Kythia awoke to the sound of trumpets announcing her father’s departure. She grunted and sat up abruptly, stretching stiff muscles. She had wished to speak with her father, Sir Farlan, before he and his knights left the castle to assist their fellow countrymen in battle. Kythia knew that if more troops weren’t sent to help Queen Jocunda all of their kingdom of Naranth would be overrun by the power-hungry Rylions. Still, she wished her father had had time to plead her cause to her mother, Lady Amaria. Amaria wanted a daughter who would embroider tapestries, regally order servants to do her bidding, and wear elaborate gowns of silk and brocade. Kythia herself wanted to be a hero, someone portrayed in tapestries. She wanted to wear mail and carry a sword, and save all of Naranth. All Sir Farlan wanted was for his family to be content, and therefore it was always easy to enlist his help in halting Amaria’s next lecture. Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand Kythia sighed; now there was no prolonging the inevitable tirade. Her mother had caught her on her palfrey, tilting (or trying to) at a quintain. The poor horse was bewildered and jumped at the slightest sound. Amaria had let out such an unladylike war cry as to spook the horse, meant only for pleasure, into throwing its passenger, and the glint in the noble lady’s eyes threatened hell to pay. Kythia stood, wincing as her sore limbs stretched, and limped to the five-foot-tall mirror that had been her thirteenth birthday present. She tossed her waist-length hair, admiring the way the auburn tresses caught the light, then, grimacing, reached for the forest-green gown that supposedly brought out the color of her already striking hazel eyes. Although the dress was stunning, she knew she’d look better in armor. * * * That morning (after the lecture at breakfast) Kythia endured dancing lessons, then embroidery—two of her most hated activities. Nothing was worse than what came after the three-course midday meal, though: fittings. She was making her appearance at court in April, as did every other fifteen-year-old of high blood. The only pleasant part of this trip would be meeting with Queen Jocunda. The Queen was everything Kythia wished to be. She was a warrior, yet could be a proper, beautiful lady when she wished. She was a superb horsewoman and the heroine of every ballad. Meeting her would be wondrous. Kythia was suddenly brought back to reality as the beautiful aqua-colored gown, her mother’s choice, was draped over her slim shoulders. She sighed and resigned herself to an eternity of measurements and servants’ gossip. “Did you hear that there’s a chance of the Rylions attacking near here?” “Oh, that’s not true. You know that Sir Farlan would never let them past him.” “Word has it that battle was just a diversion, and their real motive is to take this castle and the lands around it.” Kythia had heard this theory several times, and had yet to believe it. It would be exciting, though—trumpets blaring, banners waving just beyond the window. Oh, glory maybe Queen Jocunda would even lead the rescue . . . That was odd. Kythia was sure she had just heard trumpets, even war cries. She shook her head, trying to clear it of what was obviously her imagination. Then her mother, Amaria, dashed into the room and cried that, yes, there was a Rylion attack and the knights were gone, fighting miles away! This time, the gossip was correct. That was when panic broke loose. Serving women shrieked and ran about. Villagers had already begun to enter the castle, the safest place around. Kythia maneuvered through it all, trying to reach the battlements. Her heart hammered; her hair flew out of place as she, still in her fine gown, scrambled to where she could help defend her people and her home. She couldn’t let her mother and servants die or be captured. As she ran, she issued orders for vats of hot oil, bows and arrows, and as many spears as they had. She grabbed a boy about her age and gave him a message to take as quickly as possible to the nearest estate: “We’re under attack, and the men are gone. Please, help.” * * * Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand and felling the enemy below as fast as she could fire. She’d secretly learned archery as a child, and was a fair shot. The most stalwart of the servants, men and women, assisted her, and the rest were huddled with Amaria in the most protected rooms. Load. Fire. Watch her victim fall. Load. Fire. Kythia worked herself into a rhythm. She shut her mind to the screams of those she killed in self-defense, although she knew they would haunt her dreams. A pain-filled shriek forced her to look beside her. One of the gossips that had been fitting her dress had fallen, struck by a deadly arrow. Blood spurted from her, showering the cold stone wall. Kythia took a moment to kneel beside her servant and gently close the eyes of the old woman. Kythia’s dress was ripped and hanging off one shoulder, the height of impropriety. Her hair was loose and tangled and tinted with soot. Her face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt. Yet Kythia was beautiful, wild and willful, standing in the battlements and crying out against all who defied her. She grinned; Lady Amaria would swoon with shock to see her daughter like this. * * * After it was all over Kythia sat in her spacious apartments and thought about the entire incident. They had won; serving women and one noble girl had held their own against a troop from the greatest army in the realm until proper warriors could be summoned. Perhaps an angel was with her, watching over her; perhaps it was just pure luck. Anyhow, she
July/August 2004
Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
I stare at the flickering candle, the small light throwing echoes onto the flimsy curtain wavering with our movements. That cloth is all that separates us from the audience; they’re out there, waiting, waiting for us. I love focusing, letting the director’s voice flow around me, dropping into my character’s body. There he is! Romeo, staring longingly, lovingly, up at Juliet on her balcony. He doesn’t know she adores him yet. That’s what’s terrific about acting in plays—I know what my character doesn’t yet. “Step toward your character and join hands,” our director, Anne, says. I let my character develop in my mind until his words spring from my mouth as if he’s living inside of me. I’m here to bring Romeo to life in my own world. “Let a line form in your mind and let the character tell you how he would say it. Now come back . . . on the count of six, open your eyes onto the candle,” Anne tells us. The reddish-gold fire shimmers in the dark. The line is there in my head, a gift from Romeo—”O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.” Everyone says his or her line in turn: Rachel, the stately prince, with the play’s opening words; Tanya, the boisterous nurse, enjoying a dirty joke; and Sasha, the wise friar, contemplating man and nature. I give extra strength to the lines addressing Romeo and Juliet’s love “OK,” Anne whispers, “you’ve prepared so long for this. You’re going to be awesome—especially since this is the last performance!” The cast mingles, hugging, wishing good luck, and sharing pre-performance nerves. My Juliet, Holly, throws herself into a chair and sighs. “I’m just so sick of Juliet. Anne isn’t letting me do what I want with the character.” I turn to face her. “Holly, don’t say that. I wanted to be Juliet, don’t you remember? I prepared so hard for the tryout—I was miserable when I got immature, rash Romeo instead. At least you got the part you wanted!” I can’t believe I just said that to Holly, one of my best friends in the cast. I hold my breath, waiting for her response, hoping she won’t be mad. But she stares at me and says, “Well, maybe there was a reason I got Juliet and you didn’t. Think about it.” She walks away from me. I collapse into the chair Holly just abandoned. What’s going to happen to the performance? Holly and I need all the chemistry we can muster to make the audience believe in the play’s world. Someone hugs my shoulders. I hope it’s Holly, but it isn’t. A few minutes later, we line up for the march-in. Anne encourages all the cast members, making her way back to tell me I’ll be great. Tears prick at my eyes but I brush them away roughly I know I can’t play this part without my heart in it and without closeness to Holly. The lights dim and the audience’s chatter fades. The actors’ whispers fill the jammed backstage. Tybalt rushes for her forgotten cloak and everyone adjusts hats, swords, vests. I fiddle with my iridescent cloak and the silk ribbons on my velvet tunic as Purcell’s Funeral March for Queen Mary swells. Usually it’s hard not to laugh when everyone starts clapping and whistling as we proceed down the aisle. Tonight, though, it’s easy for me to keep a straight face. The play begins and seems as though it’s on fast-forward. The Montagues and Capulets brawl in the streets, Romeo and his friends sneak into their sworn enemies’ party, Juliet and Romeo are struck by love. Holly and I aren’t acting to our full potential together, and I know it. As the balcony scene begins, I realize what I have to do. I give extra strength to the lines addressing Romeo and Juliet’s love, playing them differently from ever before. As I say, “My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love,” Juliet smiles at Romeo, but I know it’s also Holly smiling at me. The play races on until the “banished” scene. This is the hardest moment for Romeo, finding out he’s exiled from Verona for having murdered Tybalt. Every line slips off my tongue so naturally it’s as if I am Romeo and this banishment is happening to me. I feel everything: his anguish, despair, and guilt. I can’t believe I won’t have a chance to do this again. I stumble offstage afterward, amazed by the beauty of the scene. My friends crush me into a hug, and I realize I’m overwhelmed with love. Love for my friends and their love for me. Romeo and Juliet’s doomed love. And, most surprising and extraordinary to me, my love for Romeo. Hannah Postel, 12Madison, Wisconsin Leigh Marie Marshall, 13San Francisco, California
Playing Periwinkle
I remember the first time we played Periwinkle. I was ten and my sister Lou was eleven. We were just under a year apart, eleven months exactly. It was her birthday and her party had just ended, leaving just the two of us and a pile of presents. I picked one up, a funny little stuffed pig, and leaned it over by Lou. “It’s Pig’s birthday, too!” I giggled. Lou rolled her eyes in an attempt to look mature but ended up laughing with me. After living together for our entire lives, we were both pretty good at figuring out what the other one was thinking. I glanced at the table set up for the party then at the pig, then at Lou. “Sounds fun, right?” I asked her. She knew what I meant, and we raced through the house, picking up every stuffed animal we could carry and dumping them on the table. “Now the pig can have a party right Lou?” I said. She surveyed the heap. “Sure,” she told me with all the authority of being one year older, “but not here. They need a house of their own. Like, oh, somewhere in the woods.” So we picked up the animals once again, and started walking through the woods near our house in search of a suitable spot for a party. Finally, Lou paused under a big tree. “This looks like a good spot.” It didn’t seem any different from any of the other spots under any of the other trees that we had passed, but I didn’t want to argue with Lou on her birthday. We laughed as we arranged the animals around an imaginary table, moving their little arms to eat invisible cake. Suddenly, Lou looked up. “What time is it, Jen?” she asked me. We laughed as we arranged the animals around an imaginary table I looked at my watch. “Six-forty-five.”We both knew what that meant. We were forty-five minutes late for supper, and Mom was not going to be happy with us. Lou took off through the trees, and I followed. * * * A we were lying in our bunk beds that night, almost asleep, I thought of something. “Lou!” “I’m tired, Jen. Go back to sleep.””No, listen! We left all the animals out there! I don’t want to leave them out all night; what if it rains?” “Well, what do you want to do about it—go back and get them?” Lou said sarcastically. “Now?” I asked incredulously “Lou, it’s the middle of the night.” She swung her legs over the side of the top bunk and jumped off. “I was kidding, but I guess we could. It’s now or never, if it rains.” That was true. “OK, wait for me.” We tiptoed barefoot into the kitchen. Lou rummaged around in the drawers, looking for a strong flashlight, then we slid on our shoes and slipped out the door. The forest path looked eerie in the dark. I had second thoughts about our plan, but once Lou made up her mind to do something, there was no stopping her, so we continued until we reached the tree. Looking at the animals reminded me of how much fun we were having. We had never really finished Pig’s party so I turned to Lou. “Do you think we could maybe play a little, while we’re out here?” She stared at me like I was crazy. “What if Mom and Dad find out?” “We’d be in enough trouble already” I pointed out. She shrugged, always willing for an adventure. “Sounds fine to me!” We sat down in the dark. It wasn’t really so scary after all, I noticed. Once we propped up the flashlight in between us, it lit up the surrounding woods well enough so we could be sure that nothing was hiding out there, and the house was pretty close by. We played for almost an hour when Lou decided that we had better start back, but both of us were sad to leave. That was probably what made Lou say, “Jen? Let’s try to come out here again tomorrow night.” And it was what made me say, “Yes.” “This is almost like a little world,” Lou said thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d better name it.” I thought for a while. “I don’t know. Do you have any ideas?” “I’m thinking.” We eventually decided on Periwinkle, because as Lou said, “Periwinkle is such a pretty color, but I don’t see it very often. When I see it, I think of thousands of possibilities.” * * * Two years later, we were still playing Periwinkle. Sometimes during the day, I was embarrassed to think of what some of the kids at school would say about such a “baby” game. But the nighttime always made it seem special, even magical, and I couldn’t even think of ending the game. We never really talked about it, but I think Lou felt the same way. We had improved the game since that first night on Lou’s birthday. Lou and I made popsicle-stick furniture for the stuffed animals, and walls to separate different rooms. Sometimes the Periwinkle characters would go to school, sometimes they would play, and sometimes they would even go on vacation and take a trip somewhere. We made different cardboard buildings for everywhere they went. One hot August night, Lou and I appeared at our tree to find nothing. Everything was gone. We couldn’t think of anything to do but stare in shock. Who or what could have done this? Dog tracks covered the muddy ground. I turned to show Lou and see what she was thinking, but she was not there. She was already running back toward the house, fists clenched. I sighed, blinking away a tear as I looked at the mess, then I followed her. Back in our bedroom, Lou was still angry. I was upset too, but I wanted to try to calm her down. “Listen. It’s not the end of the
