The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold (13 page)

“Oh sure. I ask him everything. He tells me everything.”

Prisca leaned forward. “Did you ask him if he likes any of us?”

“Yes.”

Heads turned. “What did he say?” Rachel asked, despite herself.

“He said something about gold and jewels. I think he was saying we were all very nice,” Debbie cocked her head, and winked devilishly. “But he said Rachel is like the Queen of Sheba.”

“Oooh!” Prisca said. Rachel colored.

“So he thinks I’m high and mighty?” she asked. “I could have guessed that.”

“No, not like that. I asked him if he liked you, and he said he couldn’t think of liking you any more than he could like the Queen of Sheba.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “Backhanded compliment,” she murmured to Prisca. “Did you ask him if he liked anyone else?”

“I was going to, but then he threw all the clubs at me at once, and I had to work hard to not drop them, and I did anyway, and then he laughed at me.” Debbie bounced on her seat. “Alan, can you take us to the island?”

Rachel had planted the seeds in the other girls’ minds gradually. She held her breath. Alan looked at Debbie. “You mean the big island? The private one?”

“Yes. Can’t we just go and look around?”

Alan shrugged. “Hmm. Okay.”

Rachel let out her breath and edged towards the front of the boat.

It seemed forever as Alan’s boat cruised slowly towards the far side of the island. Then he drifted nearer, until they could see the house and the empty heliport. It was a dark night tonight, with a thin moon.

“I don’t want to go on their docks,” Alan mused. “Maybe we can go to one of the beaches and tie up under the trees.”

“What about there?” Rachel pointed to the stone quay with the pillars. “You could drift up there and tie up under the trees to one side. That’s out of sight.”

“Good idea,” he said.

Soon the boat was actually bobbing up and down in the waves beside the quay.  Alan cut the engine, and Rachel stared, amazed at the enchanted land, now barely three feet from her.

She stood up unsteadily in the boat. “Do you want me to get out and tie us up?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Sure. Go ahead,” Alan said, and she put out a hand onto the stone, almost expecting it to dissolve into mist under her touch. But that was silly. It was solid, and she hopped onto the land and stood up, breathing hard.

“Toss me the rope,” she said to Melanie, who groped around and threw out the rope.

Rachel gave a hand to her sisters before allowing herself to drink in the enchantment of it. When Alan and Rich were on land as well, the group of them stood on the edge of the quay, looking up at the ancient trees towering overhead, lush with swaying leaves.

“It’s a magical place,” Debbie said, hushed.

“Yeah,” Rich said. “It almost seems like it.”

Tentatively they walked forward. The quay was a stone portico, about a hundred feet wide by a hundred feet long. The pavement stones were irregularly shaped, with moss growing between the cracks, but the surface was smooth with no unexpected steps.

“It’s like—a midnight dance floor,” Prisca said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oooh!” Debbie said. Then, “We should have a dance here! Rachel, we should.”

She had foreseen it long ago, but did not mind seeming to give the credit to others. “That’s a wonderful idea,” Rachel said softly.

seven

Paul breathed.  The early morning light was dim around him as he stood on the shore of the bay, inhaling, hands pushed together against his chest. The cool air hummed with the activities of insects and awakening birds. Exhaling, he listened, centered himself, and began his aikido exercises with an invocation to the Holy Spirit.

Full stretch. Up. Over.
 Pushing down, with both hands, he made a big grab of the space before him in the air, and as though it were a huge ball, pressed it down to the ground, “as though bringing your swollen ego down to the earth,” his aikido master used to say.  Reach up again, he seized the nothingness and pushed it down. And centered himself again.

Now stance work—his knees bent, his body forward, he lunged.
Stance. Lunge. Stance again.
His war injury was a barely perceptible ache.
Good!
Center. Center. Center.

He knelt on the ground in the seiza position and, spreading and touching his fingers and thumbs to form the ceremonial triangle, he pressed his palms and forehead to the ground, seeking humility and discipline.

Discipline. Time to work on his joints. He sat up and methodically began to pull his wrists backwards against the joints until they hurt.  The nikyo discipline increased his resistance to pain. He worked harder than usual on these, to ready his hands for the stress of juggling heavy clubs all day.

Then he leapt to his feet and stretched wide, making an expansive scooping motion with his arms while filling his lungs with air, then pushing the air out with a corresponding thrust of his arms.
 Take it in, release it.
After a few minutes of this, he exhaled completely from his gut and centered himself.  All his movements would begin from his center, his
hara
. He was prepared.

Now he was ready to move.  He began the agility exercises, stepping forward, twisting about, stepping back, the basic building blocks of all action. When he felt ready, he leapt forward and twisted about in a flip. Landing on his feet, he reached for the repaired juggling club and tossed it into the air. The twirl of the heavy, well-balanced instrument was a pleasure in and of itself, and he caught it, stilled it in an instant, and then tossed it again. His breathing regular, his mind alert, and his body prepared, he started into the routine he was practicing for the festival. Today was the first day.

He had hung out his juggling clothes—the black pants, loose white shirt, diamond-patched vest, and black mask—on a nearby branch. For shoes, he wore ninja shoes—lightweight, soft, black leather with flexible soles. Now he took off the black shirt and pants he had been wearing and changed into his costume. There was fruit and bread left over from yesterday’s meal, and he ate it for breakfast with a protein bar. By the time he was finished, the fire he had built earlier was burning brightly, and the water in his camping pot had boiled. Realizing he still had ample time, he made himself some tea and sat against a tree to drink it.

The Durham girls…he swirled the tealeaves in his cup and frowned. They were becoming almost as much a trouble to him as they were to Colonel Durham. He was beginning to think that the girls’ late night escapades were not so much the problem as they were the symptom of other deeper issues.

One big difficulty was that Colonel Durham didn’t seem particularly affectionate with his daughters.
You have to show your daughters that you love them or they’ll start looking for someone who will
, Paul’s dad had always said.

Paul wondered if part of the reason Colonel Durham was so reserved was that six of the girls were his stepdaughters.
Maybe he just feels awkward trying to be close to them? And he withholds affection from his biological daughters as well, so as not to play favorites?

Paul tapped his fingers on his mug. There was something else that bothered him, but it was hard to express. He could find a lot of admirable aspects to the Durhams’ plain lifestyle. They were unpretentious people who had money but had chosen to live simply. Apparently the parents were happy, but he wasn’t sure this way of life was keeping the girls contented. The Durhams didn’t have a television, but he also noticed that they didn’t have many books, particularly storybooks. Except for Cheryl, who was mostly reading Christian romance novels, he had never seen the older girls reading anything.  It didn’t seem as if they had much of an imaginative or intellectual life. From what he could tell, they spent most of their time doing housework, serving other church members, sewing plain dresses, or being bored.

They need something good to love besides ‘being good
,’ he thought to himself.
Or else, they’ll find something to love that’s not good.

Rachel had to plan her dress excursions carefully, interspersing them with legitimate errands. Between going to the grocery store and the eye doctor’s, she had made a furtive dash into a clothing store and scoured the sales racks in vain. After going to the pharmacy, she had tried another store. No luck. And she had even stopped at the Salvation Army, to paw hopefully through the ripped prom dresses and dated bridesmaids frocks. In despair she had bought for twenty dollars a 1940’s navy blue dress with a short swishy skirt, but it was years away from the svelte, sleek black dress she was dreaming about. As it was, she had taken too much time and would have to rush.

Now she stood in the library, jingling her car keys, having come to pick up Cheryl and the younger girls. They were still in the stacks, choosing their Christian paperback novels with care. Rachel stalked from side to side, antsy, and was shushed by a cross librarian, who pointed at her keys. Guiltily irritated, Rachel thrust them into the pocket of her blue denim dress and looked at the summertime reading display.

One book leaning against a model sailboat caught her eye—
The Wind in the Willows
. That was the book Paul had mentioned, wasn’t it? She vaguely recalled seeing a silly Disney movie about weasels and racecars by that name.

She picked it up and paged through it. Yes, it was a book about talking animals, the sort of thing that held no interest for her. She fanned the pages and came across an illustration of a huge man with goat’s feet and horns on his head, holding a set of pipes. He was looking down upon several cute, fuzzy animals, with an expression of love. The title bar above said
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

The figure was vaguely familiar—yes, it was Pan, one of the Greek gods.
This must be the pagan part,
she thought to herself. The part that had made one of the Bayside Christian Academy teachers warn her students against the book. Intrigued, Rachel creased the page and started scanning and reading.

All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.

‘Rat!’ he found breath to whisper, shaking. ‘Are you afraid?’

‘Afraid?’ murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. ‘Afraid? Of
Him?
O, never, never! And yet—and yet—O, Mole, I am afraid!’

Chilled by the unexpected, she closed the book.
Here I am, reading children’s literature for a naughty thrill
, she thought to herself. Feeling foolish and tawdry, she set it back on the shelf and studied it warily.

Maybe she should read it. It was obviously a children’s book, with the fuzzballs and all. And she was an adult, almost, too big for things like this. But Paul had read it.

The thought sat in her mind, and she set the book back on the shelf, then abruptly picked it up again and slid it under her arm.
What the heck
, she thought.  If it turned out to be boring and stupid, she could always bring it out when the girls were alone and read aloud parts for laughs. As she set it down on the counter, she looked again at the cover, which showed two animals rowing a boat down the river. There was a bright blue and black butterfly in the corner.

Then inspiration struck. That was what she wanted, she decided. A dress like that, blue and black.  A bit of sparkle winking here and there. Yes, that would be a dress for the moonlight. But there was no question of her ever finding a dress like that. She would have to make one.

And the fabric store was an easier place to go without arousing parental suspicion than most dress stores. Yes, that would be her strategy. 

Almost pleased, she leaned against the book counter, still waiting, but now planning. At last Cheryl came out of the stacks, staggering beneath a pile of romance novels.  Rachel added her one book to the pile and hurried out to the car to wait for the girls to finish checking out.