Lucid Waking

        She saw nothing wrong with meeting for criminal purposes, but she did see something wrong with attending late to a meeting like this. She tapped her long fingers impatiently on the tabletop, making soft thumps with her finger pads. Finally, she saw his car pull up and she looked at her watch: an hour late. She closed her eyes and sighed before taking another sip of iced tea.
        He smiled at her as he entered the café. She raised one eyebrow as he sat down.
        “You’re terribly-"
        “Late. Yes, thank you, I know.”
        She nodded slightly containing her pride. She was slightly impressed by his polite behavior, but she had seen it all before.
        “Well, what did you ask me here for?” he asked leaning heavily back in his chair.
        “A simple job for an assassin like yourself.”
        “Let me just mention now that I don’t do jobs that will ruin my pride.”
        “That’s understandable,” she said laying down a manila folder on the table. The tab was labeled “Secret.”
        “We’re going to have to ask for your absolute digression in the matter,” she said as he pulled out black and white photographs. He involuntarily sneered in disgust at the things caught on film.
        “That is precisely why we need you to take him down.”
        He paused and set the rest of the photos down on the table. “Just let me know when."

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The fiddler is playing
His sorrowful tune
Under the willow tree
By the old lagoon

He’s tired of hearing
The same old song
To illustrate life
As it goes along

And changing the melody
Does nothing to affect
The state of affairs
Of worldly defect

Instead it heightens
A need for lament
In a world that is empty
Except for blood and cement

Heroes are gone
Along with the bards
Their stories are buried
In empty stockyards

Along with those people
Who died in a war
Not really sure
What they were fighting for

All those lost souls
Whose fortune resides
In shady dealings
To save their own hides

And all these things
Can’t be found in a song
Because writing of problems
Takes too damn long

The fiddler sits
Under the willow tree
Crying for the suicide
Of the future world to be

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        She was the perfect vision of beauty. She had long skinny legs and curves in the right places. Her make-up was caked onto her face making her lashes long and thick and her lips full. Her clothes fit like a second skin and her hips swaggered when she walked. Every guy I met would die for her and if she dropped something or started to pout, it seemed like every person in the vicinity was there to help her. Her skin was a medium tan and her eyes a precious blue with silver crackling in the iris. But most people did not look at her eyes.
        Like most people, she had a dirty little secret. She never told anyone her secret because she wasn’t haunted by it. Since I was her sister, I knew. She conveniently had practice until past dinner, she had too much homework to go to lunch, and she woke up too late to eat breakfast. The money my mother would give her to buy food would mysteriously turn up as plastic and chemicals in Sephora bags.
        The first problem came when her hip and bust size went down. There was a point when people started to notice. Like I said, no one looked at her eyes. She started losing some staring eyes in the hall. But still no one noticed her mealtime schedule. She didn’t really have friends just acquaintances, so no one brought anything up to her face. One night when she thought I was asleep, she came into my room and told me about her losing attention and how she was sort of glad.
        “I’m getting tired of being under a spot-light all the time,” she said. “And besides, it weeds out the people who were only interested in my looks.”
        Then the phantom came again and took all of the fat in her body. Her ribs started to show when she took off her shirt and her calves were thin and ugly with the shin sticking out from the muscle behind it. She started wearing pants and long sleeve shirts, even in the summer. She lost more friends and she started getting worried. But (she told me one sleepless night when I wasn’t supposed to be listening) she was too far into it to ever think of eating one of those disgusting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or snicker bars.
        But then the phantom called his buddy, death, and asked whether or not he could do something about my sister. After all, the phantom wasn’t sure he could get her out of bed now that her body had started eating itself. But death is no match for me and my mom and a telephone. We called an ambulance; it took her away. My mom beat herself up about not paying better attention. She took the locks from our doors and my sister’s car keys.
        My sister went through rehab. The first and last time I saw her, she was asleep, hooked up to an IV and breathing with the help of a machine. She was sent to Wisconsin for a therapy program as soon as she could walk with a walker.
        My sister never came back. They said she ran away because she was tired of thinking about herself. She wanted to help other people, so she managed to get a plane ticket to Africa to help the children as a teacher. She called mom and told her everything was fine and she was completely cured. She called me, but I just got the message and didn’t get to hear her voice. She sounded already dead, like she was calling from the afterlife.
        “Jenny,” her voice whispered. “Don’t ever get eaten by this monster, even if it means sacrificing your pleasure. Don’t get sucked into the Devil’s deal.”

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            Saying goodbye was probably the hardest part of life. And yet, I did it so often; I should have been numb. It was getting to the point where I had to cry. It got harder and harder to do it right the longer I had to prolong it.
            “Cut! Allison you’re doing it wrong again!”

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            The church was found in the middle of the woods covered in large-leafed ivy. The door creaked from rusty hinges when she opened it to go in to the cavernous room. The pews were dressed in moss and more ivy, and the doors by the isle remained shut. The stained glass windows depicted nothing, but the light from them lit up the room in ghostly colors.
            She approached the alter and bowed on her knees, her hands locked together and her heart speaking silently through her mouth. There was silence as she asked and thanked to the empty chair covered in climbing roses. They were red and in bloom.
            The silence was due, in part to the leaves. They seemed to soak up sound as much as sunlight, and in terms of footsteps, there was nothing left for the human ear. He always kept this to his advantage and was able to walk right beside her without her noticing. The invisibility ring would do the rest to keep him anonymous. He had a reputation to uphold.
            She looked at the chair in one last plea before standing up. But she didn’t turn straight back towards the door, instead continued to an alcove next to the alter on the left side. The alcove held a set of stairs which led to a large dusty room above their heads. However, her unexpected path sent her sprawling as she tripped over his invisible legs.
            In a fluid motion, he took of the ring and put it in his pocket. She had just enough time to roll over and spot him and his hand reaching out to help her up.
            “You!” she spat. “How could you come in this church?”
            He chuckled emptily. “I’m praying just like you.”
            She took his hand, but glared at him. “How could you mock His sanctity like this? You’ve murdered hundreds, no thousands, leaving them to burn, and yet you show up in a church of those you hunt and say you are praying to their god!”
            “Everyone must eat. And if it is any consolation, I pray to be taken in the same manner as the people I kill.”
            She snorted. “It is not enough to pray; you have to do something about it. If you were really sorry you would have given up long ago on your orders and let the other church burn you with us.”
            “It’s not that easy! I am part of two separate groups who are being hunted—the green folk and the shadow kin. All the while, I am really part of the hunters. I can’t give myself up on my mission. I pray for you to find a way out, really. Rebecca.”
            She made motion for a retort, but was caught off guard by the mention of her name. All of a sudden he looked much older than the teenager he was supposed to be. He looked older than her, though she knew he couldn’t be. Suddenly it hit her what her preachers meant by conversion.
            “How did you know my name?” she asked, breathlessly.
            “Rebecca was the missionary daughter of the family in Barley. They were killed seven days ago and they bid me give you this.” He pulled out a glass ball, perfectly polished to reflect the green light. It was heavy in her hand, but as she reached to put it in her pocket, it shrunk to the size of a pea.
            “They hope you’ll be an ambassador and mend the broken ties with the shadow kin,” he said quietly, “I promise I’ll do all in my power to help.”
            She nodded. “Why didn’t you approach me earlier? You were obviously praying here before I tripped?”
            “I had to be sure it was you,” he said. “No one else would go towards the bell tower.”
            She sighed. “Fine, but don’t let me down.”
            He nodded. “I won’t."

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            Kari was writing out the list of girls in each class with her mechanical pencil, her nose a few inches from the paper. The candle on the desk was lit, but the smell was barely noticeable in the cold room. She sat up straighter and put the finished class list in the pile of finished registers. She re-did the ponytail in her platinum blond hair before starting on another list. She had a muscular frame, but she was thin and very tall for a ballerina. The phone rang and she answered it. She was concise and professional in the answers she gave on the phone. A few girls or their mothers came up to her and waited as she walked through the procedures of the dance studio she worked at. Smiling, she took a check or two, joked a bit with the regular girls or their mothers and then stood up in her fuzzy slippers to get ready for her ballet class.
            Another dancer came into the studio, ready for class except for her jeans. She announced that she hurt her knee during cheerleading practice and couldn’t dance in class that day. Kari turned to her and started asking questions about how long ago the injury was and whether or not she went to a doctor. She took the girl’s answers into account and told her to wear a brace while putting a heating pad on it before she went to bed. The girl thanked her and sat down in a chair, while she waited. Kari had responded the same way when I had sprained my foot and always reminded me to take it easy. She told the girl the same thing as the dancer sat down.
            I was extremely early to class as I always was on a Monday so I was watching some of the classes through the window. While there was a lull in the office work she had to do, Kari came over to join me.
            “What’s up, Bri?” she asked me.
            I told her I was tired.
            “How’s school?”
            There was a lot I could tell her, but I just said it was fine. Not the absolute truth, but not a downright lie, either.
            “That’s good.” She went back to watch the girls perform across the dance floor; a few had faulty technique, but they worked hard to fix it.
            I told her how much I hated the emphasis they put on college in addition to all the schoolwork in honors classes. She told me that she remembered what it was like when she was in high school. “I was in honors classes, too and I ended up not going to college,” she said with a smile. “And I’m fine and love my job.”

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            The weather was dismal. There was simply no other word to describe it. Snow was sticking to the windowpanes and carriage wheels and horse hooves making travel slower than it usually was. Boots were sliding around in the snow until they finally found their footing on the wet pavement of the stairs of the VonCarter Estate.
            Music was already playing as the guests arrived and the food and drink was already arrange on gold table clothes before half of them had taken in the extravagant ballroom. Coats were peeled off awed spectators before they shuffled off to say hello to their host and hostess. But no one with a son was fooled by the gold and red glitter. The entire affair was a ball of masks for their daughter, Victoria, who was of the age to get married.
            Henry VonCarter was an esteemed advisor to the throne and businessman, who had used his money and high position to buy himself an estate second only to that of the king himself. Victoria was not so much sought out for her beauty, of which she was blessed, but for the financial prospects her family included.
            Victoria was milling about the room around the dance floor closer to the frosty windows than the buffet table and door. The servants had apologetically bumped into her more than once that evening and she found herself closer to the entrance that she would have liked. She brushed her royal blue gown with her gloved hands, again, as a servant passed her and when she looked up, found herself looking into the eyes of the gentleman she had been avoiding.
            There was nothing wrong with his golden-brown hair and sky-blue eyes or the precious, melting smile, except that every girl that he ever smiled at was charmed. And she knew he had smiled at quite a lot of girls. Despite her montra for the evening, she was being pulled into his attractiveness.
            “May I have this dance?” he asked bowing deeply.
            She didn’t even realize she had agreed before she was swept onto the floor, her slippered feet gliding with the music. Song after song, the room filled up and young men started craning their necks to glance at the beautiful Victoria VonCarter dancing with another man. And she knew it wasn’t right to let herself do this, but she couldn’t stop. The room was getting hotter as she spun and the colors meshed together in a blurry soup.
            It was only when her ankle bent inwards underneath her weight that she was able to stop and pull herself away from the center stage. Her dance partner escorted her politely to a chair and poured her a drink, but he was just as quickly swept up in the dance again after spotting another girl. She tried to make an effort of shaking out the pain in her ankle, which turned out to be in vain, just so that she could be on her feet again and dancing with the angel who she had been with. But the pain was stubborn enough to stay and she found herself sitting down again fairly quickly when she tried to put weight on it. It was a horrible end to the dancing, she decided, as many other men tried to get her to dance again. She ended up letting herself be escorted to a chair by the servant’s entrance and away from the crowd.
            The angel came waltzing past her again and seemingly every time he did he was with another girl, all of them mesmerized. She sighed and shook out her ankle again, but it didn’t make a difference.
            “It’s aweful, isn’t it?” a voice asked beside her. “The way he teases them.”
            Victoria looked up to find a young man about her age dressed like an earl. She hadn’t even realized he was there or when he had approached her, but he was looking at the dance floor instead of at her. Despite his obviously rich appearance, he spoke in the worst British she had ever heard. He dropped syllables and letters off of his words, yet it wasn’t unpleasant to hear him talk; in fact, it was a welcomed change.
            “I try not to let him persuade me,” she said in her perfect English.
            “Yeah, but he’s hard to resist. I’ve yet to see a girl impervious to his charms. And when I do, I’ll bet he’ll marry her.”
            The boy ruffled his brown hair and then looked at her. His green eyes pierced her like venom, but they glowed warmly like the candles on the buffet table. She tried to keep up with her formalities, but she couldn’t help, after looking at his odd eyes, to ask the now burning question.
            “Who are you?”
            “Me?” he laughed. “I’m Daryl Samboria, son of the Duke of Champagne. My older brother is the dancer responsible for your ankle.”
            “Oh… well… I suppose you know who I am.”
            “Don’t let that dissuade you from introducing yourself.”
            “Victoria VonCarter, daughter of Henry VonCarter, advisor to the throne.”
            “God save the queen.”
            She nodded. “I would dance with you, but…well…you know already that I hurt my ankle.”
            “I would ask if you weren’t hurt,” he said quietly before adding, “Don’t think I wouldn’t.”
            “On the contrary.” She smiled at him.
            They looked at each other for a moment in silence before he pulled his eyes away. She could almost swear he was blushing, but it was hard to tell with the little light she had where she was sitting.
            “I suppose it would be strange for you to marry the younger son of a duke,” he said, his eyes still on the dancers.
            “I don’t think so. Besides, would they bring you if they didn’t want you to be considered?”
            He smiled. “Yes, they would.”
            She stood up on her shaky ankle, but refused to let herself sway. “Well, that’s too bad.”
            He was clearly blushing. “That’s it? Don’t you want to know a little bit more about me?”
            “Well, then do share,” she said, smiling.
            By the end of the evening, she had only been with two gentlemen, but she was fine with that. The duke was delighted to marry his son off; after he got over the apparent disappointment it was his younger son. The eldest did not seem to mind, but no one found him until there were very few people left. He was a bit embarrassed at first, but he congratulated Victoria and his brother before wandering off to talk with a servant.
            They were married off the next week and Victoria’s father gave them a house with several acres a little ways from the town. There was nothing she would have given for a different life, for she knew it was almost precisely the way she wanted it.

(A link to the song, for those who are unfamiliar)

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I don’t usually take the time to explain the posts here, but I thought I should explain a new tradition I thought of starting. Every month, I’m going to write a story or poem telling the tale of a certain work of music. I don’t know how long they’ll be, but the title will refer to the piece of music I was translating. This is just my thoughts on a story that fits the dramas of the particular classical piece and is not the actual story behind or of the piece. If these posts are not published the first of the month, they will be the first post published, whenever that is.

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