A clean entrance, but it was lagging. The first movement, Dreams, was more like sodden, drunken sleep. The violins were playing, not performing. She spread the fingers of her left hand and grasped at them, her eyes darting fire. It began to shine. More. The violins began tosing. Now the high horn. And the low. The winds came in as the horn sweetened, weaving its thread with the violins, and now it was the dream of a child but not of Berlioz. She seized for the drums, bringing in their rolling thunder to darken it and make it cloudy and heavy. A touch more and the fabric had substance. The cellos were perfect. God bless Wendy and the melancholy, sobbing wail she was dragging from them with the instrument clasped between her thighs. Then the woodwinds and it was done. They came slowly, too slowly, then the impetus was picking them up and they were beginning to overrun. Less, less, and more intense. They began throbbing. The crazed, wild dream was being rewoven across the centuries with its timeless message. Triumphant joy shot through her with a tingling thrill. Every heartstring was now in her hands, every body was vibrating, and every fiber was straining. They were one, living together in the lyrical madness of the dream.
They were together in Passions. A Ball, and Scene in the Fields, and the entrance to the fifth movement, March to the Scaffold, was splendid with the nightmare terror of one treading toward the noose for the instant of pain and terror before the black voice of the unknown. The jeering crowd was there with the shrieking howls of wind and woodwind, and the scowl of the hangman was sketched in with the thunder of the timpani and the bass strings. The steps of the scaffold were approaching, and Wendy was leaning over her cello and clutching it, her bow poised and her eyes following the notes as she waited for the cello solo. The noise of the ghoulish crowd and the terror of approaching death was rising to a crescendo, and Janice readied Wendy with a glance. Wendy was tense, waiting for the sharp, clear break before the foot touched the bottom step. Her face was strained, her massive blue eyes were shining, and her lips were parted, trembling. She was the most lovely creature in the world. Do not be distracted. Diminish the sounds of the crowd in volume but riot in intensity. The crowd was still screaming bloodthirstily and spitting epithets, but the consciousness was shifting from the crowd to the step. Coming down nicely, the volume falling off but the vehemence of the individual notes remaining. Now ready for the pause. Not a hint of sound must violate it. It must be absolute. An instant of total silence. Now.
The baton stopped. There was an utter, frozen silence of the voids between the stars. Beautiful. Her finger stabbed at Wendy. The first note came with the dip of the baton. A beautifully shaped note. The striking fall of the first footstep was clear and sharp in the mournful howl of realization that there was no turning back and death was nigh. The bow moved along the strings and the sobbing wail stabbed at the heart. Wendy's face shone with love as her cello sang of the reluctant, dragging footsteps climbing the stairs of the gallows as the cold breath of death brushed the back of the neck.
And then the last movement. The ancient superstitions. Walpurgisnacht, the time of the Witchs' Sabbath on the Brocken in the Harz Mountains. The screams of the hapless victims dragged there for unspeakable acts to be committed upon their bodies. The shrill, cackling laughter of the witches in their fury of eroticism and malevolence. They screamed and danced in the acts whispered in the ancient legends, then they began to fade into the distance as the first quivers of the finale began. The mutterings on the horizon moved closer and closer in the slashing darts of lightening and the shaking roar of thunder. And then it broke over them, explosive and tempestuous. The battering rolls of kettle drums and the splitting clangor of cymbals. Janice urged them on, higher and higher, each surge a step to be climbed to reach ever higher. They came, racing with her into the crashing glory. It breathed a life of its own and began taking them with it, soaring to the ultimate heights. There was a choking, constricting feeling as it peaked. Then the baton snapped down. It was gone.
Then it was gone. She looked down at the podium. A droplet of sweat had fallen from her chin onto it. She became aware that she was soaked in sweat. The body shirt was sticking and clinging to her. It was over. Her hand numbly put the baton back into place. Then she became aware of the sound. It was crushing, suffocating. Noise was surrounding her like a solid wall and pushing in on her. Her mind slowly worked its way back to the present. The audience had gone wild. The orchestra was applauding her, the violinists rapping their bows and the other musicians shuffling their feet. The volume of sound around her was so dense that she could feel it touching her.
She turned and stepped down from the podium. The audience was on its feet and it was a sea of open, screaming mouths and wildly applauding hands. She bowed, and another droplet of sweat fell from her chin onto the stage. It was coursing down the sides of her face and soaking into the roots of her hair. She turned and bowed to the orchestra, then she walked toward the wing. The crowd which had been in the corridor and around the bottom of the stairs was jammed into the wing, and they were applauding, screaming, and stamping their feet. Strobes began flashing blindingly. She was approaching the edge of the curtain. The light engineer was watching her. She motioned to him as she turned back to the audience and bowed again. The house lights began coming up as the footlights went down, and the audience was more visible. The aisles were filled, and they were surging down toward the stage. She turned slightly and bowed to the orchestra again, then turned around and walked into the wing. More strobes closer and more blinding. The crowd parted for her as she walked down the steps.
Christina followed her into the dressing room and bolted the door behind her, putting her foot against it and forcing it closed as they tried to go in. The door began vibrating with knocks and voices bellowing on the other side of it as Janice walked into the dressing room, reaching behind herself to unzip her dress. She pulled the zipper down, slipped the shoulder straps off then stepped out of it and tossed it over a chair as she walked toward the bathroom. Christina came into the dressing room and closed the door behind her silently watching Janice as she turned on the water in the sink and threw a towel into it. Janice walked back out of the bathroom, unfastening her bodyshirt, and she pulled it off and tossed it onto the dressing table. Her body was streaked with sweat, and her panties and bra were soaked and sticking to her. She unfastened the bra and tossed it onto the dressing table, then slid her panties down and tossed them onto the bra, walking back into the bathroom naked except for her shoes.
The sink was rapidly filling with water as the towel plugged the drain, and she picked up the towel and wrung it with quick twisting motion. The water began gurgling down the drain, and Janice wiped the towel over her body. She threw the towel on the floor and soaked another one, wiping herself with it, then she wiped herself with a dry towel and walked back to the dressing table.