Susan Shwartz - Swan's Lake.pdf - Susan Shwartz - widez2

Swan’s Lake

by Susan Shwartz

* * * *

Denied even the small luxury of a maudlin binge, the tutor Wolfgang had drunk

himself sober while the sailors spent the night dragging the lake. Now, clouds

scudded over the rising sun. It looked pale and impossibly remote. Wind rose and

scattered great white feathers of spume onto the rocks. Toll-ing from the lake, bells

echoed from castle to cliffs and down to the village. The lake’s surface teemed with

tiny boats on which tiny figures moved si-lently, heavily. They lowered the great

seining nets, raised them, then lowered them again and again. Each time, their

movements were more and more hope-less.

Finally, the boats came in to shore. The thirteen swans who floated there in a

silent cortege parted, as if to escort the fishermen to the docks. Wolfgang was

waiting at the landing, flushed but otherwise far, far too sober. Benno, who had been

the Prince’s closest friend, stumbled as he disembarked. The fish-ermen steadied

him. Wolfgang wrapped his own marten-lined cloak about the younger man, who

was trembling, and hugged him for a moment. Then, he pulled out the inevitable flask

of brandy.

Benno tried a weak grin; Wolfgang’s fondness for the grape was an old joke

among . . . there were just two of them left now to mourn. Abruptly, both men

looked at the flask and winced at the coat of arms stamped into the heavy silver. The

flask was a new one, Prince Siegfried’s last gift to his old tutor only a day ago. It

had been the anniversary of his birth — his twenty-first birthday and his last.

“We dragged the entire lake, Wolf-gang,” muttered Benno. “And do you

know what we found? One odd white rock, shaped like an owl, some branches, and

an odd boot or two. Sweet suffering Christ, how shall I tell the Queen her son is

drowned?”

Wolfgang shut his eyes in grief, wish-ing that it were merely the pain of a

hangover. Benno was just Prince Sieg-fried’s age. He had tutored them both,

birched the one and scolded the other when both were boys. They were the only

sons he was likely to have, and he had entertained bright hopes for the men they

might become.

Last night had been Prince Sieg-fried’s twenty-first birthday. As al-ways, the

royal Birthday was celebrated with a ball. At this year’s Ball, how-ever, he had been

formally invested as Heir. That was — or was supposed to be — his moment to

choose a bride. At supper, with trumpets before and fire-works thereafter, the

betrothal should have been announced.

Six lovely princesses, all young, all dancers, had been invited so that he might

make his choice. They had been half in love with him already, had waited, hoping

wistfully that he might hand one of them the bouquet that Queen Hedwig Elisabeth

had laid in his hand. But the Prince had wanted no part of them. Even after Her

Majesty had risen from the throne and rebuked him sharply, the Prince had drawn

apart.

God knows, it had not been that the Prince didn’t know what his duty was.

Wolfgang had spent hours dinning the customs and proprieties of the Birthday into

the Prince’s hard head, but the boy had not wanted to settle into life as Heir,

husband, and — inexorably — father quite so quickly. He had wanted time to dance,

to hunt, and to laugh. Had any of those six dreaming, dancing princesses wanted a

friend, a brother, a dance partner, she might have twined him about her delicate

fingers, but no, they had had to dream about him . . .

And then they had entered the room in a flash of splendor. The dark,

glit-tering princess in her gown black as night and sewn with stars and her tall, avian

father strode into the ballroom, accompanied by a retinue of magnifi-cent strangers

from the warm southern lands, outshining the somber Northern court. They looked

more regal than even the Queen.

The man had gestured. The Princess had danced; and their retinue, from

golden baskets, had flung apricots, dates, amber pears, and glowing Valencia

or-anges to an astonished court, greedy as children for that one evening. For all the

good, though, that the court had had of them, they might as well have hurled poison.

The black-clad Princess had dazzled Prince Siegfried. He had needed no

re-minders of duty to declare his eternal love and homage. No sooner were the

words out than her father extracted the Prince’s solemn vow to wed his daugh-ter.

But it had all been a trick. Once the promise was out, they taunted Sieg-fried with a

vision of a maid he had betrayed — he who had never willingly harmed man,

woman, or child in all his life. Even then, the girl had tried to warn him. Her white

hands fluttered like tired wings, but, intent on his be-trothed, he did not see.

Finally he noticed — or was permitted to notice. When he saw the maid who

had trusted him weeping in de-spair, he too despaired. Then those two regal

sorcerers had laughed at him, scoffed at his pleas, and disappeared in a crack of

thunder as sharp as heart-break. The white flowers of what should have been a bridal

bouquet lay on the parquet of the dance floor, petals bruised and scattered.

Wolfgang shook himself like an old dog. Faithful hound, worn out in my

Prince’s service, he thought. I’d hoped to spend these last years at his fireside, with

children tugging at my ears and heartstrings.

He sighed and took Benno’s arm. The surviving lad hadn’t yet learned that

what could not be cured must be en-dured; and God knows, there was no cure for

this sorrow, short of the grave. Wolfgang could feel Benno’s bone and muscle

under the heavy cloth of his cloak. The man was young, taut, fit; yet Wolfgang knew

that during the long climb up the clifflike rocky stair to the Castle, he was the

stronger man.

“These same miserable rocks . . .” Benno muttered. Wolfgang tightened his

grasp. This very dawn, the Prince had hurled himself from these very rocks,

following the maid who refused to live loveless and enslaved.

“You dare not think of that, lad,” he said.

Behind them came the tread of heavy fishermen’s boots that all but drowned

out their scandalized whispers and hisses to one another not to bother the gentry

with the clack of their gossip. For all Wolfgang cared, they could go straight to

Father Bertwald and let him deluge their little boats with holy water. There was no

comfort for any of them either in faith or in reason right now, as Wolf-gang knew.

Well, he had spent many pleasant, tipsy years as the mildest of Epicu-reans,

preaching pleasure and joy — always in moderation, though; he would not be the

first philosopher who turned Stoic in his old age.

“Lord Benno, Master Wolfgang!” a voice trained to halloo out over wind and

rain hailed them. “Look over there!”

Young Jurgen knelt beside a boulder the size of a turret. He reached forward,

raising by her slender wrists a girl who would have been lovely had she not been so

terrified. Her hands bled from grubbing up pebbles to cast at the fish-ermen. Her lips

were pulled back in a silent shriek. Her dark eyes were full of anguish, but no tears.

Though a cloak trimmed with ashen feathers lay crum-pled beneath her, she was clad

only in her long hair. It too was the color of cold ashes on the hearth; but when the

pale sun struck it, it gleamed.

Benno’s head shot up. Angry recog-nition began to smolder in his amber

eyes, and Wolfgang could follow his thoughts. Change that maid’s hair from ashen

to ebony, stitch a proud crimson smile on that pallid face, garb her in black satin and

lace, not the pathetic grace of her own skin, and she would resemble the sorceress

who had de-stroyed their Prince.

Wolfgang jabbed the younger man with his elbow. “Not now, fool!” he

hissed. Not when they were both worn out and heartsore; they could imagine

anything. But as Wolfgang gazed at Jurgen, the young fisherman who held his

surprising new catch, he didn’t think that he imagined how much the man resembled

the last Prince. Both men had dark hair that flowed over tanned brows, brown eyes

more apt to flash with friendship than with anger or scorn, and wide, generous

mouths.

For that matter, both men resembled Prince Siegfried’s father, who had

al-ways loved his people well . . . far too well, muttered Queen Hedwig Elisa-beth,

who had reasons of her own for that sour, pinched-lip look she too often wore.

Benno too stared at the sailor and the girl whom he struggled to enfold in the

strange feathered cloak. So like the Prince and that dark Princess; and yet, where

Siegfried had been all fire and dreams, this Jurgen was sober and kind. Where the

dark Princess had been sure and brilliant and cruel, this maid was terrified past

anguish. She flailed her arms in a feeble attempt to ward off the cloak’s soft

embrace.

“Little lostling, see, it’s warm and fine. I can give you nothing else that is so

fine,” he coaxed.

“Stop trying to shoulder me aside,” Benno hissed at his former tutor. “I

swear, that girl is . . .”

As if sensing the rage in the grieving man, the girl flung herself onto the

ground. Her white naked back turned in as graceful a line as the neck of a swan.

Jurgen reached down and gath-ered her in to rest against his rough jacket. His

weathered hands smoothed down her long, silver-gray hair, which tangled and clung

to his fingers. He glanced up reproachfully at Benno.

“What’s thy name, lostling?” he asked.

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

“A mute!” Benno exclaimed under his breath, his fingers moving in an old

sign. “The other one could laugh, at least.”

The girl’s lips parted again. Jurgen, bent closer to listen. He was half in love

with the chit already, thought Wolf-gang. Though he himself could hear nothing,

Jurgen nodded. “Dillie,” said Jurgen. “Is that your name?”

The maid shook her head:

Dillie? Too close by far to Odile, the name of the dark princess. Yet, Jurgen

had not been to the ball, had not seen her . . . would not know. And how could

Wolfgang be so sure?

“Shall I call you that till you tell me your true name?” Jurgen asked. “Yes?

Here now, then, Dillie, just let me wrap this . . .” Again, the girl writhed away from

the feathered cloak. Her back and bare legs were very white. Some of the fishermen

crossed themselves or reached for charms. Others simply looked away.

Jurgen fumbled at his jacket, and Wolfgang winced at the thought of the

coarse wool and leather against that white, white skin.

“Give him your cloak for her,” he hissed at Benno. After all, it had be-longed

to him first. He would go colder this winter so that this foundling would be warm,

but the Prince would have expected nothing less of him. (The Queen, however,

would bite her lip at the tutor’s extravagance.)

Slowly, Benno took off the cloak and offered it, though with little of his usual

courtliness. With a nod of thanks, Jur-gen accepted the garment and laid it tenderly

over the girl’s slender shoul-ders. Then he swung her up into his irms.

“My mother has lacked a daughter. And see, Dillie trusts me,” he ex-plained.

“Besides, you will not need me up at the Castle.”

That one had a head on his shoulders, Wolfgang thought. It would be savage

cruelty for Queen Hedwig Elisabeth to have to face a man as like her only son as his

brother.

A murmur arose from Jurgen’s com-panions, and he glared at them. “Will it

satisfy you if I fetch Father Bertwald and the Sacraments to her?” he asked them, his

chin lifted defiantly. It could have been the Prince himself speaking. Wolfgang had

been proud that His Highness had grown up without super-stitions; he himself had

never shared the local beliefs in woodwoses or sha-pechangers, creatures who

shuddered away from the touch of cold iron or garlic (so fine in venison or a stew!)

or who recoiled at the peal of church bells. These villagers and the fishermen gave

more heed to herbs and berries, mark-ings on old stones, than to the Creed.

Dillie’s slender white feet dangled as Jurgen carried her down the track

to-ward the village. She glanced out once, saw the white rock like an owl’s skull in

the center of the lake and hid her face in Jurgen’s shoulder. Benno stirred at

Wolfgang’s side, ready to follow.

“The Queen needs us more,” Wolf-gang reminded her son’s friend.

They climbed the last rough stairs, and still Wolfgang could hear Jurgen’s

voice. “Now then, no need for this fear. Who would hate a pretty thing like you?”

Many, feared the tutor. One of them walked at his side.

Above them pealed out the chapel bells: nine strokes of the passing bell for a

man, followed by twenty-one more — one ring for each year of the Prince’s life.

Night was her friend. At night, the hearthfire died into embers so comfort-ing

to her eyes after the glare of day-light. At night, her new friends, the old woman with

the warm eyes and gentle hands, the young man who had carried her down from the

rocks she feared, would fall asleep. Now they even left their door unlatched. Now

they trusted her enough to believe that she would not wander up the cliffs or down

Susan Shwartz - Swan's Lake.pdf

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