Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  At that moment it all became too much, and she burst into tears.

  The overwhelming friendliness surrounding her immediately toned down to motherly concern. Tissues were offered, the pace of questioning slowed. They gently extracted the story—Ken, the dasik rice cakes. The shoes. The older dancers didn’t understand the significance of his gesture, but they listened carefully as Snowbird tried to explain, and one by one they nodded.

  Though it was on the tip of her tongue, Snowbird decided not to share about Moira. About the tiara or the lacings. Those memories were so harsh, so nightmarish, she almost didn’t believe them herself. But they hovered in the back of her mind, unspoken yet nonetheless influencing everything she said.

  When at last she’d finished her tale, another of the dancers, a younger woman named Honey, pursed her lips. “So you need a break for a few days,” she said. “Some time away from that whole world.” She looked around the circle, her smile widening as she turned back to Snowbird. “We might be able to offer you something.”

  Officially, the Barczak school was closed for the Christmas holidays. But since Honey worked in the office and had a key, and the adult pointe class were assumed to be mature responsible students, they were allowed to hire it so they could continue practicing through the break. “So far, it’s been mostly from DVDs and what we’ve memorized from our regular classes,” Robin explained. “But if you’re prepared to sleep in the teacher’s lounge—I promise the pull-out couch isn’t too bad—we’d pay you for some teaching.”

  Snowbird nodded agreement. Then, stunned by her own daring, she raised a hand. “I understand it might be hard, but would you please call me by my name—Jeong Hayan?”

  They paid her in cash and brought food. After her first class, a bowl of fruit appeared on the lounge table—bright apples, fuzzy kiwifruit, and sun-like grapefruits.

  That evening she was about to cross the road to the noodle bar when she saw a familiar sweep of red hair and a lithe body comfortable in the window booth. She crept back inside the studio, turned out the lights, and paid for security with hunger.

  Overall, her task was easy. Her new pupils were eager to learn, and if she found the lessons a little frustrating—trying to explain concepts she had mastered before she was ten to women three times that age—it was worth it not to experience that cold frisson of fear running down her spine each time she looked in the mirror. The adult class spent most of the weekend in the studio, coming and going as their lives allowed, practicing independently between the classes Hayan taught, and finally staggering out on Sunday evening with aching legs but bright smiles.

  On Monday her students were busy at work—Doc turned out to be a junior doctor at a local urgent care clinic, and Robin was a teacher—and Hayan had a professional studio to herself. She practiced. All the choreography she had been learning for the Nutcracker, all the old solos she knew from previous years.

  Several times, as she stopped to stretch or catch her breath, she retrieved the red pointe shoes from a hidden pocket in her dance bag. They were always eager, the zipper sometimes half open as though they had already tried to come out and join her. She ran her fingers over the satin, coiled and uncoiled the ribbons, and they chirruped at her, urging her to put them on, to dance. The sound reminded her of a cat chattering at birds it could see but not touch on the other side of the window.

  This made her pause. She had not yet worn them, but she was always uncomfortably aware of them. Like the knowledge of someone staring from across the room.

  Midmorning, she gave in to their coaxing, slipped them on, tied the ribbons, and stepped up into a perfectly smooth and balanced posé turn. In that moment she understood why Doc would spend so much in search of her perfect shoes.

  To a novice dancer they would feel miraculous and responsive, the foot arched perfectly, each step precise and effortless. Even Snowbird, experienced though she was, lost herself in admiration for a moment. Her usual shoes were her partners, but these . . . this was the truest sense of pas de deux. She could, and wanted to, dance all day in them. They felt like her own skin, and she delayed taking them off even as her playlist finished and her stomach began to grumble.

  That was when Hayan felt their power. Like a leopard or other wild feline, placid but in no way tame, these slippers could overwhelm the unwary. Even a professional dancer could find herself engulfed, subsumed, and entirely lost to them.

  She knelt, hands not quite steady in her haste as she untied the knots. Even through her winter tights, slipping the shoes from her feet was like peeling off her skin. Her heels felt raw, aching to be covered again in the scarlet satin. Hayan would have thrown them from her, but the ribbons wrapped around her hands, and the shoes landed softly on the wooden floor beside her.

  She scrambled to her feet and, carefully not looking back, walked toward the staff kitchen.

  As soon as she had passed under the arch of the doorframe separating studio from lobby her legs began to shake, and a deep gnawing cramp filled her stomach. She bent over the waiting area couch, breathing slowly until the grey clouds of dizziness faded and the nausea ebbed. The sensation was unpleasant but not entirely unfamiliar. Frequently in her childhood winters she had experienced a hunger so great that it felt as though her stomach might eat its way through her and come out the other side. And its close companion, bone-aching and brain-hazing fatigue, had stopped her from doing any but the most fundamental of tasks.

  Since arriving in Seoul, where school lunches were free and stores were amply stocked with food, Hayan had slowly forgotten how miserable those days were, how she had needed to portion her energy. Some things the body refuses to recall in detail. But even with that protective amnesia, it had taken Hayan and her mother several years to lose their fear as the autumn days shortened and cooled, to cease the daily and hourly stocktaking and stockpiling, eating less today to ensure there would be food for tomorrow.

  Hayan straightened slowly, frowning up at the clock. More time had passed than she’d anticipated, true, but she had worked neither long enough nor hard enough to feel this drained.

  Aware without looking at it of the trustworthy solidity of the door frame, she edged her way into the teachers’ lounge, where a bowl of fruit sat in the centre of the table, piled reassuringly high. The apple on top was practically glowing, scarlet red, enticing. She hadn’t noticed it this morning, but now it drew her eyes. She could imagine the taste, the crisp white flesh under the blood-red skin.

  She picked it up, its touch making her aware of how strangely cold and numb her fingers were. Afraid she might drop and bruise the apple before she could savour it, Hayan set it down on the counter. Reaching for one of the assortment of coffee mugs, she poured herself a milky cup from the filter pot. Her hands had stopped shaking, she realized. Her head too, was clear, her legs steady. Even her stomach felt satisfied after she drank her coffee.

  Hayan carried the apple back into the studio with her, setting it carefully down atop her bag. She reached out for her shoes. Her fingers grazed the warm fabric of the red pointe shoes, sensing its grasping. She had to focus, concentrate, to reach past them and claim her familiar pink shoes. As she lifted them over the red slippers, the ends of their ribbons drew up defensively, avoiding the writhing, greedy ribbons attached to the red slippers.

  Chapter Seven

  Slowly, over those few quiet days, Hayan forgot her disquiet and fear. She regained her steadiness of heart, buoyed by the enthusiasm and encouragement of her adult students. She made her appointment with the NY Central School’s doctor for the first available time, eager to return, to be brave in front of Moira, polite and collegial only in her interactions with Ken, and focused in her time with Eli.

  The Barczak School street door was locked, and Greenwich was quiet in the early afternoon. Hayan paused in a difficult routine to stretch. Rising from a backward bend, she looked into the mirror—and her heart jolted at the pair of burning tawny eyes gazing back from beneath a red mane.

 
; Moira had finally found her.

  “I’ve missed you, Snowbird.” She smiled her dangerous smile into the glass. “Class just isn’t the same without you to challenge me.” She turned away, walked the length of the barre, flicked one leg around in a casual fouetté, and stalked back in a leonine prowl.

  Once upon a time there was a young dancer who was not what she seemed . . . The residential students of the Great Ballet Schools agreed that the story had ended with the girl who had survived the night and emerged triumphant in her blood-red shoes. But no one had found the girl, no one had asked her about what happened, no one had asked her what she had become.

  Moira stopped pacing, her eyes fixed on Hayan’s. Hayan flinched, uncomfortable with both the anger in Moira’s gaze and the intimacy of her action.

  “Are you hungry, Snowbird? I can see your hands shaking.” Moira’s voice contrasted with the chill in her gaze. It was warm and honey-like, soothing, while her eyes were sunken, her skin stretched white over sharp cheekbones. “I’m so sorry that it all got to be too much for you. Our life is very demanding; so few can survive it, and even fewer thrive in such a hostile environment.” Her gaze swept the studio—the faded posters behind the sound system, the patches and motley colors of the wooden floor. “I am glad that you have found your niche here. Our competition . . . it was unpleasant, though the end was ultimately known. There could be only one to take that solo, only one dancer talented enough to be deserving of it.”

  “What solo?” Hayan demanded, confused enough that the tight fear around her throat slipped somewhat.

  “You didn’t know?” Her laugh was ugly, so different from Moira’s habitual purr. “Eli chose you. You’re going to be doing the doll solo in the first act. Oh, and congratulations. The one chosen to do a solo is also going to be offered an apprentice contract.”

  Snowbird stared, shocked, surprised.

  “You should have heard Eli talking about you in class on Friday. It made me sick! Snowbird holds her arms like this, remember how Snowbird pulls her knee and shoulder back when she turns . . . And then he used Josiah’s tape—from that camera he wears everywhere—to show me how he wanted one of the mimes from the party done. As he trained me as your understudy for the Act One solo. You are apparently ‘the best he’s ever seen in the years he’s run the trainee program.’” Moira almost spat out the last words.

  Once upon a time there was a young dancer who was not what she seemed . . . Every so often a dancer appears who is truly incredible, who possesses a unique spark of genius. Not every generation, for while there are many brilliant dancers, true incandescence is a rare quality. These are the dancers for whom students will wait at the stage door for their signed pointe shoes, hoping that a drop of the essence of whatever makes the dancer great will remain in the shoes, permeating the fabric with talent and inspiration by osmosis. These are the dancers who attract patrons and devotees. They would never call it worship, but the balletomanes proudly sacrifice on the altar of their darling’s notice, fêting her, funding her, and fighting her cause against all challengers.

  But there is only ever one at a time. One falls and fails and ages. And within a few years a ballet master notices something about one member of his corps. Or perhaps the girl with the walk-on role, a guest from a local academy. In time she will rise to become the most celebrated dancer of her age.

  And then, like a candle flame, she too flickers out and is gone.

  But during their period of ascension, these girls have no lasting rivals.

  Moira paused, tipping her head with a look of sympathy. “Oh, you are shivering, Snowbird. New York must be so much colder than you’re used to, and you left your coat at our school. Perhaps you should eat something, stay warm, hmm?” She reached down to Hayan’s bag, picked up the bright red apple lying atop it, and offered it to Hayan.

  She shouldn’t eat it. Nothing about this woman was trustworthy. But Hayan was suddenly so cold and so hungry, and the old fear was rising again. Food was available to her, and that thought was nearly—but not quite—enough to silence the voices chattering in her head. Not enough to silence the whisper reminding her that food now was no promise of food later.

  Hayan took it, fighting against an inexplicable urgency, a heart that raced, telling her that she must eat, and a mouth that filled with saliva, longing for the crisp bite and taste of the ruby red apple.

  She bit—and could go no further. Her teeth sank deep into its soft interior, closing together with a snap around a mouthful of thick, semi-solid waxy material that seemed to ooze its way back into her throat. Choking, she dropped to her knees, and the apple fell to the floor, deforming like a ball of dough when it landed.

  Hayan couldn’t speak, couldn’t cough against the mushy mess in her mouth. But she could still breathe, just a little, just for now. She let herself slump to the floor, limper than she really was, in the hope Moira would be satisfied with her victory. Not entirely acting, as her vision greyed at the edges and her heart beat frenetically.

  “I know you don’t understand.” Moira bent to retrieve the apple. Her apple, her weapon. “It has to be like this. If you only knew what I had to do, how many times I’ve worked my way through a company, risen all the way to principal, only to start again. I have sacrificed many lifetimes, but I have always become the greatest dancer. I was Stravinsky’s first Firebird, Prokofiev’s first Juliet, Balanchine’s muse so many times I don’t remember them all . . .”

  Her eyes grew large, bright and feral, and she stared past Hayan to the bag that had fallen over when she collapsed. “Mine!” she hissed, reaching over Hayan, fingers like claws as they dragged the red pointe shoes out, clutching them to her chest. “I should have known they would try to take you next. Mine, always mine!” Her teeth bared as she stood, sweeping up her own bag, shoes still held to her heart. “Goodbye, sweet Snowbird. You were very, very good. But, as always, I must be best.”

  Hayan tried to struggle up, to speak, but the faint trickle of air, sufficient to her needs while lying still, was not nearly enough when she moved. The greyness filled her vision again and this time didn’t recede.

  Chapter Eight

  Hayan roused at the sensation of hot liquid trickling past the rapidly melting blockage in her throat. She spluttered, all in one moment afraid and then relieved at her ability to take a deep breath. The soup—familiar with its flavors of beef, chili, bean sprouts, and spring onion—stopped coming, and the warm arm under her shifted, readjusting her into a sitting position. She opened her eyes, looking up into the worried faces of her students.

  “She’s awake!” Robin announced, her voice full of relief, and the others murmured the same. “I thought you’d choke her, but you were right, Ken.”

  “This time,” Doc grumbled. “It’s not a great idea, giving semiconscious people something to drink.” She stood. “I think we can do without the ambulance. I’ll cancel it.”

  “She was whispering something when I picked her up,” Ken’s voice rumbled through Hayan’s chest as he replied. “And I’m barely holding her up.” He called out in the direction of Doc’s retreating footsteps.

  Hayan didn’t catch Doc’s words, but she felt Ken’s chest shake against her back as he laughed. “This wasn’t what I was imagining when I volunteered to come check if you were okay.”

  The hot soup warming her belly, Hayan pulled herself away until she could turn and lean against the wall. Ken and her students rearranged themselves in a semi-circle around her. He handed her a gold-colored thermos with its top off. Steam and those familiar, comforting smells continued to trickle out.

  “I had a long talk with my halmeoni over the weekend,” Ken said. “Tried to get an insider’s view. I realized that you were upset last time I saw you and I’d made it worse somehow. She explained a lot—I’m sorry about the shoe thing. I only meant to help after all the trouble you seemed to be having. I didn’t realise it had any meaning. I didn’t want you to leave! So, when the school doctor rang Eli to tell hi
m you were late for your appointment this afternoon and you weren’t picking up, I offered to go to your apartment and see if you were still sick. And explain, well, all this. And bring you soup that I helped Halmeoni make. It’s yukgaejan, by the way. Your roommate—Debra, right? She’d only got back yesterday and didn’t know where you were; but you’d made that appointment, so before I rang Eli and panicked everyone, I thought maybe you’d get noodles before heading into the school.” He gestured at Honey and Robin. “The ladies recognised me and brought me over. And here we all are.” He reddened, the tide of words ebbing a little. “You’re . . . you’re a good dancer, Snowbird. I’d like to work with you again.”

  Hayan finished the soup, watching through the now faint steam as Ken reported back to Eli. She was just tipping the thermos in search of the last drops when he returned, leaning down beside her. Eli’s voice came clearly from the handset. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. We got your appointment shifted a couple of hours, and I’d like to talk to you beforehand if I may?”

  She nodded and caught herself. “I, uh . . .” She cleared her throat. “I . . . yes. I’ll be there soon.” She lifted her chin, pushed her shoulder blades back and down. “Have you seen Moira today?”

  “She’s around. Practicing.” He sounded distracted. “Did she tell you that . . . never mind. Let’s talk when you get in here. I’ve got good news for you.”

  So perhaps Moira had been telling the truth about the solo and the scholarship. It made no sense that someone who saw Hayan as an adversary would tell her something like that. But then nothing that afternoon had made sense. She looked over at her bag, its front pocket flat and zipped shut, and no sign of . . . “Ken. There wasn’t an apple on top of my bag, was there?” The word tasted thick in her mouth, like wet paper and soggy dough.