Siren Spell

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Siren Spell Page 15

by Cidney Swanson


  Giselle picked bits of white Sasha-fluff off her jeans from where the perpetually shedding dog had greeted her.

  Katya, mistaking Giselle’s silence for confirmation, sighed with worry and placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

  “I’m okay,” said Giselle, looking up. “I mean, I really let myself go with him. And not in a good way. There were all these red lights flashing and I told myself I didn’t care. Not as long as he kissed me like he meant it.”

  “He is super hot,” said Katya. “He’s like, made of hot.”

  Giselle smiled, amused at her sister’s attempt to make excuses for her.

  “No, I was just being stupid,” said Giselle.

  As she said it, she realized that if there was one thing she was over, it was James’s good looks.

  “And you know what?” added Giselle, “He’s not hot. He’s vile.”

  “He cast a spell on you and now it’s broken,” murmured Katya.

  “I just wish I had evil fairy juice to sprinkle on him,” said Giselle. Her voice caught on the final words. The effects of the spell lingered; his rejection still stung.

  “Oh, Giselle….” Her sister was at her side, an arm around her shoulder.

  “No,” said Giselle, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I don’t even know what I saw in him to like. He’s … he’s not a nice person.”

  “It’s never about how nice they are,” said Katya. “It’s about how they make you feel.”

  Giselle’s brows knit together. Her sister was right. James’s attention had made her feel …better. It had provided such a lovely distraction from the loss of her role, of ballet itself. Now she would have no such distraction.

  It’s about how they make you feel.

  Giselle leaned into Katya’s arms. “I liked that. How he made me feel,” she confessed. “Like I mattered to someone for a change.”

  “You matter to me.”

  Giselle sighed.

  “And to Babushka,” added Katya. And then, more quietly, “And to Mom.”

  Ah, but her sister was wrong about that.

  Katya released Giselle from her hug and, grabbing a mug, attempted to coax hot water from the samovar. Finding it was empty, Katya carried it to the sink and began to refill it.

  “A little chai before dinner will make things better,” she said.

  Giselle straightened and swiped at her eyes, nodding. Katya wouldn’t understand, but Giselle could see it was time to get over both of them: James and her mother. For a long minute, the only sound was of the samovar filling with water. After Katya turned the faucet off, she spoke again, her voice serious.

  “Before Mom and Babushka get back, there’s something you should know.” Katya set the samovar back in its place on the table, plugging it in. “Today, Mom got a letter from a ‘concerned parent’ complaining our grandmother’s ikon has no business being on the wall of our studio.”

  Giselle snorted into her teacup. “The Holy Mother of Pointe Shoes and Tulle belongs there more than any of us.”

  “No, this is serious, Giselle,” said Katya, pulling a letter from her bag. “This letter states that because the building is used for students receiving public school credit, the ikon has to be removed immediately. Or further action would be taken.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Katya shook her head. “Separation of Church and State, the letter said.”

  Giselle’s brows drew together. “Did this letter get forwarded from the school district or did it come straight from a parent?”

  “Straight from the, er, concerned parent. Who doesn’t even have a student enrolled with us. But the thing is, Mom says the studio can’t survive without the income from Ballet for Jocks and the other credit classes. Not with the new instructor, especially.” Katya bit her lip. “I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

  Katya handed the letter to Giselle.

  “What’s Mom going to do?” asked Giselle, glancing through it.

  “You know how stubborn she is. She’ll never remove that ikon.”

  “But she’s an atheist. That should count for something. It’s not like she wants the students to …” Giselle paused, stumbling to find the word.

  “Genuflect,” said Katya. “Or bow. Or pray.”

  Giselle shook her head. “I bet Mom had a fit when she saw this.”

  “She went on and on about how no one was telling her what she could or couldn’t put on her own damn walls. Then she switched to Russian. I think the swearing got a lot worse. Babushka scolded her, anyway.”

  Giselle smiled. “Well, there you have it. Proof Mom doesn’t regard the ikon as an object of religious devotion. Not if she swears up a storm in front of it. And anyway, maybe Babushka will sell the studio and make a killing and we won’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

  Katya’s face fell. “Don’t say that.”

  Hastily, Giselle tried to backtrack. “I’m only joking. It’ll blow over, Katya. This will all turn out to be nothing. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Katya took the letter back. “Giselle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t tell Mom I told you about the letter. She doesn’t want you to know. She’s worried you’ll feel responsible about money being so tight this year, with her paying Miss Ellen instead of having you teach for free.”

  Something in Giselle’s throat tightened. Her mother had been concerned for her. It made her realize how badly she wanted her mother to care about her. How horrible it was that she didn’t care. Not enough. Not anymore.

  “I won’t say anything,” Giselle said.

  There was a quick rap at the door and then the sound of a large truck pulling away. Sasha stirred and gave a single half-hearted woof.

  “UPS,” said Katya, looking up from where she was folding the letter and replacing it in its envelope.

  “Got it,” said Giselle, crossing to the door.

  The box on the front porch was a familiar shape and size. Giselle reached for it, confirming the sender’s address. New pointe shoes for Katya.

  She felt a dull pain, not in her body, or not exactly. It felt more like a pain in the soul, if such a thing were possible. It was a craving. It was a hunger for fruit no longer in season—or maybe extinct—so that she would crave it and crave it but never taste it again. It was a ballet-shaped ache, piercing her heart, stealing her breath.

  It put James’s defection in perspective.

  “That better be my shoes,” said Katya, speaking over the sound of the water coming to boil in the samovar. “Mom told me I couldn’t wear my old ones even if I bathed them in pointe shoe glue.”

  Giselle remained beside the front door clutching the box and waiting as the ballet-shaped ache throbbed, pulsed, and dulled. She brought the box to her sister.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about the letter,” whispered Katya, sensing Giselle’s mood and attributing it to the wrong cause.

  “It’s nothing,” said Giselle, sitting back down at the kitchen table. She poured more tea.

  The sisters sat in the encroaching gloom, neither rising to turn on a light. Katya opened her box with practiced hands and pulled out the new pointe shoes, the satin seeming almost to glow in the dim light. Giselle looked away.

  Outside the kitchen window, the sky looked like spilled ink. It would be a cold night. Pushing the last of her self-pity aside, Giselle tried to picture James, shaving or putting on cologne or whatever it was self-obsessed boys did before dates in the statue garden.

  Sasha lumbered over, her tail wagging hopefully. Giselle’s heart squeezed with guilt—it was the third day of missed walks. Maybe that was what she needed. A good, long walk.

  “I’m taking Sasha out,” Giselle said to her sister.

  “Do you want company?” asked Katya, shaking out her new ribbons.

  “No. You sew your ribbons and elastic.”

  The white dog looked wolfish in the dark front room standing with her attention fixed on her leash where
it hung from the coat rack.

  “Okay, girl,” said Giselle. “Let’s go.” She attached the lead to her dog’s collar and they were off.

  Giselle’s walks with her dog had been getting shorter for several months now. They needed to visit the vet, but that took money. Giselle cursed under her breath. She didn’t think she could bear to lose Sasha, on top of everything else. She wondered how much revenue a sale on the studio would generate.

  Sasha perked up after only a few steps, however, curling her tail high over her back. Giselle sighed in relief. As the two continued down the uneven sidewalk, Giselle envied Sasha’s warm coat and began to wish she’d grabbed a scarf. How could it be this cold in September? Early September. Her grandmother said the rusalki brought the cold, but that was just plain ridiculous. Whatever form of being the creatures were, they surely held no sway over the weather.

  Turning her collar up, Giselle glanced ahead to the path leading to the river. James would be waiting at the statue garden by now. She amused herself imagining him as he watched the minutes tick past with only the cold mermaid for company. And then she decided to head to the park to make sure he really was there. But when she turned toward the river, Sasha, who was generally eager to go that way, stopped in her tracks.

  “Come on, girl,” said Giselle. “Just a little farther.” She needed to see James, waiting there, cold and frustrated.

  Her dog’s white fur gleamed in the moonlight, and her coal black eyes caught the reflection of a streetlamp.

  “Come on, Sasha.”

  The dog made a huffing sort of noise and then fell in step.

  Which turned out to be a mistake.

  21

  ILL MET BY MOONLIGHT

  The bronze replica of the Little Mermaid of Copenhagen rested on a plinth set on a large rock, moss covered on all sides. Ten feet away, behind another large rock, Giselle crouched with her dog. Sasha’s tail was down, her ears back, and she refused to sit when Giselle murmured the command.

  From her hiding place, Giselle could see James in his car, drumming impatient fingers against the steering wheel. He checked his cell and then exited the car, slamming the door behind him and strolling toward the riverbank of the Multnomah Channel, now bright with the newly risen full moon. Giselle could see his breath when he huffed out a quiet curse. For a moment, he stood, hands on hips. He checked the time again. Then, seeing a bottle lying on the ground, he kicked it, frustrated.

  The corners of Giselle’s mouth turned up.

  James’s foot hadn’t connected solidly with the bottle and it spun in lazy circles, coming to rest only a few yards away. Muttering under his breath, James strode to the bottle and hurled it into the river where it made a satisfying splash.

  A strange sound followed the splash. A low, keening sound.

  The hairs on Giselle’s arm rose. Sasha’s ears pricked forward and, very softly, she growled. A moment later, Giselle heard James yelp in pain. The bottle—the same one he’d thrown—had struck him forcefully on the shoulder. It probably would have drawn blood if it had struck him on the forehead.

  “Who’s there?” called James. He looked from side to side, then squinted at the moonlit river. “Who threw that?”

  “You did, mortal,” said a voice. Rough. Female.

  Giselle knew that voice.

  The back of her neck prickled, a lizard brain response warning her to run, flee, escape. Sasha growled softly, the sound almost blending with the noise the river made as it hissed past the gravel and sand of the shoreline.

  The female voice spoke again. “We return to you what is yours, mortal.”

  “Who are you?” demanded James. “Do I know you?”

  As James asked the question, Giselle gathered the courage to look around the boulder blocking her from view. She saw them. Sirens. They shook out their long, wet hair, scattering drops over the river, on the shore, on James. One of the cold maidens reached down to choose a comb from the shore. She drew it through her hair. Giselle tried to count the creatures. There were several. A dozen. No, maybe more—there were white shapes in the river. Sirens or spilled moonlight, she couldn’t be sure.

  Several of them approached James. Others ignored him, diving and surfacing in the river. Their garments or rags or mesoglea ran the length of their bodies and, when they dove, created the illusion of fluking tails.

  “Listen,” called James. “I’m not trying to spoil your, er, fun.”

  Was it possible James couldn’t tell they weren’t human? How could he not tell? Giselle wondered if she should warn him.

  “But you should know the river is dangerous here. People have drowned in that current.” He was imitating Mr. Kinsler’s I-mean-business voice.

  The sirens laughed: harsh, cruel, and jangling.

  “Plus you could seriously freeze to death,” muttered James, abandoning his attempt at teacher-voice. He rubbed his hands several times against his arms, to warm himself. Then, shaking his head, he backed away.

  “Stay, mortal.”

  It was a command. Spoken in the voice of the creature Giselle remembered from childhood: the voice of the rusalki queen.

  Like magic, James’s feet froze in mid-step. Giselle’s hands flew to her mouth. Sasha, whining, crept back several steps.

  “Dance with my maidens,” said the queen. A pair of black-haired sisters rose from the river. Each took one of James’s hands, pulling him into a dance that quickly became frenetic. James whirled between the two and Giselle, terrified, understood what the wild creatures would do. They meant to dance James to death. Somehow, the queen knew about James and his false heart, just like she’d known about Danny Metzger and Tommy Schrank all those years ago.

  Giselle knew it with the conviction that comes in dreams, but this was no dream. Behind her, Sasha whined again, having turned away from the river. And then, with the agility of a much younger dog, Sasha dashed away from Giselle, running through the parking lot and heading for the road. Giselle saw the approach of headlights.

  “Sasha,” she cried. “No! Come!”

  Giselle looked over her shoulder to James. At the same moment, the unearthly white eyes of the nearest maiden bent her direction.

  Giselle called again for her dog, but Sasha ignored her, still heading for the street and the oncoming vehicle. The creatures beside the river bared their sharp teeth to the moon. Giselle cursed and dashed after her dog.

  The headlights drew closer.

  “Sasha, no!”

  Her dog made it across the street, still running for home. Giselle followed, feeling a single tear streaking from the corner of her eye to her temple. When had she dropped Sasha’s leash? How could she have dropped it? How could she have been so stupid, stupid, stupid! Sasha bounded through yards and across residential streets taking an arrow-straight path to home. Only as the two reached their front grass did Giselle catch up to the dog.

  Katya had already opened the front door, hearing Sasha’s insistent barking, and the two, dog and girl, burst inside.

  “The sirens,” Giselle said, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “They’re here.”

  22

  DRY WOOD SHAVINGS

  Katya stared at Giselle without speaking.

  “They’ve got James,” cried Giselle. “We’ve got to do something!”

  This forced a response from Katya. “What do you mean … they’ve got James?”

  “They’re forcing him to dance. I know this sounds crazy.” Giselle’s mouth pinched into a thin line. “But James is in danger. Grave danger. We have to go back there and make them—”

  “What’s going on?” demanded their mother.

  Giselle spun around, startled. She’d thought she was alone with Katya.

  “Giselle saw sirens at the river,” said Katya.

  “And they’ve taken a boy from my drama class,” said Giselle. “I think they’re going to drown him. We have to go, now!”

  Babushka gasped and then began muttering rapidly in Russian.

  “
Not helpful,” Ruslana said to Babushka. Grabbing the phone from its cradle, Ruslana punched in three numbers.

  “We have to go,” Giselle insisted.

  Her mother held a hand up, and Giselle froze in place, a response ingrained from years of ballet classes.

  “You’re not going anywhere near the river,” said Ruslana. “9-1-1 will send someone who’s trained—Hello? Yes, I’m reporting a siren attack.”

  “Will they kill him, Babushka?” asked Katya, her voice soft.

  “Very bad,” muttered their grandmother. “Ochen, ochen.” The old woman crossed to peer out the front window, still muttering in Russian.

  Giselle’s legs and arms had begun to shake now that she was still instead of running.

  While their mother answered the dispatcher’s questions, Katya took Giselle’s hands in hers. “You’re as cold as ice,” murmured Katya. “Tell me what you saw. Everything.”

  “I saw sirens. Lots of them. More than a dozen. Moving in and out of the river. James threw a bottle at the river and they threw it back at him and one of them commanded him to stay and he stayed; I’m sure it wasn’t by choice and then the others took him by the hands and started dancing, and oh, Katya, I shouldn’t have left! But Sasha ran away and I was afraid she was going to get hit by a car so I chased her and I left James there—”

  “Mom called for help,” Katya said to soothe her sister. “It will be okay.”

  Their mother set the phone down and began wandering through the downstairs rooms, calling for the girl’s grandmother.

  “Mamulya? Mamulya?”

  And then, at nearly the same moment, Ruslana, Katya, and Giselle all noticed that the front door stood ajar.

  “Now what’s that old fool gone and done?” said their mother, dashing outside.

  Giselle ran outside just in time to see the Mercedes pulling away. In the distance, she heard the wail of emergency vehicles approaching the river.

  “What is she thinking?” demanded the girls’ mother.

  “Let’s go,” said Giselle.

  “Absolutely not,” snapped her mother.

 

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