The Tower: Part 4: Yule
Post #28: In which disappointed hopes ...
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Rapunzel observed Yule, and as the solstice drew closer, she and Clarissa planned a dance to honor the new cycle. The day before, Clarissa took charge of decorating the old storeroom at the top of the lighthouse. Seren had mentioned several times he loved dance, and she could hardly wait to share the intimacy of it with him.
She was determined to look her best and chose carefully from the finery Ginger had left behind when she departed. Clarissa chose a lustrous grey skirt that caught the light and made her think of Seren’s eyes, and slid several thin silver bangles onto her arms. She would begin with a light tunic of the same fabric, but as the passion of the dance warmed and loosened her, she would take off the tunic and dance bare-breasted. She would show Seren she was a woman, his equal in passion, and a worthy partner. Perhaps in the glowing aftermath of ritual and sacred practice they would at last find a way to lie together, in spite of Rapunzel’s presence in the lighthouse.
Seren was restless and frequently went out to walk, in spite of the bitter weather. He’d explained to Clarissa he was accustomed to towns and cities, places lively with intelligent people and discussion where he could mingle with other well-traveled and sophisticated men. The lighthouse, isolated, lonely and without bright lights and entertainment, provided no scope for his talents. He remained only to be with her. He found their plans for honoring Yule quaint and rather old-fashioned, smiling indulgently at Clarissa’s preparations.
She supposed, from his point of view, honoring the cycles and seasons was childish, the kind of thing provincials did. Yet Persephone, Ginger and Rapunzel had revealed to her female power raised and shared through dance, and she couldn’t now imagine her life without it. She suspected Seren hadn’t danced as a part of a powerful female group, and could hardly wait to show him what dance could be. She would allow her body to express her desire and love for him in dance, and he would understand and join with her. She made preparations while Seren busied himself elsewhere, hugging her joyful anticipation.
Clarissa laboriously carried rocks up the tower steps, stacking and arranging them with candles of different size and thickness around the walls. She scattered shells and added a dried starfish and the coral lump Irvin had kept on his desk.
When the storeroom was arranged to her liking, she took two sheepskins that lay on the floor near the stove outside into the icy wind and beat them until they were fluffy and clean. She plumped up pillows and added candles to the main room. Usually, she spent the nights in the sea, returning to its embrace and song after a day spent on land, but she had slept by the stove before, and if she made it enticing enough, perhaps Seren, knowing she lay there, would join her after Rapunzel retired. It was the most perfect way she could imagine to honor the cycle’s longest night and celebrate Yr’s return.
The day of the dance, Seren and Clarissa went out together into the teeth of a rising gale. Wind blustered from all directions. As they stood on the cliffs looking out across the eerily exposed sea bed, the sky draped heavily over the lighthouse tower and it began to snow in billowing, rippling curtains. Clarissa spread out her arms and turned in a circle on the cliff, feeling the wind buffet against her and the cold tingle of flakes melting as they struck her skin. She laughed with delight, feeling primitive joy in the wild storm and the power of stone, sea and sky.
Seren laughed with her, suddenly seizing her in his arms, drawing her close and kissing her laughing lips. His skin felt cold and wet, but his mouth warm and the kiss pulsed through her body like a glowing sun. It was a kiss of seeking and finding; of promise given and received. It was rapture, passion, the heat of belly and thigh. It took Clarissa’s breath away and made her heart swell painfully with joy and gratitude. Nothing needed to be said. That single storm-beaten kiss contained the entirety of their commitment and joy in one another.
Clarissa spent the rest of the day in a daze. They ate their evening meal of thick stew and fresh bread early. They had let the fire go out just long enough for Clarissa to remove the ash and clean the stove, and the three of them lit it again in a ritual of gratitude and welcome for the returning light. Seren produced his lyre and tenderly unwrapped it.
“Oh, will you play for us?” asked Clarissa with pleasure. “I didn’t like to ask because I wanted you to be able to dance without worrying about making music, but if you and Rapunzel both play you can each dance as well.”
“I thought you and I would settle down by the fire while Rapunzel dances,” said Seren. “I know several Yule stories, and you set the stage so enticingly for me! I’m sure Rapunzel won’t mind.” He paused, looking at Rapunzel expectantly, but she didn’t say a word, her face a careful blank.
“But, Seren, we can tell stories after,” said Clarissa. “Sharing dance is the most important thing!”
“The most important thing to me is spending Yule with you,” said Seren, “but if you prefer to dance with Rapunzel rather than stay down here with me, go ahead. I’ll just wait for you.” He sat down and folded his arms.
Clarissa felt bewildered. “I thought you loved to dance. I thought you were looking forward to dancing with us. It’s an amazing practice to share, and I wanted to show you …”
“I do like to dance, I just don’t feel like it tonight. I wanted to do something quieter, something for just us two. I’ve been working on my Yule stories and songs as a surprise. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am pleased,” she said, distressed. “Thank you! It’s just Rapunzel and I made plans, too, and I thought you wanted to join us.”
“Do whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll wait until you can spare time for me. Go dance, by all means.”
Clarissa looked at Rapunzel, hoping for support. Rapunzel met her eyes. “It’s up to you,” she said. “What would you like to do?”
Please you both, thought Clarissa. Make you both happy.
“I’m going to go up and light the candles,” said Rapunzel. She climbed up the stairs and out of sight.
Clarissa knelt at Seren’s feet. His folded arms shut her out, and she reached for his hands, which he unwillingly allowed her to take. “Don’t be angry,” she pleaded. “We’ve only just found each other, and we’ll have all the time together we want. Nobody will ever mean more to me than you. But I love Rapunzel, too, and she’s counting on me tonight. Dancing is an important ritual for us.”
“Well, I’m so sorry to let you down,” Seren said irritably. “It’s your ritual, not mine.”
“You haven’t let me down. You couldn’t let me down. I was wrong to assume you’d be interested in joining us. I should have asked what you wanted to do. It doesn’t matter, though, because I can do both. I’ll go up and dance with Rapunzel and then come down and be with you. I’m going to sleep here tonight, so we can spend all night together if you want.”
Seren looked away. “I’m weary, and by the time you’re ready to hear me play I’ll be wearier still. I don’t think you appreciate how much of myself I put into performing, even if it’s just for one person.”
“I know. And I do appreciate how hard you work and how much your art takes from you. If you like, after you sing and play for me, I’ll work on your neck and shoulders, help you relax so you sleep well. Remember when your hands were tired after playing and I rubbed them with birch oil? I could do that again.”
His expression softened. “Yes, that did feel good. I suppose I can sleep a bit while I wait for you. After all, you girls don’t need much time to dance.”
Clarissa abandoned a post dance ritual she’d created with a traditional yule log made out of driftwood and candles without a second thought, and resolutely pushed away the anticipation of sitting with Rapunzel in the candlelit tower room, shaping the power raised by their dance into prayers and chants to send out into the dark night for new beginnings and the light’s return. Seren was her mate and her partner. It was her business to ensure he felt like the priority he was. She could no longer act like a selfish child. Now she was loved, her loyalty and allegiance essential in supporting one of the greatest artists in the world.
“You rest, and I’ll be back down before you know it. I can hardly wait to hear your Yule stories and songs! I’ll look forward to it while I’m dancing.”
Clarissa made sure he was comfortable with pillows and a hot drink at his elbow, built up the fire so he needn’t disturb himself, and slipped up the stairs, feeling guilty for keeping Rapunzel waiting.
In the candlelit storeroom, Rapunzel beat gently on her drums. Her hands and fingers dripped with blue violet light, the spirit candles that appeared every time they danced in the tower. Tonight, the lights gleamed like a handful of blue sparks around the candles.
Clarissa swallowed her anxious apology to Rapunzel, took a deep breath and relaxed, realizing only then her tension. Rapunzel was clearly not anxious or in any way waiting. Clarissa knew she could sit for an hour communing quietly with a drumbeat, sunk deep in a meditative state. Rapunzel’s face looked smooth and peaceful. The drumming was reassuring and grounded, the room serene and beautiful in its simplicity of stone, wood, flame and candle.
For a shameful and fleeting moment Clarissa felt glad Seren chose not to join them. She wasn’t sure how to combine her own dance with the complicated dance of relationship, and with Rapunzel she need please nobody but herself.
It was a relief.
She’d laid her dancing clothes ready in a corner. She changed and began stretching and swaying, turning so her skirt flared out, then collapsed smoothly against her legs. Outside the windows snow fell thickly, illuminated by the lighthouse beacon. The tower room was warm, but the stone walls felt cool to the touch. Silver bangles made thin music as they slid on her wrists.
Rapunzel’s drums and Clarissa’s feet spoke to one another in a language of beat and step, and Clarissa turned away from her mind’s chatter and rested in her body. She felt like a half-open flower, not a shy flower like an anemone or a daisy, but an exotic, fleshy blossom, heavy-petalled and intoxicating with scent, nectar and pollen. Seren’s kiss still sizzled in her nerve endings. Her breasts felt heavier than usual, her nipples more sensitive. She pulled off her tunic and weighed her breasts in her hands as she danced, running her fingers over her ribs, hips and collarbones as Rapunzel’s drumbeat became insistent and voluptuous.
Clarissa let her vision blur until the room filled with a galaxy of warm points of candlelight and blue and violet stars. Rapunzel’s hands rose and fell in a blue mist. She drummed with her whole body, dancing in place, her small bared breasts firm with jutting nipples and a sheen of moisture on her upper lip.
Clarissa danced for Seren, though he wasn’t there to see her. She danced her awakening sexuality, her hungry skin, her fiery lips and her swampy center, swollen and wet with desire. She danced for touch, for texture, for hair and fold and the intimate landscape of bone and flesh. She danced for new beginnings, for light and not light, for long winter nights warmed by bare flesh, the taste of salt and musky scent. She danced for ripening womanhood. She danced for Webbd and Delphinus, for the Star-Bearer and Seed-Bearer and their twins.
Rapunzel quickened her tempo, pounding the drums in a driving, insistent beat. As though in response to Clarissa’s powerful youthful eroticism, she wore her ugly woman face and body, and now the blue light outlined knobby, gnarled hands, thick-fingered and scarred, and the violet jeweled nipples crowned lumpy, misshapen breasts. Snarled hair framed her face, which wore an unholy grin baring discolored teeth. Rapunzel whooped, her hands moving faster and faster, and Clarissa felt the rhythm pick her up and shake her by the scruff of the neck. She whooped too, a sound of defiance and exultance, and her pounding feet echoed the rhythm of Rapunzel’s hands.
Clarissa, at one with the rhythm, lost all sense of time, but eventually the drums stopped driving her and began to hold her, to support her, and her feet slowed and quieted. She wrapped her arms around herself and felt the muscles in her back and hips move under damp skin. The candles melted and dripped, leaving wax pooled and puddled on the rocks beneath them. She turned and turned again, her hair swirling around her shoulders, her arms and hands graceful, her breathing quieting. The drumbeat still carried her, lifting and moving her feet gently, but slowing all the time, slowing until her steps were small and sliding and her skirt brushed against her legs as she swayed.
When at last the drums slid away into silence, Clarissa felt a pang of regret. She had been somewhere without time, without constraint or limitation, without effort or fear, and in that place, she felt beautiful, powerful and elemental as the sea. Now she was back, and it was surely getting late, and her lover waited while she danced in heedless ecstasy.
Rapunzel had reclaimed her true visage. She left the drums and moved about the storeroom, stretching her shoulders, hands and fingers and twirling in slow circles as though to an internal melody.
Clarissa looked out a window and saw nothing but falling snow, eerily lit. She thought longingly of the stove, the sheepskins, the pillows and Seren, waiting for her below. Her body sang, warm and alive, humid and supple.
Rapunzel tossed a couple of cushions on the wood floor and she and Clarissa sat. Ginger, Persephone and Rapunzel had taught Clarissa to linger in the space of dance for a time, basking in the power they raised and the intimacy of the practice. It served the dancers to slowly find their way back to spoken language and their everyday lives together, rather than attempt an abrupt transition.
Clarissa controlled her impatience to rejoin Seren and tried to sit quietly, but tension hardened her shoulders and neck.
Rapunzel watched her. “I’m glad you joined me,” she said.
“I’m sorry about Seren,” said Clarissa. “I shouldn’t have assumed he was joining us.”
“Not everyone is a dancer,” said Rapunzel.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s a dancer! He’s often talked about dancing. He didn’t feel like it tonight, I guess. Rapunzel, I made a Yule log and brought it up, but Seren’s waiting for me, so I’ll let you do that part alone. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind,” said Rapunzel. “Do you?”
“A little, but I know I’m selfish. Seren’s plans are as important as mine are, and I promised I’d go down to him as soon as I could.”
“Go, then. Enjoy yourself. I won’t be down again tonight.”
Clarissa met Rapunzel’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said gratefully.
As Clarissa came down the stairs into the living area, she found Seren sitting with his lyre in his lap, fingering the strings as though in casual conversation with the instrument. He glanced up at her briefly, but didn’t mention her dancing skirt and tunic or notice the silver bangles on her slim wrists. She felt as brilliant and palpitating as a star and was sure she looked her best, but some of her confidence seeped away as he looked aside and said, “At last. I thought you were never coming.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I came as quick as I could.” She set aside a small bottle containing birch and almond oil. Moving swiftly, she lit the candles, put wood in the stove and blew out the lamp, intending to honor both light and darkness and create serene, sensual atmosphere. The body’s language needed no light.
“What are you doing? How will you be able to see me perform if you blow out the lamp? The candles are too dim.”
Feeling guilty, she hurriedly re-lit the lamp. Clearly, he felt rejected and betrayed, especially after the kiss they’d shared. Now she must do everything possible to earn his trust again. In the generosity of her love and admiration, Seren would forget his hurt and kiss her again, but this time they wouldn’t be muffled to the ears in a storm. The whole long night stretched before them, but she would need to give as well as take.
“How’s this?” she asked Seren, setting the lamp so it illuminated the spot where he liked to stand while he performed.
“It’s fine, I suppose,” he said. “Are you ready now?”
“I’m ready. Where would you like me to sit?”
“Sit here, at my feet, and look up at me. I play my best with you there, and you can watch my face and hands.”
She settled herself on the floor, smoothing her skirt against her legs. She looked up into his face and said, “This is what I’ve been waiting for!”
To her relief, he smiled back, his face warming.
As he played and sang, his face intent in the warm lamplight, she tried to concentrate on his stories and songs. She was developing a reverence for story, avidly collecting them wherever she could, and now her own notes grew nearly as extensive as her father’s, because Seren knew such a treasure trove of new material. Seren discouraged her from creating her own versions of traditional material, especially anything he used in his repertoire, because it would be disloyal and foolish to compete with him, but Rapunzel freely gave her permission to tell any of her stories. Clarissa noted the bare outlines of the traditional stories, songs and poems in her growing collection, just for the pleasure of preserving them.
However, on this night her body, fully awakened by the dance and Seren’s kiss, distracted her from listening. Her eyes drank in the sight of his face, his mobile mouth, his fleeting expressions as he sang and spoke, the silvery glow of his eyes as his gaze met hers. She imagined herself in the lyre’s place, spread across his lap, his hands fingering, plucking, strumming her flesh, and flushed with desire.
When the last notes and words died away, she felt as though she woke from some kind of trance. She searched for words to convey her admiration and reassure him of his place in her life. Moved by the beauty of this shortest day, the storm, the kiss, the dance and now this man, tears rose in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks.
No words could have pleased him more. He caught a tear on his finger. “Tears for beauty, or tears for woe, little one?”
“Tears for your beauty,” she assured him. She laid her face against his knee and he stroked her dance-disheveled hair. His touch was mesmerizing, and she would have happily stayed like that the rest of the night, but he stopped stroking, gave her a pat and moved restlessly. At once, she lifted her head and clambered to her feet.
“I brought the birch oil down,” she said. “Would you like me to work on your muscles? It’s warm here by the stove.”
“If you like,” he said.
“May I blow out the lamp now? I don’t need it to work on you.”
“Yes, blow it out.”
“If you’ll take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach, I can get to your back.” She found a clean towel, picked up the birch oil and knelt beside him as he lay on a sheepskin.
He lay with his face turned away from her. She hadn’t seen him without a shirt before, except briefly on the day he’d staggered out of the sea, and his back, pale and fine-grained, broad at the shoulders and tapering towards his hips, lay exposed before her, bisected by the delicate ridge of his spine.
Clarissa pulled off her tunic and set it aside, along with her silver bracelets. The oil would stain the fabric, and the wide sleeves would be in the way. She spread the towel over her lap to protect her skirt, shook the oil mixture into her palm and rubbed her hands together to warm them. The sharp, astringent scent of birch mingled with the warm air. Closing her eyes, Clarissa laid her hands gently on Seren’s back.
For the second time that night, she allowed herself to sink into a deep, wordless state of being, the same place from which she danced. Her mind and its chatter became as distant as the dark sea outside the lighthouse, and the language of words sloughed away like a shed snakeskin. Now the language of the body filled the room, filled the night, the language of hair, nerve, cell and muscle fiber, the language of tissue, membrane and bone. Clarissa allowed her hands to fill with desire, longing, moist scent and passion. She warmed the oils in her palm and disclosed her love with touch, stroking and smoothing first and gradually increasing the pressure. His flesh softened and relaxed as she worked, his muscles flattening and warming into smooth sheets rather than ropes. His skin absorbed the oils, wakening into supple sensitivity. Her strong fingers probed his neck and shoulders; she discovered every tension point and released it.
As in dance, she lost the sense of time. She knew only the tingling scent of birch, the stove’s warmth and the wordless conversation between their two bodies, the question and answer of her flesh and his, the eroticism of silent unrestrained discovery. Her hands buzzed and tingled with heat as she poured herself into communicating her love, her reverence, her desire, through touch. She swayed above him, her bare breasts heavy and aching to brush against him, and imagined his excitement if she allowed her hair to brush his skin, or her nipples to graze him.
But no. This touch was for him, freely given. She must give before receiving. She must be worthy, for he was a great man, a great artist, and to him she was still only a girl of no special talent and mixed parentage. He didn’t yet know what she was capable of. This touch was her offering, her demonstration of passion and sensuality, her assurance that she was a worthy mate and companion.
When he understood he would roll over and pull her down next to him, claiming her, welcoming her, and together they would explore the body’s language and limits.
She worked until he felt as warm and relaxed as a sun-soaked cat. Her own hands ached and her shoulders felt tense from effort. She corked the bottle and rubbed the excess oil off his back and her hands with the towel.
He groaned with pleasure, turned his head to look at her, and said, “That felt marvelous. I don’t think I can move. I don’t think I want to move.”
She laughed with pleasure. “Don’t, then. I’ll put the oil in the kitchen. Shall we let the candles burn or blow them out?”
“Might as well blow them out. I don’t need them while I’m sleeping. Are you going out, or do you want to sleep upstairs in my bed tonight?”
She had been in the act of pulling off her skirt. She stopped. “I’m sleeping here tonight, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. You can use my bed, but be sure you don’t get oil in it, will you? And will you pull a blanket over me before you go? Thanks. I hope Rapunzel doesn’t come down too early. I could sleep for a week.” He turned on his side, pulling a pillow into place under his head.
Clarissa pulled her skirt back into place and reached for her tunic. Suddenly she felt cold all the way to her bones. Cold, worn out, and as wooden and aching as though she hadn’t danced in weeks. She made her way through the firelit room to the stairs. Seren already breathed deeply and contentedly in sleep. The room smelled of birch oil and extinguished candles.
She took off her skirt and tunic without lighting a lamp. Seren’s unmade bed felt cold and unwelcoming. She searched his pillow for his scent, but the strong smell of birch oil from her hands overwhelmed subtler aromas. She lay awake for a long time, trying to warm up. When she finally turned on her side, pulling the quilts closely around her, the pillow beneath her cheek was sodden.