Not for Long, © 1999 by Tommye-K. Mayer

Chapter 1

She'd never seen one, not even a picture. She had no doubt though, that her "imaginer'd" rendered a better representation, than even reality could have. Of course, that's not to suggest she'd spent much time imagining it-hardly any time at all really, maybe a few minutes in a fourth grade history class.

That's why was so bizarre when the scene began reappearing in her dreams.

It was a Spitfire Henderson lecture about the French Revolution, mentioning Joseph Ignace Guillotin, a French intellectual who'd recommended a diabolical new means for disposing of criminals, political enemies, and other undesirables, a device later dubbed a "Guillotine. ("Spitfire" because she was old; Because she was incredibly strict; Because of the way her lips did or didn't close; and because through all the gaps between her teeth she sprayed buckets of saliva whenever she lectured/whenever she talked)

In the very next spray, as an example of its use, Old Spitfire told the class about Marie Antoinette.

So about all she remembered from a whole year of Spitfire's history class were, J. I. Guillotin, his Guillotine, and of course, Marie Antoinette.

The Guillotine made an impression because old Spitfire had gone on a bit about Marie Antoinette, who never really said "let them eat cake," but who was guillotined.

So she'd spent the rest of history class that day lost in the fact that Marie Antoinette had been guillotined.

What would it have been like to have been queen one day-perhaps not beloved, but still queen-and then, laid out for execution under that new-fangled Guillotine, the next?

Would there have been a royal Guillotine assembled just for Marie? Something a bit finer, and perhaps cleaner than the one they'd been using for common criminals?

A woman with as much pride, with as much common disregard, as Marie Antoinette had would have had her hair specially coiffured, and her makeup done-the foundation, rouge, eye shadow, mascara, and red, rich red lipstick for the event.

She'd have chosen a special gown for her execution, something daring-perhaps a low-cut bodice, something flouncy, something elegant, and with a full skirt.

There'd have been a crowd for the execution of the queen. Everyone would be in the palace courtyard, crowding against some sort of a raised stage platform for the Guillotine.

Her husband, King Louis XVI was already dead by then, and the new government, in place.

The important people would have been seated on a stage around the Guillotine, watching to verify that the queen was truly executed.

She would have stepped out from a side door, unchained, but closely followed by armed guards, proceeding out onto the platform, across in front of the observers, walking toward the Guillotine table. As soon as she stepped out, there'd have been a rush of jeers and angry shouts from the commoners watching.

With her head held high, her back straight, and her eyes focused ahead, she'd have acknowledged nothing, completely cloaked in her own dignity.

Watching her walk, so firmly, yet delicately, and so regally, a hush would have fallen over the crowd, all silent, for they would have been awed by their queen this one last time. She'd have walked to the Guillotine, and paused just a moment, standing beside it.

Then, before the guards beside her could even reach out to guide her, she'd have lowered herself onto the table under the blade, raising her legs onto it and lying back, her shoulders, head, and neck perfectly positioned under the Guillotine blade.

She'd have lain on the table, motionless, her profile to the crowd, and looking up at the newly whetted blade. It would have glinted in the sun, like the jewels in her ears. She'd have remained there, lying still, her lips lightly formed, not slack, still open enough for breath, and with the hint of a smile.

What did she think about? Did she notice splinters in the wooden scaffolding that supported the blade, burrs in the metal, and scratches in it from the whetting?

Wisps of clouds in the blue? Shuffling feet in the crowds around her? The buzzing of a fly? The song of a bird. The cry of a child? The tickle of a hair teased loose from her tight coif by the warm breeze and brushing against her forehead?

Did she replay old conversations, running them through her mind? Did she feel the tug of her son suckling at her breast? Did she hear her own voice singing the lyrics of a favorite song?

She'd have lain quietly even as someone stepped forward-a man most likely, and wearing ceremonial dress-but she wouldn't have seen him, In her passionate dignity she'd never have shifted her gaze from the Guillotine blade up over her head, she'd have known he was there-feeling his presence. She'd hear him there. And she'd have heard that other blade, this one scraping against metal as he unsheathed his sword.

And she would have heard that blade cut through the air as he swung back his arm, and then as the sword sliced forward until it slashed the rope anchoring the Guillotine blade. She'd have heard each thread of the rope sever, even through the deafening united gasp from the crowd. And she would have heard the now liberated rope end slap against the scaffolding. She'd have watched the Guillotine blade careening down its track along the inside planes of the scaffolding, falling ever down, toward her.

It would have seemed to take forever, for the blade to fall the few dozen feet to slice through her neck. A lifetime, long enough to remember her childhood, and Austria. To remember calling into the Alps, so they could echo back her own child voice, to remember the fields of white, the edelweiss, "noble white" blanc noblis... and remember the last she saw of the edelweiss fields, riding away in the flor d'lis decorated carriage to marry the King, now dead.

D-rring!

The old wooden chair-desks scraped against the gray linoleum floor-the same desks her Mom had sat in-as her classmates got up to run to their next classes. She'd shaken her head, clearing it, wondering briefly what else old Spitfire had said, after talking about Guillotines, and Marie. But she didn't have time for that. She'd read the book tonight-had to get to Mr. Tippet's Science class.

Okay, so for one part of one history class, a long, long time ago, she'd had an involved mental encounter with a Guillotine. But Lord almighty, Old Spitfire was hard to follow. You could hardly understand a word she said. You had to do something.. But it was just one part of one morning class, more than twenty-five years ago.

So why was it back in her dreams?

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