Be Still Your Dancing Feet - the girls who glimpsed everything

So, imagine. You and your eleven sisters have been locked in a room. Not just for one night, because you’re grounded, but every night and it seems to you that is for evermore. And people talk of marriage and princes, but you’ll have no choice because you’re never free to meet those guys who might be your thing or ring your bell. So if there will be husbands they won’t be your choices, and there are no dances or evenings of joy or eyes to meet in hot glances, none that are offered to you anyway, just that closed, locked door to your gilded prison. So you find a place, a place in secret, to go in the dark of night, to keep a secret with tight lips almost smiling, to whisper lies about, deny. You find a place where you can dance and express those parts of you that have been fastened with a golden key, you can wear satin slippers and wear them out, you can dance and flourish your swaying hips, you can use your eyes for come hither looks, you can use your smiles to suggest welcome.

Silvered bark on slender trees, golden lanterns, diamond starlight, the fragrance of the hushed lake alluring spices, whispering music to make your toes dance. The still of a lake between day and dusk, the moon dropping silver, returning as mist, gliding through the gloss of shining golden water in silent boats, hands in that of your chosen, you remember - don’t smile too broad, hold him on a breath and a look of anticipation.

Still looking behind in fear as you flow through the grove in your golden dresses, spiralled winding tresses (wound with wildflowers) tumbling in the burnished air caught up with music. Tangled as you are in thoughts, and steps, and surging feelings, whirling in the beat-laden mists of youthful energy.

Everything about the place is magical. The magic of longing, of desire both fulfilled and flowing, the tumbles and twirls of what happens next? The sheer joy of knowing and not knowing, of giving in to it, of exulting in the inspired tendrils of thoughts and motions calling and ebbing and singing and shouting and finding a way through the forest, over a lake in stillness, the stairs to a castle high and forbidding giving welcome with tuneful calling and wild spirits rising. And…and, everything is fresh and new and shining and filled with possibilities. You move with the heated grace of your own will, bodice burgeoning with blithe breaths, each step euphoric, turning and charming the ground with each touch of your toe and turn of your heel, feeling your power of bewitchment.

But then, one night a follower. An old soldier sanctioned by your father, follows fleet and quiet behind. He slinks behind the silvered trees, peeks through the golden leaves that twinkle in the starlight. He plucks from the golden branches, steals a golden cup, ignores the golden moments fluttering in your glittering smiles that now expand to encompass everything you could be.

And, guess what? One of you gets to be his lucky girl. I’m just glad I was not the eldest.

Originally published in The Mad River https://medium.com/the-mad-river/be-still-your-dancing-feet-6b879df19f76?sk=3997451710ed464f8b1064ec451d5e7c