Free Sugar Rain by Paul Park

crowd. The lot was filling up with people. Men straggled in from neighboring streets, and groups of children rolled their hoops and pointed and chattered to each other in high voices.
    “What is it?” asked Charity.
    “Passion players,” answered the parson. “It’s a play about your brother’s trial. Look, there he is.” He pointed to a dancer who was putting on his costume and his mask.
    “Why? What happened?”
    The parson looked at her. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard,” he said. “You must be the only person in Charn who doesn’t know. Today is his execution day.”
    Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. “Don’t say it,” she cried. “They will not dare.”
    The parson shrugged and turned his attention to the play. Around them the crowd was quieting down. One of the dancers had put on a quilted jacket and a mask: a bald head and a high white forehead. He drank liquor out of an empty bottle and made a mime of drunkenness, stumbling and staggering around the circle until the crowd roared. Then he held his hand up for silence. His palm was painted with the symbol of the sun.
    “How dare they?” whispered Charity, tears in her eyes. “How can they make fun of him? He is a prince of Charn.”
    “Hush,” warned the parson, and put his fingers on her arm. “They mean no disrespect,” he muttered. “On the contrary. You’ll see.”
    The play started. It was in pantomime and hard to understand for someone who knew nothing of the story. In most cases people seemed to know, and those who didn’t know were quickly told by others in the crowd. All around there was a hum of talk. Charity plucked the sleeve of her companion after every scene, whispering, “What is happening? What is happening now?”
    “How can you be so ignorant?” grumbled Raksha Starbridge. “The whole city knows this story. Look, there’s the church. You know, where the fire started.”
    Four dancers sat cross-legged on the ground, joined at wrists and ankles with gray scarves, indicating manacles. Above them stood another dancer, dressed in the red robes of priesthood. His mask was grotesque and distorted, painted half face, half skull, and he held a pillow out in front of him to indicate his fat.
    “Parish chaplain,” muttered the parson as Charity tugged his arm. “Can’t you see? He’s delivering a sermon to the prisoners.”
    The parish chaplain stalked around the circle, gesticulating and shaking his fists, while below him the prisoners groveled and hung their heads. But then Prince Abu stumbled in. Standing in the middle of the circle, he raised his right hand to show the tattoo of the golden sun. For an instant no one moved. And then the prince and the chaplain were struggling in elaborate mock battle, full of kicks and pratfalls, until the chaplain tripped and fell, and it was over. The prince stood above his fallen adversary. He took a drink out of his empty bottle, and then he squatted down among the prisoners, pulling the scarves away from their ankles and their hands, helping them to their feet.
    But then more dancers were leaping into the circle from the crowd. Dressed in black, with black, empty masks, they joined hands around Prince Abu and the knot of prisoners. Again, the prince raised his hand, and for an instant everyone was still.
    Then one of the prisoners jumped forward, swinging his gray scarf, and one of the black soldiers of the purge fell, holding his head. He had hidden some red paint in the palm of his hand, and as he fell, he streaked his hair with it, leaving a long red smear.
    It was a signal for pandemonium, as prisoners and soldiers struggled together. They formed a spinning circle around the prince; he stood untouched. Then suddenly all was quiet. The dancers threw themselves to the ground, frozen in various attitudes of prostration, while a young girl stepped over them into the middle of the circle, and twirled a graceful pirouette. She was dressed in a ragged shirt of orange and red,