Cinderella crouched upon the grey stone flagged hearth, knees curled tightly, nestling against her newly developed breasts, with nipples sweet pink like cherries ripened slowly by the breath of summer sunlight.
She was born when the summer sun had reached it's crescendo. Born when the fire that gives light, to every living being with a desire to grow, is at it's most powerful. Born cradled within the rythmical movement of the solstice. Born within the days of the ancient celebration of life. Life in her full glory. Life wearing her flaming red, orange and blue dress, as she dances bare foot acrosss the land, delicately teasing open the wildflowers, which in honour of her supreme sovereignty, mirrored her poignant colours.
Cinders adored sitting in the hearth gazing within the everchanging universe of the fire. Never static. As far as her memory could take her, this had been her own personal domain, her heart home. The warmth of the fire never refused to hold her, always spoke with a gentle but wise tongue and knew when to pause - welcoming silence. The hearth was her home. The fire - the mother she had lost without knowing how or why.
Cinderella's father remarried and his new wife brought with her - one mahogany chest; one gilt oval shaped mirror; one floral patterned chaise longue; numerous gowns, cloaks and hats; several pairs of shoes and two daughters. The first assertion of her new position within the household was to give leave to all the staff and recruit new employees. For the first few weeks the kitchen staff went about their duties and on passing the hearth, would take a side glance at this bare footed girl whose eyes bore the reflections of the flames within their black centres. Her cheeky face, with it's sharp gaze and equally sharp but stunning features, which resembled those of a small burrowing animal, peeped out from behind the rough stones. The openness which shone through her beaming smiles, her obvious strength, yet equally fragile vulnerability, touched the hearts of the cooks and scullery maids. As time passed, one by one, they bonded, or it could be said that they were unable not to bond with this small delightful creature.
Cinders was so unlike the kitchen staff's own broods of offspring, yet also as different as honey is to salt compared with her stepsisters who self consciously flounced their image of a false femininity around the upstairs living areas of the old Elizabethan house.
Cinders spent many an evening enveloped into the large fleshy arms of the cook who rocked back and forth, exchanging tittle tattled tales with other women of the kitchen. Cinderella felt a sense of safety and a deep familiarity overwhelmed every cell of her being as she lay cocooned within the body of the cook. The smells, eminating from her, wove a tapestry which folded itself around and around the bundle in the cooks arms. Her breathe was as rich and dark as the autumn berries that the Pookah claimed at the end of the harvest. From her apron spun a deep aroma of yeasted dough, the blood of meat and the courseness of spring greens. In the cleft of her large bosoms dripped the essence of woman more akin to a musty moss covered, oak tree than the repugnant artificial scent of the society women who passed, to and fro, through the chanderliered rooms above them. Cinderella would gently ease her head into the crevice of the cook's fleshy breasts, with a slow nuzzling side to sdie motion, until she was wedged into the hollow of this dark cave.
There, she would sit still and listen.
On these occasions when the women sat surrounding the hearth, Cinderella would hear their muffled voices, interspersed with the sounds of the wood cracking and spitting out yellow sparks towards the dark tunnel of the chimney and the swaying sound of the flaming fire licking it's black tongue along the soot laden stonework of the fireplace. Much gossip was spoken.
Always on a sunday, the cook would throw back her stout head and laugh. Her laughter, in turn, would activate her three tiered belly to heave up and down, rippling and rolling in delight. She would tell Cinderella how gossip was God speaking through woman, therefore how it should be received with awe and respect. Cinders waited for God to speak to her. If he had spoken he'd done so like a thief in the night, entering and leaving without her being aware of any disturbance.
Rain had been falling for three days and three nights. The guttering high above the kitchen window overflowed with water. This basic element transported leafy skeletons, initially being pushed by force, and finally, passively, tumbling over the cast iron slopes, as if relieved to locate a release from the blocked crevice. The earth opened her body upon the impact of these unexpected visitors, receiving nutrients which fed Spring's young life and creating a final burial ground for the worn out autumnal cast offs.
Cinderella sat upon the cooks lap, her head against once suckled breasts, breathing rythmically in sequence with the primal beat of a pulsating heart and heard the deep, resonating sounds of words spoken by the cook, sure of her audiences attention.
One Midsummer's morn, the kitchen staff, employed by Cinderella's mother, had found a small bundle in the recess of the hearth. A baby wrapped in a blanket. A baby with a mop of flaming red locks resembling the wild red hair of her mother. The child had been laid there and abandoned by her father, who went to his room and stayed in recluse for a year and a day, only accepting visits from staff bringing food and water.
Some said that Cinderella's mother had gone to Crones Dyke, down by the river, on the full mooned eve of midsummer. Some said she often frequented the spot and had continued to do so throughout her term of pregnancy. Everyone agreed upon the fact that Cinders mother was as beautiful as an angel but that she held a strangeness about her. They agreed she was different, not just because of her flaming red hair or her sea green eyes, which pierced the soul with clear vision, or that she moved like a willow touched by the breezes of summer but that she was different in other ways, ways that were indescribable. There was some unkown element that was hard to put finger or tongue upon. Cinderella's father had fallen deeply in love with her mother from the moment he'd laid eyes upon her and against all her mothers resistance he had wooed her for five long years until she finally succumbed to his charms and agreed to marriage.
Some say that on this certain midsummers eve her mother had gone to Crones Dyke, to do as she did but never returned. It was rumoured that Cinders father had followed her mother down to the Dyke on horse back and killed her. It did no'ne good to be saying such things. Many said they had witnessed this and that but they all knew no-one from the village held the true story of what had happened.
Cinderella's father had returned that night from Crones Dyke, with the babe in his arms, laid her within the hearth of the downstairs kitchen but the red haired beautiful mother was never seen again.
The month of May had come, people were relieved to see the winter months way out of sight. The blossoms lay thick upon the trees within the orchard. Cinderella loved this time of year when butterflies were attracted by the flowers, lover and loved. She spent many an hour sitting as still as a daisy waiting for the butterflies to alight upon her bright red hair. The kitchen staff would glance as they passed the window, as they were toing and froing accomplishing their daily chores with precise efficiency, occasionally stopping in disbelief and considering how anyone could sit so still. So still she appeared to fuse with the garden itself.
Cinderella blossomed as sweet maidens do.
May brought excitement to the house in the form of hand delivered invitations with news of a 'Grand Ball'. The ball was to be held on 'June the Twentieth in Honour of Lord Princeman's Thirty Fifth Birthday'. He had recently been bequeathed the Estate and 'twas common knowledge that he was now in search of a lady wife. For Cinders stepsisters and stepmother the news became the focus of all attention. Much fussing occurred. Cinderella was sent hither and tither, ordering this lace; that satin; this ribbon; that necklace; this bracelet; those shoes. Should they have their hair styled this way or that way; up or down; curled or staightened? Cinderella swirled and danced with the fun of it all. She re-assured her stepsisters of how beautiful they looked again and again but her simple words were unembraced. Tears fell, irritablility grew, tempers flew. Yet Cinders always looked on with detached amusement, quietly watching their reactions pass her by, unattended.
The ocean weeps.
Her father remained absent.
Barbed wire tears the skin.
Tired, Cinderella returned to the hearth. Solitude at last. The kitchen staff had retired earlier than usual. The sun was holding on giving its last energies to the land and its lovers. her stepsisters had finally left the house dressed in their finery, wearing self conscious smiles. Years of tight corsetry had crippled their abdomens, hence smiling did not come easy to them - so Cinders thought. What else could have tightened their facial muscles so, restricting such natural movement? She felt the cold stones against her forehead as her eyelids bowed with grace.
The pendulum on the clock ceased it's regimented movements and rested in peace. Such an old clock should be allowed to be still and watch time pass it by - so Cinders thought. Her pendulum of thoughts gave a final swing, perhaps to the left, centred - and stopped. What could have been a soft breeze but wasn't, brushed harshly against her cheek and she awoke. Her consciousness slowly spread out across the kitchen furniture until it reached the pine dresser. Within her vision to the right, she saw a woman with painted cheeks and greying ringletted hair, barely supporting a rigid pink bow.
Cinderellas eyes fell shut. She floated across her father's room towards a painting, the plaque read - "The Dance - Henri Matisse, 1912".
Her soul remembered.
Someone gripped her arm with boney fingers. Opening her eyes she observed the pink woman leaning over her. The woman's unevenly lipsticked mouth stiffly opened, as if she had been waiting to announce her rusty, rehearsed lines for three thousand years -
"You may go to the ball."
"Go where?" enquired Cinders.
The woman nervously struggled to repeat herself, "My dear, you may go to the ball".
Cinders was bemused by this strange woman, who clutched a gold handled star. She assumed the woman had wondered into the wrong room. "I think you are mistaken. If it is my stepsisters you wish to see, I'm afraid you've missed them, they left here earlier this evening for Lord Princeman's Estate. I would be happy to make you tea, would you care to sit?"
Again, the woman retorted - "Cinderella, you may go to the ball".
Thrice Said!
Down came the golden star, with mechanical jerky movements and stopped, suddenly, in mid-stream.
Cinderella jumped out of the hearth and her eyes gazed downwards, her linen dress had been transformed. She now wore a peach silken gown supported by layers of petticoats. The neckline was low and Cinders saw her own womanly body peeking out like dumplings, bouyantly floating, in one of cook's winter stews. Her hand was beckoned by a diamond necklace, reflecting shattered light. Her long hair was coiled high into tiny curls, teasing a diamond headband.
"It is not my desire to go to the ball", said Cinders softly.
The pink woman insisted that Cinders must go. "I cannot exist if you refuse", she pleaded. "Come quickly, outside is a carriage. The coachman have been instructed with directions. Cinderalla, you must return before midnight." The pink woman led Cinders out into deserted streets. A dog barked, the sound echoed. Cinders eyes moved towards the front of the carriage, Litha, her fathers horse swayed from hoof to hoof impatiently.
Cinderella entered the carriage and even before she had time to sit on the leather seat the whip cracked across Litha's rump and the carriage thrust forwards.
The pillars at the entrance to the Princeman Estate stood proudly tall, welcoming their guests. Light danced to the sound of the orchestra inside the mansion house. People shone from every ground floor window, casting light which stretched our across the closely cropped lawn, edged with beds of uniformed rows of flowers, surrounded by a dense sheltering of rhodedendrons which were losing the grip on their fading memories of India.
Step by step, Cinderella's glass slippered feet uneasily moved towards the doorway of the mansion house, unsure of any real purpose. As she entered, an ocean of eyes waved over her, visual energy surged forwards, gently dispersed and then was drawn back into the sea of people. The music emanating from the orchestra danced around the room entering each body, filling them with movement and flowing out, only to enter the next person. Each sound induced an individual movement, each individual movement flowed into the next. The music glided around the ballroom, the people followed as the music subtley dictated direction. Cinderella weaved in and out through a majestic ocean of colours.
Lord Princeman had noticed Cinderella enter the ballroom. The fact that he had no idea who this maiden was aroused his curiousity. The fact that she had made her entrance alone, unescorted, had heightened his curiousty. A woman alone, it was unseen, unheard of, intriguing. He excused himself from amongst his courtly circle and with his pale blue eyes fixated upon this enigmatic young woman, he confidently walked towards her. People parted in respect clearing his path.
Skin touching skin, Lord Princeman's elegent fingers cupped the curve of Cinderella's firm, warm shoulder. His inner desire was to close his eyes, in order to enhance the sensation of touch and let his hand explore the skin beneath it but he politely withdrew from Cinder's slender body and stretched it out towards her introducing himself in a socially acceptable fashion.
Cinders had danced with Lord Princeman for hours before she remembered her pledge to return before the hour of midnight. Anxious to leave she withdrew herself from Lord Princeman's arms, without offering explanation for her abrupt departure, she ran across the room, passed through the magnificent oak doorway and down the steps. Frustrated with the unfamiliar slippers which came between souls and the earth she unthinkingly tore them from her feet and flung them without concern to the ground.
Litha was waiting. The carriage and coachman were no longer there. Cinderella pulled herself up onto Litha's back and the horse bolted down the pebbled coachway. Cinderella took off her head band, pulled out the pins which held her red hair in its fashionable position and shook her head allowing her locks to tumble down around her shoulders. Litha, powered by her own will, headed away from the town out towards the open fields. As her hooves hit the ground the impact rippled up her strong muscular body leaving hollows in the ground beneath them.
At Crones Dyke Cinders could hear the thundering flow of the river. Ahead of them they could see flames leaping high into the midnight skies. They drew nearer, Litha came to a halt. As Cinders repspectfully lowered herself to the ground she could see the faint image of female figures outlined by the light of the fire. Without hesitation she instinctively moved through the low mist towards them. The naked female figures circled the fire, dancing around and around. As Cinders approached the women they stopped and reached out towards her with their hands and minds. As she looked into their eyes she remembered who they were, who they are, who they will always be.
The circle was broken waiting for her to make the final connection. Cinderella's mother carressed Cinders forehead, slowly bringing her soft fingers down onto Cinders warm cheek she leaned towards her and kissed the child she had waited for, for so long. Cinders removed the clothing that the pink woman had conjured up. Litha looked on as the women, finally forming a complete circle, danced around the flames. As they danced their spiral dance their figures merged into bright colours of red,orange and blue energies. At dawn they danced across the land, their bare feet delicately teased open the wildflowers, which in honour of their supreme sovereignty, mirrored their poignant colours.
Lord Princeman searched high and low for the red haired beauty who had left behind her glass slippers on his mansion steps. He desperately went from house to house making persitent enquiries. On his arrival at an old Elizabethan house on the edge of the village he climbed down from his horse, strode up the six stone slabbed steps which led to the ornate door, clutched the brass handled bell pull and rang for attention. As the sound of the bell reverberated around the hallway of the house, three large black crows flew from an upstairs window, cawing an unmelodic tune. Lord princeman looked down at his open palms, around his feet lay the shattered pieces of the glass slippers reflecting the sunlight.
- ©nti-Copyright - Spiral Woman - Summer Solstice 2002
Cinderella - from Ashes to Ether was written in memory of Angela Carter.
Earth; Fire; Water; Air; Words flow through us, from us and around us but will not be owned by the wise.
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