before. The old man in the green wagon had told him about the stars- enormous, impossibly hot, infinitely burning things that were somewhere so far away and so cold that they looked like tiny pinpricks of light in the sky, which was why he couldn’t just grab them and eat them like the apples off the trees.
“The stars,” Caligari said. “And I suppose the stars did all of this to you, too? I suppose the stars told you to attack me, lie to me, and defy my orders? Where you’re going, you won’t be able to see them, so you’d better tell me the truth, and fast. I didn’t teach you to lie. Whoever these friends are, I will watch you kill them with my own eyes, or else I’m locking you up for good!” Caligari reached in his cloak for his knife, but couldn’t find it. “I’m going back to the caravan,” he said. “You are not to follow me. Stay here.” He turned, then paused, suddenly shoving Cesare into the box, which he quickly bolted shut. Cesare pounded on the lid, screaming, but quickly grew exhausted.
“I’ll be back for you, my Cesare,” Caligari said. “And when I am, I expect you to behave completely. I’ll forgive you, do you know that? When everything is as it should be, and you are perfect once again, I will not be angry with you. It’ll be us against the world, just as it always has been, and you will once again be safe and protected in my arms. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Cesare didn’t answer, crumpled at the bottom of the cabinet.
-
“He’s gone,” Gwynplaine whispered. “All clear.” He and Dea crept towards the tent, as Ursus wheeled the box covered in a red cloth behind them. Looking around a second time, they entered, each feeling a distinct sense of apprehension as they observed the piled-up crates everywhere, costumes and banners spilling out of some of them.
“Cesare?” Ursus called.
“He might be asleep,” Gwynplaine whispered. “He may not hear us.”
“Come here,” Dea said, her hands on a tall, black box. She felt around the edge, until her hand came across a padlock. “This one’s locked.”
“That must be his, then,” Gwynplaine said, tugging at the lock. “Do you think there might be a key around here anywhere?”
“It’s more likely the Doctor has it,” Ursus said. “Try pulling it off.”
“Professor, there’s no way I’m strong enough to break it.”
“I could try picking it,” Dea offered.
“You know how to pick locks?”
“I used to for one of my acts,” she said. “I learned how to do all sorts of things without being able to see them- just silly things like threading a needle, lighting a candle, shuffling a deck of cards-” she giggled- “axe-throwing, pouring a glass of water…”
Gwynplaine stared at her, then at Ursus. “Did you teach her axe-throwing?”
Ursus shrugged. “Just for the one act.”
Gwynplaine pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, we can worry about that later. Do you have something you could use to pick the lock with?”
“Try looking around for something small and sharp.”
He began rummaging around through one of the crates, finding costumes and makeup. “This might be what we were supposed to get,” he said, “when we accidentally took Cesare’s box instead. Wait- what about this?” He fished something out of the box.
“What is it?” Dea called.
“It’s an earring.”
“That works. Bring it here!”
He dropped the earring into her hand, and she felt around for the lock again, beginning to work at it. Finally, it sprung open, to the amazement of all three.
“I love her,” Gwynplaine said to Ursus. “I love her so much.”
He helped Dea open the lid to the box once the lock had been removed. Cesare slumped out, seemingly lifeless.
“Cesare!” Gwynplaine gasped, taking him into his arms. “Can you hear me? Are you all right? Cesare, wake up!”
Slowly, his eyelids opened, and his eyes adjusted to the sight of the three figures surrounding him.
“My… friends,” Cesare managed. They gasped, laughing with relief.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Gwynplaine said. “You’re not going back with that man.”
“He wants to… ” Cesare paused. “...ex…periments.”
“You’re not going to have to do any more experiments, all right? You’re coming with us. But we have to leave now. He could be back any minute.” He took the red cloth off of the box that Ursus brought in, pulling out a pile of carnival props. “Here. Get inside. We’ll put these in your old box and use this one to sneak you out.”
Cesare shook his head, eyes wide. “No,” he said. “No boxes.”
Gwynplaine sighed. “Cesare, I’m sorry, but we don’t have much time. After this, you won’t have to get into another box ever again. This is the quickest way we can get you out without anyone noticing.”
“No boxes,” Cesare said again, standing up and backing away.
“It’ll only be a few minutes. We’ll let you out as soon as it’s safe.”
“No boxes!” Cesare screamed.
“It’s either this or boxes for the rest of your life!” Gwynplaine shouted back. Dea and Ursus gasped; they had hardly seen him angry. “Is that what you want? You need to do what I tell you, just this once, or else you’ll end up being experimented on again!”
Cesare trembled, backing up against the wall of the tent. “You… are… being… Caligari,” he hissed, clutching at his hair. “I… hate… Caligari.”
Gwynplaine gasped. “Cesare, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to… we don’t want to control you. We just want you to be safe, and you’re in danger when he comes back. I know you don’t like… boxes, but we’re just using this one for a little, so we can get you out of the fair without anyone noticing. So if you could just cooperate-”
“No boxes,” Cesare said. He fled towards the entrance of the tent, only to scream as Caligari entered, clutching him by the arm.
“So these are the friends I’ve heard so much about,” Caligari said, surveying Gwynplaine, Ursus, and Dea. “Carnival freaks, just like my Cesare! I’ve seen you all before; you’re quite popular, if I recall. Perhaps if you were not so dangerous, I’d have you in my show, too- you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cesare? Of course, I’d have to make a few modifications… Or I could sell the clown and the blind girl to some other carnival host- I can imagine they’d pay quite a bit for you.” He stroked Dea’s cheek, and she flinched.
“Don’t you touch her,” Gwynplaine warned.
“Ah, I see where my Cesare gets his new fighting spirit! It’s been quite a headache for me these days; so much hard work undone! In any case, none of you have to worry about being experimented on or sold, because I’m going to be merciful and do away with you all right now. Or rather, he’ll do it. What’s most important to me is that my Cesare is functioning as he should, and while I’ve given him plenty of chances, this is his last one. Cesare!”
Cesare looked away, but instinctively snapped his head up.
“Good.” He took the knife out of his cloak. “I want you to kill these three, right now. Don’t bother trying to turn the knife around on me, or I’ll put you to sleep, and you’ll wake up in the asylum. If you can do it, I won’t take you back. Do you understand?”
“Cesare, no!” Gwynplaine shouted. “Listen to me instead. I don’t want to choose between you and Dea and the Professor, but if you harm them, I’ll have no choice. Stay with us; I’ll protect you. I know who you are, and it’s not who he wants you to be.”
“He’s corrupted you, Cesare,” Caligari insisted, handing Cesare the knife. “Kill him, and you’ll never hurt again.” He let go of Cesare’s arm.
Cesare stepped forward, glancing between the two of them. On one side of the tent, Gwynplaine stood in front of Dea and Ursus, ready to shield them from a potential attack. On the other side, Caligari blocked the entrance, all the more formidable with his dark cloak and cane. Cesare raised the knife. Can I?
He pointed it towards his own chest.
“No!” Gwynplaine shouted. Caligari seethed.
“Don’t you dare, Cesare!” he yelled. “You are far too valuable. The clown! Kill the clown instead!”
“Drop the knife!” Gwynplaine said.
Two commands at once, and both of them conflicting. Cesare felt the tip of the knife press into his skin. It hurt. Was this the last thing all those people had felt, right before he…
I’m a murderer.
All at once, the guilt for every death he’d caused came bursting forward, so sudden and painful that he screamed. He was the one who deserved to die, not all those innocent people asleep in their homes…
And yet, wasn’t he the same as them, asleep? His life stolen from him by… by…
He looked again at Caligari, his usually blank eyes blazing with a cold, inextinguishable anger. Cesare took one step towards him, then another, the knife in his outstretched arm gleaming as he slowly stalked closer and closer, precise and lupine in a deadly ballet.
“Sleep,” Caligari said.
Cesare did not fall asleep.
“Sleep! Sleep, damn you!” Caligari’s pleas grew more desperate. The command fell on deaf ears, his nervousness obstructing its usual dominion over Cesare’s mind.
Caligari ran for the entrance of the tent, but Cesare was suddenly in front of him, his tall frame blocking the light from outside. He prowled towards Caligari, who backed away, holding his cane out as a futile means of defense.
“Sleep! Cesare, I order you to sleep!” He attempted to strike Cesare with his cane, but he nimbly dodged the attack. “Do you forget it was I who created you? I who kept you alive? I who control your very mind? Sleep, my Cesare! Sleep! Sleep, damn you to hell!”
He backed up until he hit the box- the same box he had shoved Cesare into countless times, the same box he used to exhibit and exploit him, the same box that meant Cesare belonged to him. Now, the knife was pressed into his sternum as Cesare stared down at him with furious eyes, having cornered him against that very same box.
“Sleep,” Caligari choked one last time.
Cesare shoved him into the box, the knife tearing into Caligari’s flesh. He screamed, and Cesare struck him again and again, the knife coming out bloodier and bloodier each time. Caligari’s cane dropped from his hand, and he gasped desperately for air, his face drenched in his own blood and sweat. Cesare raised the knife again, but caught a glimpse of his own crimson hands, and Caligari, whose breaths were getting more and more ragged by the second.
What have I done? he thought. He dropped the knife and dragged Caligari out of the box, laying him down on the ground. He hated Caligari, he knew that. Caligari had turned him into something less than human. But for some reason, he didn’t want him to die.
“Don’t… go,” Cesare gasped, his chest heaving. He attempted to wipe the blood from Caligari’s face, but as his own hands were coated, it only smeared onto his cheek. “Don’t go!”
Gwynplaine and Dea, holding hands, rushed towards him. Ursus stood back, his face white with shock.
“Don’t go,” Cesare insisted again, his eyes suddenly burning and welling with something wet, blurring his vision and making him feel nauseous. An aching wail escaped his throat, and he threw himself over Caligari’s body as he sobbed. Why do I feel like this? What’s happening to me? I hate him. I hate Caligari. He felt Gwynplaine and Dea’s hands on his shoulders, and he wanted to wrench them away, but he couldn’t. He wanted the entire world to burn, and himself to burn with it. He reached for the knife, to stab himself over and over in the same way he stabbed Caligari, but couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. He cried, for Caligari and himself and all the people whose lives they had ended.
He lay there until he felt a cold, shaking hand on his head, and all of a sudden felt revulsed all over again.
“My… Cesare,” Caligari choked, and his hand dropped lifelessly to the ground.
Everything was silent for a long time. Cesare stood up slowly, blinking as he stared at Caligari’s bloodied corpse at his feet, his unseeing eyes gazing up at him, his mouth slightly open in a final, unrealized command.
He’s gone, Cesare thought.
I’m free.
He didn’t know exactly what that meant, just that there would be no more boxes, or porridge, or experiments, or murder, or exhibitions… or Caligari. It meant apples and sunshine and stories and crying and rainstorms and friends and regret and trees and stars and good night and grief and softness and anger and… and the feeling he got knowing all of that would be the rest of his life.
“I’m free,” he said aloud. “I’m… free.”
Gwynplaine wiped the tears from his own eyes, taking a piece of fabric out of one of the crates and using it to clean the blood off of Cesare, who stood there in shock.
“No experiments,” Cesare said. “No boxes.”
“I know,” Gwynplaine said. “I know.”
Cesare reached out both hands, putting them awkwardly on Gwynplaine’s shoulders. Gwynplaine embraced him- something Cesare had never felt before. It didn’t feel like Caligari at all. Dea made her way over to him as well, hesitating before hugging both of them as Ursus stood by.
Is this my new life? Cesare thought, filled with a strange warmth. I don’t want it to end.
“I hate to break up the moment,” Ursus said from behind them, “but we should, well, we should probably get going. You know, with… well, you know.”
-
Back in the caravan, everyone was silent. Gwynplaine and Dea sat together as Ursus drove, and Cesare, wearing a new set of clothing (for some reason, Gwynplaine’s spare clothes fit him perfectly!) stood in a corner, holding an apple. So much had happened in the past few days, and he still hadn’t quite processed it all yet. He bit into the apple, still amazed at how flavourful it was. Would that amazement ever go away?
“Cesare,” Gwynplaine called, “could you come here, please? I’d like to show you something.”
Please. That was new. He didn’t know why people said it, but it made commands feel much softer- almost like they weren’t commands at all, but something nicer. He made his way over to the window, where Gwynplaine and Dea were sitting.
“Out there,” Gwynplaine said, motioning to the window. “Take a look at the stars.”
Cesare pressed his face to the window and looked up at the sky, which sparkled with more stars than he had ever seen before. The stars had never known boxes, just lots and lots of forevers.
“What do they look like?” Dea asked, her head on Gwynplaine’s shoulder.
“Bright as your eyes and radiant as your hair, but not nearly as beautiful as either,” Gwynplaine answered.
“Like lots of spiders,” Cesare said, observing how they twinkled, resembling the skittering arachnids.
“Well, one of you is lying, then,” Dea laughed.
“It’s him,” Cesare insisted. “You don’t look like spiders.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Come sit with us, Cesare. There’s room for three.”
He looked at the two of them, and the space beside them on the worn sofa. Sit with us. A command? Or something else? Either way, he decided that he wanted to, very much. He crawled up next to them, awkwardly crouching on his knees as he stared out the window and at the stars, so many that the entire sky seemed to glow.
Here was somewhere safe, he decided. Somewhere safer than any box, no matter how secure, could be. He took another bite of the apple, wondering what else was out there in the world that was new- there must have been even more new things in the world than there were stars in the sky. As he sat there with them, Gwynplaine’s arms around both him and Dea, he knew he now had something that he wanted for a very long time, but didn’t know that he wanted so badly until that moment. Something very nice.
“Good night,” he said. He was not at all tired.