Siren Spell

by Cidney Swanson

  “It was nothing,” replied Giselle. “James is a big flirt. That’s all.”

  Marcus’s face brightened. “Oh,” he said. “Well that’s … cool.”

  Giselle felt her mouth tugging into a tiny smile.

  Marcus spoke again. “I hope you don’t think I’m a flirt. That I’m, you know, flirting. With you here. Now.”

  She could practically feel the heat coming off his blushing face.

  “If you are, you’re not very good at it,” she replied.

  Marcus snorted in laughter and the two walked for a minute in silence until he spoke again.

  “I wanted to tell you that, um, you made me feel a lot more comfortable in drama,” said Marcus.

  “Me?” demanded Giselle, recalling various snubs. “I wouldn’t even talk to you at first.”

  “No, no, I get that. It’s just, you know … this is my first time in a play. My old ballet instructor in Minneapolis said I should take drama to help me as a dancer, but the whole thing just scared me. Like, walking into drama the first day? That was terrifying. So it was such a relief when a fellow dancer showed up.”

  “I was terrified, too,” confessed Giselle.

  “Really?” Marcus looked surprised. “But you’re so good at it.”

  This time it was Giselle who laughed.

  “That’s very, er, generous of you. I have to admit, it’s not as awful as I expected it to be.” She was on the verge of adding, but it’s nothing like dance, is it? But she couldn’t think of any possible way that would turn into good conversation, so she kept the thought to herself.

  They turned onto Giselle’s street.

  “This is me,” she said.

  “Okay. So, thanks for talking,” said Marcus. His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I gotta get over to church. Special prayer meeting for James.”

  “Prayer meeting?” asked Giselle.

  Marcus shrugged. “Whatever helps, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” replied Giselle.

  “See you tomorrow. And have a good evening.”

  He strode off in the direction from which they’d come, waving over his shoulder. He’d gone out of his way to keep talking with her.

  “Have a good … prayer,” Giselle called, waving back.

  And then she was alone again, shivering in the darkness and thinking of James lying comatose in a hospital bed. And wondering if it might have been, somehow, because of her.

  26

  HOMAGE-ISH-NESS

  As Giselle reached to turn on a light, a gust blew the front door wide open, slamming it against the wall.

  “Derrmo,” she muttered. She’d already closed the door, but the old fashioned lock no longer caught properly unless she tugged so hard it felt like the glass doorknob might shiver loose.

  “Giselle?” Her sister’s voice carried from the stairs.

  “Katya? What are you doing home?”

  It was Wednesday, the one and only school night the studio reserved for running rehearsals.

  “Mom sent the willis home early,” said Katya as she joined Giselle downstairs.

  “Mom? As in … our mother? Sent dancers home early?”

  “We didn’t have our Albrecht because Mr. Kinsler wouldn’t release him from your rehearsal because you guys are already one actor down.”

  “James,” Giselle murmured dully.

  “Mom had to call Irena Lyubov to reschedule her Queen Myrtha rehearsal too, because there’s not much point having our Myrtha here if Albrecht’s not completely prepared.”

  The scent of studio gossip wafted past Giselle, enticing as freshly ground coffee for the caffeine-addicted.

  “Mom had a fit about it all,” said Katya.

  “Privately, of course,” murmured Giselle.

  “Of course.”

  Katya sighed. “I wish you were dancing Myrtha.”

  “That was never an option,” replied Giselle. “Irena Lyubov of the National Ballet sells tickets.”

  “I know. It’s just …”

  “It is what it is, Katya,” said Giselle, staring out the kitchen window at the row of recycle bins.

  “You’re home early, too, aren’t you?” asked Katya. “It’s not another cast member sick, is it?”

  “No. The understudy got his lines and blocking figured out, so my group finished early.”

  Katya opened the freezer and began rummaging through it.

  “Marcus told me yesterday in partnering class that he was going to help your understudy-Lysander run lines,” said Katya. “He’s really nice. Marcus, I mean.”

  “He is, actually. I feel bad for how rude I was to him last week. I apologized, even. And he walked home with me just now.”

  “Did he?” Katya tipped her head as though she was thinking of adding something more, but apparently she decided against it. “Isn’t there supposed to be one last bag of frozen pelmeni in here?” she asked instead, changing the subject.

  Sasha stepped close to offer assistance.

  “Out,” Katya said to the dog.

  Giselle pulled Sasha away, deciding this was as good a time as any to bring up the subject of her haunting dreams.

  “I wanted to ask you about something, Katya.”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I’m worried about these dreams I’m having,” she began. “Sometimes they make me feel … like I’m losing my mind.”

  Katya continued digging through freezer-burned items. “Well, I hope you didn’t lose it in here. You’ll never find it.”

  Giselle reached into the freezer, retrieving the bag of Russian dumplings for her sister. “I’m serious, Katya.”

  Frowning, Katya shoved the freezer door closed with her hip and crossed to the pantry.

  “What’s the evidence for this supposed crazy?” Katya’s voice was swallowed up inside the tall pantry cupboard. “And how can we not have chicken broth in here?”

  Giselle walked over to the pantry and reached over Katya’s head. “I put it on the top shelf. Sorry.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with your memory. Or your ability to find things.”

  “Lately I’ve been thinking my dreams might be telling me something. Something important.”

  Katya looked at Giselle from where she stood assembling pelmeni, broth, and soup pot. “What? Am I supposed to guess?”

  “I think I know what’s wrong with James. I think my dreams might be … telling me.”

  “Okay,” said Katya. “So, you know that’s not remotely rational, right? Thinking your dreams are … messages or whatever?”

  Giselle poured a cup of lukewarm tea. “I told you I was losing my mind.”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Katya, pulling hard on the broth carton tab. “Ouch!”

  Katya’s thumb bled where the plastic tab had sliced her. Giselle looked away. She had a sensitivity to seeing her sister bleed: a sensitivity involving nausea and possibly fainting. Retrieving the first aid box, Giselle grabbed a bandage and passed it to Katya, avoiding looking at the blood sliding down her sister’s thumb. Focusing on her tea, she waited for the queasiness to fade.

  “So,” asked Katya, spiraling the Band-Aid around her thumb, “According to your dreams, what’s wrong with James?”

  Giselle examined the half-moon shapes on her nail beds. “Maybe I am crazy.”

  Katya, her cutting hand temporarily out of commission, passed scissors and the bag of dumplings to her sister. Giselle sliced the bag open.

  “In my dreams, James has been taken by the sirens. Taken by them as if they are, you know, willis who won’t let him go. They’re trying to dance him to death or drown him. Or both. And he’s … see-through. Like a ghost.”

  “Zelya,” Katya said softly, “Dreams are the way our subconscious processes things, you know? Of course you’re dreaming James is with the willis, what with the ballet and the sirens and all of Babushka’s warnings.”

  Giselle considered the bag of pelmeni. The dumplings were covered in tiny coats of frost and looked
as though they’d been dusted in diamonds.

  “But I think we have to agree that whatever’s wrong with James,” said Katya, “He’s in a hospital, not stuck dancing with sirens.”

  Giselle sighed heavily. “I know. It’s just … he’s the third victim this time—even if he did get away—and he has a lot in common with the other two.”

  “Oh?” asked Katya.

  “Well,” said Giselle, “He’s a lot like that boy with two girlfriends and the other one, the Scappoose man with a wife and a girlfriend.”

  “By which you mean he’s a lying, cheating, deceiving two-timer.”

  Giselle emptied the bag of frozen pelmeni into the pot. She considered reminding Katya of the time she’d spoken with the siren queen, and how the queen had been ready to drown Danny Metzger and Tommy Schrank: tell them the Queen of the Rusalki will drown them…. But Katya had been so skeptical of the whole encounter that Giselle decided not to bring it up again.

  “Okay, that is a weird coincidence,” admitted Katya, stirring the broth and dumplings. “Of course, if they’re just predators, like the scientists who study them say, then why don’t the sirens eat what they kill?”

  Why indeed?

  “The thing is,” said Katya, “The websites that post the less … scientific speculations about the sirens are mostly implausible. I mean, some of the stories sound pretty … out there.”

  “Like me.”

  “Zelya. That’s not what I meant.”

  Giselle watched as the pelmeni bobbed and sank in the pot.

  Katya, when she spoke again, sounded very matter of fact. “I’ve been reading old reports of sightings and … attacks. Starting with the 1849 sightings in the Puget Sound. I’ve gotten as far as the 1913 attacks here in Foulweather. I suppose the sensationalism in the stories could be due to differences in reporting styles and how people spoke differently a hundred years ago.”

  “Are you saying the stories from the last century depict the sirens in a more supernatural-sounding way?” Giselle wasn’t sure this would make things better.

  “There was a lot of interest in so-called ‘spiritualism’ back then. Hauntings and séances and all that. It was definitely more acceptable to view the sirens as being somehow other-worldly.” Katya paused. “The older reports sound suspiciously like Babushka’s stories of evil water-goblins luring young men to their deaths.”

  “Rusalki,” murmured Giselle.

  “That was what the Russians in the area called them. And there were lots of Russians in the northwest before Russia sold Alaska to the U.S. in 1867. The name ‘siren’ came into vogue after the Russians left.”

  Her sister’s countenance took on a far-off look Giselle recognized: the look of Katya preoccupied with solving a problem or fixing a computer glitch or musing on possibly supernatural sirens in the Multnomah Channel. Katya shifted her stirring arm and knocked the empty broth carton off the counter without seeming to notice.

  Sasha lumbered over to Katya’s side, dutifully licking the spilled drops of broth off the linoleum.

  “James was a complete jerk, the way he treated you,” added Katya, finally noticing the carton and picking it up.

  “Yeah.” Giselle took the carton and the empty pelmeni bag and set them in recycling and trash, respectively.

  Katya continued. “So, if the sirens are truly attacking faithless men, they’d have to have some sort of clairvoyance, wouldn’t they?”

  “Like the willis and rusalki in the fairytales,” said Giselle. She collapsed her head into her hands. “This is hopelessly irrational.”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” murmured Katya.

  Giselle raised her head. “How do you know that quote?”

  Katya rolled her eyes, stirred the broth. “Drama geeks. They say that to me anytime they feel I’m getting too rational.”

  Giselle produced a small laugh. “So, like, all the time.”

  “Very funny,” muttered Katya. “So here’s something more to add to the mix of non-rational ideas. Babushka has been talking to me about what brought the sirens back. Or, you know, the rusalki, as she likes to call them. She says the creatures would see the theatre and ballet productions here in town as some kind of … homage to themselves.”

  Giselle thought about the creatures she’d seen on the shore and in her dreams, combing their hair and admiring their reflections. “They are vain,” she said. “But even if our grandmother is right—and that’s assuming a lot—neither Giselle nor A Midsummer Night’s Dream say anything about rusalki.”

  “Both stories prominently feature fey creatures, though. Rusalki, veela, willis, or fairies aren’t really talked about or even thought about, nowadays,” said Katya, stirring the pot. “Babushka believes that would make them desperate for attention. Like, maybe they’d take whatever … homage-ish-ness they could find.”

  Giselle pressed her fingertips to the table and watched as her nail beds turned white. “Maybe,” she said at last.

  Katya pulled the worn wooden spoon she was using out of the soup pot. “Did you know Babushka brought this spoon from Russia? It’s ash wood. To ward off goblins and fairies.”

  Giselle raised one eyebrow. “Maybe I should sleep with it under my pillow.” Then she sighed and shook her head at herself. “So what do you think? Am I losing my sanity?”

  Katya stirred the soup. “As far as I can tell, you’ve had some bad dreams and James hasn’t recovered from his encounter with the sirens yet. That’s what we know. Well, that and James is a jerk, and lots of stories about water-dwelling undead women involve men like him answering for their scumbaggery. I need to do more research.”

  Research was Katya’s answer to everything.

  “But I’m going with ‘you’re not crazy’ for now,” her sister continued. “I need to read up through modern times on the lore of these creatures.”

  “More Wikipedia?” asked Giselle.

  Katya rolled her eyes. “Wikipedia is for rookies,” she said. Then she tilted her head. “You know, I’ve got to say it’s interesting you met a siren who didn’t attack you. You never hear about that, do you?”

  Giselle frowned. “You’re right. Why didn’t I think how weird that was?”

  Katya tested the broth for flavor. She added salt. “Everything that happens to you when you’re a little kid is strange. Santa in the mall? Strange. A dude who’s allowed to put his fingers in your mouth because he’s called a dentist? Strange. A siren that talks to you at the river and doesn’t attack? Strange.”

  “I guess,” agreed Giselle.

  “Watch the soup for me?” asked Katya. She held out the ash spoon. “I’ll go see what I can find about sirens and clairvoyance and attacks after 1914.”

  27

  RUINED MY LIFE

  Giselle took the spoon as her sister chasséed away to research fairy genus and species.

  The pelmeni, boiling happily in the pot, bounced around: up and down, up and down.

  Up and down, up and down,

  I will lead them up and down.

  I am feared in field and town,

  Goblin, lead them up and down!

  Giselle shivered in spite of the heat coming from the stove. Would James, like Hilarion, expire from being led just like that? Would James have no rescuer? In the story, Albrecht only survived because of Giselle’s intervention.

  Giselle frowned at the dumpling soup. Could she intervene, somehow? There was one glaring problem when it came to the rescuing of James, should he require it. In the ballet, the character of Giselle was already, well … dead.

  The dumplings were starting to float. The soup would be ready soon. She turned the heat low but remained at the stove, inhaling the rich scent. The family didn’t have pelmeni very often. It had been her father’s favorite dinner, served with heavy dollops of sour cream.

  She wondered why the sirens in her dream had hissed at the mention of her father. He’d left the family in America t
o return to Russia. Was it for this “betrayal” the queen and her court held him in contempt? Giselle had never hated him for it.

  She remembered asking him why he had to go. He’d looked thoughtful for a moment and then said it was because he missed Smetana, like Giselle would miss ice cream if she couldn’t have it anymore. For years, Giselle had thought “Smetana” was another woman. She’d felt sad and confused upon learning, much later, that their father had measured his family against a Russian dairy product and found his family wanting. But eventually she’d realized this had been his way of explaining homesickness to a four-year-old. She had long since forgiven him.

  She extended her fingers, examining them. They were long like her father’s and thin like her mother’s. A pianist’s hands. If she closed her eyes, she could remember him playing for class in the studio. She couldn’t think why the sirens would hold anything against such a gentle man, with the soul of an artist.

  “Chopin, I think,” Miss Chekhov would say, and Papa would launch into music so sweet it softened the girls’ awkward arms into the porte de bras of dancers with twice their experience.

  “Tchaikovsky, if you please,” Miss Chekhov would say, and the girls found the strength to lift their developées two or three inches higher.

  “A good pianist can be a dancer’s best friend.”

  It was something Babushka repeated to this day. Giselle’s parents had evidently taken that literally, if you counted the months between their marriage and her birth.

  Opening her eyes, Giselle considered her fingers again, wishing her father had conferred upon her his height and not his long fingers. At five-foot-three, he’d been too short to partner anyone, and his education had been redirected to the accompaniment of dancers on piano. Where would she redirect her own education? Not to piano. Sadly, Katya alone had inherited their father’s musical virtuosity. It wasn’t fair; Giselle thought she might have been able to love music. She sank into a chair at the table.

  And who is person telling you life is fair?

  Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head.

  Show me person who is believing this and I will show you person who is fool.