Copyright 1993(c) 
                        MIDSUMMER'S PIPES 
                        By Aline Thompson 
  
     The funeral left me totally depressed. It would seem natural,
since I'd lost my husband, but his death was a release to both of
us. He was free at last from pain; I no longer need play the 
devoted wife. Although the brief ritual at the cemetery ended an
era of constraint and deception, I could not see life opening up
for me. Rather the future was blank, lying ahead like a journey 
with no goal and no end in sight. I would continue to breathe and 
endure the years doing my job at the library, but the difference
would be there. To the people of my small California hometown I 
would no longer be half of a sad romantic story. Whatever happened
to me from now on had only a remote connection to the sniper's 
bullet that made a helpless cripple of my fiance in 1968.  
     The afternoon passed slowly, seeming endless. It was the 
summer solstice, the longest day of the year. A few friends called
to express their sympathy, and I had trouble not being short with
them. It was no help to have women who had gone to school with me
-- some of them grandmothers -- try to console me by hinting that
now I could find a whole-bodied husband. If in my youth only one 
man had wanted me, it was hardly likely someone wonderful would 
appear to sweep me off my feet at nearly forty.  
     Sunset was a relief in more ways than one. It meant that my
friends would be busy with their evening meals; and the long hot
day was over.  
     As I changed from my somber black dress into a loose, ankle-
length caftan, it was uncertain whether I would laugh or cry. In
high school Joe Platt was my only boy friend-- really more friend
than beau-- but his devotion gave me an escort to school events. 
He kept me from being a wallflower. I didn't love Joe--I've never
been in love--but I confidently expected that someday love would
come.  
     When Joe was drafted and doomed to Vietnam, it seemed kind to
accept his ring. It didn't commit me irrevocably, I thought. When
the true love of my life appeared, Joe would understand and release
me from my promise. And, I must admit that there was a selfish 
reason to wear the dainty diamond engagement ring. It gave me 
status in the eyes of my friends.  
     I was still waiting for my dream lover when Joe came home. 
And Joe was a quadriplegic, helpless, tied to a bed for the rest
of his life. The town expected me to do the right thing. I balked. 
This was not fair. Joe would have freed me knowing he could not 
consummate our marriage. By 1972 I reconsidered. Quiet desperation
drove me to the altar. Better to be needed than to spend life 
alone. I'm sure Joe understood, although he never talked   
about it. The town was proud of me. Such devotion, they said, is
rare in any age.  
     Now Joe was dead and I was free...  
     I sought the cool quiet darkness of my back yard. My house 
stands at the edge of a town at the foot of a small hill dotted 
with scrubby clumps of liveoaks. Sitting on my small back porch as
the long dusk deepened and a mockingbird sang, I thought about the
future. It did no good to tell myself that I had more than many 
women,,.I owned my home free and clear. I liked my job. That was
unimportant simply because all I would ever know of love was the 
sterile kisses of Joe Platt.  
     Through the long years as my youth, my only claim to 
desirability faded, I ached for love. My dreams were of love -- 
physical love. I'd had a plenty of loving devotion.  
     My head drooped onto my palms and I prayed through anguished
tears that this was not to be all...  
     Who heard my prayers?  
     The strange piping began almost below audible range. I found
myself nodding to its rhythm before I was consciously aware of it. 
     Lifting my head, I stared up the hill at the little knot of
trees. A glow seemed to surround them although the twilight was 
gone. Like reflected moonlight...but a quick glance around the 
starry horizon assured me that there was no moon.  
     The back of my neck prickled. My hair, loosed from its knot,
was heavy between my shoulder blades. A heady feeling brought me
to my feet. Waiting for something more, I felt a rush of 
excitement. What was going on up there?  
     Without quite realizing it, I started up the faint path that
led to the top of the hill. The piping -- what a curious way to 
make music -- was so faint that my footsteps drowned it and I 
paused to listen, half afraid that it had stopped. This was 
idiotic, I told myself. Suppose the neighbors saw me - a middle 
aged librarian trudging up a hill in the dark with my hair hanging 
down my back.  
     But the music beckoned and I continued, fixing my eyes on the
luminescence in the trees. The clump of liveoaks shimmered and 
swelled as I reached the crown of the hill. Great branching oaks
shadowed above me. I stood at the brink of a deeper darkness 
straining to hear the piping. Blood pounded in my ears and the 
thudding pulse whispered, 'go back go back go back.'  
     A little frightened by the strange expectant difference of the
night, I hesitated.    
     Curiosity prodded me a step forward and I was lost. The piping
was there, loud, immediate. The glow expanded, filling a clearing
that rustled emptily with figures that had whirled a heartbeat 
before.  
     Another step and leaves rustled beneath my feet. I peered into
shadows for dancers I knew were there even though I couldn't quite
see them. Faintly they whispered...  a flush burned my cheeks as
I realized they were annoyed at my intrusion. Suddenly, I was 
overwhelmed by murmurs rushing at me from everywhere and nowhere. 
Inarticulate, like the ripple of water, the rustle of leaves.  
     "Who are you?" I cried clapping hands to my ears.  
     Instant silence blanketed the glen. Gradually the murmur began
again and they closed around me, crowding unseen in a jostling, 
whispering mass, plucking at my skirt like stray breezes. In panic
I would have fled this mad wood, this crowded empty circle in the
glen of ancient oaks, but a gasp broke from the invisible mob and
complete silence held.  
     The glow intensified on the path I had trod and shone on the
gilt curls of the man who stood there.  
     He was tall, beautiful, his skin seeming to radiate not 
reflect the glow. He wore some sort of animal pelt around his hips
and one hand, poised halfway to his mouth, held the odd instrument
I recognized as a syrinx, the multiple graduated reeds called 
panpipes.  
     This was the piper who had called me to the hill.  
     "I have invited the lady to the dance..." His voice was warm
with an undercurrent of delight. He flashed white teeth and raised
the pipes to his lips.  
     A ripple of delighted laughter...and they showed themselves. 
A crowd of young people like any others except for the tunics the
loose-haired girls wore, the bronzed semi-nudity of the boys. They
sprang into the circle, whirling in a dance, patternless, full of
joy, like no dance I had ever seen.  
     My blood sang with the pipes. I was eager to join the dancers
but I had no partner. Then the piper was beside me, his hand 
outstretched. The syrinx hung from a thong around his neck but the
music continued, filling the night with its wild harmony.  
     He drew me into the dance and my feet knew the steps as my 
heart heard the music. His eyes, glowing with summer fires, held
mine as the night went on. The others whirled and spun with us. 
My breath was gone, my shoes were shreds I kicked from my feet, but
I wasn't tired.  
     And then there was no one but he and I alone in the center of
the glade.  
     I pushed the wild tangles of my hair back. "It's over?" I 
asked breathlessly.  
     "Not quite yet..." There was a husky note of passion in his
voice.  
     My lips parted in a question but I knew there was no answer
and I left it unspoken.  
     We looked at each other, long and longingly. He put his warm
brown hands on my shoulders. Then his body tensed and he stared 
through the woods to the east. Following his gaze I saw only the
pale light of the false dawn. Then I realized that the glow had 
left the clearing.  
     "The time is almost gone," the piper said. He laid his cheek
against mine and his breath was warm and real in my hair. "You must
not be frightened," he murmured. "You will remember this..."  
     My mouth turned to his and our kiss was long and passionate. 
For the first time in my life I was completely alive. The earth 
was warm under me and my hands tingled against the skin of the 
piper's back.  
     Then against my eyelids light flared. My arms were empty.  I
started violently, put trembling fingertips to lips still warm from
a kiss.  
     The giant oaks had vanished and I lay terribly alone in the
little clump of liveoaks.  
     The enchantment was over. I rolled over, curling on the matted
and trampled leaves, unbearably tired. My passion was still there
although my lover had gone. Covering my face with my hands, I let
the hot tears flow.  
     What was it? A dream? But no dream could be as real as that.
     Warmth stole through me as the mockingbird piped a familiar,
fantastic phrase to the dawn sky. My heart leapt. The bird knew! 
     I dried my eyes and shook back my hair. Last night I had 
wished for the impossible and for a few fleeting hours he had come. 
Not mischievously, for he had told me not to be frightened. But to
give me a memory which what would keep my life from being barren. 
No matter how many tomorrows would come I would have this to 
remember.    
     Again the mockingbird echoed the piper and I smiled. I was 
not afraid but my hand shook as I reached out to erase the 
footprint where my love had left the mark of a cloven hoof in the
dust.  
                               END