DANCING ON THE FULL DOOR

Part Two of Irish Mystical Fiction 1920s during Partition.

DANCING ON THE FULL DOOR

PART TWO

After Sean Lynch laid down the full door, Shona McQuaid rushed forward to Mariah.  Shona was one of the friendlier dancers.  She had rich red hair and a white freckled face, her face speckled like the bird’s egg.  “Mariah!  But you’re the champion of the half-door!  I’ve never seen you dance a full door, ever!”

“Decided to spread my wings a bit,” said Mariah with a wry grin.

“But your foot and ankle-work in the small space is what we’re used to!”  Shona’s lips made a perfect pursed ‘O’ long after the surprise left her eyes.  In fact, there was a subtle change in her grey eyes, a hint of wistfulness, maybe that she might have a chance at the ‘half-door’ now that Mariah had changed over.  Shona was tall and a good high stepper.

“What is it about Kelly’s door, Mariah?  You don’t like to dance on it at all, do you?”  Shona indicated the big solid door laid out by Kelly for the dancers.

“Always liked my own.”  Mariah remained tight-lipped and ventured no other reason.  But there was a reason, a valid one.  Her mother had told her of the time Pat Kelly’s father had been murdered for opening his gob and speaking his mind in the Land War.  Old Kelly was gored in the field but died at home, and the only way they could carry him flat, back to the house, was on the door.  Mrs. Lynch said he died at the threshold on this make-shift stretcher.  But that didn’t stop his son Pat from letting the dancers dance on the door at every Feis.  Well, after that story, Mariah vowed never to set foot on the thing, and the only way she didn’t insult Kelly was by insisting on high stepping on the half-door, her own half-door.  Mariah had become the most renowned stepper, her reels ever in smaller more intricate circles.  She was a joy to watch.  Kelly did not mind, if it was himself who played for her.

Pat Kelly watched as Sean Lynch carefully brought the full door into the middle of the barn, laying it alongside his own.  His eyes were stone-cold when he saw it was not the usual half-door.  But he was more peeved by the fact that Mrs. Lynch had not crossed nor darkened his doorstep today.   There had been no swift delivery of soda farls or apple-pie, nor a round of buttermilk Bannock bread, not even treacle buns. No yellow-churned butter or marrow jam, or even a taste of a warm raisin loaf.  Maybe she had the basket with her, and no doubt would seek him out before he set to play for Mariah’s dance.  And where was Mariah earlier today?  Why had she not stopped in for the fawning, the cuddling?  She would not dare to dance for a lesser, and was he not mentor to all the fine fiddlers?  Fine they may be, but lesser all the same.  No, Mariah Lynch had not paid her dues.  It was insult enough that she brought her own door, but he’d forgive her for that.  Pat Kelly forgave anything when his eyes devoured her.  He decided to bide his tongue about the full door, for he didn’t want anything to spoil his chance to play for her. 

There were wooden bench forms placed all around the barn walls, and chairs neatly stacked in rows for the older people.  Mrs. Lynch never sat in a chair for she didn’t want to be seen as an elder, not yet.  And there were plenty of laps of hay for the younger ones.  Mrs. Lynch wouldn’t sit on those either.  She didn’t want anyone thinking she was mutton posing as lamb, so she stuck it out on a form, with no back support save for the draughty wall of the barn, and that all crawling with spiders.

The Breens and the McQuaids were here, all dressed up to the nines, even though they were not on show, for this was for their daughters…  and their sons too if they were fiddlers or played the Uilleann pipes.  The boy-dancers did not participate at the Sash event.  They just came to watch and flirt.

A former winner of the gold sash, Aileen McCusker, was whispering in the corner as usual with half a dozen other dancers, no doubt stirring up the fight for the feet against Mariah.  Oh, yes, they thought their evil thoughts and whispered their lies and gossip, trying to unnerve Mariah.  Aileen thought she was the bee’s knees, all tarted out in her green dress with its spectacular embroidery.  It seems Aileen’s aunt had gone to Trinity in Dublin to copy out passages of The Book of Kells left there in 1661 it was said, so she could trace them on to the dress and embroider them exactly.  Oh, it was a fine work all right, worth the observation.  Aileen told everybody that the white lace collar and cuffs had come off her Confirmation dress, her neck as slender at eighteen as a seven-year-old.

In comparison, Mariah’s attire was a simple affair, and a hand-me-down from a cousin, but Mrs. Lynch prided herself on her ‘invisible’ mending and she’d made a decent job out of a tatty old thing.  Mrs. Lynch used the threads of her own hair for the ‘invisible’ mending, and she could make anything look like new again, but she was no patch on Aileen McCusker’s aunt when it came to very ‘visible’ embroidery.  Hence the bit of coloured cross-stitch was faded on Mariah’s dress, having gone through two generations of wash.

Mrs. Lynch had her eyes peeled, looking for Kirsty Bell the fiddler, wondering if she’d have the nerve to turn up here.  Father O’Donnell might take offense at her presence, but he couldn’t ask a Protestant to leave a public place, and Pat Kelly wouldn’t have the nerve to send her packing just because she was a girl-fiddler, but he was going to be mighty cross if, and when, she played for Mariah.  Mrs. Lynch’s heart was pounding more than usual tonight, the anticipation causing her to be anxious, anxiety being one of her failings.

The fiddler-brothers, Fergal, and Cathal Keenan, were strutting about like a pair of stud pigeons, gloating every which way in the room with their eyes, having exhausted their portion of teasing and taunting.  They were good lookers, no doubt about that, but their manners were feudal.  Fergal was the better player by far, having trained with old Pat Kelly for a decent spell, but Cathal was beginning to catch up and had a good ear for the Island reels.  There was a measure of talent there, not to be scoffed at nor scorned.  Both brothers were full of themselves, had intense green eyes to melt a body, and shocks of dark hair to rival Mariah’s.  Maybe that was why Mariah found them lacking.  There was not enough contrast.

Mariah’s eyes stole anxiously about the barn, but there was no sign of Kirsty Bell anywhere.  She sidled over to Shona MacQuaid.  “Have you chosen your music-maker?” she whispered. 

Shona smiled.  “Aye, I’ve managed to land Fergal tonight, even though he’s usually Aileen’s domain.  He was cross with her.  You’ll be with Kelly as usual?”

Mariah bit her lip, her cheeks warm when she thought of the visit with Kirsty Bell.  She hung her head shyly.  “I’m leaving it to providence tonight, Shona.”

Shona looked surprised, her eyes widening in disbelief.  “You might end up with Cathal Keenan!” she gasped.  “Did you not see Pat?  Did your Mammy not bake for him?”

Mariah shook her head, then giggled.  “Let Pat Kelly bloomin’ starve!” she said softly, her eyes bright.  “And if I end up with Cathal, I’ll make sure it’s an Island reel I dance!”

“Holy Mother!  Mariah, you’re taking a chance.  Do you not want to win?  And you’re dancing the full door!  The odds are stacked, are they not?”

Mariah quickly took her place in line to sign the register so that she could dance.  She was on at the end, as usual.  Pat Kelly was trying to catch her eye, she knew it by the feeling that he was trying to bore into her head, so she stubbornly kept her eyes down, and chatted nonsense to anyone who listened.

Mariah sat with her mother to watch the first round.  She pulled out a brush to sleek down her long, long, black hair, wishing it weren’t so straight, wishing she had put the rags in it, wishing it had a natural kink like Aileen McCusker’s curly russet brown locks.  Aileen had eyes of bracken-water, brown with a hint of green.  It made Mariah think of the retting pools, dark and mysterious, where the flax was soaked to strip off the fibres.  But Sean said they reminded him of slime on the top of the bog-hole.  Sean had always wanted to marry Aileen and loved her eyes until she became a dancer, and as he had no ear or notion to play the fiddle, he turned against Aileen then, knowing he had no chance when the likes of Fergal or Cathal Keenan sniffed around her.

One of the Breen girls was on first, dancing to The Sally Reel played by a little-known fiddler from Kesh.  The fiddler was good, though young in years, and the dancer was coming along well with her footwork.  She was going to make a prime dancer one day, and when she finished her set, Mariah stood up and clapped, leading the rest of the crowd in the barn.  The girl curtseyed towards Mariah, happy that her dancing was acknowledged by a previous winner.  It didn’t matter if she didn’t win now, she was noticed and applauded by the best.

There were cousins performing step dances to a button accordion, rare enough then, two on the door in perfect unison, their tough clogs thumping out the rhythms, the crowd clapping with enthusiasm, and the panel of judges chewing their lips, giving wry smiles. 

Then Shona McQuaid stepped out.  Mariah whistled along with the rest, showing her support for her friend.  Shona had chosen a jig, a Tyr Connell Jig, danced usually in the north-west of Donegal.  It had a tune that was mesmerizing and simple, its repetitive phrasing making one wistful to dance.  Fergal did a good job with it, his bow dancing as much across the fiddle as his feet did the tapping.  And Shona kept her arms flat to her side, her knees sending her skirts flying as she jumped, swivelled, and kicked her way to triumph.  Her eyes were merry as she gave Mariah a huge smile, for Mariah was on her feet, clapping before Shona had finished her performance.  Fergal bowed low, satisfaction on his face, just to spite Aileen, knowing he had done well by the girl.

As soon as the dance was over, Shona made her way over to Mariah, her breathing still heavy from the effort of dancing.  She whispered: “You’re awfully gracious, Mariah Lynch.  The rest of them would spit at me!”

It was true.  Aileen McCusker was shooting eye-daggers at them right now, while her little troupe of friends sitting around her were preening themselves.

Mariah watched as Aileen went over to Pat Kelly, and there was a lot of whispering and conniving going on in that corner.  Then, bold as brass, Pat Kelly comes sauntering over to Mariah, his eyes giving nothing away, but Mariah knew there was going to be a quinch of stabbing in his words.

“Mariah Lynch,” he whispered.  “Do you think you could do your dancing before Aileen McCusker?  There’s a wee problem, you see.  Aileen has had a falling out with Fergal…  and she’s asked if I’d be so kind as to play for her.”  His voice lowered.  “You didn’t come to see me today, Mariah… eh?”  And he winked, his eyes gleaming.  Then in a louder voice, he said to Mrs. Lynch, who was sitting ramrod straight on the form, regretting she couldn’t plop down on the hay, “I missed you today, Mrs. Lynch, but if you have the basket with you, sure I’ll take it now, eh?”

Mrs. Lynch looked him dead in the eye.  “You will not, Pat Kelly, for it was not my intention to bake for you!  I baked for another, I did!”

Pat Kelly’s eyebrows raised, and the two russet spots appeared on the top of his cheekbones.  “Well, that says it all then!  So, Fergal Keenan will have the pleasure, and you’d throw over a master for a mere pupil.  I don’t forgive easy, Mrs. Lynch!  Mariah, it’s your turn to dance.  I’ll play last for Aileen…  darned well will I play too!” he hissed.

Mariah looked around the inside of the barn.  “I won’t be dancing just yet, Pat Kelly.  Go ahead…  you and Aileen should do well.  She’s been dying to land you.”  Mariah was calm.  At one time she would have seethed with rage if Pat had played for Aileen, but now it didn’t matter, didn’t matter at all. There was no amount of persuading to be done.  Mariah was not going to dance yet.

So Pat Kelly announced to one and all that there was to be a change of plan, that he was going to be the music-maker for Aileen McCusker tonight.  A gasp went up through the crowd like one big breath, and all eyes stared at Mariah Lynch.  Pat Kelly only played for Mariah Lynch in the main competition.

Mrs. Lynch got all flustered.  “What are they all looking at?  You’d think he had jilted you, Mariah!”

Mariah tried not to feel deflated, tried not to panic.  Desperately her eyes searched the room again and she peered hard into the black cloak of night outside the open door at the end of the barn.  ‘Where are you, Kirsty Bell?  Where are you when I need you?’  She began to wonder if Kirsty was going to come at all.  And then what if she failed to show up?  Pat Kelly could well refuse to play for Mariah.  Already the judges must be set in their minds about Aileen McCusker.  In agreeing to play for Aileen, Pat Kelly had almost put seal on the winner.

Aileen was truly beautiful in her grand dress with the Book of Kells designs upon it, and her curly hair, bedecked with red ribbons, was brown with a hint of auburn richly burning through it in the golden light of the tilly lamps.  She curtseyed, then poised herself for the music.  Pat made a fuss of getting the pitch on his fiddle just right, twanging the gut and bending his ear to catch any imperfection.  He gave a little demonstration of a quick tune, then he nodded towards Aileen and the judges to indicate he was ready, and he began to play.

Feet tapped and hands clapped as a spirited jig burst from the instrument.

Aileen did not miss a step, her fleet-footed turns and ankle taps making the crowd dizzy.  The muscular legs showed fierce veins in their efforts for the dance.

Mariah watched, her heart in her mouth.  She could see Aileen walking away with the sash already.  What chance did she have, Mariah Lynch, against that perfect body and white smile, those flashing eyes, red ribbons, and all the glinting fire-curls in the world?  Everyone there had their eyes riveted on Aileen McCusker as she swirled and swept, spun, and leapt high upon Pat Kelly’s door.  She and the music were one.  There was not a man nor boy in the room who could tear his eyes away from the tanned bare legs or the pert breasts as they jumped in time with the music.  Every woman and girl had envy in their hearts.

And as the dance neared its end, there was deafening applause.  Mariah was on her feet with the rest in appreciation of her rival.  She could not help herself.

A voice spoke softly into the back of her neck, the warm breath of familiarity stealing down her spine, making her shiver.  “I am here, Mariah Lynch.  Be ready.”  Mariah did not dare turn around.  She knew it was Kirsty Bell.  She suppressed a smile…  not ‘are you ready?’ but ‘be ready!’

There was no silence in the room until Mariah Lynch pushed her way through the crowd and stepped forward onto her own door.  Everyone expected Pat Kelly or Fergal Keenan to come forward to play the fiddle.  One could have heard a pin drop when the stranger showed herself…  or was it himself?  It was hard to know, what with the boy’s clothes and the short haircut.  But the elegant grace of the figure dispelled any notions of the stranger being male.  The waist was too slight, hips rounded, to say nothing of the hint of swell on the chest.

Pat Kelly’s face was almost purple in hue.  But there was nothing he could do or say.  He had elected to play for Aileen McCusker instead of Mariah Lynch, making a public announcement about it too, so he could hardly protest now when she had someone else play.  Nevertheless, Pat Kelly marched over to the judges and murmured his indignation to them.  Then he strutted into the middle of the barn and held his hand up for quiet, even though no place was ever so quiet.

“It has come to my attention that the minstrel hasn’t registered!” he said loudly, his voice echoing all around the rafters.  “And a minstrel not registered comes under the rule of disqualification!”

A murmur came from the crowd as they all stared at Kirsty Bell and Mariah Lynch.

Then, suddenly a startling fluttering of red wings somewhere up in the rafters caused every face to look up, and a bird, a rare crimson bird of sorts with a bright head swooped down, missing Kelly by a mere whisper of wing.  Then it circled and flew straight out through the back door, meeting the cold draught of air that came in with a surge.  Everyone shivered against an icy touch on the back of their necks.

Mrs. Lynch was on her feet in an instant, a chill having scuttled down her spine.  “Pat Kelly!  Keep your mouth sealed in the presence of something rare and mighty!  The minstrel hasn’t registered because the registration is all in the old tongue and she, being a Protestant, cannot read it!  But let me tell you now, Pat Kelly, that the Good Father and His Mother look after the blessed.  Kirsty Bell has a talent that can’t be denied or ignored, and if I say she’ll play for my daughter tonight, she’ll play.  And none of your conniving will make it otherwise.  Creation pays no heed to cast or creed!  We have all paid our dues for that!”  She said this with a meaningful stare at Pat Kelly. “Gone are the Penal Laws of banning minstrels and dancers in Ireland!”

Pat Kelly had no words left in his mouth or thoughts in his mind to make any protest.  There was the salt of truth ringing in and around her voice, and he knew every ear had heard it and every eye had seen the rare bird.  If he was to seem fair and keep his treasured status in the community, he had to succumb to the circumstances and strange unfurling Fate.  Mrs. Lynch was a respected pillar of that community.

He bowed from the waist, and took off his cap.  In a resigned voice, he said: “Aye, let the minstrel play!”

Mrs. Lynch sat down again on the form with trembling knees but a clear head.

Mariah nodded to her mother with pride in her eyes, then stood still, one foot gracefully pointed in front of the other, her arms straight to her sides.  Her hair was long and black as the night, past her shoulders, past her waist, past the hem of her skirt.  Her legs were white as parched grass, pale as porcelain, and perfect in their symmetry.  Mariah closed her eyes and waited.

Kirsty Bell closed her eyes and began a strain so soft and distant sounding that the silence of death was needed to catch it.  The sounds swelled slowly, hearkening to all who listened, pulling gently at the ankles of Mariah Lynch.  ‘Sure, I could knit with your ankles,’ whispered the voice over and over in Mariah’s head.  Like a heron dipping its feet in the water, she began to dance, one foot precisely in front of the other, behind the other, beside the other.  Rippling through her, the music lifted, and she rose with it, stretching her back, breasts jutting forward, as if someone had filled her full of air.  Her lips parted slightly.  Slowly she turned to the east, slowly to the south, then to the west, at last back to north, and she paid homage to the earth with her feet.  She paid homage with her eyes closed as if in some deep prayer.  She was a puppet for the music.

Kirsty Bell’s lips were pursed as if she were blowing across the bridge of the fiddle, blowing, and making the strings sing.  All who listened heard the wailing and they couldn’t be sure if it was the cool wind crying through the door or the rare bird singing in the distance as it winged its way home.  Nor could they be sure it wasn’t the bow searing the strings of the fiddle, or the faery woman keening that comes with dying.  They all looked as one at Kirsty Bell and tried to remember a story, for it was that very tale she was weaving now.  The music grew fierce in their ears and Mariah Lynch did a dead man’s tap on the door, rapping to get in to steal their souls.  Their eyes strayed to Mariah’s feet, and they watched as the tapping grew faster, the tapping grew louder, taking precedence in their heads, pounding their ears, and none knew whether they, or the dead man, screamed.  They remembered the story of Pat Kelly’s father laid out in pain upon a door, and they were afraid to look upon the door next to Mariah lest it was occupied and not empty.  They felt the agony of his sacrifice for his land and saw the rage that flew through Mariah’s feet.  Her hair was black and wild, the cloak of death spinning with her, her lips red blood that dripped from his wound, her eyes dark blue as the midnight sky, a place to die. 

Kirsty Bell’s bow then struck a silence, shocking them into wide open stares.  Mariah danced on, her feet echoing through the barn.  But the whining started again, relentless now, and Kirsty Bell thumped on the shell of her fiddle, feet marching, the Lambeg drum booming the war toll, Mariah’s feet skidding into rhythm with a child’s heart thudding.  Terror clutched their chests, palms damp as they, when in their youth, hid behind their mothers, hearing the war drum, and they saw Kirsty cowering, hiding behind her mother.  The music pulsed faster and faster, burning and crackling as Mariah danced the dance, crawling through grass, ever closer, deadly soldier.  They felt the flames licking their lives, scorching the houses.  Mariah’s face was white in repose, like a victim with no feast in a dreadful famine, her body stiff and deadly still, but her feet moved on, spiralling ever on, stomping loudly on the door, battering rams for the evictions.  A mother with grass mouth was dead in the famine, and a child’s keening for the loss ripped the night beside a turf hovel.

Kirsty Bell’s face was crumpled, her eyes shut tight, her cheeks wet with tears, but she played on in remembrance of the history, in memory of the killings, in homage for the dead, and Mariah danced her macabre steps of the age-old struggles.

An old woman, her head shawled in red like the rare bird, came through from the cold outside.  Her voice stirred on the wind of whispering wings, and everyone thought they saw her, and everyone was sure they heard the words flying from her mind.

“How many hearts in bleeding agony, await the sound of Death’s footfall?

What manner of man, in Truth is he, who kills his land for Another’s call?

People of the Isle, brave dying race, find your Love’s roots and think of me,

I am the slumbering land, thy base, loosen my bonds and set me free.

I am Ireland upon the bed of the world, I stir in my sleep, uneasy my rest,

The nightmare begins as my green is unfurled, and I scream to be free as I’m raped and possessed.

My quilt has been soiled by Death’s dark hand, blood and tears have made my heart sad,

Those not born of me have called me ‘their’ land, the children I’ve fostered fight the children I’ve had.

It’s simple to laugh and mock at the quaint, to tear out my hair when my head I’ll not bend.

But proud will I stand and my Love you’ll not taint, and the rent in my gown I’ll embroider and mend.

Humour and costume are fit only for Fools, but Fools, they are higher by far than their Kings,

So mock and laugh ‘til your tears turn to pools, but remember it’s blood and not water that clings.

Lift your hearts, Irish, your strength’s not in vain. Children of mine, take your Art far afield.

Our bloodline is long, and we cannot be slain. The swords of Truth, our minds, they will wield.

How many heads in ecstasy and joy, await the sound of my jig for thee?

What manner of man is, in Truth, not a boy, who will dance the day I am free.”

Mariah Lynch suddenly threw back her head and laughed, startling them all out of their reverie.  The old woman was gone.  It was as if she had never set foot in the place, but no-one wondered, and not a word was uttered.  They came back to the dance, awesome in its beauty, Mariah’s laughter a breath of joy and hope.  Kirsty Bell changed the tempo to a jig, lifting their hearts away from the ancestors.

Mariah was not sure when it happened.  Perhaps it was when she heard the soft lilt of Kirsty Bell’s own joy, an almost imperceptible chuckle, or maybe when she looked at the fiddler and caught the dimple in her wet cheek, she could not tell…  she just felt a surge of a pulse run through her so that her knees almost buckled.  And then she was carried by the music, rushing with it, her body melting into the hills, flowing with the rivers, bursting, and crashing with the waves of the sea.  She leapt high into the air above the mountains and seemed suspended there with a still moon shining.  Kirsty Bell had kissed her soul, the memory of it now flooding Mariah’s head.  She sighed, like the wind breathing, her pulse fluttering like trembling leaves about to fall, and she yearned for the deeper dusk which promised the laying of ghosts in the sleeping secret blanket of night.  Her heart thumped against the fabric of her dress plastered tight against her body as her feet landed again and again on the door, that portal to the Sidhe.  Her mother’s hair was woven in with the stitches of her garment, sealing the tatters, binding her like a cocoon, keeping her as a gift for no-one.  All claimed her but she belonged to none.  She had flown above, like the rare bird, and up above there was no north, south, east, or west, it was all one.

Mariah writhed and twisted with the dance, out of her trance, her knees flying high.  Pale thighs flashed, muscles rippled, ankles turned, heels crashed, and when she swivelled and spun, the whole world burst, pouring itself upon her.  Kirsty Bell gasped with the rush of it, the bow gliding impossibly fast across the strings of the fiddle.  Kirsty Bell was almost bent double when she pulled the long strokes down with all her strength to bring about the crescendo.

Mariah’s breath was ragged, beads of perspiration bursting out upon her face, rivulets of sweat soaking her through, and as the last blast of music dashed away, she collapsed with a dull thud upon the door.  Her black hair was whipped and tangled wet against her, like raven’s feathers bedraggled by a storm.  She lay panting and sprawled, the black wings enfolding her.  Everyone witnessed the raven of the Morrigan.

Kirsty Bell clutched her fiddle to her body in pain.  Her instinct was to go to Mariah, to hug her dry.  She wanted to hold her and whisper words of knowing, but Kirsty Bell turned instead on her heel and walked out.  She dared not stay.  All eyes watched her back.  Was she wearing a red hood as she left, like the Woman of Beara?  All ears heard the echo of her steps in a culled silence.

In the deep quiet of shock, everyone was held in an odd enchantment, too riveted to move or speak or wonder.

Mrs. Lynch was the first to stumble forward to her daughter.  She fell to her knees and wrapped the limp Mariah to her, rocking her back and forth, lulling her baby.  “I saw her, Mariah, I saw her!  I saw the old Woman of Beara!”  A chill of ice chased through every spine at her words, whispered huskily but heard in the hush echoed in the barn.

Then a lonely clapping began.  Pat Kelly stood up, his hands slapping together ever faster and so hard they hummed to themselves.  It began the tumultuous applause from the others.

Mariah was helped to her feet.  The judges came forward with the sash.  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the gold sash belonged to Mariah Lynch.  She did not let Pat Kelly drape it around her neck, but stilled his hand, and took it gently from him.  His eyes were sad, for he knew it was the last time.  He had lost Mariah. Then she walked over to Aileen McCusker.  “It is yours,” she said.  “I will never dance the full door again.”

Aileen McCusker shook her head proudly.  “You must take it.  I can’t be seen to be second best.  Everyone here knows it is yours, Mariah Lynch.  Take it!”  She shoved it back, her face flushed red.

 Mariah pleaded.  “Please, Aileen?  You danced with no fear.  It is really yours.  I danced with the ghosts.”  Her eyes were desperate.  She whispered: “Take it, for all the Saints.  I can’t dance again for the title.  It would kill me and kill Pat too.  Please?”

Something in Mariah’s face made Aileen take the gold sash, but she did not allow it to be placed around her neck.  Instead, she fiercely announced that the prize remained unclaimed this time, that Mariah Lynch had forfeited the title.

Mariah Lynch looked nervously around for Kirsty Bell, wondering how she was ever going to look her in the eye again after such a public demonstration.  Even though there had been no words or contact between them, their emotional performance must have been felt by the audience.  The fiddle and the feet had spoken.  This had been the perfect blend of music and dance for which they all strove, something not easily achieved unless the ultimate love of the art and suffering for it were there, one for the other.  They all knew it helped when the fiddler and the dancer both had the passion within them for the best music, the best dance, and the best storytelling.

Mariah could not remember much about how she got home or at what time.  It was a slow road home, the plod of the horse soothing in the pale moonlight and quiet dark.  Mariah’s brother Sean never said a word, not knowing how to put thought to his tongue, so now and then he clicked his mouth at the horse to give him direction or hasten his step.  Mrs. Lynch was silent for most of the way, her eyes sad and thoughtful.  She kept thinking of the rare bird and the voice of the old Woman of Beara, knowing that both had been present for Mariah’s dance, a great honour indeed.  When those of the spirit world presented themselves, it was an omen for the land.  Mrs. Lynch closed her eyes and prayed for peace for the land and for Mariah.  She knew Mariah had wings on her feet now and would soon fly from the nest.

But when Mariah went to bed, it was only to toss and turn in the spectral agony of the night.  At last, unable to bear it any longer, she arose from her discomfort and hugged the dress to her with the missing button.  Then she slipped it on quickly, checked that her mother and Shaunny were asleep, lifted the latch, and quietly left the house.  The moon was high in the sky and brighter now as she mounted her bicycle and cycled to Kirsty Bell’s house.

Mariah parked the bicycle and knocked softly on the door.  There was no answer.  She rapped harder, calling out for Kirsty.

The door opened.  Kirsty Bell was quiet.  She stood back to let Mariah into the house.  The gas light in the back bedroom was lit, slowly increasing in its power until there was a yellow glow shining out into the hall.

They looked at each other for a long moment.  Kirsty was the first to incline her head.  “I’m sorry about tonight, Mariah Lynch.  You won’t dance again, will you?”

Mariah shook her head.  “I can’t.  Not here, not on the full door anyway.”

“Why not?” asked Kirsty.  “No-one is better.”

“I am disgraced, even although they never had better.  The dancers don’t go all the way like that, Kirsty Bell.  I did tonight.”

Kirsty’s head snapped up.  She stood stalk still, wanting to reach out, desperately wanting to soothe the dancer.  “I know,” she said softly, “but only in the dance.  It won’t happen again.”

Mariah’s breath caught in her throat as she glanced into Kirsty’s ice blue eyes.  Her pulse raced.  “I want it to.”

But Kirsty turned her back with great effort on her part.  “Go away, Mariah.  You should not be here.  You don’t belong…  nor do I in your world.  We’d be trounced, wood-tarred and feathered, if they discovered our friendship.  They will guess, especially after the dance.”

Mariah caught at Kirsty’s arm, the touch burning them both.  “I don’t care.  My mother never mentioned it.  Anyhow, she knows I will leave.  She saw the rare bird. It’s an omen.”

Kirsty had to move away.  It only took a little shrug, and Mariah’s hand was gone.  “I have your button somewhere,” she said quickly.  And she hurried towards the door of her bedroom.  “Stay there!” she demanded.  “I’ll get it.”

But Mariah followed her, her face flushed at the memory of the button flying off her dress earlier.  “No, Kirsty Bell, I’m at your heels.  I’m not leaving again.  I don’t like the dark.”

Kirsty stopped at the entrance of her bedroom and turned around to bar Mariah’s way.  “You can’t sleep here,” she said firmly.

Mariah’s dark eyes clouded, and a tear glistened on her eyelashes like dew trembling on the tip of a leaf.  Her lips quivered.

Kirsty Bell tossed her head angrily.  “Don’t start your weeping!  I can’t stand tears for no reason!”  She flounced away and into the room.  “Pull yourself together, Mariah Lynch!  It was only a dance!”  She called out sharply. “GO!”

Mariah stared after her in shock, hurt by the words.  If Kirsty had struck her across the face, it would have been better.  ‘Only a dance?’  How could she say such a thing?  Obviously, it hadn’t meant half as much to her.

Mariah turned and hurried back down the hall towards the front door, the bottom dropping out of her world.  Her body seizing with cold and fear.

“Mariah!”  Kirsty’s voice shouted desperately behind her.  “Mariah, wait! Come back!” 

Mariah walked on and reached for the latch.  She intended to get on her bicycle and never see Kirsty Bell again.  But her arm was caught in a fierce grip.

She turned a stricken face to Kirsty.  “Only a-a dance?” she asked shakily.

“I am so sorry.  I didn’t mean that!”  Kirsty looked hard into Mariah’s eyes and shook her gently.  “Believe me, I didn’t mean it! You were… magnificent.”

“Then why did you say it? Things that aren’t meant should never be said.  Why did you say it?”

“I don’t know…  I was trying to…  I don’t know, make you angry or something, so you wouldn’t cry.  If you cried, you see, I’d want to keep you.”

Mariah stared at Kirsty’s cheek where the dimple usually showed itself, but there was only a slight dent.  She wanted to press her finger there to see the dimple, to see her smile.  As Mariah thought this thought, Kirsty Bell stretched towards her and traced her own finger down Mariah’s cheek, chasing the tear that coursed a wet streak down to her chin.

Mariah closed her eyes and held her breath, as Kirsty Bell hugged her briefly.  “Now, quit with the watering pot, Mariah!  I told you I can’t stand tears.”

“Don’t send me away again, Kirsty Bell.  I can’t go home in the dark.  I need a friend tonight. You saw everything with me, I know you did.”  Mariah pleaded wildly.

“Aye, I did. In the first light then.  You can go home in the first light.”  Kirsty gave in.

“May I sleep in the same room?”  Mariah asked anxiously.  “I don’t want to be alone on the horsehair couch in another room.  I danced with the ghosts tonight and they followed me home.  Your red door might keep them away.”

There was that dimple again.  Kirsty smiled broadly.  “True. I have a red door.  We both have ghosts, but they will never cross the red step. There’s only one bedroom.  You’re awfully needy, but tonight I don’t mind.  What will you wear?”

Mariah bit her lip thoughtfully.  “I don’t have the sash,” she said.  “I gave it away because I gave in completely to the dance.  We’re not supposed to do that, are we?”

Kirsty shook her head.  “You earned the sash, Mariah!  It belongs to no-one but you!  And who says you can’t give in to the other world, the visions?  Who says?”

“We’re not supposed to lose control.  I should have been bowing and smiling at the end, not broken in pieces collapsing on the door!”  She hung her head and mumbled.

Kirsty tilted Mariah’s face.  “What did you say?”

Mariah looked up.  “You said: later, when I wore the gold sash, we would celebrate, but I don’t have it.  Aileen McCusker does.”  Her lips pouted.

Kirsty Bell laughed as she steered her to the room.  “Well, I won’t party with Aileen McCusker, that’s for sure! Now, it’s late and we need sleep.  Just wear your dress.”

“What will happen?  I mean…  to us?” asked Mariah anxiously. “I don’t want us tarred!”

“We will be careful friends, and… Mariah, just so you know, there will be a pillow between us, tonight,” she said firmly.  “I expect you will go back to dancing the half-door, but not here.  We shall plan, take our art far afield, just as the Woman of Beara foretold.  You see, I heard everything, so I did?  To the world we will be a team.  I will love the music-making and you the dance.  We are storytellers, just tellers of stories.”

Mariah sighed.  “I know, and we don’t even need to speak them. I like that!”

Kirsty laced her fingers with Mariah’s in a tight squeeze.  “Times will get worse here, because of the divide, the killings.  I’ll sell the house.  We can sail away to America.”

Mariah beamed.  “America? That far? They say we Irish discovered it.  Oh, goodness, it’s a long way to carry the half-door. May we go soon?  Do they have rare birds there?”

Kirsty whispered into the raven hair: “If not, they soon will do. I have wanted to leave here. Now, hush, we must get some sleep before you go home.”

 “Kirsty Bell, you keep the button you found, your prize for being the best fiddler and best friend ever,” said Mariah, “but I warn you, I will be following it!”

She was glad to see by Kirsty Bell’s dimpled smile that she seemed content with that, very content. Mariah felt safe now, no more ghosts, no more Pat Kelly, a new music-maker, new wings on her feet and a new world.

Dwina***