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Stairway to Paradise

Writer's picture: Zana BellZana Bell

Updated: 2 days ago

“Who is she?” 

The social studies class gathered around the sepia postcard, tacked to the bedroom wall of the old homestead museum. Their attention was caught, but not by the kohl-rimmed eyes raised heavenwards, nor by the grace of the arms outstretched with theatrical grace.

“Why is she showing one of her tits? Wasn’t it rude in those days?”

“That,” said the curator, “is Isadora Duncan - the mother of all modern dance.”

Daisy thought the postcard had an undeniably smug expression, but the class was unimpressed.

Dancer in motion

“Why is she wearing that silly costume and showing herself like that?”

“That was for her most famous dance, the Dance of the Seven Veils. It’s based on a myth about Eurydice descending to the Underworld, losing some clothing each time she passes through one of the seven gates.”

“So she was a stripper?”

“Gracious no. It’s very spiritual – an allegory for death, you see.”  

They didn’t. 

“Nobody’d want to see her naked. She’s fat.”  

It must have been a trick of light. For a second Daisy thought the postcard looked positively pained.

“On the contrary, “said the curator, netting 10GBH in the sweep of her arms to move them on to the next room. “She was considered to be quite a beauty – risqué, of course – but greatly admired. She died tragically, strangled on her own scarf when she was only fifty.”

Only fifty.”

“Only fifty.”  Their mocking undertones faded as they shuffled into the next room. 


Daisy remained behind. Only fifty. How strange. It was her fiftieth birthday today. What if she were to die some time this year? She looked at Isadora, draped in her diaphanous veils. The kohl-rimmed eyes were no longer looking heavenwards; they were looking straight out at Daisy. One of the long, elegant fingers beckoned. Daisy blinked. Impatient, the whole arm waved her over. Daisy looked around. She was quite alone.

“Me?” she asked, pointing to her thin chest enveloped in its baggy cardigan.

“Yes.” The head nodded imperiously.

Feeling foolish, Daisy shuffled closer and bent her head to the postcard.

“Happy birthday,” Isadora said.

“How on earth did you know?” Daisy asked in greatest astonishment.

“Because I’ve been assigned to you.”

“Assigned to me? What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out.” Isadora nodded and Daisy found herself nodding seriously back. Tatum and Natasha who were passing on their way to the toilet nudged each other and burst into giggles. Old wacky Wickham really was losing it these days.

“A bientôt,” said Isadora.


Daisy was driving home when a voice said, “No, you’re not going crazy.” 

Startled, she gripped the steering wheel tighter. There was Isadora next to her, life-size but still in sepia tones and gently transparent. Glancing sideways, Daisy could make out the armrest of the door through Isadora’s stomach.

“I told you that I’ve been assigned to you.”

“Why?”

Isadora’s laugh was silvery as wind-chimes. “To teach you how to live, of course.”

“But,” Daisy felt compelled to point out, “you are dead.”

“Naturally. Otherwise, I couldn’t have been assigned to you, could I?”  Isadora was patient as with a slow child, so Daisy nodded like she understood. 

“You’re a guardian angel?”  

“Well, a spiritual guide to be more accurate.”

“Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“Oh yes. I’ve had a couple of cracks at it. Ever heard of Amy Johnson?”

“The aviatrix?”  Daisy was impressed.

“Yes, fine girl. Lots of pluck. A divine range of scarves, too,” she added.

“But she died - simply disappeared.”

Isadora looked contrite. “My fault, darling. We were flying along so happily, and I was looking down and said, ‘Oh look, there’s the Great Wall of China’ and Amy said, ‘It can’t be, we are nowhere near China’ and I said, ‘Well, what’s that then?’ and while she was craning over to see, we went into a spin. Still,” Isadora continued cheerfully,” she was splendid about it. Didn’t blame me at all and now that she’s looking after the astronauts, she’s as happy as can be.”

“Anyone else?”

“Jayne Mansfield.”

“The 50’s blonde bombshell?” Daisy was flattered. She certainly seemed to be in good company. Then she remembered. “But she died too - in a horrible car accident, didn’t she?” Isadora’s evasive look aroused suspicions. “Was that your fault, too?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking… you must understand, she wasn’t an easy assignment. I was supposed to teach her spirituality and all she was interested in was sexuality. I was at my wit’s end – her career was spiralling out of control and then she got in with that dreadful man, Brodie. It was late, they’d both been drinking and began fighting again. The road was dark – I was afraid they’d have an accident. Jayne couldn’t, wouldn’t hear me so I tapped her on the shoulder. She got a fright, jumped and…. So it wasn’t my fault as such….”

“But if it hadn’t been for you, she wouldn’t have had the accident.”

“Mmm – and she was angry at first but she truly didn’t mind after I’d pointed out that I had saved her from sagging breasts and wrinkles. I also made her realise that it put her up there with Munroe who’d died year before. That made her stop and think. When I pointed to her dreadful bouffant wig lying in the middle of the road and said, ‘They’ll think you were decapitated,’ she was thrilled. ‘That’s true, they will. Brilliant. Even you never went that far. Wow! No-one will ever forget that one.’  So, you see, all’s well that ends well.”

Daisy was appalled. “They’ve sent me the Angel of Death!”

“Oh no, darling,” Isadora was quick to reassure her. “He’s far more important than me.”

“Nevertheless, your arrival has put me under a death threat.”

“Not at all. It’s quite different this time. You are so cautious I doubt very much if the Grim Reaper himself could catch you unawares.”

This pronouncement just made Daisy bitter. “I’ve inherited a lunatic spiritual guide because I’m old and boring – I don’t believe it! Why on earth you are allowed in such a position, anyway? I thought spiritual guides were higher beings, not just humans that had messed up.” 

“Oh no,” said Isadora, “if they were, the world would not be in the state it’s in, now would it. Fact is, it’s like a second chance.”

“Who was your spiritual guide?”

“Oh, I didn’t have one. Not everyone does. I was quite a highly evolved soul, you see. That is why my dancing was so spiritual. They thought I would be fine. But I lost my way. The fame, you know, the attention. I simply adored it. They tried to give me a wake-up call by drowning my babies so cruelly. I was devastated. Tried everything, seeking the finest life could offer. Nothing! Then, alas, vanity. That’s why They throttled me with my own scarf.” Isadora’s arm described the motion of a flying scarf ripping suddenly tight. Her head flopped grotesquely to one side. Then she smiled. “Killed by flimsiest vanity. They have a good sense of humour, I’ll say that for Them.”

“Who are They?”

Isadora shook her head and put a finger to her lips. “Can’t say, darling.”

“Well, are you allowed to explain death, then?”

“What is there to say? Everyone is a little right, but no-one has the full story and of course, I haven’t gone Beyond yet. I only know Purgatory – a dreary place full of mist and chills – like Britain but without a summer’s break to Majorca. Purgatory is for those who didn’t learn the lesson they were meant to in life. Those who did,” Isadora’s hand made a sunburst heavenward, “go Beyond. The rest of us either get new bodies and start again or we help a human achieve their true destiny. Through this, the spirit guide learns their own lesson and then we are all promoted as it were.”

“So why are you with me?” 

“Darling!” Isadora was surprised. “I thought that was obvious. Because you were meant to be a dancer.”

Me?” Daisy was even more surprised.

“Of course. New Zealand was allotted two performing geniuses at the time. Kiri, of course, has fulfilled her destiny and very well but you - you were to be the next Fonteyn but with more passion, more pathos, more piquancy.”

Now Daisy was sure she was going mad.  “You’re mad,” she accused Isadora.

“You had the perfect start. Parents who raised you with an innocence and a vulnerability that was to perfume your every performance. They fulfilled their job admirably which is why they were taken.”

“And are my parents….?”

“Oh Beyond, quite, quite Beyond,” Isadora assured her. “Very highly evolved souls.”

“But I was never that good,” Daisy stammered.

“Yes, well, They realised that They may have misjudged on that one. Your genius was simply unrecognised. They wanted to protect you from Vanity. Remember how your dancing teacher called you her own little angel. She knew you were special – just not how special. A year after your parents’ death, a new teacher was to come into your life. All the pain and loss you had been experiencing up to that point would have found its true expression and you’d have become one of the greatest dancers with depths of passion never seen even in my dancing. They never foresaw that, unable to face the powers of passion, you would simply shut down on all fronts.”  Isadora shook her head. “You never danced again after your parents’ death.”

“How could I? It would have been a mockery.”

“It would have been destiny.”

There was a silence for a few minutes.

“Muscles atrophy without use. After a few years They knew you would never fulfil that destiny, but They were still hopeful for the passion.”

“What passion?” Daisy asked bitterly. 

“Exactly. They sent numerous opportunities – yes, They did,” she said in answer to Daisy’s look of disbelief. “True, the opportunities have become more muted over the years but nevertheless, they have been there. Why in the last decade alone there has been the offer of promotion, the itinerant music teacher and the $20 000 lotto win. And what did you do with these? You said you were happier staying as an assistant teacher, turned down three dates and lost him to the home economics teacher, and invested the money in a retirement fund.”

Daisy was defensive. “I couldn’t have coped with the responsibility; he would have got bored with me; and a woman alone has to look after her old age.”

Isadora laughed – a sound as light and teasing as a sea-breeze. “Oh, my dear, such justifications! Well, I am here to save you from your dreary little existence.”

“If you don’t kill me in the attempt.” 

Isadora remained unperturbed. “Temperament!  That’s good. We will harness it and then release it, and you will be one with the universe.”  

“Well, fine, that’s all we have to do for me,” Daisy’s voice was laced with sarcasm she usually reserved only for the most obtuse students, “but what’s your lesson?”

“Ah darling,” Isadora said sadly, “I don’t know. Higher souls are supposed to find the path themselves.”

Daisy moaned and banged her head against the steering wheel. “Go away. I just want to be left alone.”

“Yes dear, no doubt you need to collect your thoughts. I’ll meet you at home.” 


Daisy’s reflections were not happy for the last ten minutes drive home to her harbourside cottage, safely screened away by swathes of native bush. Since her parents’ death she had cowered away from life as if waiting for the crunch of a car that would one day claim her too. It galled her that after all her care, her mind should suddenly play traitor, conjuring preposterous images of some ghost with 1920s mannerisms come to teach her how to live. 

Daisy pulled up outside her cottage with an uncharacteristic screech and scurried into her sanctuary, slamming the door behind her. Peace. Quiet. Beyond the French doors the calm harbour waters glinted. Daisy sank into an old, wing-backed chair and thought, “Well, at least I’ve enough sense not to throttle myself with my own scarf.”

“A foolish gesture of largesse, I fear,” said Isadora. “But darling, until you’ve driven a sports car with a scarf flying out free behind you, how can you judge?”

Daisy jerked upright. “You!”

“Yes, I.”  Isadora stretched out over the chesterfield, arms arching over her head. “Too, too delightful to be back.”


Daisy could just make out the Sanderson linen print through Isadora’s elegantly languid, sepia form. She was relieved the breast was covered. Like cabbage caught in someone’s teeth, it was impossible to mention politely and difficult not to stare. 

Isadora drew in a breath with ecstasy. “Darling, it’s heavenly being on Earth again. And I say this as one who has drunk the bitterest of sorrows, here. You’ve a nice little home –

 shabby, but it has potential. A few lace curtains, some satin cushions –”

“I’m happy with it just as it is,” said Daisy

“How about just painting the walls a dull gold.”

“No.”

“A new carpet?”

“This one’s fine.”

“Well a –”

“Enough. You may be here to renovate my life, but you most certainly will not renovate my house too. Now, would you like a nice cup of tea?”

Isadora pulled a face. “Tea! And to think I once drank only the finest champagne.” She saw Daisy’s face. “Oh, all right. Tea it is. Just don’t call it nice.” 

Daisy was surprised to see Isadora drink two cups of tea and eat three chocolate biscuits. 

“I didn’t know ghosts ate.”

“Technically speaking, we don’t need to but there has to be some perks and believe me, eating is a perk. Now,” she said, pushing the mug aside. “Time to work.” 

“Work? What work?”

“Why, you have to learn to dance of course.” Isadora spoke as if to a slow child. 

“But I don’t want to dance.”

“Of course you do, everyone does. Watch.” 


As Isadora rose, she also stretched in stature till she towered like a Greek caryatid in the cottage lounge. With one sweeping uplift of her hand the orchestra began - the violins of the harbour waters swelled to join the cello of the autumn wind and the clarinets of rustling leaves as they dipped and fell to the ground. The chirpings of the last of the summer cicadas, the hoot of the early morepork, swirled into the melody. And Isadora danced. 

It began slow and gentle, a lingering introduction of stretch and new-born movements. Then as the music almost imperceptibly began speeding up and there was youthful merriment as she dipped and swayed. The pace quickened and Daisy’s heart soared - how light, how happy. But then the third phase began. Movements that had delighted, slowed and were repeated, again and again. Isadora’s feet were imprisoned to the ground, while her body writhed to escape, It was hypnotic but distressingly ugly and Daisy yearned to scream or throw a cushion- anything to break the monotony, the despair. Suddenly, with a slice of her hand, Isadora chopped the music and froze. Daisy caught her breath, her eyes glued to the wraith, towering high and absolutely still. 


Then Isadora smiled, slow and gentle. The breeze began to sing once more, the ocean swelled to join it. Isadora swayed, slim and lithe as the poplars outside. Her fingers played the air. The slowly, very slowly, her legs began to move. One foot was freed, then the other. Once again, the music began to speed up and Isadora dipped and twirled, veils spinning about her. She was laughing and Daisy began laughing too – a funny sound, creaky with disuse.

Isadora became a blur, her sparkling smile a comet in a whirlwind universe. Then her veils began to unravel. Each flew off with the colour of the rainbow - red, blue, yellow. Finally, the last veil, violet as twilight slipped away and Isadora was naked, hair flying like shafts of sunlight about her head, limbs white, strong, supple and free.

“YES!” shouted Daisy. “Yes, I want to dance, please.”

Isadora began to slow and as she slowed, her veils floated back to enfold her body until she was once more clothed and still.

“Good,” she said, stretching out her hands to Daisy. “Well, we’d better start at once for you have a lot to learn.”


It was slow. 

Daisy’s body had stiffened, set. In the first year she had to unlearn everything. They began with her posture.

“Daisy, darling, you stoop, you droop. Think of your flower. It’s a sunny little thing, face turned to the sun. It does not cower in the grass.” Daisy drew herself up and, learned as she walked now with an upturned face, just how many people smiled at her. It gave her a glow. Isadora also taught her how to make gestures not apologetic flutterings.

“You are not shooing away a fly, dear. You are banishing that irritating little girl from your presence.”

It was hard for Daisy, but hard for Isadora too. She felt constrained. The town was drab; not at all like those divine Provencal villages. The harbour was pretty but not magnificent like the Norwegian fjords. The house lacked the charm of a Tuscan villa. The food, straight from the garden, was nutritious but needed a little something, Isadora felt, to rescue it from being too plain, too simple. Here at least she could improve things and taught Daisy to drizzle the tomatoes in oil with basil, just like the Italians, to cook the peppers a la grecque and to roast garlic like the Portuguese.


In the second year, Daisy learned to breathe, and her voice slipped an octave from its high-pitched breathless whisper to a melodious contralto which could reverberate to the back corners of the classrooms, startling errant students. The assurance of her movements and voice lent her a new authority and people began paying attention to what she had to say.

The next five years were dedicated to the historical formalities of dance. Daisy may have gained a lot, but she still lacked the confidence to obey the choreography of her spirit. 

“Just feel the flow,” Isadora urged but Daisy felt nothing. 

Isadora sighed. “Fifty years of deafness, that’s the problem. Well,” she shrugged philosophically, hitching a veil up about a nicely-rounded shoulder, “it may be against my principles but in your case we will have to follow previously danced paths. Learn the patterns.” 


So they learned mazurkas, square dances, reels, minuets. As Daisy mastered each new dance, her confidence grew.

“Now can I learn the dance of the Seven Veils?”

“No, you are not ready yet. Happy fifty-seventh birthday darling. I’ve just been listening to Gershwin. He’s too, too divine. We must dance to him.”  

With a rush, Daisy was dragged into the 20th century. Daisy rewarded Isadora with DVDs of Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse. Isadora was enchanted.

“Glorious, simply glorious – they dance prescribed steps but it comes from the heart. Let’s watch that last part from An American in Paris again and join in. Happy sixtieth birthday, by the way.”


Disco with Saturday Night Fever, and then Michael Jackson took up the next five years. Daisy could be found on summer nights, under a full moon on her lawn, hand on pelvis, thrusting to, “I’m bad, I’m bad”. She was great but Isadora was better at the moonwalking.

“You cheat!” Daisy pointed out. “You float, you know you do.”

Isadora was unrepentant. “But darling, there has to be some advantages to being dead.”

They tackled ballet, too but here Daisy’s soul remained silent. Isadora tried teaching her the Sugar Plum Fairy, they tried the Rites of Spring

“Feel it. You must feel it. Can’t you feel the sap rising, the flowers blossoming out of your fingertips, your head. The breeze beneath the soles of your feet lifting you to heaven.”

“I can feel the muscle I’ve pulled in my calf.”

“Don’t be prosaic, Daisy dear. It’s the worst sin.”

“I need a break. Let’s have a nice cup of tea.”

“There is nothing nice in a cup of tea. Buy champagne Daisy, be reckless. Have style.”

“We can make it Earl Grey if you like.”

Muttering imprecations, Isadora followed her indoors.


The years whirled by and suddenly Daisy was retiring. She was surprised. Never in her life had she felt more vigorous, more in control. The school was sorry to lose their grand dame for no-one remembered the flustery Daisy of fifteen years earlier. 

“Retiring?” exclaimed Daisy. “How extraordinary. I’m too young to retire.”

“Dearest Daisy, but you simply must retire. You haven’t travelled yet, and it is essential, to truly live, you know.”

“Am I ready for the Seven Veils yet?”

“Ah no.”  Isadora shook her head and her hair, fine as shafts of sunlight floating free about her. “Not yet. But you are most certainly ready for Europe.”

London itself might be brown and grey, but Covent Garden reverberated with colour, especially the street dancing outside. Daisy could not restrain herself and simply leapt into the midst of a group of black cockney boys who taught her hiphop and boogie. 

“Watch the ol’ girl go!” they said in admiration as she fell in line to pop her joints.

Paris was wistful. Of course, Daisy fell in love with the bridges, the chestnut trees and the long shadows cast by ornate street lamps at 2.00am. But Isadora was sorrowful and stood on the banks of the Seine, looking down into the black water.

“Here my beloved children drowned,” and her voice ached with the ancient grief of a mother who outlives her babies. “You’re so lucky to have never experienced such loss, Daisy.”

“I don’t agree,” said Daisy, looking at the shifting lights on the water. “You have taught me happiness, but your pain rises out of an ecstasy I have never had the joy to experience.”

“That’s true,” said Isadora, her face lighting like a sunrise. “And now my babies are nymphs and when my job here is done, we will be reunited.”

“Nymphs aren’t real,” Daisy protested.

“Neither are ghosts,” said Isadora taking her by the arm. “Come, let us waltz beside my children’s tomb for I tell you, life does overcome death.”

Passers-by smiled to see the white-haired old woman whirl the length of the Seine, laughing with wild delight. Mad of course, but a giddy, merry madness. It made their hearts twirl and dip as they passed.


Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, Moscow. They visited all the scenes of Isadora’s triumphs. They lingered over cafes fine and warm rich burgundies and before they knew it, another five years had slipped by. Daisy loved it all, but Isadora was surprised to find it less exciting than she remembered. She pushed a plate of delicious truffles away. 

“It’s all so fussy here, they overdo the sauces and spices.” 

The old buildings were glorious, but the crowds bothered her.

“You have no idea how uncomfortable it is having people walking through one.”

Still, it came as a shock to her when, standing above one of the magnificent fjords, Daisy suddenly announced, “I miss my harbour, it’s time to go home.”

“But we haven’t even done the Americas yet.”

“The Americas can wait. I want to go home and have a decent cup of tea. The Europeans simply cannot make one.”

Isadora sulked the whole flight home which was good because it left Daisy time to savour her memories and to feel the excitement well up at the thought of being home once more. She ached to see the yachts tugging against their tethers, to see the curves of the harbour in the late afternoon sun, to bathe her eyes in the soft greens and blues of her homeland. She yearned for the song of the tui feathering the air, the flutter of the fantail.

Isadora reappeared as the plane began its descent into their home town. “Why darling,” she said in surprise, “it’s just as beautiful as the fjords - just different.”

“I know,” said Daisy.

On the drive to their house Isadora could not stop exclaiming over everything. “Those Pohutukawa are every bit as grand as an oak, really, aren’t they? And this road is quite charming – not as sumptuous as Monte Carlo of course, but I love the way it hugs the harbour’s contours. And as for the sea, it’s as blue as the Mediterranean, and probably considerably cleaner.”

Daisy smiled. 


Coming home was wonderful. Daisy unlocked the door, but Isadora beat her in. She simply flew around the house. “Why, it’s exactly as we left it. How pretty the Sanderson linen looks – you know, I think the faded quality is part of its charm. And there’s the fireplace – I can’t wait for winter nights and burning pine cones again.” Isadora bubbled but Daisy felt differently. From deep inside her core, she could feel it swelling. Her joy to be home was unspeakable, yet it must have an outlet. She did a fouette over to the photo of her parents and kissed it. A jetté carried her to the French doors which she flung open. The wide harbour shimmered in a coat mail of sunlight. Isadora stopped bubbling. With her hands clasped between her breasts, she stayed absolutely still, watching Daisy.

En pointe fulle, Daisy hovered on the deck of her house. Then, as the liquid notes of the tui tumbled from the tree, full-bodied as a vintage port, Daisy drew in a deep breath and began, quite unconsciously, to dance the Rites of Spring. She felt the sap rise, the breeze beneath her soles, the flowers blossoming from her fingers and her head. Never, never had she simply surrendered herself before. When the dance came to an end, she shook her head, as though coming out of a trance.

Isadora had tears in her eyes. “Daisy my dearest... just look at your head.”  Daisy put her hand up and there, to her amazement, daisies and buttercups and forget-me-nots wreathed her hair. 

“You see,” said Isadora. “Now come in and let’s have a nice cup of tea.”

They both stopped short and looked at each other. 

“Darling,” said Isadora clapping her hands, “that’s it!” She shimmered with such intensity that Daisy could have sworn she was solid. Daisy looked closer. Isadora was solid!  For the first time in twenty years Daisy could see the colours of Isadora: the damask pink of her cheeks, the gold glints in her hair, the dark lashes against ivory skin. She could see shadows and contours.

“Isadora?” she asked wonderingly.

Isadora’s smile was like the first rays of sun rising over a mountain. “Oh, darling so that’s what I’ve missed all this time. Happiness in a cup of tea! I told you They had a funny sense of humour. Come,” she said taking Daisy’s arm and Daisy could feel real flesh, real bone. “Let’s go in and have a delightful, splendid, magnificent and very nice cup of tea.”

The solid Isadora and the flower wreathed Daisy dined on food straight from the garden that night.

“No, none of that.” Isadora put up a hand as Daisy began to assemble the oil and balsamic vinegar for a dressing. “Let’s enjoy the food simply.”  

The cherry tomatoes exploded sweetly in their mouths, the lettuce was crisp, the peppers glowing. 

“Heaven,” said Isadora pushing her plate back. “I’m in Heaven.”  

Together they sang the Cole Porter song as they cleared the dinner away, leaving everything clean.


It was night. The stars clustered thickly, a new moon gilded the sea silver, and queen of the night perfumed the air. Isadora called Daisy outside.

“Come, Daisy darling.”

Daisy clapped her hands in delight for there, stretching high out over the sea was a stairway, shimmering in classic Broadway fashion.

“It’s your stairway to Paradise,” said Isadora and on cue, Gershwin’s song began to play.  

 All you preachers who delight in slamming the dancing teachers

Let me tell you there are a lot of features

Of the dance that carry you through the gates of heaven.

It’s madness to be always sitting around in sadness

When you could be learning the steps of gladness” 

“Come,” she said and held out her hand. Daisy took it and with a smile, wild with mischief, she began to laugh.

Hand in hand they leapt onto the stairs and danced them one by one in all the dances they had perfected over the years - a melee of centuries and cultures played out against the celestial backdrop.

I’m going to get there, any price

 Stand aside, I’m on my way.

 I’ve got the blues

 And up above it’s so fair! Shoes,

 Go on and carry me there!

 I’ll build a stairway to paradise

 With a new step every day.”

At the top they paused breathless. The harbour stretched wide below them, its ripples an inverse Milky Way. Daisy had never loved Earth so much. 

“Now?” she asked.

“Now,” said Isadora.


Daisy looked down to see she was enveloped in seven veils. The dance began slowly for she was locating it deep within herself - unsure but trusting. Her childhood simplicity peeled off in the first veil. The fantasies of adolescence and the searing loss were caught up in the second. Daisy was dancing on blades but there was a terrible joy in it too. Then came the twenties with the trembling hopes and ambitions. For a second the veil snagged on a star before floating away. The thirties with their curdled dreams and the dark forties were both shed with wide thrown arms. Thus, with only three veils left to go, Daisy began dancing faster - the new-born hope of the fifties, the joy of the sixties - these veils floated high to catch the tide of the Milky Way. 


Only one veil left. Daisy spun faster and faster, a whirl of light caught in a swirl of music, head thrown back in pagan glee. It began to unravel faster; nothing now but a vortex of energy - and then, quite suddenly, it broke free.

Softly it spiralled downwards. Ghosts of breath cradled its descent. Diaphanous, gauzy, graceful, it spread wide – a starlace shroud which softly, very softly, folded over the cottage with a sigh.

Far above, was the sound of laughter, like wind-chimes.


For more from Author Zana Bell visit here

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