The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold

Books by Regina Doman

The Fairy Tale Novels

The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold
Black as Night: A Fairy Tale Retold

Waking Rose: A Fairy Tale Retold

The Midnight Dancers: A Fairy Tale Retold

For children:

Angel in the Waters

Edited by Regina Doman:

Catholic, Reluctantly: John Paul 2 High Book One

by Christian M. Frank

Trespasses Against Us: John Paul 2 High Book Two

By Christian M. Frank

Awakening: A Crossroads in Time Book

By Claudia Cangilla McAdam

Text copyright 2008 by Regina Doman

With the exception of excerpts from
The Wind in the Willows
by Kenneth Graham, copyright 1908, 1954 by Charles Schribner’s Sons.

2008 cover design and interior by Regina Doman

Chesterton Press

P.O. Box
949

Front Royal, Virginia

www.fairytalenovels.com

www.reginadoman.com

Printed in the United States of America

To my very own siblings,

Alicia, Martin, David, Jessy,

John, Paul, Maria, Joseph, and Anna

So glad to have all of you.

This one’s for you.

Paul felt a prickle in his spine as he set down his duffle bag at the airstrip. That usually made him think that something significant was going to happen.  Most of the time, it was only his imagination, but occasionally, the prickle was right, so he paid attention. For a while, he kept glancing up at the other soldiers, officers, and Middle Eastern allied military that sporadically passed him by, wondering what it could mean. 

Maybe he was about to meet someone. His heart skipped a bit eagerly at the thought, though by now—he was twenty-three years old—he had experienced enough heartache to not be completely optimistic. And there didn’t seem to be any winsome girls strolling around the Army base terminal in this Middle Eastern desert. He tried to put the thought aside, but given his personality, he knew it would be difficult to do.

Who knows? Maybe she’s inside the terminal, frustrated that her flight’s gotten delayed, and she’s on her way outside to catch some rays
... That elusive she.  He shook his head to dispel the thought.
Better focus on getting ready for med school in the fall. Only a few more weeks till your tour of duty’s up…only a few more “fews” left to go!

Still, he sighed as he pulled out his flute case. He was settling himself for a long wait. Another military delay meant that their flight wouldn’t be happening for an hour.

He watched the heat shimmering in hypnotic waves over the desert sand as he assembled his slim silver instrument. There weren’t many people outside now—just the other guys in his squad leaning against their bags and dozing off in the hot sunshine, hats over their eyes, earplugs in, listening to music or Armed Forces Radio broadcasts.

One officer was standing a short distance from him, leaning on a railing and staring out at the desert, apparently lost in thought. When Paul began blowing softly into his flute, the officer turned with surprise and smiled—an older man, ruddy-faced, wearing his ACUs, with a black eagle on his uniform, marking him as a full-bird colonel. He listened for a moment, then turned back to the desert and his own solitude, and pulled out his wallet. Paul could tell he was still listening, and encouraged, felt his way through the melody, making it up as he went along.

Then he heard the sound.

He opened his eyes and lowered his flute at the whistling sound starting in the distance. But too quickly he recognized the high-pitched scream. 

“Incoming!” he and two other squad members shouted simultaneously.  As Paul threw himself face forward on the ground, he barely registered the colonel turning away from the railing as something exploded against the concrete wall of the terminal.

There was a bright light, confusion and pandemonium, but the members of Paul’s squad went into action immediately. Paul, who had been knocked over by the explosion, scrambled to his feet and half-hobbled, half-sprinted to the colonel. The officer was moaning, lying in a twisted position against the wall of the air terminal sprinkled with concrete dust and debris. Paul and another infantryman pulled him back away from the smoking mass the mortar round had left.

“Medic!” the infantryman yelled as the other members of Paul’s squad hurried around him.

“On it!” Paul was already checking the man’s vital signs. The officer was still in obvious pain, clutching his arm and breathing fast. Paul pulled out his medic’s kit and focused on the wounded man. His color was good, he was breathing okay. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Durham. Colonel Robert Durham, Internal Affairs.”

“You in pain?”

“Lots.”

“Your arm?”

“Think I landed on it when I fell,” the man grunted.

Paul did a check of the man’s limbs and quickly discovered that his left arm was indeed broken. “Anything else hurting?” He put on his stethoscope and took a quick listen to the man’s lungs, then tried to ascertain if there were any other injuries.

“Just my arm.”

Paul glanced around. Apparently the colonel was the only victim of the mortar round: everyone else had cleared the vicinity.

“I’m going to try to splint your arm, sir, okay?”

But as soon as he started to lift the arm, the colonel gasped in pain. “Hold on, just a moment, sir,” Paul said, pulling a pen from his pocket. Probing for the right spot, he pressed it gently and firmly in the indentation of the man’s upper ear, an acupressure point for pain. The colonel’s panic seemed to subside. Paul carefully set the broken arm in a splint and wrapped it with an ace bandage. 

 “My wallet…” the colonel said. “I had it out when I fell…”

Paul glanced around and saw the wallet lying on the ground, its contents scattered around him. Getting to his feet, he retrieved it. “Is this it sir?”

“Yes, it is,” Colonel Durham said, and feebly tried to take it with his good arm.

“Don’t move,” Paul said. “Let me put it back together for you.” He replaced the ID cards, money, and photographs. There was a prayer card with a wooden cross glued to it, and Paul brushed the debris off it and gave it a quick kiss of reverence before replacing it.

“You a Christian, corporal?” the colonel asked.

“Yup. Catholic, actually,” Paul said.

“Hmph,” the colonel said. He tried to look up. “They doing a QRF?”

Paul glanced around. One member of the squad was busy calling in a 9-line MEDIVAC report for the colonel’s injury, and his squad leader was organizing the other members. “Yes sir, looks like they’re going to go check out the fence line to see if they can get a shot at the OPFOR who shot off that round.”

“Hope we get them before they hit us again,” the colonel said, twisting around.

“Hope so too, sir. Just relax. We’ll get you transport out of here.” Paul decided to keep the colonel conscious and relaxed as long as possible. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, are these all your kids?”

The officer glanced up at the photo Paul was holding. “They are now,” he said. “Plus two more, both boys. That’s our wedding photo. Sallie and I each brought six kids into the marriage.”

“Six kids—each?” Paul looked closely at the photo and counted. In the photo, Colonel Durham stood next to a woman in a simple white dress, and two rows of six girls flanked them. “Twelve?”

The colonel cocked his head. “It’s a bit unusual,” he said. “My first wife died in a car accident. About a year later, our church was raising money for a woman whose husband died in a construction accident. She had six daughters too. That struck me, so I asked our pastor if he could put me in touch with her. Five years ago, we were married.”

“Wow,” Paul said. “What a great story! My own parents have eight kids. Trying to fit eight kids into a split-level growing up was uh—an experience! But fourteen: that must be crazy! But fun,” he added.

“Well, it’s definitely crazy,” the colonel admitted with a sigh.