A Midsummer Night's Dream
Christine had gone to bed, not expecting to sleep. Raoul had told her he would guard the door, but the snickers, titters and curious looks from the other girls embarrassed her. But they too, seemed calmed by the thought of a protective sword outside the door. A sword, after all, could cut through a rope, or run a man through.
The dormitory had been full of whispers and speculations, an excited chattering and giggling. Was that the opera ghost? But he was so handsome! Well, his clothes were, and he had a fine figure. That chest, those legs, oh my dears! But the mask, that was too much! Of course he was the Red Death, but did he have to look so … skull-like?
Madame Giry had gone the usual rounds, but seemed lost in her own thoughts, with huge dark eyes unfocused in her pale taut face. Her speech was always to the point, brief and sharp, but now she said nothing. The girls were finally silenced not so much by her reprimands, but by her dampening presence.
Christine lay under the covers, face against the wall, thinking back. She had been so happy at the New Year's Ball. Raoul had teased her, they had laughed together and it seemed as though at last her nightmares were coming to an end. Then He had appeared. In bright scarlet this time, not sombre black, but with the same bewitching voice and enthralling power of enchantment. She had been drawn irresistibly to him again, breathless with a nameless longing. But once more he had terrified and repelled her when he tore the ring from her neck. She wasn't safe any longer, no one could keep her safe, what was she going to do?
Her hand under her cheek, she stared out into the darkness. The whispers and restless tossing around her had gradually decreased, and she heard breathing and little snores.
She closed her eyes, as tension gradually left her body resting on the hard horsehair mattress.
O o o o o o O
It was dark, yet light enough to see some contours in the gloom. Moonlight fell through the four little squares of glass. Confused, Christine let her eyes wander over the low-ceilinged room. It all looked familiar, but somehow it wasn't right. As she shifted in the bed, it crackled and the scent of new straw rose from the mattress. No creaking complaining springs or lumpy horsehair, just the sweet dusty smell of summer.
A thick soft plait curled from the nape of her neck down between her breasts, instead of screws of hair tightly curled around rags. Strange, thought Christine drowsily. Mother always used to plait it, to stop Maran from tangling it at night. Maran brought bad dreams, sat on your chest at night and left you with knots in your hair, martovor, mare's tangles. Not even cold iron over the door or under the threshold could keep her out. But Mama Giry says it isn't curly enough for the hairstyles if I don't put it in curlers.
Christine sat up, looking around at the small room, fingering the coarse sheet. That was wrong too. It should be fine cotton, not this rough linen. She traced the raised monogram on the fabric. Without looking at it she knew it read GKD. Her mother had embroidered all the sheets in her hope chest with her initials and those of her betrothed, Gustaf and Kristina Daae.
Hugging her arms tightly around her knees she squinted into the greyness and tried to remember. She was home. In the cottage. In her old bed, with its straw mattress and rough linen sheets. She must be visiting? The squares of glass, instead of the round window over her dormitory bed were familiar childhood friends.. Her mind must be playing tricks on her, so much had happened lately. Her head was full of images of mirrors, fine clothes and midnight dancing, shattered by a red demon that roared and threw lightning. She shook her head, it wasn't as easy to disperse the mists in her mind as it was to rub the sleep from her eyes.
Whispers and laughter came from outside. Leaves rustled and a shadow crossed the window. Something scraped against the wall of her bedroom. Her heart beating hard, she leapt out of bed and ran across the floor. Leaning out of the window she heard voices on the other side of the house, laughter and snatches of song. A tall birch sat against the wall right outside her window, its slender stems gleaming palely in the moonlight. The slim trunk of the tree split into two just beneath her window. Someone had pulled a birch to her? She felt both excited and confused. She was getting married? It was customary for people to raise a "tvillingbjörk", a twin birch against the house of a girl who was getting married just before the third calling of the banns.
Shivering in the cool night air she went back to the bed. The pillow had fallen on the floor revealing dark shapes against the white of the sheets. Christine gathered them up in her hand, and picked them over, whispering their names to herself as she did so…
Seven different flowers, picked in silence on midsummer's eve, crossing seven fences. Oh I don't remember the names in French. I've picked seven flowers to put under my pillow, so that I'd dream about my future husband, but I'm already betrothed to be married, aren't I? I know I am, but... I do wish I could remember what happened last night.
Another burst of laughter outside brought her back to the window. Still no one in sight. She had to go out and see who it was. Halfway down the narrow stairs the chill air made her turn back to pull on a skirt and drape a shawl over her bare shoulders, tying the ends behind her back. She felt her way downstairs, carefully stepping over the creaking step at the bottom. Even though in a hurry, she paused in the hall, and listened to the comfortably lopsided ticking of the clock in the big room. She went through the kitchen and carefully opened the door, peering outside. No one. She tiptoed round the corner of the house to find – nobody. Just the birch leaning against the wall
She stood indecisively for a moment. Singing drifted on the cool night air from the water meadow on the edge of the forest, and she started out towards it. Who was there? Why had they done this? Walking briskly towards the forest she couldn't resist giving a little jump and hummed fragments of songs to herself. "I was a mere fourteen years …" As she passed by the haymows in the meadow she started to run, the prickly stubble tickling her feet. She crossed the dirt road and jumped across the dry ditch to the edge of the forest. Before she could continue between the birches into the firs, the light fragrance of wild strawberries made her pause. Bending down she picked over the leaves, pulling off the the small berries. The little seeds crunched between her teeth, and tears stung her eyes as a wave of happiness choked up her throat. It had been so long since she was a child and ran home with dusty feet, carrying wild strawberries threaded on stems of grass, like strings of red beads.
So, in the gloaming of a still midsummer's night, a young woman sat on soft moss in the borderland between forest and field, savouring the wild fruit of her childhood.
Away from the road light grasses rippled in the shade beneath the slender pale birches, like maidens of the forest, their virginal white stems holding up tumbling masses of rustling leaves. Further in, the birches gave way to the dark pines with their sloping branches. That was the forest proper. If the birches whispered and rustled in the slight breeze, it took more wind to make the pines talk. Just like women and men, her father had joked.
In her eager search for the fragrant berries she had forgotten why she had left the cottage. Looking back, the birch against the gable reminded her. She was engaged, of course, she knew that. She had the ring somewhere, didn't she? A feeling of unease made her heart beat faster, and she fumbled at her neck.
A memory of smiling blue eyes and strong hands disappeared as quickly as it came. He was kind, she knew that. Of course you wished for a strong kind husband, all girls did. One who wouldn't beat you when he was drunk. So many men did, when they'd had too much "brännvin", eau-de-vie. She shivered at the thought.
The moon was riding high now and threw hard shadows softened by the swirling mist billowing over the lower fields, south of the house. It was a long time since she had seen the fairies dance over the grass, trailing milky veils of mist behind them. Fearfully she made haste to curtsy and turn around three times to stop them from snaring her.
The sound of a hooting owl floated out, and the trees fell silent as the night breeze held its breath. No voices or laughter now, just the night sounds of the forest, a barking fox, rustles and squeaks of little nameless creatures.
Wandering among the birches, grasses stroking her feet and calves, hands touching smooth stems, she stopped to listen. A faint clear note drifted out from the depth of the pines. A strong gust of cool night air swayed the heavy branches and carried with it fragments of a tune, with a strange wildness in it.
A violin? In the middle of the night? The people who had brought the birch must be down by the mill, they had found someone to play for them, Christine thought. She set out on the path into the forest, past the tumble of moss and rocks and twisted pines. She paused for a moment and looked up towards the little hill rising on one side. The few pines that grew in this waterfall of mossy rocks and lichened boulders were gnarled and stunted, with roots clambering into cracks and crevices. Clouds passed across the moon and the rocks seemed to move as shadows ran over the slope.
The ground was soft under her feet, she walked silently on velvety moss scattered with pine needles. Holding her breath, ears listening to the fragments of music so strange after city years of orchestral opera and ballet, she made her way towards the water mill. Now she could hear the rush of the mill race mingling with the violin, a catchy dance tune that made her walk with a swing in her hips. The mill was dark and closed, so she followed the music across the narrow bridge behind the wooden building, up towards the waterfall above the mill pond.
The lilting dance tune ended in a firm chord that made her shiver. She wanted to dance barefoot under the moon and waited impatiently for the invisible fiddler to continue. He was retuning, fingers plucking and bow drawing over the strings in new harmonies.
Eagerly she followed the sounds, scrambling up beside the tumble of the waterfall, to the tarn above it. The black water lay like a dark eye in the depth of the forest, mirroring the trees edging it and the sky above. Pressing her hands against her middle, Christine tried to calm her breathing so as to hear better.
She did not have long to wait. There was a flurry of strange chords, fingers plucked notes that sprang out like golden sparks against black velvet, as the bow drew magic from the strings of the troll-tuned fiddle. The voice of the violin spoke to her across the water. It sang of fox cubs scampering in moonlit clearings, of the little grey folk that lived under the earth, and the fey fairies that trailed wispy veils in their dance around the stones and fields. It sang to pull her heart from her breast, leaving an aching void of yearning.
The moon that had been floating through masses of dark clouds now hit a clear stretch of sky and cast its light over the forest tarn. A pale shape sat silhouetted on a stone in the water, a naked man with dark hair tumbling over his face. The moonlight silvered the edges of the ripples where the man's leg moved in the water, the other braced for support against the rock. A lithe arm moved lightly, wooing wild sweetness from the violin held above his broad chest. The profile that glimpsed through the strands of hair was of a still unearthly beauty.
The last notes faded out across the still blackness of the tarn. The figure moved towards Christine, water swirling in silver curls around waist, body gradually emerging from the water to reveal lean, graceful nakedness. It was Näcken whom the moon covered with a pearly shimmer, who played his tunes in lakes and rivers, and who held her captive with the enchantment of his music. Näcken could play the water to run upstream, and the birds from the trees. A musician tutored by Näcken could make people dance until they dropped from exhaustion. But he had to pay a price for those lessons.
In paralyzed fascination the young girl watched the wild spirit of the water draw closer, violin and bow held in his left hand.
Nothing stirred, it was as if the forest and its creatures waited with bated breath to see what would happen.
She gazed into eyes as bottomless and black as the deepest tarn in the heart of the forest. His eyes held no smile to mirror the one that curved the corners of his full lips, and his voice wove its spell around her.
"Your father promised me a fair bride when I taught him to play, and I see he did not lie. I have waited long enough. It is time to settle his debt. No calling of the banns for me, soulless creature that I am, but didn't the birch make you understand that it was time for your wedding, Kristina Gustafsdotter?"
His words were like an incantation.
"In mere and stream our play shall be, you are come to stay with me, eternally."
Enthralled and terrified she stumbled forward, incapable of any resistance. He drew back, but coaxed her on with a motion of his free hand. Her feet sank into the wet moss at the edge of the water, and then into slimy mud. Her soaked skirt billowed around her as she followed the hand, stretching her own towards it. A light mist drifted over the black water, engulfing the figure before her. Now she saw only glittering eyes, cold like pebbles, under snakes of lank hair.
She shivered from the chill of the water that reached the top of her thighs and then her waist. Her mind cleared momentarily. She looked back at the moss edging the tarn. What was she doing? No good could come of following a beckoning hand through mirrors or water. Before she could move, something seized her ankle, slithered upward to her knee, then her thigh. As she tried to back away from it, strong arms wrapped around her knees jerked her off balance and she fell backwards into icy suffocating darkness. She was drawn into a maelstrom of slimy weeds and waterlily stems, tumbled in peaty water with her hair swirling across her face. She grabbed futilely at emptiness.
There was a roaring in her ears, a burning fire in her chest, and behind her closed eyelids red flames danced around white skulls and scarlet devils. There was a pain in her ears and water in her mouth. As the last air bubbled through her nose from her choking lungs, she opened her eyes. In the greeny brown murkiness a deformed face glowed, before everything vanished into darkness.
O o o o o o O
Surfacing out of blackness into flickering light and shadow, Christine gasped. She blinked hard and drew deep grateful breaths of warm dusty air as the terror faded away. She closed her eyes again and tried to breathe evenly as her thudding heart calmed down. Her fingers moving over the bedclothes touched fine lawn sheets. Turning her head she felt hard knobs sticking into her scalp. She sat up abruptly and looked around, not at a small room in a peasant's cottages, but at a large dormitory in an opera house.
A great feeling of loss mixed with relief swept over her, and tears came to her eyes. It had been a dream. Nothing more. But the relief at waking out of a nightmare was mixed with grief at the realization that she was not at home. She pushed her face into the pillow and tried to stifle her crying, not wanting the other girls to wake up, and ask questions.
Silent sobs racked her body, doubly painful because she tried to choke them back. She cried for her lost childhood, for those days of sunshine, playing and singing in the meadows and forest, that forest of living trees, so far from this stinking city. Her soundless crying gave her no relief, and burning resentment grew in its place.
She was lost in a wilderness of dead stone, captive in the intrigue-ridden warren of the theatre with that hypnotic madman who twisted her heart and mind into shapes she did not recognize. She tore wildly at the rags in her hair until it was a tousled halo around her head. Frantic with tears and anger she bit her pillow until it burst, but when the feathers started flying around her she calmed down. I'm a mess, covered with feathers like a vixen in the henhouse, she thought.
This isn't what I want. I want to be happy. I can't keep dreaming about the past. I have to let go, I can't go back. This place is turning me mad, with its masks and make-believe, twisting my memories and dreams into nightmares. It's a gilded cage of delusions and its own monster hidden in a labyrinth. Or is it a demon? It's certainly not an angel.
She caught sight of herself in a mirror. What would father say if he saw me? He wouldn't call me his fairy of the woods, more like a changeling, a troll child. Combing through her hair with her fingers she watched the bleak dawn creep through the round window over her bed. Oh father… the princess of the fairy tales has to grow up. And the king is dead. I don't want to be here in this false universe of sham and illusions. I have a good man, a kind man, who loves me. I trust him, and I am happy when I am with him. Father, I will never forget you, I miss you every day, but I have to say goodbye now. I must say goodbye.
She hesitated when she saw Raoul, asleep outside the door, but decided not to wake him. The dark shadows under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night. He needed rest. She wanted to do this alone. Then she would come back to him, free of will and free from fears past and present. She would take those big gentle hands in hers, smile at him with all the love in her heart, and walk into a hopeful future together with him.
Back in the empty bed in the dormitory, hidden in the tangle of sheets lay a pink waterlily, its long stem bruised and torn by gripping fingers.