Fallen Swan

I stand in front of the mirror, hating my reflection. I’m wearing the same thing I do every single day- a modest green sweater overtop a white collared shirt with a black pleated skirt and tall socks. The St. Anastasia Dance Academy is very prestigious, very expensive, and very strict. Girls are required to wear button-ups with skirts, but what we don on top of those is our choice. Slowly, I reach up and straighten the headband holding back my thin black hair, which is grown out to exactly shoulder-length according to regulation.

In the mirror, I can see my roommate behind me, curled up on her bed, sobs racking her thin shoulders. I watch Catherine’s shaking body, wishing I could tell her that I’m here for her. I’ve tried before, but she never hears me. Her wheat-blonde hair spills onto her pillow as her frail shoulders flinch and jerk in time with her cries. She muffles her wails with the blanket she stole off my bed. I don’t mind, and inwardly invite her to take as much time as she needs.

As I exit our room, I run a hand along the ancient, cold stone walls of the long and empty hallway. The haunting melody of “Swan Lake” floats through the stale air into my ears, drifting from a door to my left. I carefully enter, silently watching the dancers within.

In the front, Francesca uses her muscular legs to propel her powerful leaps and spins as she dances in perfect rhythm to the music. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a bun so tight it must give her a headache. Her dance partner, Antoine, waits several feet away, arms outstretched in preparation to catch her. With a final twirl, pumping her leg to turn her a third time around, Francesca leaps into the air, stretching her legs flawlessly into a straight line as she arcs toward Antoine.

He reaches for her waist, but I can already tell that it’s too late. She tumbles to the ground, landing ungracefully on the gleaming hardwood. Antoine purses his lips, and I know that this isn’t the first time they’ve tried and failed this catch. Wordlessly, Francesca stands, signaling for the pianist to begin the composition once more. They restart their routine, and my gaze drifts to the barre, where Tariq is stretching. He brings one long, elegant leg up and above his head so that the toe of his silky navy pointe shoe nearly taps the mirror. His dark brown eyes are focused on Francesca and Antoine’s routine. That should have been us. It should have been him and I twirling in sync and catching each other, smiling breathlessly as I lay draped across his knee as the dying Odette. I see the bitterness and regret reflected in his dull eyes.

I want to creep up beside him and rest my head on his shoulder, whispering to him that I am sorry. But I have already tried, and just like Catherine, he didn’t hear me. I don’t have a voice.

Beside him, Ines, my replacement, practices her splits in a fuschia leotard. Her dark curls escape her bun, and a merriment glows in her pale green eyes. But she doesn’t dare smile, not in the heavy sadness that has settled over the studio.

As Francesca balks at the catch yet again, I cast a final wistful glance at Tariq, who is now deliberately keeping his eyes on the floor as he sweeps his pointed foot behind him in a graceful tendu. His smooth brown skin is marred by worry lines that weren’t there a week ago.

Watching his tired face, sunlit by the rays filtering through the window, I draw in a deep breath, but the inhale has no relief, and the exhale leaves my lungs empty and hollow. Quickly, I turn and slip back into the hallway, this time following the winding passage all the way to the front of the academy, heading down the huge stone steps that mark the entrance and out into the courtyard.

I continue down the wooded path through the well-manicured grass and hedges of the courtyard until I stand before the weathered chapel. With its cool stone walls and tall steeple still glistening with dew, it matched the Academy in its design. They were both crafted by the same architect, I think. At the very top of the steeple is a tall silver cross that glints as it stands proudly in the sunlight. Surrounding the chapel are a variety of flowers, from crimson and maroon rosebushes to violet irises to soft, clean lilies. I pause by a bleeding heart, with its magenta blossom bowing its head to its golden-lined bosom. Amber and scarlet maple trees frame the path where it leads behind the chapel, and with tentative steps, I follow.

The bell high above bursts out with a low, mournful, rolling wail. Through the trees, I see Catherine and some of the other dancers. She leans heavily on Adelaide’s shoulder, who rubs her back gently, jaw clenched in determination. Their eyes are bleary and rimmed with red. It seems like they haven’t slept in days. The dancers move in rigid, zombie-like fashion, and I watch my friends stalk past me, unseeing. I want to call their names. I know each of them- Catherine, thin and frail-boned like me; Adelaide and Francesca, stern, solemn, and strong; Rebecca, slim and graceful. We’ve danced together, laughed together, and wept together. We were sisters.

But they are deaf to my voice.

Taking another shallow breath that leaves my chest taut, I follow their retreating steps with my gaze, then creep back down the path. The sunlight is caught by the canopy of leaves high above, leaving the forest shaded and cool. The fallen leaves, soft and soggy on the ground from rain and mud, are silent beneath my feet. When I finally break through the trees into the sun, the shining waters of the turquoise pond stretch out before me.

I pick my way down the rocky bank to the shore as the light dances on its glistening, rippling surface. A single snowy white swan floats on the other side, her delicate feathers gleaming as she spreads her sleek wings and arcs her long, slender, elegant neck. She eyes me cautiously as she glides across the smooth waters.

Slowly, I slink up an incline toward the weeping willow draped across the bank, its flowing tendrils swaying gently in the wind. I duck beneath the leaves and slide down its trunk to sit on the cool earth. Running my fingers across its bark, I trace the letters engraved by a pocket knife one hazy summer day. That was an eternity ago now, back when two dancers loved each other and vowed to never stop as long as one or the other should live. The bumps and creases in the wood are as familiar as my own hands. T + M.

Solemnly, I lift my face to the sky as the swan on the pond flutters her ivory wings and rises into the air with a cry like a mourning angel. Standing, I bid the initialed tree farewell and stride back up the path into the forest, not stopping for anything until I reach the rusty old gate behind the chapel. In all my days at St. Anastasia’s, I had avoided this area the best I could. With quivering fingers, I unlatch the gate and step lightly through, allowing it to swing shut behind me. Within the small, overgrown courtyard, enclosed by a rusted black metal fence, worn stone crosses stand crookedly where they emerge from the tall grass. The space is ruled by flora, from the silky grass hiding the stones to the forget-me-nots speckling the earth to the ivy winding around the fence and the wisteria climbing the backside of the chapel.

All of the cold gray stones, crumbling and tinged green by moss, are tucked neatly beneath the overgrowth- except one. A single silver stone poises erect amidst the dark greenery and periwinkle forget-me-nots. A bundle of lilies rests before it beside a flickering candle.

Silently, reverently, I pad through the grass until I stand before it. Releasing all of the respiteless air from my lungs, I drop to the soft earth before the grave and curl my knees to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. Hoping desperately, praying that I won’t be here when I open my eyes, I lean against the firm stone and let my body crumple to the dirt.

* * *

It has been one week since the St. Anastasia Dance Academy lost its first student in nearly a decade. The dancers have been restless and sloppy, unsure of how to deal with this sudden loss. Her class visits the graveyard every day to leave candles and flowers. And beside the gravestone, a girl sits, waiting, wondering if she will ever be saved. A girl sits by her gravestone, once a graceful, beautiful dancer, now a fallen swan.

Here rests Marion Freeman,

1901-1915

Beloved daughter, dancer,

And the Swan of St. Anastasia.