The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold (18 page)

“Sometimes I have,” she said carelessly.

“I hope you never swim alone at night, mermaid.”

“If I really was a mermaid, Pan, I would swim wherever and whenever I chose,” she said.

He looked at her curiously. “What did you call me?”

“Pan. Like in the book.
The Wind in the Willows
. I’m reading it.”

“Really?” Now she had surprised him, and she smiled.

“You play the flute like him,” she said.

He toyed with his instrument. “But the great god Pan is dead,” he said at last. “To invite him now is to invite death.”

“Death? Why?”

“Well, according to the legend, he died every year with the harvest of the grain, and rose again in spring. He was one of the corn gods, the god of shepherds.” He was silent, then added, “And of course, he prefigured Christ.”

“Jesus was a corn dog? I mean, corn god?” she pursued, laughing at her gaffe.

“No, He was the true Good Shepherd, the reality behind the fairy tale,” Paul said.

“Hmm,” Rachel said, feeling the water with her fingers. “Why did you say that to invite Pan was to invite death?”

“I was quoting someone from my theology class in college. What it means is, we can’t invoke the pagan gods any more, even the ones that were close to reality. Because Christ has come, and all pagan gods have shrunk into dead tales or demons.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t call you Pan?”

He smiled at her, winsomely. “Just call me a faun, if you like, mermaid. They were mythical creatures who resembled Pan, and played the pipes.”

“Yes, like in Narnia,” Rachel murmured. Dad had read her that book, long ago. “All right, faun.”

Paul looked at her again, his lips half-parted. Then he said, “Since we’re talking in this fanciful fashion, mermaid, may I tell you a story?”

“Sure,” she said, bobbing in the water.

“It’s not a happy story,” he said, warning. He put his flute to his mouth and blew a short
ffift!
then rubbed it.

“I promise not to cry,” she said.

“Don’t promise that,” he said, and set his flute down. “Once upon a time, there were men and women in the world.”

“Just as there are now.”

“Just as now. And there was a devil, as there is also now, and he desired to destroy the happiness of man and woman. So he created a twisted looking glass. This looking-glass was not a mirror, but a piece of glass so invisible that a man could look through it and not realize he was seeing a twisted reality. And it reflected a bit, like a mirror, so that a man could see himself, or what he thought was himself.”

“Go on,” Rachel said.

“Now, this glass was made particularly for men, and the devil made sure that men looked through it whenever they chanced to look at women. And this glass changed the women.”

“It made them ugly,” Rachel said, thinking she had heard this story before.

“No, not really. That’s actually a lot harder to do than you might think. What the mirror did was more insidious. It reduced them.”

“Reduced them?”

“So that, to a man looking through the glass, the woman appeared to be an object, a pretty plaything put there for his pleasure. Now, the man might know that the woman had brains, or talents, or any number of other gifts, but when he looked through the mirror, he saw her only as a toy. And the devil made every effort to push that glass before a man’s eyes when he was as young as possible. So that most men were so used to looking through the glass that, even when it wasn’t there, the images they saw in the glass dictated their reality.”

“Hmph,” was all Rachel could think of to say.

Paul kicked the water with his toe. “There was a further trick to the devil’s glass. The glass taught men to sort all women they saw into two types—worthwhile, and not worthwhile. Or ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ as some men took to calling them. Good toys and bad toys. And so this was the way they had of speaking about women among themselves. And as you can imagine, the women couldn’t help overhearing these conversations. And even though most of the women hadn’t glanced through the mirror, they couldn’t help thinking of themselves in this manner. As toys. Good toys or bad toys.”

“What was the difference between the good toys and the bad toys?” Rachel said, scraping at the rock with her fingernail.

“Nothing,” Paul said.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing essential,” Paul said. “Once you’ve decided to see a person as a toy, the degrees between the toys are close to non-existent. But for practical purposes as far as the deluded man was concerned, there was a difference.”

“Which was?” Rachel asked.

“Time,” Paul said slowly. “Only time. You spend more time with a good toy. Lots of time. You date her, you take her out, you pay her compliments. You might even marry her. But in the end, she’s just a toy.”

“And the bad toys?” she asked after a moment.

His face had a rigid, hard look on it. “You don’t waste your time. You play with them, but not for long. Maybe not even twenty-four hours.  And then you don’t care if you ever see her again. Remember,” he said, “From this twisted point of view, a smart man doesn’t waste his time on bad toys.”

“But what about Christian men?” she objected.

“Christian men were taught to look through this mirror, too. Sometimes they attached more importance to the ‘good’ versus ‘bad’ distinction. You have to make sure you marry a ‘good’ toy. Because a Christian man doesn’t waste his time on ‘bad’ toys. Oh, maybe a Christian man might glance at a ‘bad’ toy—say, in the pages of a sports magazine or on a web page. But a good Christian doesn’t waste his time on ‘bad’ toys. You want a good toy—just one. Or at any rate, only one at a time.”

His voice was bitter. She was breathing hard, staring at him. 

“But it’s not fair!”

“Of course it’s not.”

“I don’t believe all men are like this.”

He met her eyes. “They’re not, but don’t underestimate the power of the looking glass. Many, many women do. They think they’re being brave.  But they’re only naïve. Naïve girls who think they’re being bold are girls who are going to get hurt. And maybe hurt beyond repair.”

He looked away. “You see, there’s no place in a deluded man’s world for an old toy, or an ugly toy, or a toy who doesn’t have the right figure, or whose body doesn’t work the way it should—a handicapped toy, a toy who’s fallen ill.  If the toy was once a good toy, you might hang around—after all, she was once a good toy.  And you can feast on the memories, and keep an eye on other good toys from the sidelines or glance at the bad toys in the magazines—but a ‘smart’ man doesn’t let himself get stuck with a broken toy. Particularly a toy who’s been used and is in need of repair.”

She wiped her eyes, angry. “Why are you telling me this? I know all of this already. I know everything you’re saying.”

Now he turned and looked at her, his voice unexpectedly husky. “You do?”

“Yes,” her face was red with shame. “It’s what happens to girls who aren’t careful. Who think too much about their bodies. I’ve been warned all my life about what happens to girls—who become like you said. Who become bad toys.”

His face twitched, as if he were in pain. He said softly, “Don’t say that. Don’t you understand? The whole point is, it’s all a lie. You’re not a toy at all.”

But she was too upset to listen to him. Pushing away from the rock, she swam back to the shore, and sprinted onto the beach. Snatching up her clothes, she hurried up the path to the house, not once looking behind. For some reason, she had a panicked idea that he was following her, but when she glanced back as she reached the top of the cliff, she saw he was still sitting on the rock, his flute in between his hands, his head bowed.

Who does he think he is?

Who
is
he? Pagan or Christian? Man or god? Good or bad?

He didn’t seem to fit onto any side of the scale, and Rachel decided, as she got dressed, that it was in her best interest to pretend that this conversation had never happened.

It was almost midnight. Paul straightened his scapular, then pulled on his black hood over a black shirt. He was already wearing the black pants and fitted shoes that completed the outfit. It was time to go.

Paul had learned a lot about stealth and tracking in the military, which was an asset to him now. And in college, he and his friends had done war games in the woods near the campus, involving nighttime reconnaissance, and to that end, he had acquired a black outfit that resembled a ninja costume—the same black pants and fitted shoes he wore for juggling, and a black shirt and hood. He had brought it along on vacation because it was comfortable and light, and one never knew when one might need a ninja outfit.

Though I didn’t think I’d be wearing it every night
, he thought, as he started weaving through the trees to the Durham’s property. There was no moon tonight. At least his job would be a bit easier, but it still wouldn’t solve his problem.

It was difficult to stand in the shadows and watch. In the beginning, he had kept himself occupied with the logistical problems of tracking and following the girls, of getting on and off a boat unseen. But now those problems were mostly solved—each time the boats were docked, they were in deep shadows, and he merely had to wait for the odd moment to get on or off. And the routine for the evening was rapidly fixing itself in concrete—every night from now on, he guessed that the girls would be getting on the boats, going to the island, and having their dance.

The island itself brought up contradictory feelings in him. It was indeed a place of enchantment. The nights had been particularly beautiful lately, and the island was itself extremely lovely. The willow trees, pines, and oaks provided ample cover for him, as well as a fitting background to the pageant of girls dancing in the moonlight.

And the girls were very beautiful, all of them in their individual ways, and if he had nothing else to do but watch them dance, this was going to get frustrating. Already it had become a bit difficult for him to actually watch them dance, particularly the ones who chose to wear the skimpier outfits. 

But his way to salvation was through beauty, and he kept forcing himself to appreciate their beauty without reducing them to objects. Sometimes that meant looking away from the girls up at the beauty of the waning moon, or the frothy leaves of the willows, or the stars. The wonders of nature were not his personal treasures, he told himself. And neither were the girls. In particular, not the girls.

Now he left the campsite stealthily and wove his way down the bayside, across the remainder of the campsite, through a stretch of woods, across three private lots (fortunately the beaches weren’t clearly in view of the houses) to the Durhams’ grounds. The far edge of the Durham property was woods, mostly willows and vines. He had cut a path for himself through the brush so he didn’t have to make much noise. Eventually he reached the willow tree that overhung the deep water where the boys docked their boats. He slid behind the trunk into a little hollow that was conveniently shadowed and waited.

Eventually, he heard the sound of the girls’ voices from the bike cave above, and then, one by one, they started to make their way down the bank to the beach, giggling and sliding. The younger girls were usually ready the quickest—Debbie, Linette, Brittany, and Melanie came down together in bare feet, holding their sandals by their straps. Debbie started splashing around in the water, and Brittany picked up stones and started to shy them across the bay water, seeing how many times she could make them skip.

“I wish we could just go swimming,” Linette said wistfully. “Do we have to go to the island every night? It’s so boring.”

“Yes, this used to be an adventure, but now it’s all about chasing boys,” Debbie agreed. “There’s no boys our ages on the island. They’re all in high school or older.”

“Doesn’t make a difference to Becca and Liddy,” Brittany observed, letting another stone fly expertly over the waves.

“They’re silly,” Debbie said loftily. “I’m smarter than them, and I’m only eleven. I hope I don’t get so dumb when I’m a teenager.”

Brittany’s stone skipped five times and she shouted, “Score!”

“Shhh!” Becca hissed, skittering down the sandy slope in a floral dress. “We’re still home, remember?” On level ground, she dabbed at her hair with her hands. “It’s too windy tonight.”

Paul became aware that Rachel was coming down the bank now, slender and sylphlike in her navy blue dress, and he felt unusually self-conscious. He hadn’t seen her since she had left him abruptly at the swimming rock that morning. She was back to her usual air of cool indifference, and he wondered if anything he had said to her had affected her. Most likely not. Her angry exit still stung in his memory.

Now she clapped her hands. “Come on kids, look alive,” she said easily. “We’re going to a party tonight.”

“But we go to a party every night,” Debbie said resentfully, sloshing water on her dress.

Rachel set her hands on her hips and swayed. “Yes. Aren’t we lucky?”

“I wish we could do something else,” Debbie said frankly. “All we can do is dance or talk. It’s boring.”