Editor's Choice
The Dance (Henrietta Branford Writing Competition Winner)
The unmanned rowing boat escaped the current, and veered towards the quay. Wood struck wood, sending a shiver throung the planks beneath my feet. The boat came to rest with its flank againest the wooden ladder that descended into the water, as if inviting me to climb down and board it
It was still now, but not silent. On the deck lay a long box of wine red, studded with tiny, tarnsihed mirrors. From with in came a soft but insistent knocking. I picked it up and held it between my trembling fingers. The smell of wet wood was still lingering and the years of neglect had cracked the mirrors. I knew it was wrong but I was over come with the urge to pull off the lid and find out what that noise was.
So settling myself into the boat I pulled the box closer. Then slowly I slid my nail under the wood and lifted off the lid. “Oh,” I whispered. Inside was the tiny figure of a ballerina, with sharp green eyes; she was spinning on the tips of her toes along to a gentle tune, which rose, from the box and out across the quay. Laughing I placed my hand on the tip of her head and let it twirl along to the music. I watched her spin, until my eyes blurred. The reflection of the ballerinas dress was soon a soft pink like the first rose to bloom in spring. While the sun it’s self soon looked like a star sparkling in the distance.
Suddenly a gentle breeze blew across the bay and my back felt cold as if I was lying on a stone floor. The pink light still danced in front of my eyes, swirling into deep velvet red as the wooden box slid on to the floor next to me. I sat up startled as the red velvet light refused to disappear.
I was no longer lying on the boat. Draped in front of me like a sheet of blood was rich red curtain, I stretched out my arm and let my fingers lick the fringing. It felt soft against my skin so I used it to pull myself up. Drawing back an inch of the curtain I peered out.
“Wow,” I gasped. My eyes grew wider and wider. It wasn’t hard to work out where I was. The delicacy of the gold interior was everywhere I looked. Bellow a high raised ceiling, decorated in crystal chandeliers was an area of red velvet seating. Beautiful women in sateen gowns, glistening under the theatre lights, were occupying them. Sitting beside the ladies were slightly stern looking men, with deep-set shoulders. Not one of them was looking away from the stage.
As the orchestra struck I dropped the drape and descended into the shadow. A light melody filled the room and lifted my spirits. Then as if there was air floating beneath her feet, there she was gliding on to the stage. The doll with the glass eyes and rose dress was spinning free and alive in front of me. I was transfixed by the way she danced, dainty on her toes and light through the air.
It suddenly felt like a dog breathing on the back of my neck. I spun on my heels to face away from the stage. But what I saw nearly made me recoil. The contrast to the beauty I had seen on the stage was sickening. Half hidden by the darkness stood a mad man. But it wasn’t the misty white eyes or the thin wiry smile playing on his lips that I couldn’t draw my eyes away from. It was his fingers. Fat like sausages they looked detached as they whirled through the air like if they were attached to string. As strange as he was there was something magical about him. He gave no acknowledgement to my existence so I turned back towards the stage.
The ballerina was twirling on her toes, like she had done in the music box. Behind me I could feel the man moving along to music. His shoes tapped irritably against the stone floor. “Look can’t you watch quietly?” I snapped, whipping my head round to glare at him. But he was too busy twirling. His fingers were flying out of control. In the low candlelight glowing from the stage I could see thin white string spilling out of the tips of his fingers. He danced like a mad man on the spot, flicking his wrists and twirling his fingers. Every action he performed was being echoed on the staged.
“That’s cheating,” I said. He let his eyes flicker down for a second before pushing out of the way.
The smell of melting wax filled the air as the orchestra changed its pace. Heat was rising from the collar of my shirt, but I couldn’t move.
“Get off the stage…” she hissed from the side. I glanced nervously at the magician, with wide eyes. His face was passive but his eyes still cut into me like a knife. I avoid getting poked in the back by spinning away from him.
“Pivot” the guy said, barely moving his lips. The ballerina obeyed and together she and the magician stumbled through a routine of twirls, leaps and prances. As I watched them, I had a strange sensation of feeling like a feather caught up in the wind. She couldn’t help breathing in the delight of the audience and feeding it back to them in her performance. Their silence was a minisual award compared to their applause.
The last cord of the orchestra struck as they simultaneously spun on the spot before bowing to the crowd. Every bone in my body ached and my mind was blank as I stood at the side. The ballerina was smiling but the magician was not.
The ballerina slid off the stage and managed to cast me a grimace, which I took for a smile, before wandering down the corridor. Hesitantly I decided the best idea would be to follow and we soon began to walk beside each other.
“Listen…” I said with the little breath I still had “This is going to sound so strange but I don’t know how I…” But again I couldn’t finish. Charging towards us like a bull in a china shop was the mad man with the foggy eyes. I turned to face the ballerina. She was no longer elegant and willowy. Her shoulders had slumped, making her seem small and vunrable. The balls of her feet were burning as she wiped the steam off her face and she couldn’t look at the mad man who had very little patients. Instead she kept her head bowed towards the floor. The man was muttering under his breath. His eyes grew wider with every word and he no longer had control of his fingers. The ballerina flinched and her whole body lurched as if her limps were rubber. She winced in pain every time the man clicked his fingers.
“I asked for perfection,” he snarled baring his yellow teeth; his voice was like black ice against the edge of a glass. It sent a shiver down my spine. “Now if you want to dance, dance for an eternity.” The ballerina was consumed by a puff of pink smoke and her long wooden box, decorated in mirrors, clattered to the floor in her place.
I trembled and scooped up the box and cradled it in my arms. The mad man acknowledged me for the first time.
“But you,” he hissed, stretching out his hand for my face, you can dance. I shook my head. “Come and dance,” he cooed producing long white strings out of his fingers. I backed away. The heat surrounding us both had turned me delirious. I lent back against the golden pillar, shaking my head, and closed my eyes. In my mind I was back in my boat.
His breath was on my face again warm and sickly, it smelt of salt. Hopeful I snapped my eyes open and felt a rush of relief. Fluttering above me were thin green leaves and rippling bellow the boat was calm blue water. A secret smile slid on to my lips and leaving the figure of the ballerina in the boat I stepped out and danced away, to the sound of the music.
Rachelle Packer (16) Southampton
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