The Moonlit Pathway | Juliet Marillier
THE MOONLIT PATHWAY
By
JULIET MARILLIER
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Back in 2006 I wrote Wildwood Dancing, a re-imagining of The Twelve Dancing Princesses set in Transylvania.
There followed a sequel, Cybele’s Secret, set mostly in Turkey.
Over the years since then, readers have kept asking for more, and I’ve explained that I didn’t plan to continue the story of the sisters (five of them, not twelve).
But then came the opportunity to contribute to this anthology, and I thought, why not revisit the setting many generations later and find out whether the magic still exists? Note: this story is for adult readers.
The guy hardly speaks a word between Sydney and Doha, and it’s a long flight.
He has the aisle seat; mine’s the window.
He keeps his headphones on all the time, not watching a movie, just listening to something.
When I need to get to the loo, it doesn’t occur to him to stand up and let me out, even though his long legs block my way.
When, inevitably, we make contact, he shrinks back, startled.
It’s not that I want a talkative neighbour when I’m stuck on a plane. I always bring work to do, and if I get too tired to concentrate, I read a lightweight book or try to sleep. But the man could at least have said hi before settling down for the long haul.
The silent guy is, in fact, exceptionally handsome.
Dark curly hair, longish. Olive skin. Strong features that don’t fit with the twitchy body language.
The flight attendant tries to engage him in conversation while delivering the meal, which is unusually good.
Thanks to the scholarship, I’m in a better class of seat and might actually get to sleep for a bit.
But there’s another flight after this one, and then a bus ride from Bucharest to my final destination.
I’ll be a bleary-eyed wreck by the time we get there.
Not good. When you’re going somewhere as a scholarly researcher, you need a clear head.
The flight attendant comes back to collect the plates. “Would you care for some dessert, Mr Matheson? We have a raspberry meringue with cream, stewed apples with vanilla custard, or a salted caramel ice cream.” Silence. She bends a little closer. “The salted caramel is really nice.”
“No, thank you.”
“Or the cheese plate, perhaps?”
I feel Mr Matheson tense up even further. I don’t need to be touching to know how uncomfortable the man is. Every part of his body is saying, Go away. Afraid of flying, maybe? Or just doesn’t like his fellow humans?
The flight attendant turns her attention to me. “Ms Blair? What would you like for dessert?”
I’ve got a strategy in mind. “I’ll have the cheese plate, thanks.”
The cheese plate is generous. Four kinds of cheese, an abundance of crackers, fresh grapes and dried fruit on the side.
Easily enough for two. The mysterious Mr Matheson should be hungry.
He scraped most of his main course to the side of the plate, eating only the chicken, and that was after he’d separated it out from the vegetables and cut it into small, even pieces.
“You must be starving.” I gesture toward his headphones, careful to avoid eye contact.
He lifts the headphones off, leaving them around his neck.
“Please feel free to share this,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
“I can’t possibly eat it all.” I move the tray so it’s within his reach without encroaching on his personal space.
For a while it seems like he’s not going to respond.
I take a cracker, slice off a sliver of cheese, try not to make loud crunching noises.
Another flight attendant, this time a man, comes past with tea and coffee; I get a long black and, to my surprise, so does Mr Matheson.
I resist the urge to speak. And eventually he reaches out and takes a cracker.
I pass him the cheese knife; he cuts himself some cheddar and actually eats.
“Thank you,” he says.
I guess the appropriate response is You’re welcome, but I don’t say that, because I spot the booklet he’s been reading, now tucked into the seatback pocket. Oh. Maybe the Daniel Lupescu Foundation has some sort of agreement with the airline and that’s why we’re seated next to each other.
“Heading on to Bucharest?” I ask casually, wondering why I didn’t recognise his name from the list of attendees.
There are a few Australians on the residency, but I think we’re the only two on this flight.
Some would have flown over earlier, spent time as tourists.
My casual job – teaching at a dance school – meant I couldn’t do that. I need the income, small though it is.
A pause. Perhaps he has a mouthful of food. Then he says, “Which one are you?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie Blair,” he says, without checking the booklet. “‘The Role of Traditional Dancing in the Folklore of Transylvania’.”
I feel my lips twist in a wry smile. “You’ve clearly retained the info better than I have. Apologies. What was your topic?” Embarrassing. I did read all the outlines, but I can’t remember which one had the name Matheson attached. And I can’t for the life of me remember his first name.
“You wouldn’t be interested.” His tone is flat.
I help myself to some grapes. “Why would you assume that?”
No reply. He’s given up on the crackers and cheese, and he downed his coffee super-fast. So instead of trying to engage the man in conversation, I fish out my copy of the booklet and look him up.
Gabriel Matheson. University of New South Wales.
“‘Carpathian Romani in Transylvania: Origins and Influences’,” I read aloud.
He’s a linguist. Who’d have thought it? “That sounds very specialised.”
“That’s the official topic, yes. But…” He clams up again, quite abruptly.
“But what? Is there an unofficial topic? Something secret?”
A weighty pause. Then he says, “Does yours have an unofficial topic? Something secret?”
It does, of course. But secret means secret; I don’t plan to share the details with anyone.
“It depends how much I can find out while we’re there.
Whether the local people will talk to me.
Or can even talk to me, since my spoken Romanian is rather limited.
I’ll be able to order a coffee or greet someone politely.
But I’d struggle to conduct an extended conversation. Especially on an academic topic.”
“Mm,” says Gabriel. “But the local folk won’t be interested in an academic topic.
You need to get them talking about something else then work around to what you want to know.
” After a moment he adds, “I might be able to help.” And when I give him what must be a funny look, he continues, “With the Romanian, I mean.”
It takes a moment or two to click. I must be tired. Of course, with a research topic like that he must be fluent in the language. “Really?”
“Why not, if I can? And I could help if you need to read stuff. The library at Piscul Dracului may not have much in English.”
Oh, so he thinks I’m dumb. Is that because I’m a dancer as well as an academic? I squash down my annoyance. “I can read French, German, Italian. But I do find Romanian more challenging.”
“Feel free to ask me if you need to decipher something.”
I wish. Deciphering something is my main task. But I can’t let anyone see the document. Depending on what it says, they’d either bleat out the secret to one and all, or think I’m totally nuts to take it seriously.
“Thanks for the offer. But you’ll have your own work to do. I guess you’ll have to be out there in the community quite a bit.” It’s hard to imagine that. He strikes me as a person who’d be most content sitting in a corner on his own with a book. Plus the headphones.
“Mm-hm. I will need to talk to people, yes. There are some unusual variants in the language in the area around Piscul Dracului. Quite odd ones.”
I want to know more, but Gabriel doesn’t elaborate, and I decide not to be pushy. Sounds like his research has its secret aspect, just like mine.
* * *
Finally, we reach the airport in Bucharest. A woman from the Daniel Lupescu Foundation is waiting for us with a sign.
Her name’s Marina, and she’s here not only for me and Gabriel, but also for several other people on this residency.
Some are making their own way to the mountains by private vehicle.
The flight from Canada, bringing one participant, is not in yet.
Some of the others came in yesterday and have spent the night in the city; they’re meeting us here.
Could be a longish wait. But at least there’s a coffee outlet.
I test my Romanian by going to order a couple of long blacks, bringing one back for Gabriel, who is sprawled on a chair with his legs stretched out in an open invitation for passers-by to trip over them and fall flat on their faces.
Marina’s busy on her phone, doing a bit of digital herding.
We consume our dose of caffeine, then Gabriel takes out an iPad and starts what is more likely study than social networking.
Not to be outdone, I fish out my laptop, plug it into my power bank and revisit my research plan.
I really feel like getting up and going through the steps of a dance.
That’s what I do at home when I need a break from the desk.
Nothing like it for refreshing body and mind.
Hop, skip, jump! I glance sideways and meet Gabriel’s gaze.
His expression is odd; I can’t read it. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“It wasn’t nothing.”
“Just wondered what you were thinking then.”
“If you really want to know, I was thinking my way through some dance steps.” When he doesn’t reply, I add, “If I was at home, I’d get up and do it.
Helps restore focus. You should try it sometime.
” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.
The man might think that was an invitation.
It sounded almost like flirting. I am so not that kind of person.