The English Ballerina

Janie hurried along the crowded dock, struggling to stay warm in her thin ballet outfit. She had been rehearsing that day, practicing for her audition for the new recital. Of course when she danced, her name was not Janie. She was not the plain, slightly wilted, English rose that she was off stage. When she danced, she was Katarina, a delicate Russian beauty that danced with fluidity as if she, herself, was flowing water or cascading silk.

During practice that she heard of Madam Rosmerta, a woman with the extraordinary power of predicting the future and providing guidance.
“It is her gift,” Sophia had explained, a look of wonder and adoration in her eyes. With Janie’s fate so uncertain, she decided to find this Madam Rosmerta and ask for her help.

It had been three months since she had seen him. He had come to her show, sat in the front row as she floated lithely across the stage, elegant hands telling a story of pain. Leaning forwards, he had watched enticed, catching her pale blue eyes as she twirled. Later he had come to her dressing room, roses in hand, determined to meet the slight young girl that had effortlessly captured his heart. She had fallen in love with him at first sight and as the night went on, she fell deeper and deeper under his spell. They had done the unthinkable. It was wrong for a woman to lie with a man before marriage, but Janie had not been thinking straight and now she was left with a problem. With the man gone, sailing across the vast ocean, never to return, Janie was alone.

It was a cloudy night; a thick grey haze covered the dim moon, extinguishing light and leaving the dock in a troubled darkness. Janie carried on regardless and eventually came across the small, scarf covered stall that was Madam Rosmerta’s. Janie knocked tentatively, suddenly worried about what the woman would think of her disgrace. A thin, weary voice called from inside, beckoning the young girl inside. Janie entered, heart beating erratically, and stood in front of the old woman.
“My dear, I have been expected you. Please, sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Janie sat warily opposite the woman, who grabbed her hand in a short deft movement.
“I know of your problem, and I will help you, but first let me read your cards.”

The woman shuffled a deck of cards and then carefully turned the top card over.
“The ace of hearts. You are alone in your love my dear.”
She turned another card over, then another, both without comment. She turned a final card over and exclaimed sarcastically.
“The ace of spades! Oh dear how awful. A pair of aces my dear, one lacking in love, the other telling of an impending death. How sad you will be.  Well, better sooner than later.” With that she reached across to Janie and unexpectedly hit her hard in the stomach. Janie bent over in excruciating pain, bewildered at the sudden violence.  She could feel herself begin to bleed as the pain ripped through her, the baby lost. “You’re welcome my dear,” Madam Rosmerta sneered, a disgusted look upon her face. “Maybe that will teach you to wait.” She swept out of the room as Janie got up slowly, pain tearing through her stomach.

She made her way slowly outside, grateful for the brisk sea breeze. She found herself heaving, her body threatening to be sick so she ran as fast as she could in her state to the edge of the dock. She bent over, retching into the briny water. Suddenly she was falling forwards through the grey sky into the murky shallows beneath her. Her head hit the hard sea bed with a sickening crunch and blood rushed from a gash in her head. Her eyes closed, but not before she saw the blurred image of an old lady through the rippling water above her. The last air was expelled from her lungs; her heat gave one more beat, trying, in vain, to keep her alive. There she lay, clothes snagged on a sharp rock, holding her down. There she lay forevermore, the English ballerina, under the murky, blood stained sea.