Siren Spell

by Cidney Swanson

  The sold out shows were nice, but all that mattered to Giselle was that she was dancing again.

  Her mother made one more attempt to discuss Giselle’s future as the two sat together one night by themselves.

  “It’s untrue, you know, what they say about teachers,” murmured her mother.

  “What’s that?” asked Giselle.

  Her mother sighed, pulling Giselle’s bangs to one side of her face.

  “That those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach. It’s a ridiculous saying. Like saying that gardeners are only in it because they can’t be plants.”

  Giselle chortled at the analogy.

  “Teaching at the studio,” said her mother, “It’s like tending a garden, actually. We nurture the plants to be strong. It is wonderfully rewarding work.”

  “You’re a good teacher,” said Giselle. And then she added something she’d been wanting to say for weeks. “Mom, I’m sorry you had to give up your dance career for me.”

  “Milaya moya,” said Ruslana, sighing.

  “Babushka told us she made you choose,” Giselle added.

  Ruslana’s gaze drifted, landing somewhere in the past. It was a long while before she spoke.

  “When I first discovered I was pregnant, there were three long weeks during which I resented it with all my being. That sounds like such a short time, now, but then, it felt like an eternity. Your tiny growing body asserted itself more and more plainly every day while I watched the man I loved reject both of us. I had decided to do away with you. Only …” Here she paused and took Giselle’s hand in hers. “Only, once I saw your tiny heart beating all by itself, I couldn’t go through with it.

  “I went home that evening and sat alone. It was a … a defining moment of my life. I could see before me years spent trying to regain what pregnancy and giving birth would take from me as a dancer, or years spent embracing what being a mother and teacher might bring in its place. Somewhere in the middle of that night, I made the decision to let go of my anger against the man who fathered you and to let go of my anger with myself for having been a fool. But most of all, milaya moya, I decided to let go of my anger towards the innocent child growing inside of me.”

  The hairs along Giselle’s arms rose. She felt her chin quivering. She could barely whisper her question. “Is that when the ikon spoke to you?”

  Her mother nodded, her gaze far away again for several long seconds. Then she placed a hand on Giselle’s cheek, wiping a stray tear with her thumb, and nodded yes a second time.

  “Listen carefully, Giselle: I have never been sorry. I have never regretted my decision to have you and move to America and give up my chance to make principal dancer.”

  “But wasn’t it hard?” asked Giselle, her voice shaking. “To give it up?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Life is hard. And unfair. Some days, I have been very sad.” She swiped at a tear on her face. “But less and less. And I have no regrets. How could I, my darling one?”

  Ruslana took Giselle’s face with both hands, smiling, and kissed her Russian style on both cheeks.

  The two held tightly to one another for a long time after that, crying together for what they had lost and for what they had found. When they had finished, Ruslana took Giselle’s hands and looked into her eyes.

  “Maybe you would love teaching as I have,” she said. “Have you thought of it?”

  Giselle sat up straight and smiled softly. “No, Mom. I am not giving up on my dream this time. I am not quitting until I’ve auditioned for and been rejected by every last ballet company on the planet.”

  Giselle expected another lecture about how she was too tall, but her mother surprised her.

  “That’s my brave girl!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Privately, Giselle thought “brave” was what happened the next week when A Midsummer Night’s Dream opened to a full house. As the auditorium filled, she thought she would be sick like Katya. But Marcus stuck close, his smile a sun that warmed and calmed her, and as the evening wore on and she fell into the familiar blocking, speaking the lines she knew by heart, Giselle’s stomach settled until the only butterflies she felt were the ones that showed up when Marcus, her Demetrius, looked at her in the last act as though she was the only girl in the world.

  And so, when the curtain fell to thunderous applause, Giselle murmured in Marcus’s ear, “Come here,” and she kissed his smiling mouth. And as the curtain rose for their bow, there was no play-acting whatsoever when he kissed her back.

  The End

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  I hope you enjoyed this book. Reviews, even a line or two, are incredibly helpful to authors. More importantly, they help readers decide if a book is right for them and/or their kids. I'm grateful for every review!

  For information on all releases by Cidney Swanson:

  cidneyswanson.com

  Also by Cidney Swanson

  The Ripple Series

  RIPPLER

  CHAMELEON

  UNFURL

  VISIBLE

  IMMUTABLE

  KNAVERY

  PERILOUS

  The Saving Mars Series

  SAVING MARS

  DEFYING MARS

  LOSING MARS

  MARS BURNING

  STRIKING MARS

  MARS RISING

  Books Not in a Series

  SIREN SPELL

  Acknowledgements

  This tale crept into my life in 2009 on a rather monotonous stretch of I5 between Portland and Eugene. The tale and the siren queen have haunted me ever since so that I’ve re-worked the story bit by bit for six years. Along the way, I received valuable feedback from Michael Carr, Melissa Manlove, and Martha White for which I’m deeply grateful.

  Tiese Morgan and Nicole Elliott answered my (very uneducated) questions about the language used to describe dance movement, and Leanne Mizzoni provided insight into the lyrical nineteenth century French ballet for which my heroine was named. All three allowed me to observe hour after hour while they taught students the beautiful and exacting art that is ballet. I am also indebted to Jennifer Homans’ comprehensive work, Apollo’s Angels: A History of Ballet. Any and all errors regarding ballet, however, are mine alone.

  I am grateful to my grandmother Vera Pauline Klemenok, Russian émigré, and my mother Adele Rose, first for feeding me all of the wonderful Russian foods mentioned in this story and later for teaching me to make them for my own family. Speaking of my own family, I couldn’t do what I do without you: ya tebya lyublyu.

  Lastly, I can never repay the debt I owe my readers for taking a chance on these crazy stories that keep spilling onto my keyboard, but I’ll try—by getting on to the next tale!

  Bolshoi spasiba.

  Table of Contents

  SIREN SPELL

  HOLY MOTHER OF PATIENCE AND DEODORIZATION

  THINGS WHICH COULD BE ADDRESSED

  BUCOLIC WITHOUT BEING IDYLLIC

  PANTOMIME

  WORRIED IT MIGHT HURT

  COMBS, BRUSHES, MIRRORS

  SHE KNEW THE STORIES WERE TRUE

  IN LIFE, THERE IS NO REWIND BUTTON

  CARBS

  NORMAL PEOPLE DON’T SAY MERDE

  UNDERWEAR ADS

  SHALL I COMPARE THEE

  TIMELESSNESS

  HER HANDS TOUCHED EMPTINESS

  PROMISES

  CRIMES OF PASSION

  ROOTS

  IF STUFF IS REAL OR NOT

  SWAG-BELLIED CODPIECE

  LIKE I MATTERED

  ILL MET BY MOONLIGHT

  DRY WOOD SHAVINGS

  WHAT IF THE STORIES WERE TRUE

  GOBLIN, LEAD THEM UP AND DOWN

  DREAMT OF IN YOUR PHILOSOPHY

  HOMAGE-ISH-NESS

  RUINED MY LIFE

  ONE OR THE OTHER, NOT BOTH

  A CHANGE IN
THE WEATHER

  THE BITTER TRUTH

  SHE LOOKED LIKE HIM

  PAS DE DEUX

  CAUSE AND EFFECT

  THE FINE ART OF NOT ANSWERING A QUESTION DIRECTLY

  NEITHER YES NOR NO

  COULD USE A GOOD FRIEND

  TROUBLE OF LARGE SIZE

  IMPROVISING

  DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION

  HOLY MOTHER OF FORGIVENESS DIVINE

  THE WAY BACK

  APOLOGIZING IN RUSSIAN

  SAINT SEBASTIAN

  LONG HOURS AND NO COMPLAINING

  WHAT THEY HAD LOST AND WHAT THEY HAD FOUND