Siren Spell

by Cidney Swanson

  But not on her.

  She was the one made free in the transaction.

  She turned back to the queen. “Please, your majesty, will you release Marcus?” she asked softly.

  The sirens hissed again and their dance with Marcus became wilder, their intentions more deadly.

  The queen smiled, unconcerned. “You have stolen one fool from our grasp. Be content.”

  Giselle’s pulse began to roar in her ears again. “No,” she whispered. “Marcus hasn’t done anything. He’s good. He’s kind.”

  “More’s the pity,” replied the queen. “Your forgiveness cannot therefore release him as it did the worm.”

  “Please,” asked Giselle. “I beg you!”

  But the queen was no longer paying attention to Giselle. She was moving toward Marcus, a graceful hand extended.

  “No,” cried Giselle, leaping forward.

  But the sirens grasped for her, one catching her by the ankle, another by the hair.

  “Marcus!” she called, trapped.

  “No, Giselle,” cried Katya, stepping forward. “Stay back!”

  “You stay back,” Giselle shouted to her sister. Tears filled her eyes. She looked down to the siren clinging to her leg. “Let me go!”

  And as she looked down, something caught Giselle’s eye. A soft glow, emanating from her pocket. Her tablet. “Here,” she said to the siren trapping her. “These are the best dancers the world has ever seen.” Frantically, she reached for the device in her pocket.

  But the glowing rectangle, when she withdrew it, was not the tablet.

  It was the ikon. Inexplicably, the ikon was emanating light.

  “Holy Mother of Forgiveness Divine,” Giselle said aloud.

  And then several things happened at once. The siren holding her leg released her, hissing. The sirens surrounding Marcus cried out and abandoned him. Marcus shook his head several times as if he were coming awake. And Giselle heard a new voice, coming from the ikon, speaking softly: To forgive is divine.

  At once, the siren queen turned to Giselle, crying out, “Put it away! Put the dread object away!”

  “Did you just speak?” Giselle asked, addressing the Holy Mother of Impossibilities. Had she heard something, or had she imagined it? Already the light radiating from the ikon was fading, the glowing traceries becoming merely gold paint reflecting moonlight.

  She’d imagined it. She must have imagined it.

  “Away with it,” groaned the queen, addressing Giselle as though it required great effort.

  Giselle continued to stare at the ikon, waiting to see if it would glow again, if it would speak again.

  The siren queen and all the remaining creatures had grown unnaturally motionless. Giselle glanced up, unnerved by their stillness. The sirens had always been in motion of some kind, flowing like the water that gave them shelter, but now they were still. What was going on?

  Marcus approached Giselle and stood beside her.

  “Whatever you do,” he said, “Don’t put that thing away.” He pointed, indicating the ikon.

  “Not a chance,” murmured Giselle.

  “I ask of you,” whispered the queen, “I beg of you, hide it away. It burns us.” Her voice cracked with the effort of speech, and Giselle felt a tug of pity.

  “I’ll put the ikon away,” she replied. “But only if you make some, uh, promises.”

  Would this work? Giselle didn’t know what rules might govern treatises between mortal and … undead, but it was clear that she had leverage now, and she wasn’t giving that up until she was sure Marcus was safe. Until they were all safe.

  “Name your demands swiftly, mortal,” said the queen.

  Choosing her words with care, Giselle spoke slowly. “First, release Marcus from further obligation to you. Or to your court,” she added.

  “I release him,” said the queen, her breathing ragged.

  Marcus exhaled heavily, as though he’d been holding his breath. He nodded to Giselle, shaking out his hands and legs to reassure himself they were under his command.

  “What else, mortal?” asked the queen, her voice rasping.

  “Next,” said Giselle, “You must promise never to come here again or to otherwise trouble any of us.”

  “I swear it,” said the queen, gasping for breath. “Release us!”

  Giselle nodded. “You are released.” She put the ikon back in her pocket.

  Was that it? Was it enough?

  The queen turned for the river, her steps labored and heavy. All of the remaining sirens fled to the water.

  “Wait, your majesty,” called Giselle. The queen froze as if compelled. Giselle spoke quickly. “I don’t know who hurt you or how they hurt you or what it was that happened to you. But it might not be, you know, in your best interest to hold onto those memories forever. Maybe you should … let go.”

  The queen held Giselle’s gaze with her own blank eyes for a count of three. Then she tilted her head to the side, white eyes narrowing. And then the Queen of the Sirens sighed and slipped below the water. Giselle stood on the empty shore, staring at the river. The gibbous moon shone in reflection on the water’s surface. And then, just where the queen had disappeared, Giselle saw something: foam. It was there and then it was not: evanescent. She gazed at the same spot, but the strange foam did not reappear.

  As she turned to join her friends, the church bell struck half past one.

  41

  THE WAY BACK

  All was silent except for the rush of water.

  “What just happened?” asked Marcus.

  Giselle shook her head slowly, pulling the ikon from her pocket once again. She examined it, but it neither glowed nor spoke. The colors looked muted, even the gold traceries appeared burnished and faded.

  “I heard it. Her. Whatever,” Marcus said quietly.

  “You heard it?” asked Giselle.

  Marcus nodded solemnly. “It said, ‘To forgive is divine.’”

  James hesitated beside his rock, afraid to join Marcus and Giselle so near the river, but Katya sprang across the grass and threw her arms around her sister. The two hugged for a long moment, and then, grabbing Giselle’s hands, Katya spun her sister in a wild circle, their joined hands the axis about which they turned, giddy and laughing, until Giselle began to cough from the effort.

  “You’re sick!” cried Katya, dropping hands at once in favor of hugging Giselle. “We have to get you better.”

  “I am better,” Giselle said. And then she laughed. “I am better! Everything is better!”

  “Let’s get you home,” said practical Katya.

  As the four walked the silent streets of Foulweather, James stumbled through a sort of apology to the others. In spite of the overweeningly clumsy nature of his apology, Giselle chose to give him credit for effort exerted.

  Marcus raised an extended fist to James, saying, “Let bygones be bygones, man.”

  James nodded, flashed half a smile in Giselle’s general direction, and took off jogging on a trajectory she assumed would lead him either home or to his next assignation.

  She found she didn’t care in the least.

  Marcus insisted on walking the sisters home.

  “There’s no need,” said Giselle. “Katya and I can take care of ourselves.”

  Marcus laughed. It was an infectious laugh: deep and throaty.

  “Obviously! Don’t think I didn’t notice who did all that rescuing just now.” He flashed his wide smile. “But my grandpère drilled it into me that you always walk a lady home.”

  Katya giggled.

  Giselle felt a smile forming on her mouth.

  After this, Marcus rubbed his hands self-consciously along his dance leggings and then addressed Giselle.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Giselle.

  “No,” he said. “I have to mention it. I was an idiot. You and your sister warned me last night and I was still an idiot. I’m sorry. And grateful. So thank you.”
r />   “We couldn’t lose our Albrecht,” said Katya, shrugging.

  “You’re welcome,” said Giselle. “And your dancing …” She shook her head. “I’ll never forget it.”

  Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down, mumbling. “Yeah, well, I never should have placed you in the position I did. Dance isn’t everything.” His gaze flickered her direction. “Or, it’s not the only thing.”

  Giselle frowned, wishing she could say the same thing with the same conviction. Although, maybe she had said it tonight, making the decision she’d made. There were things more important than dance.

  Marcus executed a series of fluid steps to avoid the cracks in the uneven pavement, and Giselle sighed again to herself. Marcus could move.

  “Here we are,” said Katya, indicating their house.

  Marcus waited at the foot of their porch steps until they’d unlocked the door. Sasha, frantic with worry, nearly pushed Katya over.

  “Good night,” said Giselle. “Your dancing was lovely.” She frowned. “I said that already. But I meant it. It was unforgettable.”

  Marcus’s dark cheeks flushed under the porch light. He traipsed lightly up three stairs and then used the height to execute a stunning stag leap onto the grass, landing it in ghostly silence.

  He turned, waved to Giselle, blew her a kiss like he did in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and disappeared around the corner.

  Katya, barely able to stand, climbed the stairs ahead of Giselle. By the time Giselle finished tucking her into bed, she was asleep. Moonlight spilled across Katya’s pillow and Giselle brushed her hair off her cheek, giving her sister a small kiss, infectious cold germs notwithstanding.

  Turning to her desk, Giselle emptied her jacket pockets. She set her mother’s tablet next to her school books and then returned to her bed to consider her grandmother’s ikon.

  “I know you spoke,” she whispered to the serenely depicted face under its traditional head covering. “I heard you and Marcus heard you.”

  The ikon remained silent.

  Silent or not, Giselle knew there was no question now of hiding the Holy Mother of Forgiveness Divine in some corner of her bedroom. It belonged in the studio. Which meant she had one final task.

  Giselle turned to Sasha.

  “You want to go for a walk?”

  The white dog thumped her tail twice and stood, ears pricking forward. The girl and the dog slipped outside, traveling swiftly, with the ikon lodged safely in Giselle’s pocket.

  Overhead, the sky had cleared completely so that the stars seemed to cluster low over Foulweather, like fruit ripe for plucking. The sight made Giselle’s breath catch. It was a sky deserving of its own dance. Or its own sonnet. Maybe Mr. Kinsler would know if Shakespeare had written one about the stars.

  Sighing, Giselle unlocked the studio door. Sasha waited patiently out of doors, aware there were rules dogs did not break. It took Giselle only a moment to re-hang the ikon in its familiar place.

  “I won’t let them take you down,” she whispered softly to the painted mother and child.

  And then Giselle’s mouth quirked into a smile, because now there were two generations of Chekhov women who talked to icons.

  As she made her way home, a question began to form in her mind, insistent. By the time she reached her house, she knew she had to ask her mother.

  Considering all the two had been through the past weeks, this was a bold move, but Giselle was feeling bold or reckless or both. And perhaps, she thought, there were some things that could only be braved at 3:00 in the morning.

  With this thought, she ventured into her mother’s darkened bedroom, a place she’d avoided for weeks. As she brushed the hanging quilt that sectioned off her mother’s office, memories of the fateful night of Giselle auditions flooded back over her. But then the memories seemed to recede, and as they did, Giselle realized they no longer had the power to drown her.

  “Mamulya,” she whispered softly. Tentatively, she placed a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mamulya,” she repeated.

  Her mother sat up, instantly awake. “What is it? What’s wrong? Who’s hurt?”

  “Everyone’s fine, Mom,” said Giselle. “But I have to know something.” She took a deep breath. Her heart was racing. “The ikon: when you talk to it, does it talk back to you?”

  Her mother brushed stray hairs off her face. She took in one slow breath and then another. To Giselle, it felt as though time had slowed and was stretching into infinity as she awaited her mother’s reply.

  “Only once,” Ruslana said at last. “The ikon spoke one time.”

  Giselle reached for her mother and hugged her fiercely.

  She wanted to tell her mother that she, too, had heard the ikon speak. She wanted to ask her mother why she’d never talked about it before. And mostly, most of all, she wanted to go back to being mother and daughter again. The only problem was that she didn’t know where to begin. Or did she? The hug felt like a beginning.

  At last Giselle released her mother. The two women regarded one another. Wary. Cautious. Hopeful.

  It was a beginning. And perhaps someday it would be possible for them to find their way back to being mother and daughter. Perhaps.

  It was a beginning.

  42

  APOLOGIZING IN RUSSIAN

  Giselle stared at the blank page on her desk in English. It was free writing time and though she had plenty on her mind, Giselle had nothing on her paper.

  The local newspaper had announced the PTO would be convening that evening to investigate the question of whether sufficient separation of Church and State was being observed in the publically funded classes at Studio Bolshoi. Giselle had wanted to tell her mother how sorry she was, but Ruslana had left early.

  Not that Giselle would have known how to start that conversation. Her family didn’t really do apologies.

  Why was that, she wondered, her pencil eraser pressed to her lips.

  Her English instructor, prowling the aisles, passed Giselle’s desk and tapped a finger on Giselle’s blank page with one eyebrow raised. Dutifully, Giselle picked up her pencil. And had an idea. And began to write.

  There’s a glaring hole in my Russian vocabulary. I know how to say:

  I swear.

  Please.

  Thank you.

  You’re welcome.

  You’re in big trouble.

  Get lost.

  That’s too expensive.

  And lots of other useful things. But I don’t know how to say, “I’m sorry,” in Russian.

  Or “I forgive you,” she mused.

  She lifted her pencil and chewed it thoughtfully. The cause for the absence of these bits of vocabulary might be analogous to something in ballet, and her instructor loved it when students drew analogies in their writing. Giselle touched pencil to paper again.

  In the centuries before you could film a ballet performance, choreographers struggled to create some kind of “notation” to record dance movements and preserve dances in written form like a piece of sheet music preserves a piece of music. Unfortunately, it didn’t work well and to this day, there’s no universally accepted way to notate dance. Instead, ballet developed a tradition where one master would teach the steps of a dance to his or her protégé.

  This means that the “correct” way to dance the role of Giselle or Odette or Petruchka comes to us in an unbroken line that originated with the first performance, or in some cases, the first new choreography. I suppose it’s old fashioned, but it has worked for hundreds of years. Even the invention of video didn’t change things, because there are things you just can’t learn from watching a video.

  Her teacher hated when students used “just” in sentences. Giselle erased the word and wrote “simply” instead. Then she smiled, remembering how Coach O’Hara said football couldn’t be learned watching a video either.

  Giselle continued, eager to reach her main point before time was called.

  The older generation teach
es the new generation the “right way” to do things in ballet. I think something similar has happened in my family with “apologizing.” Some great-grandmother I’ve never even met must have neglected to teach my grandmother to apologize, and my grandmother neglected to teach my mother who neglected to teach me. I know how to say, “I’m sorry” in English, but isn’t it a little weird I’ve never heard it in Russian, the first language of my mother and grandmother?

  Giselle’s instructor called, “Time,” ending the period of free writing.

  Giselle’s thoughts on the subject were far from over, however.

  When she thought of her mother, or her grandmother, one of the first things that came to mind was how in control they were. Of their emotions, postures, facial expressions. Maybe there was less need for apologizing in families where no one showed how angry they were.

  Or maybe there was more need for it.

  Giselle frowned. Her mom and grandmother had major meltdowns from time to time. And this past month had seen a few years’ worth of explosions. But no apologies. Giselle couldn’t remember the last time anyone but Katya had apologized for anything. Or the last time she herself had said she was sorry to anyone in her family. It didn’t seem right, but how was it going to change? Was change even possible?

  On her way to drama rehearsal, Giselle passed a huge hand-painted sign stuck on the outside of the gym: BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD. Well there it was, in black and white. Or rather, in a rainbow of poster paints. In rehearsal, Mr. Kinsler had the class observe Puck while he delivered the final if we shadows have offended speech to within an inch of its life. Shakespeare had turned his “apology” into high art.

  Rain was pouring as rehearsal ended, sheeting off the school’s inadequate roof gutters. Marcus offered Giselle a ride home, which she accepted. If Marcus noticed the way his offer brought color to Giselle’s cheeks, he had the good sense to keep it to himself.

  At first, they drove without speaking; the rain was falling so hard it would have made conversation a challenge anyway. But after a few minutes, Marcus spoke, his voice raised loud.

  “Hey, so I should probably warn you, I might be apologizing awhile for, you know, getting you mixed up in my troubles last night.”