"When Myth Incarnates in the Waking World"
When Cilla Danced
by Lani K. Thompson
Copyright 2009 by L.K. Thompson
(Author's Note: This story was inspired by a father and son who were guests on a talk show many years. Apparently, they had started a church with Elvis Presley as their god. I wondered what would happen if that church "caught on" and became the church of the future.)
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She stands on the temple steps, holding the pair of blue suede shoes that young Cilla has just returned to her. Her twisted fingers rub a worn spot on the back of one heel. "Why did you bring them back to me now?" she asks, clasping the shoes to her chest. They press solidly against her ancient flesh.
"You made a promise," says Cilla.
"A promise?"
"Oh, Girl!"
"Don't call me that," the old woman says. "No one does. Not anymore."
"What do they call you now?"
"Reverend Mother."
Cilla smiles. "That's what they would have called me...."
"I couldn't save you," the High Priestess says, harshly.
"I know."
"I wanted to."
"It doesn't matter," says Cilla.
The High Priestess looks away.
"Are you frightened?" Cilla asks.
"No."
"You look frightened."
"You look cold," the old woman says. Cilla still wears the thin, see-through chemise of a Sacred Womb.
"Ghosts don't get cold," she murmurs, drifting closer.
The old woman moves away from her.
"Do you think I want revenge? asks Cilla. "I do not."
"Then why are you here?"
"You called me."
"No!"
"You said, 'DON'T STEP ON MY BLUE SUEDE SHOES.' "
The High Priestess buries her face in her hands. "God spoke to me," she says, "but I did not -- would not -- listen to him."
"Then listen to me," says the ghost. The old woman raises her head. "Do you remember the night we met?"
She was six years old; old enough to know why she couldn't go to school or mingle with the legal children of priests. The woman who bore her was a Sacred Womb who died when she was born, but that did not matter. Sacred Wombs weren't mothers or wives, and their offspring were not given names. Everyone just called her Girl, and told her she owed a daughter's loyalty to the priests who fed and housed her until she was old enough to earn her keep. She belonged to the Temple.
Cilla belonged to the Temple, too. Her father, Colonel Parker Presley, dedicated her to God after her mother died. He was the High Priest and he used all her names during the ceremony that gave her to the Temple: Priscilla Lisa Grace Maria Jackson Parker Presley.
When Girl heard the Colonel speak that name, she was prepared to hate Cilla forever. It wasn't fair, not fair at all for one little girl to have seven names while she wasn't allowed even one. Names were so important. If you couldn't trace your lineage, you couldn't inherit property, marry or even go to school.
She watched the Colonel cut a single lock of Cilla's dark hair. Other girls had their heads shaved when they were given to the Temple, but not the High Priest's daughter. Girl thought it would be easy to hate her. Then it was time for Cilla to speak her vows.
"I won't!" she said, firmly.
The Colonel grabbed her hand and placed it on top of the case containing the sacred blue suede shoes. "These are the very shoes He wore. No one else may step in them. Do you understand me, Daughter?"
Cilla refused to reply. After a moment, he continued. "Do you, Priscilla Lisa Grace Maria Jackson Parker Presley, promise to serve the Temple all the days of your life? And do you swear to walk only with Him, following obediently in his footsteps no matter where they may take you?" He didn't wait for her response but added, rapidly. "Then, by the power invested in me by Graceland and The Presley, I do solemnly dedicate you to His service."
After the ceremony there was a party. Neither Cilla nor Girl was allowed to attend. Cilla went to bed; she was just six - like Girl - but Girl had to stay up and help clean. Late that night, while she was sweeping up the mess, she found Cilla standing in front of the altar. "You shouldn't be in here," said Girl. When Cilla turned around, Girl could see that she had been crying. What right did she have to be sad, Girl wondered. Her with her seven names!
"Who are you?" Cilla asked. Girl didn't reply. "Never mind," Cilla said, starting to turn away. "You don't have to tell me your name."
"I don't have a name," said Girl, defiantly.
For a moment Cilla looked confused. Then she frowned.
"You needn't look like that," Girl sneered. "We're both bound for Graceland, you know. I belong to the temple, too."
"Well, I don't!" said Cilla.
"You took your vows."
"They don't count. Not when you're forced."
"What will you do?"
That's when the tears started to fall. "I don't know," said Cilla. "I just don't know." She took a deep breath. "I had a dream…but it's impossible now."
"I have a dream, too," Girl said. "An impossible dream -- like yours."
"What is your dream?"
Girl shrugged, not sure she wanted to share it.
"I'll tell you mine -- if you tell me yours," said Cilla.
Girl pursed her lips.
"We…could be friends," said Cilla. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad here, if we were friends. Do you like chocolate? I have chocolate in my room."
Girl followed Cilla back to her room. It was a big room with only one bed. "Where do the others sleep?" she asked.
"What others?" said Cilla.
Girl's eyes grew big. "You mean you don't share?" Her own bedroom contained three beds and five more girls.
"At home I sometimes slept with my mother," said Cilla.
"Four girls could squeeze into your bed!" Girl replied.
"Two girls certainly could," whispered Cilla and, giggling, they scrambled beneath the covers.
Theirs was a secret friendship at first. Daughters of whores and gods don't mingle. As a Presley, Cilla was required to learn guitar. Even the Colonel was expected to play, although he was tone-deaf and his short, pudgy fingers were clumsy and stiff.
But Cilla wasn't tone-deaf, and music wasn't a duty to her. If she didn't have a guitar, her fingers played imaginary strings. She wanted to write her own songs, she said, but that wasn't allowed. God was the only proper composer, the priests told her. She would be the High Priestess someday and must know how to perform His music correctly.
"I won't!" she cried, taking the best loved hymns and changing them around, jazzing up the slow ones and altering their beat. Her teachers made her stay after school until she played them the way they were written but, alone with Girl, she played them the way she heard them in her head. Girl liked to listen.
Her own days were very different. Instead of learning music, she learned how to wash dishes, scrub floors and mend torn clothes. The priests saw no reason to waste their time on Temple brats. Cilla taught her how to read by sounding out words. Girl didn't own any books so she couldn't practice much, but sometimes she went into Graceland to read a sentence inscribed on the glass case that held The Presley's shoes.
"DON'T STEP IN MY BLUE SUEDE SHOES."
It was a line -- the only known line -- of The Lost Hymn. Colonel Parker Presley believed that someday he would find the rest of the words. God had appeared to him in a dream, he said, and so he spent his time in the Archives under the Temple, digging through cupboards, files, boxes, and shelves where treasures from the past were stored.
Then, one day, Cilla had a vision of her own.
"How do you know it was a true vision, and not just an ordinary dream?" asked Girl.
"I just know," Cilla said.
"Well, what did you see?"
"I saw Him! He was wearing the blue suede shoes, but he took them off. He gave them to me."
"No!"
"He told me to put them on."
"But that's blasphemy!"
Cilla flushed. "He told me not to listen to anyone else," she said, stubbornly. "Not my father. Not the priests. Not even you, Girl. 'Be true to your own music,' He said."
Girl shook her head. "That's crazy talk." But Cilla wouldn't listen to her. She told her vision to the priests, and they spoke to the Colonel. God didn't talk to young girls, the Colonel declared, and ordered her not to speak of it again, but she wouldn't obey him or anyone else either. When the priests removed her from the Temple band, she stood on the Temple steps and played by herself, but her unique interpretations of the standard hymns disturbed everyone and they refused to listen to her.
For three, long, frustrating years she tried to make them, enduring every punishment the priests and her father handed her. Then, one night, when she was sixteen, she stabbed herself through the hand with a small pair of scissors, severing tendons and turning her hand into a useless claw.
When Girl heard what happened she tried to visit Cilla, but the guards wouldn't let her in. Only priests were permitted to enter her room, they said. For five months Girl invented excuses to walk by, but the door to her room was always shut. Sometimes, she could hear Cilla screaming. Then, one day, the guards were gone. Girl knocked but no one replied so, after a moment, she went in.
Cilla stood near the window gazing out at the Temple square.
"I tried to come before," said Girl, hurrying towards her.
Cilla turned around. "Go away," she sighed. "I don't want to see you."
"But, Cilla, why?" said Girl, reaching out to give her a hug.
No!" Cilla cried, stepping back. "Don't! I belong to the priests now." Off-key chords of laughter broke from her lips. She pressed her fingers against her mouth to smother the sound. Girl gasped when she saw Cilla's twisted hand.
"Couldn't the doctor fix your hand?" she asked.
"You know, I wasn't even thinking about that when I -- did what I did," said Cilla. "I thought my father would let me leave if I couldn't play guitar, but he said the vows are forever -- and Sacred Wombs don't need hands -- so he refused to let the doctors even try."
"I remember the look on your face," says the ghost. "You despised me then."
"I did not."
"Maybe that is true, but it's also true that you ran out -- left me alone."
"Is that why you did it?" the High Priestess asks and then, before the ghost can reply, she adds, "Anyway, I came back."
"Why are you here?" asked Cilla.
"I thought you might need me," said Girl, quietly closing the bedroom door.
Cilla didn't reply. She was sitting in the middle of her unmade bed. A breeze blew in on her through the open window and she wasn't wearing any clothes.
"Aren't you cold?" asked Girl
"Ghosts don't get cold," Cilla said.
"Ghosts?" Girl was confused. Then she saw the pool of blood. "Cilla? Cilla, what have you done?"
Cilla's lips twisted into a smile. "No Temple brat for the priests this time," she murmured before she collapsed. Girl stared at her bloody thighs.
The doctors said she wouldn't survive, but Girl snuck into Graceland and lit a candle for her. She set it down on the altar next to the case with the blue suede shoes. Then, slowly, she traced her finger over the letters that were, faintly, inscribed in the glass.
Slowly, she sounded the words out loud, remembering how Cilla always insisted they were wrong. "God didn't say that," she had cried. He said, 'Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes.'
"How can you know that?" Girl whispered, but Cilla didn't explain. Cilla never explained anything The Presley told her. Could the priests be wrong, Girl wondered now, peering at the letters again.
"He gave them to me," Cilla said. "He told me to put them on." So Girl tried to turn the
"Who -- what are you?" she whispered.
"That is not important," the voice said. "Just look at the words. What do they say?"
Cilla read them out loud.
"Read them again."
"Again!"
But Girl would not. "I feel foolish," she said.
"Do you want Cilla to die?"
She didn't reply.
"You're the only one who can save her," the voice said.
"I'm a Temple brat. What can I do?"
"Read the words properly - and understand them."
I can't!" cried Girl. "I can't. It's too hard."
A gust of wind snuffed out the candle on the altar. "Then feel the truth!" the voice commanded.
Girl placed her fingers on the letters and traced the inscription. Then she traced it again.
"Something feels funny," she said. "Some of the letters are…worn. There used to be more here, I think." She waited for the voice to say something -- praise her, perhaps -- but the voice remained silent. After a moment, she ran her fingers over the inscription again. Then again, each time more slowly, until understanding finally dawned. Cilla's vision had been true.
"You're too late," said Cilla when Girl finally returned to her room. "My father just left. He says I will be tried for murdering my unborn child."
"There won't be a trial," said Girl. "Cilla, listen to me…."
"You said I should wear the blue suede shoes…not just in my dreams, but for real. You said no one would hurt me…could hurt me," says Cilla's ghost. "And I believed you. You promised to be with me, Girl. Promised me that you, too, would dance, but you did not dance with me, did you?"
The old woman doesn't reply.
"Instead, you betrayed me," says the ghost. "That's what my father said. Betrayed me because of who I was -- and what you were. You weren't ever my friend, he said."
"Our friendship was real," the old woman says.
"The stones were real, against my flesh," says Cilla's ghost.
Every detail of Cilla's death was still etched, clearly, in the old woman's mind. It was January 8, the Festival of God's Birth, and time for all true believers to follow in his footsteps with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. God's voice crooned from giant speakers set out in the street. His smooth sound made Cilla shiver, she said. Girl shivered, too - with cold.
Businesses were closed for the day, as were the Temple schools. Courts were closed, and even prisoners were permitted to get high. A plastic bottle of wine was given to Cilla that morning, but she didn't open it.
She and Girl stood in the window watching the revelers outside as priests, in white rhinestone studded jumpsuits, led them in a dance called "the Pelvis". Sacred Wombs wandered everywhere, offering themselves freely. "Love Me Tender," was the song they sang.
The High Priestess can still smell the sour vinegar and vomit stink that rose from the street. The drunken laughter of the crowd disgusted her as she reached for Cilla's twisted hand.
"Sometimes people just have to let loose," the ghost says.
The old woman shudders. "I'll never forget how they behaved…what they did."
"Is that why you put an end to all the revelries?"
"I'll never forgive them," the High Priestess says, harshly.
"How can you," whispers Cilla, "when you cannot forgive yourself?"
"I was a fool," the old woman says.
"Is that why you ran out of the room that day?"
The High Priestess shakes her head.
"We were supposed to do it together, Girl. Both bound for Graceland, we said. But you wouldn't wait for me and your face was pale -- so very pale. I thought you had seen a ghost!"
"It was no ghost," the old woman says. "It was your father."
He wore a black diamond studded jumpsuit and his guards wore black capes. Wherever they went, the crowds drew back. When Girl saw him, she gave a small cry. He couldn't possibly have heard her amidst the noise of the crowd, but still he looked up. When he saw her face in the window, his lips twitched.
"He was laughing at me," the High Priestess says. "He thought I was naïve…that I would do anything he said." She stares at the ghost, but Cilla does not speak. "Surely you understand," the old woman cries. "After all, he was your father. You know what he was like."
"I know that he tempted you -- and you could not refuse him, could you?"
"I believed in your vision," the old woman says. "Truly, I did. Then he summoned me to his room, that night before you died."
She stood near the door staring at his soft fists of dough.
"What are you gawking at?" he snarled. Her gaze dropped to the floor. Several moments passed and then he said, "My daughter claims you as a friend, but your mother was a Sacred Womb. Your first loyalty is the daughter's loyalty you owe to me and the other priests. Do you understand?"
Yes," whispered Girl.
"She shamed us, but a trial would be even worse."
"What did he offer you?" asks Cilla's ghost. "Money?"
"No."
"Schooling?"
The High Priestess shakes her head.
"Then what?"
"He said he could make all my dreams come true," the High Priestess says. "I told him I only had one dream. When he heard what it was, he laughed."
"I'll do it," he said. "All you have to do is convince Cilla to step in the blue suede shoes. I will do the rest and, when it's over, I'll give you a name."
"I didn't understand why he wanted me to do it," the old woman says. "I mean, that was our plan, wasn't it? To have you put on the shoes? To turn you - miraculously - invincible? Isn't that what God promised us would happen -- if we listened to him?"
"Invincible?" asks Cilla's ghost. "I don't think so. Even the Presley had to die. He only promised us the truth -- if we were true to ourselves."
"I thought, perhaps, your father had somehow discovered our plan," the High Priestess says, "so I said, "But…that's sacrilege…."
"Don't be a fool," the High Priest replied. "It's the only way to save her life."
"But the punishment for doing that is death," Girl blurted out, scarcely able to believe that she was arguing with the High Priest.
"So is the punishment for murdering the unborn," he said.
She didn't reply.
"Listen to me, you little fool. Abortion is a secular matter, but I can have her committed. Imprisoned yes, but in a hospital. She'll have the finest care but, if she has a trial, her fate will be out of my hands."
She stared at him, uneasily.
"Perhaps that's what you want," he said, slyly. "Perhaps you would like her to die."
"No!"
"Then we have a deal. After the shoes are on her feet, yell 'Stop!' That will be the signal for us to rush in. Then, when it's over, I'll give you her name. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Everyone will call you Cilla."
"I didn't want your name," says the High Priestess. "A name, yes, but not yours."
"There's always been a Cilla Presley in Graceland," says the ghost.
"When I saw your father in the window looking up at me like that, I knew…well, I don't know what I knew, but that look in his eye…." She shudders. "I just knew I had to stop him. And I thought, if I could just get there before you…that's why I ran out of the room."
She ran down the hall as fast as she could. Behind her, she could hear Cilla's slippers scraping against the marble floor as she ran after her. "Wait for me!" Cilla cried, but she wouldn't listen. She ran past the gleaming white pillars of Graceland and across the deserted hall. Everyone was outside, even the priests. No one witnessed her sacrilege as she picked up the glass case containing the blue suede shoes and hurled it down on the marble floor.
Shards of glass sprayed the room. One piece pierced Girl's arm, but she ignored the blood. She reached for the shoes, lying on the floor, but Cilla grabbed them first.
"Give them to me!" Girl cried.
Cilla shook the broken glass out of the shoes. Her crippled fingers fumbled with the laces.
"Don't put them on," said Girl. "Not now. Not yet."
"Cold feet?" Cilla asked, slipping on one of the shoes. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?" She put the second shoe on and began tying the laces.
"I'm afraid," said Girl. "What if we're wrong?"
"What if we're right?" Cilla asked, standing up. Then, raising her mutilated fingers, she let them drop across imaginary strings. Girl's eyes almost popped out of her head when she heard the notes that rippled through the air. Cilla laughed. "Come on, Girl!" she said. "You dance, too!"
She held out her hand and Girl almost took it, almost danced away with her just as they had planned.
"Still frightened?" Cilla murmured. "That's all right. One way or the other, we're still bound for Graceland."
Girl's heart soared. She reached out a hand, but Cilla didn't see it because she was dancing away from her, swirling, sweeping and swinging her hips.
"Stop!" cried Girl. She wanted Cilla to wait for her. That's the only reason she cried, "Stop!" Truly it was. And hearing her, Cilla stopped in front of the door and waited for her to catch up but, before she could, the door burst open and Colonel Parker Presley entered the room
"Arrest her!" he said, jabbing his finger in Cilla's face.
"No!" cried Girl. "No, that's not what I meant."
"What?" said Cilla, looking confused.
Girl didn't answer, just stared at the floor. After a moment, the Colonel said, "She betrayed you."
"No," whispered Girl. "No, I did not."
"You said you would dance with me, Girl," said Cilla.
"Your dancing days are over," the Colonel said. "Now take off the shoes." But Cilla didn't move. "Now!" the Colonel commanded, "or the guards will do it for you."
"Please," said Girl, kneeling down. "Let me help."
Cilla didn't argue, just docilely lifted her feet so Girl could remove the shoes. She handed them to the Colonel. He took them and then, turning to the guards, he said, "Arrest them both."
Cilla was judged that very afternoon by the drunken and drugged crowd out in the street.
The Colonel sat in judgement of Girl.
When the crowd heard what Cilla had done, it went insane.
Girl was condemned to stand on the balcony and watch what happened to her.
Cilla didn't even try to defend herself from the crowd as it pelted her with stones. Blood matted her dark hair and ran down into her eyes.
Girl's eyes were filled with tears, tears she refused to shed as she waited for the Colonel to stop the insanity, but he stood beside her and didn't do a thing.
Cilla's mouth was moving. Girl could not hear the words, but she could read her lips. Cilla was singing a song. "Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes."
The crowd roared, angrily. Then Girl saw Cilla raise her arm. Her crippled fingers fell across imaginary strings, releasing a burst of music into the air. The crowd fell silent and some of them looked awestruck. Somebody shouted, "Daughter of God!" but it was too late. The stone that struck Cilla in the temple had already been cast.
Girl watched her fall.
"God has judged her," the Colonel said. "She was not a true Presley after all." He laughed, mirthlessly. "Now you have her name. Everyone will call you Cilla -- but you will never be a true Presley either."
Then, turning abruptly, he left her standing on the balcony alone.
That night, she snuck into the Colonel's office, looking for the blue suede shoes. She found them on his desk and picked one of them up. That's when she noticed the worn spot on the heel and realized that she didn't believe in God anymore.
"What about the music?" says Cilla's ghost. "It should have convinced you that God is real."
The High Priestess shrugs. "I convinced myself that I must have imagined it."
"Then why did you go looking for the shoes?"
"I don't know," the old woman says. "I just wanted to hold them for awhile, but I heard a noise. It was your father. He was walking in his sleep. I heard him calling your name." She lowers her voice, even though there is no one to hear them. "He was sobbing," she says. "It scared me so I ran. The next day they discovered that the shoes were missing. They tore the Temple apart, looking for them, but they never did find them."
There were rumors. Lots of rumors.
God truly had appeared to Cilla after all, some priests said, claiming that the new songs she had sung were given to her by The Presley Himself. Those priests blamed the Colonel for accusing Cilla falsely, and said God took back His shoes to punish them all for their disbelief.
Others accused the Colonel of stealing the shoes...Then one of his personal guards was killed and after that the priests rebelled. A few nights later, the Colonel disappeared, and no one ever saw him again.
"You were the only one who knew the truth, weren't you?" says Cilla's ghost.
"The Colonel didn't take the shoes," the High Priestess admits. "Neither did God."
"What happened?" asks Cilla.
"I panicked, that's all. When I heard your father, I just panicked...and I ran. I wound up in the Archives before I realized I still had the shoes with me. I couldn't very well return them then, could I? So...so I pulled some books off the shelf and stuffed the shoes behind them...just until I could figure everything out. But, when I went to replace the books, a piece of paper fell out of one of them. It was the Lost Hymn...the song your father searched for all those years." She laughs, bitterly. "One careless move, and I held it in my hand."
The ghost drifts towards her.
"God exists," the High Priestess croaks. "I didn't imagine his voice in the Temple that night. It was real, all real, but I didn't listen to him. That is why you died."
"That's not why I died," says the ghost.
"I never should have helped you take off the shoes. If you'd still been wearing them, no one could have touched you."
"That's not true," says the ghost.
"You would still be alive."
The ghost shakes her head. "Infant or aged -- no one dies before their time. I was meant to die when I did."
But the old woman is not listening. "When I found the hymn," she says, "I pleaded with God to strike me dead, but he wouldn't listen to me. Finally, I stuck the paper inside a book and put it back up on the shelf. In the morning, when I woke, I told myself it was a dream -- and then I forgot."
"Until tonight?"
The High Priestess nods.
"Is that why you went to the Archives?"
The old woman shakes her head. "I always go there on the anniversary of your death. I just never understood why -- until tonight."
"And now, what will you do?"
"I'm going to leave the Temple," the High Priestess says. "I left a note on the altar for the priests - along with the Lost Hymn. They deserve to know the truth."
"They may not like what they learn," says the ghost.
The High Priestess shrugs. "I made a promise to you once," she says, looking up at the stars impaled like dead wishes on a tapestry of black. "Back when I still believed in dreams."
"You must let go of the past," says the ghost.
"There's only one way I can do that," the High Priestess says. Then, stooping, she puts on the blue suede shoes. Her fingers are awkward and stiff with age but, finally, the laces are tied. She rises and the ghost holds out her hand. Her fingers are supple and straight, not like they were when she was alive. Seeing them, the High Priestess catches her breath and takes the ghost's hand. Then, together, they dance across the floor.
"Oh, Girl!" Cilla cries.
"Don't call me that," the High Priestess says. "I have a name."
"Cilla," says the ghost, and the High Priestess smiles.
They dance all over the Temple, swirling and sweeping and swinging their hips. Later, they leave Graceland, gliding down the white marble steps to continue their dance along city streets.
In the morning, every single priest will remember dreaming about the sacred blue suede shoes. They will rush into Graceland, hoping for a miracle, but the shoes will not be there. Instead, they will find a note from the High Priestess, along with a copy of the Lost Hymn.
They will say it is fraudulent because they won't believe their God could say, "Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes." And they will curse the High Priestess for her sacrilege and remember what happened when Cilla danced. "She was the last true Presley," they will say. And one priest will ask if that means God is dead.
But God is not dead. He's just left the building.
Copyright 2009 by L.K. Thompson
(Author's Note: This story was inspired by a father and son who were guests on a talk show many years. Apparently, they had started a church with Elvis Presley as their god. I wondered what would happen if that church "caught on" and became the church of the future.)
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She stands on the temple steps, holding the pair of blue suede shoes that young Cilla has just returned to her. Her twisted fingers rub a worn spot on the back of one heel. "Why did you bring them back to me now?" she asks, clasping the shoes to her chest. They press solidly against her ancient flesh.
"You made a promise," says Cilla.
"A promise?"
"Oh, Girl!"
"Don't call me that," the old woman says. "No one does. Not anymore."
"What do they call you now?"
"Reverend Mother."
Cilla smiles. "That's what they would have called me...."
"I couldn't save you," the High Priestess says, harshly.
"I know."
"I wanted to."
"It doesn't matter," says Cilla.
The High Priestess looks away.
"Are you frightened?" Cilla asks.
"No."
"You look frightened."
"You look cold," the old woman says. Cilla still wears the thin, see-through chemise of a Sacred Womb.
"Ghosts don't get cold," she murmurs, drifting closer.
The old woman moves away from her.
"Do you think I want revenge? asks Cilla. "I do not."
"Then why are you here?"
"You called me."
"No!"
"You said, 'DON'T STEP ON MY BLUE SUEDE SHOES.' "
The High Priestess buries her face in her hands. "God spoke to me," she says, "but I did not -- would not -- listen to him."
"Then listen to me," says the ghost. The old woman raises her head. "Do you remember the night we met?"
She was six years old; old enough to know why she couldn't go to school or mingle with the legal children of priests. The woman who bore her was a Sacred Womb who died when she was born, but that did not matter. Sacred Wombs weren't mothers or wives, and their offspring were not given names. Everyone just called her Girl, and told her she owed a daughter's loyalty to the priests who fed and housed her until she was old enough to earn her keep. She belonged to the Temple.
Cilla belonged to the Temple, too. Her father, Colonel Parker Presley, dedicated her to God after her mother died. He was the High Priest and he used all her names during the ceremony that gave her to the Temple: Priscilla Lisa Grace Maria Jackson Parker Presley.
When Girl heard the Colonel speak that name, she was prepared to hate Cilla forever. It wasn't fair, not fair at all for one little girl to have seven names while she wasn't allowed even one. Names were so important. If you couldn't trace your lineage, you couldn't inherit property, marry or even go to school.
She watched the Colonel cut a single lock of Cilla's dark hair. Other girls had their heads shaved when they were given to the Temple, but not the High Priest's daughter. Girl thought it would be easy to hate her. Then it was time for Cilla to speak her vows.
"I won't!" she said, firmly.
The Colonel grabbed her hand and placed it on top of the case containing the sacred blue suede shoes. "These are the very shoes He wore. No one else may step in them. Do you understand me, Daughter?"
Cilla refused to reply. After a moment, he continued. "Do you, Priscilla Lisa Grace Maria Jackson Parker Presley, promise to serve the Temple all the days of your life? And do you swear to walk only with Him, following obediently in his footsteps no matter where they may take you?" He didn't wait for her response but added, rapidly. "Then, by the power invested in me by Graceland and The Presley, I do solemnly dedicate you to His service."
After the ceremony there was a party. Neither Cilla nor Girl was allowed to attend. Cilla went to bed; she was just six - like Girl - but Girl had to stay up and help clean. Late that night, while she was sweeping up the mess, she found Cilla standing in front of the altar. "You shouldn't be in here," said Girl. When Cilla turned around, Girl could see that she had been crying. What right did she have to be sad, Girl wondered. Her with her seven names!
"Who are you?" Cilla asked. Girl didn't reply. "Never mind," Cilla said, starting to turn away. "You don't have to tell me your name."
"I don't have a name," said Girl, defiantly.
For a moment Cilla looked confused. Then she frowned.
"You needn't look like that," Girl sneered. "We're both bound for Graceland, you know. I belong to the temple, too."
"Well, I don't!" said Cilla.
"You took your vows."
"They don't count. Not when you're forced."
"What will you do?"
That's when the tears started to fall. "I don't know," said Cilla. "I just don't know." She took a deep breath. "I had a dream…but it's impossible now."
"I have a dream, too," Girl said. "An impossible dream -- like yours."
"What is your dream?"
Girl shrugged, not sure she wanted to share it.
"I'll tell you mine -- if you tell me yours," said Cilla.
Girl pursed her lips.
"We…could be friends," said Cilla. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad here, if we were friends. Do you like chocolate? I have chocolate in my room."
Girl followed Cilla back to her room. It was a big room with only one bed. "Where do the others sleep?" she asked.
"What others?" said Cilla.
Girl's eyes grew big. "You mean you don't share?" Her own bedroom contained three beds and five more girls.
"At home I sometimes slept with my mother," said Cilla.
"Four girls could squeeze into your bed!" Girl replied.
"Two girls certainly could," whispered Cilla and, giggling, they scrambled beneath the covers.
Theirs was a secret friendship at first. Daughters of whores and gods don't mingle. As a Presley, Cilla was required to learn guitar. Even the Colonel was expected to play, although he was tone-deaf and his short, pudgy fingers were clumsy and stiff.
But Cilla wasn't tone-deaf, and music wasn't a duty to her. If she didn't have a guitar, her fingers played imaginary strings. She wanted to write her own songs, she said, but that wasn't allowed. God was the only proper composer, the priests told her. She would be the High Priestess someday and must know how to perform His music correctly.
"I won't!" she cried, taking the best loved hymns and changing them around, jazzing up the slow ones and altering their beat. Her teachers made her stay after school until she played them the way they were written but, alone with Girl, she played them the way she heard them in her head. Girl liked to listen.
Her own days were very different. Instead of learning music, she learned how to wash dishes, scrub floors and mend torn clothes. The priests saw no reason to waste their time on Temple brats. Cilla taught her how to read by sounding out words. Girl didn't own any books so she couldn't practice much, but sometimes she went into Graceland to read a sentence inscribed on the glass case that held The Presley's shoes.
"DON'T STEP IN MY BLUE SUEDE SHOES."
It was a line -- the only known line -- of The Lost Hymn. Colonel Parker Presley believed that someday he would find the rest of the words. God had appeared to him in a dream, he said, and so he spent his time in the Archives under the Temple, digging through cupboards, files, boxes, and shelves where treasures from the past were stored.
Then, one day, Cilla had a vision of her own.
"How do you know it was a true vision, and not just an ordinary dream?" asked Girl.
"I just know," Cilla said.
"Well, what did you see?"
"I saw Him! He was wearing the blue suede shoes, but he took them off. He gave them to me."
"No!"
"He told me to put them on."
"But that's blasphemy!"
Cilla flushed. "He told me not to listen to anyone else," she said, stubbornly. "Not my father. Not the priests. Not even you, Girl. 'Be true to your own music,' He said."
Girl shook her head. "That's crazy talk." But Cilla wouldn't listen to her. She told her vision to the priests, and they spoke to the Colonel. God didn't talk to young girls, the Colonel declared, and ordered her not to speak of it again, but she wouldn't obey him or anyone else either. When the priests removed her from the Temple band, she stood on the Temple steps and played by herself, but her unique interpretations of the standard hymns disturbed everyone and they refused to listen to her.
For three, long, frustrating years she tried to make them, enduring every punishment the priests and her father handed her. Then, one night, when she was sixteen, she stabbed herself through the hand with a small pair of scissors, severing tendons and turning her hand into a useless claw.
When Girl heard what happened she tried to visit Cilla, but the guards wouldn't let her in. Only priests were permitted to enter her room, they said. For five months Girl invented excuses to walk by, but the door to her room was always shut. Sometimes, she could hear Cilla screaming. Then, one day, the guards were gone. Girl knocked but no one replied so, after a moment, she went in.
Cilla stood near the window gazing out at the Temple square.
"I tried to come before," said Girl, hurrying towards her.
Cilla turned around. "Go away," she sighed. "I don't want to see you."
"But, Cilla, why?" said Girl, reaching out to give her a hug.
No!" Cilla cried, stepping back. "Don't! I belong to the priests now." Off-key chords of laughter broke from her lips. She pressed her fingers against her mouth to smother the sound. Girl gasped when she saw Cilla's twisted hand.
"Couldn't the doctor fix your hand?" she asked.
"You know, I wasn't even thinking about that when I -- did what I did," said Cilla. "I thought my father would let me leave if I couldn't play guitar, but he said the vows are forever -- and Sacred Wombs don't need hands -- so he refused to let the doctors even try."
"I remember the look on your face," says the ghost. "You despised me then."
"I did not."
"Maybe that is true, but it's also true that you ran out -- left me alone."
"Is that why you did it?" the High Priestess asks and then, before the ghost can reply, she adds, "Anyway, I came back."
"Why are you here?" asked Cilla.
"I thought you might need me," said Girl, quietly closing the bedroom door.
Cilla didn't reply. She was sitting in the middle of her unmade bed. A breeze blew in on her through the open window and she wasn't wearing any clothes.
"Aren't you cold?" asked Girl
"Ghosts don't get cold," Cilla said.
"Ghosts?" Girl was confused. Then she saw the pool of blood. "Cilla? Cilla, what have you done?"
Cilla's lips twisted into a smile. "No Temple brat for the priests this time," she murmured before she collapsed. Girl stared at her bloody thighs.
The doctors said she wouldn't survive, but Girl snuck into Graceland and lit a candle for her. She set it down on the altar next to the case with the blue suede shoes. Then, slowly, she traced her finger over the letters that were, faintly, inscribed in the glass.
Slowly, she sounded the words out loud, remembering how Cilla always insisted they were wrong. "God didn't say that," she had cried. He said, 'Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes.'
"How can you know that?" Girl whispered, but Cilla didn't explain. Cilla never explained anything The Presley told her. Could the priests be wrong, Girl wondered now, peering at the letters again.
"He gave them to me," Cilla said. "He told me to put them on." So Girl tried to turn the
"Who -- what are you?" she whispered.
"That is not important," the voice said. "Just look at the words. What do they say?"
Cilla read them out loud.
"Read them again."
"Again!"
But Girl would not. "I feel foolish," she said.
"Do you want Cilla to die?"
She didn't reply.
"You're the only one who can save her," the voice said.
"I'm a Temple brat. What can I do?"
"Read the words properly - and understand them."
I can't!" cried Girl. "I can't. It's too hard."
A gust of wind snuffed out the candle on the altar. "Then feel the truth!" the voice commanded.
Girl placed her fingers on the letters and traced the inscription. Then she traced it again.
"Something feels funny," she said. "Some of the letters are…worn. There used to be more here, I think." She waited for the voice to say something -- praise her, perhaps -- but the voice remained silent. After a moment, she ran her fingers over the inscription again. Then again, each time more slowly, until understanding finally dawned. Cilla's vision had been true.
"You're too late," said Cilla when Girl finally returned to her room. "My father just left. He says I will be tried for murdering my unborn child."
"There won't be a trial," said Girl. "Cilla, listen to me…."
"You said I should wear the blue suede shoes…not just in my dreams, but for real. You said no one would hurt me…could hurt me," says Cilla's ghost. "And I believed you. You promised to be with me, Girl. Promised me that you, too, would dance, but you did not dance with me, did you?"
The old woman doesn't reply.
"Instead, you betrayed me," says the ghost. "That's what my father said. Betrayed me because of who I was -- and what you were. You weren't ever my friend, he said."
"Our friendship was real," the old woman says.
"The stones were real, against my flesh," says Cilla's ghost.
Every detail of Cilla's death was still etched, clearly, in the old woman's mind. It was January 8, the Festival of God's Birth, and time for all true believers to follow in his footsteps with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. God's voice crooned from giant speakers set out in the street. His smooth sound made Cilla shiver, she said. Girl shivered, too - with cold.
Businesses were closed for the day, as were the Temple schools. Courts were closed, and even prisoners were permitted to get high. A plastic bottle of wine was given to Cilla that morning, but she didn't open it.
She and Girl stood in the window watching the revelers outside as priests, in white rhinestone studded jumpsuits, led them in a dance called "the Pelvis". Sacred Wombs wandered everywhere, offering themselves freely. "Love Me Tender," was the song they sang.
The High Priestess can still smell the sour vinegar and vomit stink that rose from the street. The drunken laughter of the crowd disgusted her as she reached for Cilla's twisted hand.
"Sometimes people just have to let loose," the ghost says.
The old woman shudders. "I'll never forget how they behaved…what they did."
"Is that why you put an end to all the revelries?"
"I'll never forgive them," the High Priestess says, harshly.
"How can you," whispers Cilla, "when you cannot forgive yourself?"
"I was a fool," the old woman says.
"Is that why you ran out of the room that day?"
The High Priestess shakes her head.
"We were supposed to do it together, Girl. Both bound for Graceland, we said. But you wouldn't wait for me and your face was pale -- so very pale. I thought you had seen a ghost!"
"It was no ghost," the old woman says. "It was your father."
He wore a black diamond studded jumpsuit and his guards wore black capes. Wherever they went, the crowds drew back. When Girl saw him, she gave a small cry. He couldn't possibly have heard her amidst the noise of the crowd, but still he looked up. When he saw her face in the window, his lips twitched.
"He was laughing at me," the High Priestess says. "He thought I was naïve…that I would do anything he said." She stares at the ghost, but Cilla does not speak. "Surely you understand," the old woman cries. "After all, he was your father. You know what he was like."
"I know that he tempted you -- and you could not refuse him, could you?"
"I believed in your vision," the old woman says. "Truly, I did. Then he summoned me to his room, that night before you died."
She stood near the door staring at his soft fists of dough.
"What are you gawking at?" he snarled. Her gaze dropped to the floor. Several moments passed and then he said, "My daughter claims you as a friend, but your mother was a Sacred Womb. Your first loyalty is the daughter's loyalty you owe to me and the other priests. Do you understand?"
Yes," whispered Girl.
"She shamed us, but a trial would be even worse."
"What did he offer you?" asks Cilla's ghost. "Money?"
"No."
"Schooling?"
The High Priestess shakes her head.
"Then what?"
"He said he could make all my dreams come true," the High Priestess says. "I told him I only had one dream. When he heard what it was, he laughed."
"I'll do it," he said. "All you have to do is convince Cilla to step in the blue suede shoes. I will do the rest and, when it's over, I'll give you a name."
"I didn't understand why he wanted me to do it," the old woman says. "I mean, that was our plan, wasn't it? To have you put on the shoes? To turn you - miraculously - invincible? Isn't that what God promised us would happen -- if we listened to him?"
"Invincible?" asks Cilla's ghost. "I don't think so. Even the Presley had to die. He only promised us the truth -- if we were true to ourselves."
"I thought, perhaps, your father had somehow discovered our plan," the High Priestess says, "so I said, "But…that's sacrilege…."
"Don't be a fool," the High Priest replied. "It's the only way to save her life."
"But the punishment for doing that is death," Girl blurted out, scarcely able to believe that she was arguing with the High Priest.
"So is the punishment for murdering the unborn," he said.
She didn't reply.
"Listen to me, you little fool. Abortion is a secular matter, but I can have her committed. Imprisoned yes, but in a hospital. She'll have the finest care but, if she has a trial, her fate will be out of my hands."
She stared at him, uneasily.
"Perhaps that's what you want," he said, slyly. "Perhaps you would like her to die."
"No!"
"Then we have a deal. After the shoes are on her feet, yell 'Stop!' That will be the signal for us to rush in. Then, when it's over, I'll give you her name. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Everyone will call you Cilla."
"I didn't want your name," says the High Priestess. "A name, yes, but not yours."
"There's always been a Cilla Presley in Graceland," says the ghost.
"When I saw your father in the window looking up at me like that, I knew…well, I don't know what I knew, but that look in his eye…." She shudders. "I just knew I had to stop him. And I thought, if I could just get there before you…that's why I ran out of the room."
She ran down the hall as fast as she could. Behind her, she could hear Cilla's slippers scraping against the marble floor as she ran after her. "Wait for me!" Cilla cried, but she wouldn't listen. She ran past the gleaming white pillars of Graceland and across the deserted hall. Everyone was outside, even the priests. No one witnessed her sacrilege as she picked up the glass case containing the blue suede shoes and hurled it down on the marble floor.
Shards of glass sprayed the room. One piece pierced Girl's arm, but she ignored the blood. She reached for the shoes, lying on the floor, but Cilla grabbed them first.
"Give them to me!" Girl cried.
Cilla shook the broken glass out of the shoes. Her crippled fingers fumbled with the laces.
"Don't put them on," said Girl. "Not now. Not yet."
"Cold feet?" Cilla asked, slipping on one of the shoes. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?" She put the second shoe on and began tying the laces.
"I'm afraid," said Girl. "What if we're wrong?"
"What if we're right?" Cilla asked, standing up. Then, raising her mutilated fingers, she let them drop across imaginary strings. Girl's eyes almost popped out of her head when she heard the notes that rippled through the air. Cilla laughed. "Come on, Girl!" she said. "You dance, too!"
She held out her hand and Girl almost took it, almost danced away with her just as they had planned.
"Still frightened?" Cilla murmured. "That's all right. One way or the other, we're still bound for Graceland."
Girl's heart soared. She reached out a hand, but Cilla didn't see it because she was dancing away from her, swirling, sweeping and swinging her hips.
"Stop!" cried Girl. She wanted Cilla to wait for her. That's the only reason she cried, "Stop!" Truly it was. And hearing her, Cilla stopped in front of the door and waited for her to catch up but, before she could, the door burst open and Colonel Parker Presley entered the room
"Arrest her!" he said, jabbing his finger in Cilla's face.
"No!" cried Girl. "No, that's not what I meant."
"What?" said Cilla, looking confused.
Girl didn't answer, just stared at the floor. After a moment, the Colonel said, "She betrayed you."
"No," whispered Girl. "No, I did not."
"You said you would dance with me, Girl," said Cilla.
"Your dancing days are over," the Colonel said. "Now take off the shoes." But Cilla didn't move. "Now!" the Colonel commanded, "or the guards will do it for you."
"Please," said Girl, kneeling down. "Let me help."
Cilla didn't argue, just docilely lifted her feet so Girl could remove the shoes. She handed them to the Colonel. He took them and then, turning to the guards, he said, "Arrest them both."
Cilla was judged that very afternoon by the drunken and drugged crowd out in the street.
The Colonel sat in judgement of Girl.
When the crowd heard what Cilla had done, it went insane.
Girl was condemned to stand on the balcony and watch what happened to her.
Cilla didn't even try to defend herself from the crowd as it pelted her with stones. Blood matted her dark hair and ran down into her eyes.
Girl's eyes were filled with tears, tears she refused to shed as she waited for the Colonel to stop the insanity, but he stood beside her and didn't do a thing.
Cilla's mouth was moving. Girl could not hear the words, but she could read her lips. Cilla was singing a song. "Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes."
The crowd roared, angrily. Then Girl saw Cilla raise her arm. Her crippled fingers fell across imaginary strings, releasing a burst of music into the air. The crowd fell silent and some of them looked awestruck. Somebody shouted, "Daughter of God!" but it was too late. The stone that struck Cilla in the temple had already been cast.
Girl watched her fall.
"God has judged her," the Colonel said. "She was not a true Presley after all." He laughed, mirthlessly. "Now you have her name. Everyone will call you Cilla -- but you will never be a true Presley either."
Then, turning abruptly, he left her standing on the balcony alone.
That night, she snuck into the Colonel's office, looking for the blue suede shoes. She found them on his desk and picked one of them up. That's when she noticed the worn spot on the heel and realized that she didn't believe in God anymore.
"What about the music?" says Cilla's ghost. "It should have convinced you that God is real."
The High Priestess shrugs. "I convinced myself that I must have imagined it."
"Then why did you go looking for the shoes?"
"I don't know," the old woman says. "I just wanted to hold them for awhile, but I heard a noise. It was your father. He was walking in his sleep. I heard him calling your name." She lowers her voice, even though there is no one to hear them. "He was sobbing," she says. "It scared me so I ran. The next day they discovered that the shoes were missing. They tore the Temple apart, looking for them, but they never did find them."
There were rumors. Lots of rumors.
God truly had appeared to Cilla after all, some priests said, claiming that the new songs she had sung were given to her by The Presley Himself. Those priests blamed the Colonel for accusing Cilla falsely, and said God took back His shoes to punish them all for their disbelief.
Others accused the Colonel of stealing the shoes...Then one of his personal guards was killed and after that the priests rebelled. A few nights later, the Colonel disappeared, and no one ever saw him again.
"You were the only one who knew the truth, weren't you?" says Cilla's ghost.
"The Colonel didn't take the shoes," the High Priestess admits. "Neither did God."
"What happened?" asks Cilla.
"I panicked, that's all. When I heard your father, I just panicked...and I ran. I wound up in the Archives before I realized I still had the shoes with me. I couldn't very well return them then, could I? So...so I pulled some books off the shelf and stuffed the shoes behind them...just until I could figure everything out. But, when I went to replace the books, a piece of paper fell out of one of them. It was the Lost Hymn...the song your father searched for all those years." She laughs, bitterly. "One careless move, and I held it in my hand."
The ghost drifts towards her.
"God exists," the High Priestess croaks. "I didn't imagine his voice in the Temple that night. It was real, all real, but I didn't listen to him. That is why you died."
"That's not why I died," says the ghost.
"I never should have helped you take off the shoes. If you'd still been wearing them, no one could have touched you."
"That's not true," says the ghost.
"You would still be alive."
The ghost shakes her head. "Infant or aged -- no one dies before their time. I was meant to die when I did."
But the old woman is not listening. "When I found the hymn," she says, "I pleaded with God to strike me dead, but he wouldn't listen to me. Finally, I stuck the paper inside a book and put it back up on the shelf. In the morning, when I woke, I told myself it was a dream -- and then I forgot."
"Until tonight?"
The High Priestess nods.
"Is that why you went to the Archives?"
The old woman shakes her head. "I always go there on the anniversary of your death. I just never understood why -- until tonight."
"And now, what will you do?"
"I'm going to leave the Temple," the High Priestess says. "I left a note on the altar for the priests - along with the Lost Hymn. They deserve to know the truth."
"They may not like what they learn," says the ghost.
The High Priestess shrugs. "I made a promise to you once," she says, looking up at the stars impaled like dead wishes on a tapestry of black. "Back when I still believed in dreams."
"You must let go of the past," says the ghost.
"There's only one way I can do that," the High Priestess says. Then, stooping, she puts on the blue suede shoes. Her fingers are awkward and stiff with age but, finally, the laces are tied. She rises and the ghost holds out her hand. Her fingers are supple and straight, not like they were when she was alive. Seeing them, the High Priestess catches her breath and takes the ghost's hand. Then, together, they dance across the floor.
"Oh, Girl!" Cilla cries.
"Don't call me that," the High Priestess says. "I have a name."
"Cilla," says the ghost, and the High Priestess smiles.
They dance all over the Temple, swirling and sweeping and swinging their hips. Later, they leave Graceland, gliding down the white marble steps to continue their dance along city streets.
In the morning, every single priest will remember dreaming about the sacred blue suede shoes. They will rush into Graceland, hoping for a miracle, but the shoes will not be there. Instead, they will find a note from the High Priestess, along with a copy of the Lost Hymn.
They will say it is fraudulent because they won't believe their God could say, "Don't Step On My Blue Suede Shoes." And they will curse the High Priestess for her sacrilege and remember what happened when Cilla danced. "She was the last true Presley," they will say. And one priest will ask if that means God is dead.
But God is not dead. He's just left the building.
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© 2009 Created by CS Thompson on Ning. Create Your Own Social Network
Thanks for this wonderful story, Lani!!!