For the last couple of years, I have run a beautiful little Christmas shortie by one of my author buddies, Catherine Cavendish. I was lucky enough to edit Cat professionally, and not only is she very agreeable to work with, she's also a very creative writer. I love her work and hope you do too.
Dance
Me To The End Of Time
by
Catherine
Cavendish
I’ve always loved Christmas. The tree, tinsel and a
roaring fire… Candles flickering and the sound of carollers striving to hit the
top register in “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
This
year’s no different. Of course, there’s no roaring fire anymore. That’s been
replaced with one of those living flame gas affairs. Quite nice, but you never
could beat the real thing.
“Penny
for them.” My husband, Charles, interrupts my reverie.
“Oh,
nothing. I was just musing and remembering Christmases past.” I smile at him.
He
adjusts his tie and smoothes his glossy black hair,
all gestures I have seen
him perform countless times. “Do
you think it will snow this year?” he asks, studying his reflection in the
mirror.
I turn
to look out of the window. “It’s too dark to tell, but it looks damp out there.
It must have been raining earlier.”
“I
didn’t notice,” Charles says, “but then I suppose I wouldn’t, would I?” He
smiles at me and takes my hand, brushing it against his lips. Then I catch him
examining my dress.
“Something
wrong?” I ask and instinctively look down at my white, floor-length gown. I see
some creases in the silk which I attempt to smooth away.
“That’s
better. It was just a little wrinkled.”
“Hardly
surprising,” I say. “It only gets an outing once a year.”
We
laugh, and Charles strokes away a long, dark brown lock of hair which has
escaped my elaborate coiffure and has wandered across my cheek.
“Shall
we dance, Emily?” he asks.
“Certainly,
Charles, it will be my pleasure.”
We
waltz to a phantom orchestra. In my head I can hear the strains of the Blue Danube, and I am transported back
to another time and place. I can see a young girl and her young man, their eyes
locked in an embrace as they swirl around a ballroom in Vienna while a
conductor, violin in hand, steers the orchestra through his latest composition.
“I
miss the scent of roasting chestnuts,” I tell Charles.
His
mouth widens in a grin. “But can’t you smell them, Emily? Concentrate really hard.”
I close
my eyes and let him lead me round and round as the music grows louder, and now
I can smell them. Chestnuts, little fried potatoes and the warming aroma of
cinnamon from the Glühwein. I can hear the bells of St Stephen’s
Cathedral and feel the chill of the night air on my cheek. Little flecks of
snow are falling onto my face, and my feet crunch on the icy ground.
Charles
is waltzing me faster and faster. And now I can hear the voices. The orchestra has faded and a choir is
singing in German: “Stille Nacht, heilige
Nacht…”
“Oh
Charles--”
“No,
Emily, don’t open your eyes.”
I
obey. “Don’t let it stop, Charles, please don’t let it stop,” I cry, “Not this
time. Not this year.”
“Dance
with me, Emily. Dance with me.”
The
choir has faded, and the orchestra builds to a crescendo. I know if I open my
eyes, I will see the wild black hair of the conductor, falling over his eyes as
his violin bow slashes through the air.
But
I mustn’t open my eyes. Charles told me
not to.
“Oh
Emily, Emily,” Charles says, “Let us never lose this moment. Never.”
“Never,
Charles.”
And
then I open my eyes.
“No,
Emily, no!” Charles’ agonized face is before me. But the moment has passed.
The
orchestra is silent. There are no roasting chestnuts, no carol singers, no hot
spiced wine.
Vienna has gone.
“Oh
Emily, you did it again. Just like last year. Just like every year.”
I
am crestfallen. He takes my face in his hands. He kisses my lips, and I close
my eyes again, trying to recapture the dream. But it’s too late.
“Never
mind, my love, there’s always next year.”
“As
long as we’re still here,” I say, my old fears returning.
“I
expect we will be. They seem to like us well enough.”
From
the hallway, I hear the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock. It’s time.
“Come,
my love. We must return.” Charles once again takes my hand and together we gaze
at the empty picture above the mantelpiece.
“Until
next year and the magic returns,” he whispers.
“Until
next year. Happy Christmas, Charles.”
“Happy
Christmas, Emily.”
The
door opens and a young couple wanders in, each holding a glass of red wine. They
are both dressed smartly, she in a navy suit, he in dark grey. She has short
blond hair, and his is dark. They look very modern to me.
The
woman’s gaze is drawn to the painting. “I’ve always loved that picture.” She
sighs, raising her glass to her lips and taking a sip.
“That’s
why I bought it for you,” the man says and nuzzles her neck.
“Dance Me to the End of Time,” she
murmurs. “Such an evocative title. And it really looks as if that’s what they’re
doing, doesn’t it? You feel they could just step out of that frame and glide
around the room.”
Her
husband laughs. “You and your imagination.”
The
woman moves toward the fireplace and is peering closer. “There it is
again. The damnedest thing!”
“What?”
he asks.
“I
noticed it last year, but only on Christmas Eve, and it’s happened again this
year. Look at her eyes.”
The
man does as he is bid.
“Can
you see it? There at the corner of her eye. A tear. It looks as if it’s just
about to spill down her cheek, but I bet you it won’t be there in the morning.”
The
man laughs. “You’re imagining it. Too much wine at dinner.”
“Say
what you like. I know what I saw.” She steps back.
She’s
right, of course. It’s the tear I cannot
cry every Christmas when the magic ends.
And we are frozen here in time and
space.
Catherine Cavendish is joint winner of the Samhain Gothic Horror Anthology
competition 2013. Her winning novella – Linden Manor – is available in all digital formats and in the print anthology, What Waits In The Shadows. She is the author of a number of paranormal horror and Gothic horror novellas and short stories. Her novel, Saving Grace Devine,has recently been published by Samhain Publishing and her new novel -The Pendle Curse - is coming out on February 3rd.
She lives with a longsuffering husband in North Wales. Her home was built in the mid-
18th century and is haunted by a friendly ghost, who announces her presence
by footsteps, switching lights on and strange phenomena involving the washing
When not slaving over a hot computer, Cat enjoys wandering around Neolithic stone
circles and visiting old haunted houses.
You can connect with Cat here:
www.catherinecavendish.com
https://www.facebook.com/CatherineCavendishWriter?ref=hl
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4961171.Catherine_Cavendish
Cool they were,
but with an underlying fire. Letting her eyes drift shut, she
pushed her mouth against his, sure he held the key, knew the secret, could give
her everything she’d ever wanted.
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