The Tower: Part 2: Mabon
Post #10: In which acceptance ...
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PERSEPHONE
For Persephone, Rapunzel’s drumming forced another step into the life and feeling she was determined to avoid. To roam barefoot with Cerus, letting the sun and wind tangle her hair, to smooth his heavy milk-white flanks, trace the spiral of his marble horns, feel the strong thrust of his tongue and smell the half-chewed slime of grass he left on the skin of her arms after his caress was one thing. But to dance was to feel. To dance was to rediscover oneself, to let go of restraint and careful defenses. Panic made her palms greasy with sweat and her heart race painfully. She would not. She could not bear it.
She looked at Ginger’s smooth round breasts, her ribs curving above her firm belly, and thought of her own misshapen body with revulsion. Her belly felt loose and slack, her breasts hollow and flabby. She was vile. Hades had thrust into her womb with death, not life. She was stained; tainted beyond repair. She hated looking at herself. The drums mocked her with their sensual voices. She would never be beautiful and desirable again.
Tentatively, she struck the dumbek lightly with flat hands, settling without thinking into a simple one-two stroke like a heartbeat. She paid no attention to Rapunzel’s rhythm and made no effort to join it. She averted her eyes from Ginger’s flowing dance and waited, cringing, anticipating pain. Nothing happened. The witchlight left her in private shadow. The other two women paid her no attention. Her own drum sounded hardly audible, easily overcome by Rapunzel’s skilled, confident hands. No one watched. No one listened.
She relaxed fractionally. As long as she stayed with the simple one-two rhythm, she’d be all right. She remembered being on the floor before the fire in her mother’s home, her childish hands on the drum head, drawing out the instrument’s different voices. She remembered her mother, smiling, encouraging, laughing at her childish delight in this new toy.
She thought of the child she’d carried, and how the sound of her heartbeat must have defined that brief, precious existence. The child’s own heartbeat would have been quicker, lighter. Unconsciously, her hands took up a lighter, pit-pat rhythm, like small feet running or the first drops of rain.
Ginger let out a wordless cry and Persephone looked up, startled. Rapunzel danced in place as she played, feet and hands working together with the drums. She was bare breasted now, a hard grin of something like triumph on her face. As Persephone watched, Rapunzel changed into her ugly woman face. Her lumpy breasts bobbed unflatteringly, her matted hair flew in a lank clot and her misshapen hands beat out a rhythm of barbaric, savage sensuality. It was as though her ugliness fueled a passion for life. Persephone remembered Baubo dancing, wide hips jiggling, big round belly jutting, a thick dark forest of hair over the tops of her thighs and groin, mouth stretched in a hilarious grin. She thought with sudden clarity, dancing is not only for the beautiful.
For a moment this brought comfort, but only for a moment. Her momentary softening roused an even fiercer determination not to be seduced. But why? She thought to herself. If I’m not too ugly, then why can’t I dance?
Because if you do, you’ll feel, came the answer.
RAPUNZEL
Rapunzel beat gently on the two drums she’d brought to the tower. She wondered, vaguely, why she hadn’t touched them since arriving at the lighthouse. She’d practiced every day during her time with the Rusalka, finding rest, companionship, grounding and clarity. The feel of them under her hands, the sound of their voices, woke a deep desire in her for dance, in spite of what she’d said earlier to Ginger. She had a half-formed feeling dance would unleash something, uncover something best left undiscovered, but suddenly she felt impatient with being pent up, and a reckless desire for freedom swept over her, no matter the cost.
She could hear Persephone’s tentative, quiet beat, but it had nothing to do with her own rhythm. It made no effort to join with her hands, and she made no effort to join with it. As her own drumming swept her up, it faded into the background until she forgot about it. She was far more aware of the sound of Ginger’s bell bracelet. It pierced her like a silver knife. What did it remind her of? She remembered Dar, a silhouette on the hill at Rowan Tree against the darkening sky, playing his bone flute with a silvery sound, like the bells. Of course! The bells reminded her of Dar, the shape of his leg, the insouciant swirl of his cloak, his teasing smile. And he was gone. He was gone. She’d loved him and he was gone.
Suddenly she became aware of another sound, a low crackling buzz. The hair on her arms stood up. She looked down at her hands, shifting from the swollen-knuckled, scarred, nail-bitten appendages of the ugly woman to her own, strong neat-fingered hands, and saw they were outlined in blue fire. She lifted them from the drums and violet flames dripped from her fingertips. In the drums’ silence, she heard Persephone’s simple rhythm again, now a fast and fluttering heartbeat. It sounded like a frightened bird, or some small hurt creature, gone to ground, crouching and fearful.
GINGER
In the drum’s silence, Ginger’s whirling dance slowed but didn’t stop. The background fluttering beat from Persephone sounded frightened. In the room at the top of the stone tower the sound became magnified, inexorable, until Ginger felt they were joined by it in pulse, breath, the very tide of life. Her skin prickled with power, and she remembered walking through the avenue of trees with her mother and sisters in her old home. The trees, with their silver, gold and diamond leaves, had vibrated and hummed with this same sense of power. Blue fire outlined every hair on her body, along with the tips of her breasts. She spread her fingers and swept her arms through the air, violet light trailing in her fingertips’ wake. Power filled the room. It wrapped her, caressed her, joined with her. Sacred dance was a wordless practice, but not soundless. She threw back her head and cried out with wonder, like a woman in climax, and words rose in her, the right words, the only words.
“Let die what must!”
She heard Persephone gasp and cease drumming.
Rapunzel brought her hands down hard, her own fingers leaving a trail of blue light above the drum heads, and began playing again with a kind of desperate defiance. Ginger felt like an orange, red and blue flame, elemental as the wind, wild as a whirlpool.
Sensing movement from the corner of her eye, Persephone swung around to look at the shadows along the curving wall where the stairs wound.
White-faced, naked, a child crouched on a stone step, watching.
PERSEPHONE
Perhaps nothing could have distracted Persephone more quickly from her own pain than the sight of a child in distress. Without thought she set the dumbek down, took three steps and took the stranger in her arms.
Her first impression had been of a child, but she held a young woman dwelling in the gravid pause between childhood and womanhood. Her body was mature, but she put her arms around Persephone’s neck and clung, pressing her face into Persephone’s shoulder. Persephone held her firmly, rocking a little as she sat on the stone step. She could feel the girl’s heart thumping steadily, her excited but steady breathing. Her wet hair smelled of the sea.
Rapunzel had stopped drumming and the room was silent.
“I’m Persephone,” said Persephone, falling into the gentle, reassuring ritual of give and take she’d enacted so many times as Queen of the Underworld. “What’s your name?”
“Clarissa,” came the muffled reply, and then, “You’re so beautiful. Why don’t you dance? Why is your hair tied? I want to see it.”
“I…” Persephone, still rocking, had a sudden feeling of reversal, as though Clarissa comforted her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, unstoppable, silent and oddly releasing. Clarissa pulled away slightly, released Persephone’s neck and pulled the pins from her hair. It fell like a thick disheveled curtain down her back and Clarissa combed it with her fingers, draping it over them both, smiling with delight.
“Much better,” said Ginger approvingly. She stood near a window, watching, and spoke casually but warmly. Rapunzel, with a movement of her finger, directed a ball of witchlight so it shone on Ginger’s flushed face. “I was hoping as hard as I could for someone to dance with. I don’t suppose you would, would you? My name’s Ginger, by the way.”
“I don’t know how,” said Clarissa, eyes gleaming with interest.
“Have you ever tried?” asked Rapunzel.
“No,” said Clarissa.
“Everyone has a dance,” said Rapunzel. “You just haven’t made friends with yours yet.”
“You’re helping the lightkeeper,” said Clarissa.
“I’m Rapunzel. Yes, I help keep the light now.”
“I’ll try to dance, but I liked the drum like a heartbeat. It was you, wasn’t it?” she turned to speak to Persephone, who was recovering from her inaudible storm of tears. Will you dance, too? Will you show me what to do?”
“I’ll drum the heartbeat,” said Rapunzel quickly.
Persephone, fairly caught, looked from Clarissa’s imploring face to Ginger, who smiled at her with a kind of aloof warmth, allowing her to make her own decision; and Rapunzel, who caught her eye, turned into the scowling ugly woman and then turned back.
Clarissa gasped with surprise at the same time Persephone chuckled in spite of herself. She wiped her cheeks a final time, sighed, took Clarissa’s hand and stood up. “If I’m going to dance, I want to feel like…a girl,” she said. “Come see if there’s anything you like, Clarissa.”
“But she—“ Clarissa stared at Rapunzel.
“I know. Ignore her. She’s teasing. We’ll tell you about it later.”
Persephone found a crinkled skirt of violet blue, turned her back to the others, slid off her clothes and pulled it on, covering her breasts with an off-the-shoulder clinging top in a lighter shade matching the skirt.
“Now you’ll match the spirit candles,” said Clarissa approvingly. She’d chosen a long floating garment like a bathrobe in warm earth tones, light and sheer and open at the front.
“Is that what you call the blue light?” asked Rapunzel.
“It’s what sailors call it. They think it’s good luck. They say the twins send it as a sign. I’ve only ever seen it at sea during stormy weather. Sometimes it outlines whole ships. Is it gone?”
“Who--?” began Rapunzel, but Ginger silenced her with a look.
“I don’t know,” Ginger said to Clarissa. “Perhaps it’ll come back if we dance.”
Rapunzel, shrugging, laid her hands motionless on her drums for a moment and then took up a slow, regular rhythm.
“Stand still for a minute,” said Persephone, swaying to the drumbeat without moving her feet. “Give yourself to the music. Let everything go. Watch Ginger.”
Ginger began moving, her feet keeping the rhythm. Her face looked abstracted, distant. Arms, hips, skirt and hair flowed together in a quiet dance.
Clarissa, standing before Persephone, closed her eyes. Persephone watched the music take Clarissa into its embrace. Eyes closed, she gave herself to it willingly, no longer needing outside guidance. When she opened her eyes, Persephone gave her an encouraging nod and turned aside to search for her own place in the dance.
Persephone danced across the smooth floor, the wood supple beneath her bare feet, and looked out a window. Stars pierced the dark sky; the cliffs stood remote and solid against the restless sea. She thought of Cerus, his male strength and virility, his milky beauty, his hard horns and red eyes. The drumbeat quickened, deepened. Blue and violet light flickered like a swarm of fireflies.
Persephone danced.
***
“But who is she?” Ginger asked.
The three women ate breakfast the morning after the dance. Clarissa had refused either to stay or say where she was going, slipping out the door after their dance, as naked as she’d come.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise!” was all she would say.
“I expect she’ll tell us when she’s ready,” said Rapunzel calmly.
Ginger surveyed her. “You already know, don’t you?” she said accusingly.
“No. I can guess, though. But I think we should let her tell us in her own time.”
“I agree,” said Persephone. “Some things take time.” She poured the last of the tea into Ginger’s cup, pushing it toward her.
“Thank you for the dance. I didn’t want to -- but it was good.”
“I thought it was dreadful,” said Rapunzel, putting on her ugly woman face. “A dreadful dance engineered by dreadful, interfering old women.”
Ginger touched Persephone’s hand with affection while laughing at Rapunzel.
“I liked it,” came a voice from the door. “Can we do it again?”
“I suppose we will,” Rapunzel sighed. Casually, she threw a shawl over Clarissa’s goose-pimpled shoulders and gave her a push in the direction of the empty chair. “Hungry?”
“No thank you,” said Clarissa like a good child. She ignored the proffered chair and went instead to the large chunk of driftwood against the wall. She ran her hands lovingly over it and heaved it into a different position. “It goes like this. See the shape of the goat with his curly fish’s tail? He’s called Pricus. Here’s one horn, but the other broke off.” She stayed crouched before the wood, the shawl’s fringe sweeping the floor, head bent and eyes veiled.
“A seagoat,” said Ginger. “I like that. Are they real?”
“The sea is full of wonders,” said Rapunzel absently, eyes on Clarissa. “’A ceiling of amber, a pavement of pearl.’”
Clarissa sprang to her feet, shocked, her face white.
“Where did you hear that?” she demanded fiercely.
“I read it,” said Rapunzel quietly. The lightkeeper who lived here before us left some papers when he—“
Clarissa put out a hand in wordless denial and Rapunzel stopped, her face softening.
“I met him,” said Persephone, “the lightkeeper.”
“You did?” asked Clarissa in amazement.
“Yes,” said Persephone. “We talked. His name was Irvin and he loved poetry and stories. This was his lighthouse. He was happy here. He was a merman but he had human friends and the land fascinated him. He’d married a human a long time ago and had two children with her…”
“Where is he? Where did you meet him? When is he coming back? I knew it wasn’t true!” Clarissa’s eyes shone with hope. They were strange eyes, like abalone shell, almost silvery in the morning light coming in the open door.
“Come here,” said Persephone, holding out her hands. She’d washed her hair before breakfast and left it lose to dry. She’d reacquired some of the serenity Rapunzel remembered in her from their first meeting at Rowan Tree. Her eyes were clear in her newly-lined face and she seemed more present than Rapunzel had seen her during their time in the tower.
Clarissa went to her eagerly, hands outstretched to meet Persephone’s. “Clarissa,” said Persephone, “I’m the Queen of the Underworld. I met your father in Hades.”
Clarissa stood quite still, looking at Persephone steadily out of her strange light eyes. Persephone saw courage and strength in the women she was becoming. She also realized Clarissa had known her father was gone. She hadn’t accepted, but she’d known. They were watching the final surrender.
“I’ve lost someone, too,” whispered Persephone, and tears fell down her cheeks. Her grip tightened on Clarissa’s hands, and Clarissa tightened her own grip in response. “I lost my baby.”
Clarissa cried, too, as silently as Persephone, but she smiled. She knelt before Persephone’s chair, freed one of her hands and laid it on Persephone’s empty belly.
“The next one won’t die,” she said.
Ginger, who was also crying, caught her breath.
Persephone, bewildered, looked from Clarissa’s upturned face to Rapunzel.
“She’s half merfolk,” explained Rapunzel. “They possess the gift of prophecy -- and fertility.”
Clarissa laid her head on Persephone’s thigh like a tired child and Persephone felt the cloth of her leggings grow wet as she cried. She rested her free hand on Clarissa’s damp head and they wept together.