Three Strange and Beautiful Girls

Filles Etranges

“Don’t think about falling to your death,” Ella tells herself as she balances precariously on the scaffolding of her music video set.  Ella wears a pair of huge lavender feather wings that match the color of her long, fine hair, a rose quartz pink t-shirt dress trimmed with ballerina tulle, thigh high baby blue knit stockings and silver motorcycle boots.  Ella has often thought that her vertigo has more to do with her lack of trust in herself than in the world. What is to keep her from jumping off a bridge into oncoming traffic?  Not that she wants to die. She wants to fly, compulsively wants it, but she is afraid. Too afraid even to fly the regular way, get on a plane to visit her best friend Dahlia Milagro who lives in New York now or their other bestie, Cherie, the gypsy.  Especially now, since Cherie has asked that they all meet up in France, saying only that it is urgent. 

The three girls met at boarding school in the south of France (a home for “sensitive girls,” it was called, but that was a bit of a euphemism) and had vowed to stay soul friends forever, but it has been too long since they have seen each other. 

Ella watches the floor of the warehouse tilt below her. Her hands grip the wires that are meant to transport her across the huge room. Shaking hands, weighed down with sparkle rings. She can’t do it, she just can’t.  Perspiration is making her makeup run, lavender and blue glitter eyes and fuchsia lips raining on the crew below.

She hears the sound of pulleys and looks to see the director, known only as Sage, hoisting himself up beside her. They had only met briefly that morning but there is something familiar about his long, thin face, aquiline nose, dark eyes and hair. He  offers a tissue from his hoodie pocket to dab her face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks,

“I‘m afraid of heights.”

“But you are a fairy,” he says softly. 

“I’m afraid of believing I can really fly and then realizing I can’t,” she answers him.

“You look familiar,” he says, hovering there beside her so close she can smell his toothpaste.

She tells him he looks familiar, too.

“Where are you from?”

“Hollywood, but I went to boarding school in France.”

Her mother had sent her there when she realized Ella needed help her family couldn’t provide.  Now they are broke, her mother and Lucy and her three siblings all crowded into an ivy-covered cottage built into the Hollywood hills like a Hobbit house.  She does not want to be here, up on this scaffolding, shooting a music video, discovered by a big record company.  She prefers busking on the streets in Venice, baking rose petal and cardamom flavored cupcakes and singing lullabies to her little brother and sisters, but they need the money.  Plus she has to get to Europe; it’s urgent.

“France, cool.  I’m from Hollywood, too, but we moved to the valley when I was seven.  I had a different name then.”

She nods, the lights twinking off her glittery eyelashes, blurring Sage, the director, so he looks like a little boy. “Wait,” she says. “I think I remember.”

There was a birthday party, before she was sent away.  A bouncy house in the yard. Frozen lemonade boxes and a pink cake with whipped cream frosting from Angel Maid Bakery.  It was Ella’s birthday; she was seven.  Such a big, fancy party for a little girl, as if someone was trying to make up for something terrible that was done to her.  She had invited all the kids in her class.  She didn’t know Jesse Savage well.  But there is a picture of them with his arm draped around her shoulder, They are blowing bubble gum bubbles.  She has a t- hirt that says Pink Hotel with a picture of a fairy on it. She is happy in the picture; he is her favorite boy, serious-eyed and steady, and he is all hers. Then they are in the bouncy house and she is scared because it reminds her of something else, something terrible that she can’t tell anyone about, but he takes her hand. He says, “I’ll just jump with you, come on, it’s like flying.” And they fly.

“I remember,” she says, suddenly unafraid.

Ella will fly and sing and record an album that sounds a little like Bjork and a little like Tori Amos and PJ Harvey and a lot like herself and then she will kiss Sage goodbye and bravely get on a plane and go to see Cherie and Dahlia.

Cherie knows the monster is coming.  She wakes at night in the seaside cottage and feels its presence somewhere out there, in the shadows, among the cypress and chestnut trees and white rock roses, lumbering up from wherever it sleeps during the day.  She doesn’t know its name or what it looks like but she can feel it nonetheless.  Garland, full lips parted, breath warm, curls loose on his dark forehead, holds her close in his sleep and she is afraid to wake him but she is restless.  It is hard for her to wait until morning.  She fingers the chunk of amber with the real rose inside that she wears around her neck for protection and counts the dark hours down.  Beside her, on cushions, on the white sand floor, sleep the cat, Lynx, and the dog, Bertrand. Sometimes, as if sensing her distress, or perhaps something more, they stir with nightmares.

When the sun finally glimmers through the antique cream lace curtains she has sewn from a tablecloth, Cherie rises and makes a breakfast of the wild blackberries she and Garland picked yesterday and fresh cream from the cow, Marguerite.  Then Cherie and Garland will go down to the sea. As well as the amulet, she has strings of beads, crystals and feathers around her neck; she has on cut- off’s and there are dog roses, wild orchids and columbine in her hair—that’s all she wears. She will pose for him and he will paint. This is how they spend their days, living off the money from the dresses and necklaces she makes and from the paintings he sells.

But the monster is always lurking in her mind, waiting to come upon her in the night, keeping her from the rest she needs to sew, to model for Garland, to care for the cottage and make their meals with him.

Cherie tells Garland over lunch, as they tear into the crispness of the baguette, that she has been thinking about it; she needs to see her friends, Ella and Dahlia. They will know what to do to help her.

“There are no monsters, mon amie,” he says, gently, brushing sand off her slim, freckled thigh. 

But she is sure there is one.  It will hurt little children, little boys especially, just as it has eaten the sheep in the pastures.

The only way to stop it is to find her friends and create the magical spells as they did in boarding school.  No one else believed them, thought there was something wrong with them, that they were “touched” in the head—that’s why they needed to be at Madame’s Home for Strange Girls as it was nicknamed.  Filles Etranges.  But Cherie, Ella and Dahlia knew there was more to it than that.

Garland kisses Cherie, licks salt off her brown shoulders.  She loves him—he is so gentle, so gifted, so beautiful—but she is a gypsy and she must travel.  More than that, she has a task before her.  She must find her friends and gather the magic she needs to banish the monster forever.

Dahlia Milagro remembers meeting Cherie and Ella at the boarding school.  Ella was picking daisies and singing to herself in a voice like light on a lake, oblivious to everyone around her.  Cherie was sitting under a weeping willow stringing beads, endlessly stringing glass beads as if her fingers couldn’t stop moving.  Dahlia, who had never had, nor wanted, friends, content to be always with her mother until the sudden and unspeakable death that sent Dahlia away from Manhattan to this big old stone house in the countryside of France, was immediately drawn to both girls.  She knew, with the intuition she’d been born with and never, unlike most people, lost, that they were all meant to be close, to do something important.  This had to do with love but the girls didn’t know that much about love yet, except what all of us know when we come into the world, which is a lot, until it is smacked away from us.  Though the girls had been loved, the full magnitude of their love-knowledge, unlike Dahlia’s uncanny intuition, had been smacked away by fear. 

Dahlia went over to Cherie and sat with her, asked what she was doing.  Cherie held out the beads.

“Amulets,” she said. softly, from beneath her long  dusky brown hair. “To protect me. Talismans.”

“Protect you from what?” asked Dahlia.”

 Cherie looked up at her with eyes like glass beads and did not answer.

Ella danced over, barefoot, in a dress made from embroidered flea market tea towels.  “Who are you?” she sang.

Dahlia introduced herself. 

“I am Ellllllla,” Ella sang.

“You have a beautiful voice,” said Cherie.

 “I have to keep singing.  I am afraid if I stop singing something bad will happen.”

Unlike Ella and Cherie, Dahlia was not afraid of anything.  Except the fact that she was not afraid of anything and she did not know where that might take her.

Now, in Manhattan, Dahlia Milagro pounds the pavement in her hooded raven-wing jacket and black boots, fueled by caffeine, her notebook clutched under her arm.  Her white blond hair looks even brighter against all the dark clothing she always wears.  She is on her way to her apartment to work on a spell for her friend, Cherie. 

Ever since they met as young girls, Cherie has spoken about monsters.  Dahlia understands.  She has had her share of them as well, but the monsters Dahlia has had to fight are usually the kind that walk around in daylight, ride the subway, smile at you with their teeth; they are not the kind of beasts that lurk only in the shadows.  These are harder to deal with, in some respects, because no one believes you when you talk about them. Although, in Dahlia’s experience, no one believes that the normal-looking monsters are real ones either.

Dahlia’s apartment has black lace curtains and shiny black paint on the walls.  A grand chandelier made of crystal skulls and skeletons hangs almost to the floor.  On a black lacquer table Dahlia opens her notebook with the bumpy black cover.  It looks like an artist’s sketchbook but it is actually her novel that is actually a very long spell disguised as a novel.   Beside the notebook, Dahlia lights a tall white candle that smells of rain, and spreads out her ingredients.  A lizard skin, black rose petals, three raven feathers, a crystal vial of her tears and another of her blood. 

With this spell Dahlia will unite them again, the three girls, the three strange girls.  Filles Etranges.  She will bring them together so they can conquer whatever demons remain.

The vardo is a small cart, ornately painted pistachio green, rose pink, sky blue and buttercup yellow.  Roses with buds and strawberries with vines and daisies with ferns and irises on long stems bloom all over it.  It is drawn by one large old white horse, named Phaeton, who clomps along the dirt road on his heavy hooves.  There are bells and ribbons and columbine flowers tied into his mane.   If you feel on top of his head your fingers may discover an odd bump that Cherie thinks was a horn someone removed when he was a foal.

Cherie drives the gypsy wagon to the train station in the meadowed valley. She waits, patting the old horse.  He is warm and strong and she leans into him, smelling his field scent for sustenance and strength.  Garland is not with her; she hasn’t told her what she is doing, only that she will be gone looking for seashells and plants for a few days.  After she told him about the monster she realized he wasn’t ready to accept what is happening; she will have to fight it without him.

Ella arrives first, carrying a large lavender leather and unicorn tapestry bag that matches her hair and singing a song about boys and chocolate.  She runs to Cherie and they kiss and embrace in the sun, all shiny tresses and long limbs and beads and bangles.  It seems as if they are girls at the big house again, girls who have no one but each other.  Both of them breathe more fully in the other’s slender arms.

Dahlia stands on the platform watching them.  She is foreboding, standing hard against the soft backdrop of sky and hills, in her silver charms and black feathers and some of the elderly villagers observe her with what looks a little like fear.  Wearing a shirt with a large skull on it, roses for his eyes, her hair bright as metal in the sun, Dahlia resembles an ice witch who has arrived in a silver sleigh not on a loud, dark train.

Even Cherie approaches Dahlia slowly but Ella dances over, singing a song about crystals and night-blooming flowers and kisses her friend on both cheeks.  Then Cherie does the same. She gives her friends an amber amulet like hers to wear (although Ella’s has a butterfly inside and Dahlia’s a scorpion, instead of a rose) and for a moment they stand in a circle, holding hands, looking at each other and they are little girls again.  But there is a power among them that is palpable and the blue and sun air seems to shimmer with it.

After they have set up camp in a nearby field and eaten the jackfruit stew and saffron ice cream that Cherie has made, weary Dahlia and Ella sleep while Cherie keeps watch. 

In the morning Dahlia tells the others her dream.  At the base of a valley, she tells them, there is a field full of strange flowers and herbs that can cure many ills.  Cherie knows which one she means but she has never gone there.  She says the villagers say it is not safe.  Dahlia closes her eyelids that look naturally lavendar because of the intense color of her eyes showing through, and says they must go.

Ella and Cherie grab hands like small children about to run away together but Dahlia just opens her eyes and looks at them.

“Are we here to conquer monsters or are we not?” she says.

 So Cherie drives the vargo to the place she knows.

 The surface of the field buzzes and glows with nectar and insects and light.  Cherie shows Dahlia and Ella a rare bloom that resembles a small man in a jester’s hat and makes a whistling sound in the wind.  She tells them that this wards off evil spirits. 

Ella reaches to snap a flower and the others tilt their faces to her and she squeezes the juice of the blossom onto their closed eyes.  Then Cherie takes the flower and squeezes it onto Ella’s eyelids. 

But the merry blue sky turns dark and a flock of birds rises up in alarm!  The girls hold hands and turn in three directions to see what is coming, because something is coming.  If you think about it, in some ways, something that devours is always coming.

Before they can see what it is, the girls grow suddenly drowsy and slump to the ground among the tall grasses and the flowers that resemble wings and ice cream and tiny dresses. 

When they wake it is night and they cannot move or speak. Their feet are bound together in the center, their bodies laid out like spokes, and their mouths are gagged.  A fire rages nearby and a figure sits by the fire, rubbing its hands together.

“You took my flower,” says a voice.

“Forgive us,” Says Cherie.  “We did not know.”

“Give it back.”

“We don’t know where it is,” Ella says. I dropped it when I fell asleep.”

“Careless,” says the figure, coming closer. They see she is a woman with a hump back and gnarled hands like rotting tree roots.  “Why are you here?”

Dahlia moves her head so that her eyes beam cold light into the darkness.  “We are trying to fight the monster,” she says simply as if she has just said that she would like cheese and bread please.

The crone laughs. “You think you can do it? The beast?  You think you can?”

“Yes,” says Dahlia.

“You’ll need more than pretty faces and hair and straight backs and nice long legs,” says the crone.

“Of course,” says Dahlia.  “We need wisdom, like you have.  That’s why we came to your field and picked your flower.  For wisdom.”

The crone rubs her long chin and strokes the tip of her nose between her thumb and first finger.  “What will you give me if you conquer the beast?”

“Your innocence,” says Ella.

“Your courage,” says Cherie.

“Your tenderness,” says Dahlia.  Because these are the things they seek for themselves.

The crone laughs. And kneels heavily in the center of their bound legs.  And unties them. “If not, you will all be burned in my fire,” she says.

They hold hands and run into the night, their hair flaring out behind them, the stars their headdresses, the breeze their dresses.  The white horse finds them and leads them back to the vargo.  It is dawn now.  They all climb inside and sleep.

In the morning they eat millet with cherries and pecans and then they set off again, following Dahlia’s dream from the night before.

According to Dahlia’s directions, they wander over dry hilly terrain following the trail of green plants and scattered wildflowers until they come to a pool of water with a large fall spilling down from above.  The air is misty and smells of minerals. 

“Let’s swim!” Ella cries. 

Cherie is hesitant, after what happened in the field, but the girls’ bodies ache from travel and bondage and they undress and jump into the pool.

While they are swimming they hear shouts and a little man with eyes like gray stones comes running out of a cave holding a rock above his head.

“What are you doing here?” he screams at them.

“Just bathing “ Ella says.  “So sorry, Sir.”

“Thoughtless!  Selfish!  This is my pool.  Get out, get out.”

“Really?” says Dahlia softly.  “Really now?  Again with the insults?” They try to move out of the water but it is as if it pulls them back down, not wanting them to go; it is not done with them.  They flail and splash and sputter. The mud drags at their toes.

“Why are you here?” shrieks the man, pulling at his beard.

“We are trying to defeat the monster,” says Cherie.
            “The monster!  The monster!  What do you know about monsters?”

“A whole hell of a lot,” says Dahlia as if she is shopping for shoes.

“What will you give me in return for bathing in my pool?” says the man.

 “Your youth,” says Ella.

“Your joy,” says Cherie.

“Justice,” says Dahlia.  Because these are the things they seek for themselves.

The man stomps around the edge of the pool, slapping at invisible insects.  The girls watch him, feeling as if they are growing tails and will never be able to walk on land again.  Or perhaps the pool will suck them down and gill-less they will perish.  He finishes his manic dance, comes closer to the water and says, “If not you will drown in my pool.”

They feel the water release them, then, and they emerge shaking and shivering in the warm afternoon air.  Cherie is holding three rocks from the river, a pinkish, a blue and a black-as -obsidian, one for each girl.

They grab hands and run away as quickly as they can.  They are too tired to have anyone keep the watch so they all sleep huddled together in the gypsy wagon, wearing their amber necklaces, clutching their river rocks and with one of Dahlia’s eucalyptus candles burning to ward off the unwanted.

The wood is a place that some fear and others are drawn to as if it holds the secret to eternal life.  Which one of these are you?  All our fears and dreams live there and they are in the shape of one monster with many names.

Cherie steers the white horse forward. For a moment Phaeton pauses, stomping his hooves and rolling his eyes back. She pats him gently and whispers to him. He lowers his head, shakes his mane so the bells sing. Then he glances back with his big brown side-eyes and goes in among the trees.

Sunlight dapples down through the many layers of leaves.  The path is mossy and uneven and the vardo shakes and the girls slide around against the delicate curved sides.  They can hear bird songs and smell mud and herbs and flowers and the dusky scent of the leaves that hold the night even in the daytime.  It will be night soon and the girls must be here, in this forest, for the night. That is the only way they can face what they must face.

Ella ’s monster is a man with a beer belly and hairy forearms.  He sits on the edge of her bed and tickles her feet.  He sits her on his lap and tells her she is beautiful.  After he touches her she thinks she will never be with a man again.  She is afraid of everything.  The world is a steep place from which you can fall at any moment. 

She began to have headaches and hear incessant music in her head and see strange lights around people and soon she was sent away.

Cherie’s monster is a big red car.  There is a lovely young boy who looks just like she does.  He loves to run and play.  Everyone adores him.  They cannot wait to see him grow into a beautiful man with everything in the world waiting for him. But Cherie sees the car coming and she hears the breaks and she screams but her brother cannot hear.  Her beautiful baby boy, now he is fully gone from her. 

She wanted to sleep and sleep and weep and weep forever so she was sent away to recover.

Dahlia has a monster no one will ever know.  It is something that does the unspeakable. 

Dahlia was sent away because she once wanted to do the unspeakable to herself.

When the girls found each other, the monsters were the ones that were sent away.  For a time.

Now the girls are in the wood and it is getting dark. They build a fire and stand with their backs to it, wearing their necklaces, holding their river rocks, looking out into the night, ready to face what will come.

A man with a body that can do harm, especially to a girl so young and small.

A red car with blood on its tires.

A tall, severely beautiful woman lying limp in the arms of a faceless thing.

The girls have anointed their eyelids with the drops of forbidden fairy flowers, bathed as trespassers in mermaid pools and gone into the strangest woods.  Through it all they have never let go of each other.  They will not now.

“I forgive you,” says Ella.

“I love you,” says Cherie.

“I understand you,” says Dahlia.  Because this is how we rid ourselves of our cruelest beasts.

The monsters shake with shame, collapse with relief, drop to their knees with regret and then disintegrate into the dust of pain.

When the girls emerge from those woods they pass by the pool.  A lovely boy swims in the water like a large fish.

In the fields, a lithe girl with a straight back dances among the pollinating insects and the flowers shaped like cream cakes.

Ella will fly back to Sage.  Cherie will take the vargo back home to Garland and Bertrand and Lynx and Marguerite. Dahlia will go to Manhattan with fairy juice and mermaid water for her elixirs, essences, perfumes and potions.  There will always be monsters but for now they sleep.  Soon they will all meet again.