Stella’s Last Dance

by Meghann McVey

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

Three times more Stella practiced alone in the darkness of the theater, then stole home in the guise of the flower lady. On the third night, as Stella watched the rough men cringe at the sight of her, she felt remorse, like yesternight’s tears tasted in the dawn. Traveling alone in this garb was not promoting the defiance of Death. If anything, she was strengthening its power. But how else was she to perfect her practices?

That night, the figure appeared again in the corner of Stella’s eye. But because it neither came closer nor lingered, Stella thought nothing of it.

The next day Stella awoke to the calls of Tranio, her escort for that morning. She rose to see the dark cloak hanging from its hook. Its shadow seemed unnaturally long this morning, but perhaps that was because she was still groggy with sleep. When Stella peered closer, primal terror jolted her to full wakefulness. An old woman stepped forth from the robe, her step as silent as shadow. She held a basket of carnations in one arm, but the basket design was cruder than Stella remembered. Her chest heaving, Stella backed against the wall. She wanted to scream, but her throat would only make choking sounds.

“Stella!” Tranio called again.

However, Stella could not break her silence until the woman reached the opposite wall of her room. There, she dissipated as completely as smoke. Stella sank to the floor.

“Are you alright?” Tranio said on the other side of the door. He sounded perfectly calm, which Stella took to mean that he had not seen the apparition. In that moment, Stella decided she would not mention it. They will think I am practicing too much, she thought. But perhaps I will leave early tonight.

On the way to the Romagio Theater, a slow-moving crowd blocked Stella and Tranio. After several minutes, Tranio said, “If we keep this pace, we will be late, and the impresario will be angry.” He took Stella’s hand, and together, they wove through the crowd. At the edge, they saw the grave keeper, who lived at the very outskirts of town. His ramshackle wooden cart was piled high with the dead, their faces blackened and bloated, a grotesque parody of humanity. The grind of his cart wheels against the stone and the groan of the wood under the weight made a strange, sad accompaniment to the melody of weeping and low, dread-filled murmurs.

“More deaths,” said Tranio with a shiver. “The flower lady has been busy.” Stella clenched her fists. She hoped that all who mourned would seek escape in the theater. For their sakes, she would dance her very best!

After another fortnight of practice, Stella faced the first day of dress rehearsals. In her dressing room, she garbed herself in red-sequined satin, a costume that made this dance the most dangerous she had ever attempted. If Stella was not careful, she could set herself afire. Yet it was this very sort of challenge, dancing with flames in a gaudy, voluminous costume and making it seem easy, even pleasant, that Stella enjoyed the most. As she turned about to watch the light dance upon the red sequins, she thought she saw a flicker of darkness in the far corner of the room. Yet behind her, Stella saw nothing. She thought of her sighting that morning and shivered.

I will go home early today, she promised herself.

The actors had all congregated at the back of the stage. Stella was the last to emerge, just in time to hear the impresario say wryly, “Let us see Stella’s fire dance first. I am certain it is the most eagerly anticipated act.”

The rest of the cast grinned sheepishly as Stella proceeded to the center of the stage. As she waited for the flutes to cue her to begin, Stella found her eyes wandering the rows of empty seats. But wait! One was occupied!

A hunched woman clad entirely in black stood in the third row. Her hood concealed her face. But near where her hands should be, Stella thought she glimpsed a hint of red.

It must be a joke to teach me a lesson, Stella thought frantically. Nonetheless, trembles overtook her arms, and she let the torches fall. They glittered atop the stage like new stars.

Everyone gasped. Tranio and several other young men flung their jackets atop the flames, choking them off. Marina made no move to help, when normally she would have reached the stage first. She clung back, pale and trembling.

Because of me, Stella thought. Suddenly her head felt very heavy, as though she might faint.

The impresario scrambled out of the wings. “Are you trying to scorch my stage, Stella?” he demanded.

“I don’t understand, sir,” Stella said. “I practiced—”

“We’re well aware of that.”

Laughter from behind made Stella’s head spin. She clenched her fist, watched the knuckles turn white. Even so, she felt as though she were a stone hurtling through a dark well, becoming heavier all the time so in another few feet, there would be no hope of ever seeing the sun again.

“Go home, Stella,” said the impresario. Silence fell like a death knell. “Perhaps you’ve worked too hard.”

Stella tried to lash out in indignation that was the prima donna’s right. Who was not present at the stage? Who was imperiling the entire theater with their foolish joke? But the words choked her as they formed in her throat. Instead, Stella bowed her head and returned to the dressing room. There, her gaze went to the black robe on its hook. Despite what she had seen that morning, she had not been able to leave it behind. Her dropping the torches and seeing the flower lady were more reasons to stop impersonating Death. Yet Stella could not bring herself to return the cloak and her basket. Just in case, she thought as she entered the blinding afternoon light. Just in case.

The next day, Stella returned to the theater. Sullen somberness made her muscles stiff and her feet like lead. Again she attempted the fire dance onstage. But when she tried to dance, although the flower lady was nowhere in the auditorium, she could not even begin for her shaking hands and chattering teeth.

The impresario took the torches from Stella’s quavering grasp and commanded that she dance without fire. This task Stella executed perfectly. The impresario scratched his head. “Remember Stella. You will have to dance with flames for the actual act.”

“Perhaps you should hang red and orange ribbons from the sticks,” a voice called. Jeers and laughter followed.

Stella flushed. Tonight I will stay, even if there is no one to escort me home. I will practice with fire until I am as perfect as the phoenix!

Deliberately Stella waited until the theater had emptied. That way there would be no one to play tricks or mock her. However, the unsettling silence made her dance a thousand times worse. Sweat poured down her body, and at last she was forced to quit early. To practice with diligence was one thing. To burn the Romagio Theater down was another matter altogether, one she felt certain the impresario would not forgive.

Stella set off for home, her form hidden under the black robes and the basket of carnations on her arm. Because her face was already made up in the fashion of a firebird, however, she did not paint her face like the flower lady’s. Normally she would have fretted about it, but tonight, she was too despondent about her clumsy performance to care. How will I ever inspire the audience now? she wondered.

As Stella traveled the winding paths of shadow and stone, she heard a scream that stopped her in mid-step. She cowered against a wall and stared into the dark in all directions. However, the street remained deserted, and soon silence fell again. At last, Stella forced herself forward.

Around the corner Stella found the source of the scream: Marina. A gang of wretched, plague-stricken men drunk on cheap wine surrounded her.

Stella’s mind raced. Despite their ongoing argument, Marina had come back to the theater tonight to get her. And now, if Stella could not save her, Marina’s death would be on her hands. Stella steeled herself. Tonight would be the ultimate test of her performance as Death.

Even as Stella prepared to reveal herself with a chilling shriek, she saw a silent, still figure just beyond Marina’s assailants. It could be no joke, this terrible coincidence! Could it?

Suddenly Stella found herself as incapable of budging as she had been when she tried to dance with fire. The men advanced on Marina with guttural voices that, even as they promised her pain, quaked with their own suffering.

Death shuffled closer. Realization nearly made Stella cry out in dismay. The flower lady was not here for her, but Marina.

The men knocked Marina to the ground. Death extended its robed arm as though to help Marina stand. “Flower...” The voice was as ancient as dust. A hand emerged from the coarse, dark fabric, a skeletal appendage radiating intense cold. The flower rose like blood frozen atop snow. Stella gasped as the wind blew the cowl from her head. The men stared in fear, their dirks hovering just above Marina’s throat.

At this point, Stella abandoned all deception and fear itself. She flew at the men with a wild scream. The black robes billowed, and behind her, her red-gold hair flew like the wings of a phoenix. Her eyes smoldered, and the men’s lights shimmered in the paint bedecking her face.

The men’s eyes widened, and panic mingled with despair made them drop their dirks and draw back. Death lowered its hand. As the wind mellowed its howl to a breeze as soft as flute song, Stella began the fire dance. She had always loved the dance’s deceptively gentle beginning. This frenzied waltz drove the last sense from the men’s minds.

When they had fled, Stella fell, gasping, to her knees. Then, Stella’s blood stilled. Mortal gaze and eternal locked into a face-off. The flower lady broke the stare first and shuffled into the darkness. Stella expected the dry-leaves sound of rustling cloth and ancient limbs, but the flower lady was silent and vanished as entirely as night into morn.

After meeting Death’s own stare, Stella felt changed, as though an understanding had passed between them. But even with Marina’s help, this was knowledge that she could never articulate. It was something to be sensed, the lowest of the primal instincts and the most exalted of metaphysical enlightenment that could only pass from one intuition to the next. As Stella pondered these thoughts, which she feared would rend her mind beyond repair, Marina stirred.

“Stella!” Marina whispered. She attempted to rise, but only stayed upright with the support of her friend. “You reckless fool! I have never been so glad to see you!” To Stella’s great surprise, Marina wept. “Truly, you are ‘she who does not fear!’”

“That’s not true,” Stella answered. “There are things I fear, like danger to you.” Her voice cracked. “Why are you out at this hour?”

Marina drew in a gasping breath. “I came for you.” As Marina embraced her, Stella knew all was forgiven.

The next day, the impresario again asked Stella to attempt the fire dance. This time, not only did Stella dance it perfectly, but with sensitivity that rivaled all her former dances.

“What has happened to you, Stella?” the impresario asked her afterwards. “You are different today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Always before, your dance was rash and reckless, like a fire burning out of control. Now you dance with restraint, but it has not dulled your performance. If anything, it has made you more powerful, like a single flame that shines in a dark room. ”

“Is that so?” Stella answered, but her mind was not really on the impresario’s praise. Opening night was the next day. However, she felt no need to practice now.

All the patrons Stella could have desired came to the opening night performance. Everyone with means and their health came to the Romagio Theater. Even the poorer citizens of Monte di Ton clustered in the standing room and pointed at the stage.

“The applause is like thunder,” Stella whispered in her dressing room.

“Are you nervous?” Marina said.

Stella laughed. “I have never been.”

“I see.”

“There is something you aren’t telling me,” Stella said.

“Surely it is only the late nights you’ve been keeping.”

“What?”

Before Stella could dodge her, Marina placed her soft hand upon her friend’s forehead. “Your face is the color of yesterday’s ashes. But fire burns beneath your skin.”

“It is excitement,” Stella insisted. “Nothing more. Now do not make me nervous, or I shall miss my cue, and I will be furious.”

At last the orchestra sounded the coda. Marina and Stella crept to the edge of the curtains. “Do not fear,” Stella said with an easy, genuine smile. Marina’s, however, reflected the turmoil Stella was masking. “Watch me and be amazed. I will show you the wages of practice. This last dance of the night, I offer for you.” Marina blinked her lovely eyes. Stella pressed her lips against her friend’s cheek and parted with a caress. Then she mounted the stage.

The flames in her hands were two dueling stars. Stella spun and leaped amidst the other dancers. Her sequined garments caught the light, an afterimage of the flames she carried. Marina’s breath caught in her throat. Dancing thus, Stella had never seemed more vibrant, one at the pinnacle of health.

As the music rose to its crescendo, the trumpets and flutes invoked the firebird’s scream. Suddenly Stella was the phoenix, living as she never had just before the moment death claimed her. Then the music wound down, and Stella sank to one knee. Her vigorous dance had dispelled the flames in her torches. These she laid at her side. Stella bowed her head, her chest heaving. Her pallor alarmed Marina, but the spell her friend had woven over the stage held her fast. Amidst the deafening applause, Stella raised her head, her eyes like two weary stars about to wink out in the light of dawn. Her smile was the last vestige of vanishing moonlight. She held her pose until the curtains closed, and then she fell forward.

Marina screamed and raced toward her. “Stella!” She attempted to rouse her friend, but the life warmth had already fled her skin. A shadow fell across them. Through her tears, Marina glimpsed an old woman in black. Carnation petals rained around them like phoenix feathers. Meeting the woman’s eyes, Marina suddenly understood. Of all deaths, this was the one Stella would have wanted. With her red clothes radiant around her, Stella was the phoenix, cradled in flame in its last moments, dead, but never entirely gone, so long as the last spark survived.