Beyond The Lace Curtains Louise Sorensen October 3, 2012
Only three people heard the faint strain of Flamenco guitar playing upon the wind that All Hallows Eve. Melinda the rider, Mateo the warrior, and Anna Maria the dancer. Of the three, only the dancer followed the music to the lonely old house brooding on the hill.
Peering through the glass of the French doors, the dancer felt the toll of the wooden clock standing in the corner, as it struck twelve. She startled as the pale lace curtains on the wall lifted and swirled.
A mist of green rose in the room, the doors opened of their own accord, and Anna Maria the dancer, stepped through.
The lace curtains billowed in an unseen wind, a hazy shape took form. A woman pale as bone glided across the boards, bruising the wooden floor with kisses from the heels of her dancing shoes. The guitar woke up and played a little louder, the woman increased her rhythm, beckoning the dancer to join in.
As if in a dream, the dancer tasted the music on her lips, holding her hands high above her, stirred the burning air with finger tips and struck the bare wood floor with the heels of her soft leather shoes. The floor trembled to her rough treatment. Her steps echoed through the empty house like the drumbeat of a hollow heart.
The woman tattooed hearts and circles on the floor, and the dancer matched her step for step. Other instruments wept their accompaniment. A violin sobbed a story of lost love, betrayal, revenge. A trumpet melted hot upon the air, singing its tale of despair, and hope.
The woman beckoned the dancer ever closer, ‘Dance with me.’
They whirled around the dance floor, bathed in moonlight streaming through the open doors. The woman held out her hand “Come with me, stay with me, be with me.’
Green lightnings crackled in the air and the walls fell away. The dancer felt soft tingles as the lightnings touched her skin, then darted away, quick as minnows in a stream.
The lightnings wove together and formed a man. The woman held tight to the dancer’s hand on one side and the man on the other. She wrapped the dancer in her lacy shroud and opened her fingers. But the dancer, realizing the trap, tore off the dreamy wrappings and pulled free.
She pulled free from the woman in the lacy curtain made of ghosts, and the dark eyed man made of lightnings, and ran through the open French doors, disappearing into the night.
The wail of the woman and the cry of the man followed her, spurring on her flight.
For it was not her time to leave the town and all the life within.
Not her time to release the lovers and dance in the woman’s place.
Not her time to be the woman in the silent world beyond the curtains of lace.