A Month of Midnights

I

The sunshine couldn't melt the mist that morning. The white blanket descended in the early hours and clung to the grass blades. As people rose to perform their daily chores, the mist lapped at their ankles and nipped at their toes. It was an odd but expected rarity. Strange things always happened on the Day of the Choosing. Rumor had it that on the last Day of the Choosing, flowers with green petals and purple stems grew, and the sheep that day ate in perfect geometrical formations.

It wasn't the mist that kept me in my bed after I had woken up. I was staring at the wicker ceiling of my home, my poor, run down home that resembled a hut more than a house. Everyone in my village lived like this. Our blankets were thin and cold, and our bed frames squeaked with the slightest movement. Food was limited and often tasteless. Life in Chorio, in any village, was far from luxurious. If I do get chosen for a role, I thought, I’ll send my money and supplies back to Chorio. Istoria shouldn’t get all the glory.

“You’re thinking again,” my mother said leaning against the doorway. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, resting on her old, stained apron. I sat up slowly, scratching my head and rubbing my eyes, pretending to still be tired. I knew she didn’t like that I thought so deeply about things, like the state of the world and what is right and what is wrong. I quickly realized from when I was a little girl that the best place to think away from my mother was in bed. With my eyes closed, everyone safely assumed I was lost in a dream when really, I lost somewhere completely different.

“Blyss, I know when you’re thinking. You always have the same look on your face, even when you’re pretending to sleep,” my mother said. I frowned and looked away. I could see the mist outside my window as it concealed the ground like a blanket of floating snow. My mother came and kneeled by my bedside. She ran her fingers through my long, brown hair. They occasionally got caught on snarls, and she hurriedly untangled them. I had to be flawless today.

“Honey, I know it’s hard. You’re just like your father was, always pondering existence and how to do good but look what happened to him. You have to understand that the best way to do good is to go to Istoria. You’ll make our family and our village proud,” she said, hoping to finally convince me.

“But think about it, Mother! All the important people in Istoria grew up in Chorio, but why don’t they do anything? Why don’t they help us?” I complained turning back to her. My mother looked down at the bed.

“I don’t have an answer for that, but I can tell you this. The Storyteller won’t-”

“-give me any role if I think badly of Istoria,” I finished. I had heard this many times before. My mother stood up with a scowl and walked back to the door.

“The Storyteller also won’t give any roles to a brat,” she said angrily. She disappeared around the corner in a huff. I slammed my head back down on the pillow which was too much force for my bed. The frame ached and growled before completely collapsing. I rolled onto the floor and groaned. What a great way to start the day, I thought as I pushed myself up and brushed off my nightgown. I trudged out of my room only to be greeted by my eager little brother.

“It’s Choosing Day, it’s Choosing Day!” Leo shrieked as he wrapped his arms around my legs. He shined his adorable seven-year-old grin at me. I rubbed his messy hair, but, despite my best efforts, he would not let go. Mother came in and helped me pull little Leo away. She put her hand on my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes.

“Go into my room,” she said. “There’s something for you on my bed.” I followed her orders and briskly walked into her room. It was mostly bare after many years of having to sell belongings for food. A bright glimmer of light blinded my eyes for a moment. I walked closer to it and saw laying on my mother’s bed was an elegant gown the color of pink roses and spring tulips. Lace and sparkling thread weaved around the hem and up the sleeves. I held up the dress to my body; it was a perfect size.

“Whoa!” Leo cried running into the room. Mother chased in after him.

“Do you like it?” she asked with a smile. I nodded quickly.

“It’s absolutely magnificent!” I exclaimed. “But, but where did you get it?”

“I’ve been saving up since the day you were born. I knew it the minute I saw you that you would be my little Sleeping Beauty. I just figured you should dress like her too!” Mother said with pride. I looked at the dress in awe. It reminded me of how much I still wanted to be chosen. I wanted to be Sleeping Beauty. Everyone in the village told me I would be. Many Sleeping Beauty characters had come from our village in the past. My grandmother from four centuries ago had been a Sleeping Beauty, and my great great great aunt was the current Flora the Faery. I had been convinced since I was a little girl that I was to be Sleeping Beauty; it was the obvious choice. Though I had those nagging thoughts about life past just living in Istoria, I still had the desire like everyone else to see the magic beyond the border.

The pink gown felt like a soft cloud against my fair skin. Mother brushed my hair and braided it, weaving in flowers and ribbons wherever she could. She took my hand and placed it behind my head so I could feel the decorations in my hair.

“I don’t care what the Hillguards say,” Mother said tucking a loose strand behind my ear, “Sleeping Beauties don’t have to be blonde.” I looked at my feet in shame. It was my one fault, my one imperfection. My hair was the one thing that people thought would keep me from getting Sleeping Beauty. For the past three centuries, Sleeping Beauty was always blonde. No one had ever heard of a brunette living out her Story. My mother was still convinced it wouldn’t matter. “The bestowed magic will change the color if it’s absolutely necessary,” she had insisted. She said I had the personality, the kindness, the compassion, the curiosity...just not the hair. Village skeptics, like the Hillguards, predicted I would never be chosen by the Storytellers. Of course, Mother was convinced they only said this because their daughter Emalee was the only other “competition” in the village for Sleeping Beauty. I never saw Emalee Hillguard as someone who could be an elegant princess. She gossiped almost as bad as her mother. But she was blonde, and I was not.

Mother adorned me in her finest pearl necklace and earrings. She cleaned my face and hands so much my skin began to feel raw. I put on my nice slippers, which weren’t very nice at all, and hid them underneath my dress. Mother and Leo put on their best attire as well. We met in the front room and linked arms. Together, we stepped outside where the mist awaited us.

It swirled around our ankles as we walked to the village square. Other families dressed in their finest clothes walked beside us. The parents had anxious looks across their faces. The Day of the Choosing rarely occurred during most people’s lifetimes. There’d be century-wide gaps between each one. Rumor had it that time worked differently in Istoria during the retelling period, but no one could be sure. Thus, when it was announced the next Day of the Choosing would be coming soon, parents were both excited and full of panic. Storytellers only assigned roles to people who were twenty five years of age or younger. Exceptions in age were rare and practically unheard of. For people like Mother, who grew too old before the next Day of the Choosing came, there was only one hope: their children.

When we arrived at the square, we struggled to find a place to stand. It was unusual that the entire village was ever together for one event. Though there were over a hundred of us crammed into a tiny opening, people only talked in hushed whispers. They looked at each other intensely as they spoke and eyed others around them suspiciously. Today, everyone was vying for a spot in Istoria. Today, everyone was an enemy. I saw Emalee and the rest of the Hillguards approach from the north side of the grassy square. We met each other’s glance, but instead of giving her normal sneer, Emalee looked at me blankly, almost nervously. Mrs. Hillguard took notice of this and yanked her daughter out of eyesight.

“Blyss! Blyss!” a voice shouted. I saw a head move quickly through the crowd as it came towards me. I knew it was Dane the second he spoke. The village men had all placed bets that Dane would become Prince Phillip, Sleeping Beauty’s betrothed. I certainly did not mind Dane; he had always been a good friend, but unfortunately that was the problem. I could never force myself to see him past a friend. He was a bit egotistical for me. Perhaps when they bestow magic on him, he will improve, I hoped.

“Blyss! Are you-wow, you look amazing,” said Dane as he approached me, looking me up and down like I was a prized horse. He patted my shoulder, fingering the dress fabric. “Better than those ole rags you had before, eh?” he joked. I couldn’t hold my tongue.

“Dane, we’re all poor. Your clothes never looked any better than mine,” I pointed out. Dane laughed, letting my comment bouncing harmlessly off his chest.

“In a cranky mood today I see,” he said. “Usually you’re nicer than this.” I rolled my eyes. Though I would never admit it, Dane was onto something. Around a year ago, when the pressure of the Day Of the Choosing began to set, the old pain I used to push away suddenly returned, and it invited all these thoughts along with it. I just sat in my room, looking out the window, wondering and wondering. I tried to stop, with such agony I did! I knew all too well the thinking and pondering would never get me into Istoria.

“Blyss?” Dane asked me. I snapped back to sense and quickly apologized. Dane opened his mouth to speak when people began to shush one another. Dane quickly nodded to me, mouthed good luck, and rushed back to his parents. In the center of the crowd, a parting had form. In the small open space, a man turned a large box upside down and placed it on the ground. He stood up carefully, wary that the box might break if he placed his weight unwisely. The man rubbed his beard, adjusted his floppy cap, and cleared his throat.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he began. “Most of you know me as Alfred the local blacksmith, but today I have the honor of assisting the Storyteller. As you know, the Day of the Choosing has arrived. Because these rarely happen, and at long intervals, I will review the procedures for the day.” I played with the end of my braid in boredom. Everyone here already knew the procedures, but tradition still demanded it be reviewed.

“One of the Storytellers has traveled from Istoria to come to our village. She currently is in the Munsons’ home which they generously offered to let her use for this historic day.” There was a pause as people clapped for the Munsons. “People will be called according to their age group, youngest to oldest. Young children may be accompanied by one parent if need be. Once called, you will go inside and sit down across from the Storyteller. She will take care of the rest. After she is done, you will return to your family and resume the normal day’s activities. If chosen, the Storyteller will provide you with more information about your trip to Istoria. Please remember, though all people under twenty-five years of age will be called in, this does not mean you have been given a role,” said Alfred. He pulled a scroll from the inside pocket of his coat. He unfolded it carefully and held it close to his puffy, red face that had spent many afternoons over a blazing fire.

“First,” Alfred read, “we begin the the wee babes. Abigail Carson!” A burly man stepped forward with his young daughter curled up in his arms. He nodded to Alfred and walked through the crowd and out of the square. The people remained silent. I felt the pink dress begin to squeeze my sides as my body tensed. I looked at Mother who was holding Leo’s hand firmly. If she let go, Leo surely would find a way to run off and break something. “Mother,” I began, “if I don’t-“

“Sshh,” Mother whispered softly. “We must be hopeful.” I nodded and looked back down at my feet. Doubt had already begun to set in. What if I had ruined everything just because of what I had thought this morning? Surely, the Storyteller would know my every thought, my every action. Wasn’t that how they decided? Panic and fear joined my doubt. I had to get into Istoria; it was the only hope for my family and for me.

The minutes crept by carefully and quietly before Abigail Carson and her father returned. Abigail was still sleeping, unaware of whatever her fate was. Her father looked at the ground as he walked. Mrs. Carson pushed past people to meet her family. Mr. Carson looked up, his eyes wet and his lips quivering. Abigail nestled quietly. Mrs. Carson put her hand over her mouth to keep her gasp inaudible. The family quickly shuffled away back to their house, hoping to hide their disappointment. My heart beat faster. Seeing the first rejection reminded me that to get to Istoria, one must be chosen not over everyone in their own village but in all of Chorio. Suddenly, Emalee Hillguard seemed to less and less of an immediate threat.

“Galen Finnegan!” Alfred called out. One after another, people with young children were sent to the Munson home where the Storyteller awaited them with their fate. Most came back with rejections. I could count on one hand the number of people who came back shrieking and hollering, kissing their child and their spouses. Eventually, they moved on to the older children who had to go by themselves.

A few children were unsure of where the Munson house was and had to be scolded by their parents before they were given directions. When Leo came back after being called, his glum manner suggested he had not been chosen for any role. He silently returned to Mother’s side and began dragging his foot in the dirt. He didn’t say a word as we waited for my name to be called.

We watched as sweet, young girls in braids returned to the square in tears. We watched as young teenagers came back with their hands in their pockets or fiddling with their shirt buttons. We watched as even the most toughest boys came back with glossy eyes.

Finally, the eighteen year olds were about to be called. This was me. This was it. I looked to Dane. He smirked and lifted his eyebrows in a seductive manner. I rolled my eyes and looked away.

“Blyss Bannon!” Alfred called. I cringed. I wished our last name ended with a Z so I wouldn’t have the humiliating task of going first. Mother kissed my cheek and hugged me tightly. Leo wrapped his arms around my legs again. Mother pulled him away and nodded to me. I could feel Dane, Emalee, and every other eighteen year old watching me as I lifted my dress above my ankles and navigated my way out of the square.

Within a minute of walking, I was out of the crowd’s sight. I wandered through a maze of houses and sheds and shops, all completely deserted today. I could only hear the sound of my footsteps as they squished in the damp grass. I looked to the left where the forest edge surrounded the village. If I was chosen, I would travel through there to reach the border. I looked up into the branches of the trees curiously. The birds were silent today as well. The Munsons’ house was now before me. I looked at the handle flimsily attached to the door. I wrapped my fingers around it and paused. I put away my worst feelings and thoughts and breathed slowly. I opened the door gingerly, letting it squeak and groan as its rusted hinges moved. I stepped out of the swirling mist and into the house.

It was much warmer inside. A fire crackled pleasantly in the hearth. All the furniture that had once been in the front room was now cleared, exposing a bare, dirt floor. In the center of the room, a table and two chairs had been placed. The Storyteller sat on one side and gestured for me to sit down across from her. I cautiously did so. The Storyteller looked like one of the many gypsies that had come traipsing through our village before, trying to sell potions and charms, ribbons and beads, promising that she could bring you good luck if you bought any of her items. The Storyteller’s head was wrapped in a sparkly crimson scarf. Her exotic, colorful clothes hung loose on her frame. Bracelets jangled on her bony wrists, and rings with bulky gemstones bragged their beauty on her nimble fingers. The Storyteller’s weathered face was heavily applied with cosmetics, making her seem overly lifelike, almost like one of the dolls I used to play with as a child. Despite the showy appearance, the Storyteller was clearly senile and frail. Her grey hair peeked out beneath her head wrap and clung to her papery forehead. Her apple-red lips spread into a kind smile as I sat down. Do all of them dress like this? I wondered.

“No, not all of us,” said the Storyteller, answering my thoughts, “only the fun ones.” My palms grew sweaty. So they can read thoughts, just as Mother suspected. My negative disposition of Istoria this morning came back to me, and worry began to return. The Storyteller laughed sweetly.

“Do not worry, my child, you have nothing to fear,” she assured me. I looked at her warily. For the first time since I entered, I noticed an enormous book resting at the corner of the desk. The Storyteller placed her hand on its cover and pulled it towards her. She struggled to open it and flip its heavy pages. As she turned each page, she said, “I assume you are Blyss Bannon?” I nodded silently. She looked up at me waiting for an answer, clearly not seeing my nod.

“Oh, um, yes, I’m Blyss..Blyss Bannon,” I muttered nervously.

“Very pretty name,” the Storyteller remarked as she flipped more pages. I folded my hands in my lap and attempted to sit up straight. The Storyteller stopped on a page and tapped it. “Blyss Bannon,” she read, “born to Marie and James Bannon, younger brother Leopold Bannon.” She stopped reading and looked back up at me. “Ms. Bannon, why did your parents name you Blyss?” I took a deep breath and let my shoulders relax. I had rehearsed this many times before.

“My mother wanted my name to have an emphasis when people said it. She thought Blyss was a gentle but powerful name for her daughter,” I explained. The Storyteller nodded and closed her book.

“Blyss, you look like a very sweet girl. You look beautiful in that gown, but I can see there is beauty past that. The other Storytellers think you are very excellent candidate for Sleeping Beauty. Are you aware of this?” the Storyteller asked.

“Yes, to be Sleeping Beauty and live in Istoria has always been a dream of mine,” I said quickly. The Storyteller leaned back in her chair.

“It is everyone’s dream,” she said nonchalantly. I bit my lip.

“Blyss,” she said, “it hasn’t escaped any of the Storytellers’ notice that lately you’ve been having unusual...thoughts.” My jaw locked.

“Wha-what do you mean?” I asked.

“We know you haven’t thought well of Istoria lately. You think they overlook the people of Chorio, no?” she asked, not breaking eye contact.

“I didn’t mean to!” I cried. “Please believe me, I want nothing more than to go to Istoria!”

“Then why do you encourage such ill thoughts?” the Storyteller asked. I opened my mouth but could not speak. I had no answer. I sat back in my chair defeated. Mother would never forgive me now.

“If-if I hadn’t done that, if I hadn’t thought those things,” I said shakily, “would I have had a chance at Sleeping Beauty?” The Storyteller sighed sadly.

“I’m afraid not, Blyss. I don’t think you were ever destined to become her,” she answered quietly.

“Is it because of my hair?” I asked drastically, putting my hands on the table.

“No, Blyss, your hair is not the problem,” she insisted as she pat my hand. “Do not fret though, the Writer made a specific request for you to have another role.” She must’ve thought this would make me feel better, but it had the opposite effect. I pulled my hands away suspiciously.

“Writer? Who’s the Writer?” I said narrowing my eyes. The Storyteller looked down in her lap shamefully.

“We’re not supposed to say anything unless there’s a glitch. You see, the Writer thought it would be best if no one knew he existed, you know, in case people got angry,” the Storyteller admitted.

“And the Writer is the one who chooses our roles?” I asked. The Storyteller nodded her head affirmatively. “Well, what did he give me then, if not Sleeping Beauty?” The Storyteller opened the book back up and found my page. She placed her finger on the words and read aloud again. Her voice trembled.

“Blyss Bannon, born to Marie and James Bannon, younger brother Leopold Bannon. Assigned role: Maleficent.”

“What?” I stood up furiously. “I’m a villain? But-but I’m not evil!”

“I’m sorry, Blyss,” said the Storyteller, “but you don’t have any other option. And you still get to go to Istoria!” She looked at me, hopeful this would cheer me up.

“No! I don’t care. I don’t want to be evil! You can’t make me!” I cried, tears already streaming down my cheeks.

“Blyss, I have to,” the Storyteller said. “Orders must be followed.” I knew what was coming and dashed for the door. The Storyteller raised her harm and began to speak.

“No!” I begged. “I didn’t mean to think badly of Istoria! Please don’t punish me this way! I’m sorry! Just please don’t make me Maleficent!”

“By the power of Istoria and of the Stories treasured and honored and celebrated, I give you the magic of Maleficent. Go forth into the veins, the blood, the heart and soul of this girl so that she may have access to Istoria and carry out her destiny,” said the Storyteller, a light glowing from her palm that headed straight to me. I froze, my grip tight on the door handle. I shielded my eyes and felt the heat of the light.

My world came crashing down.