Seventeen

Seventeen:

A Belated Response to

Maureen Daly's "Sixteen"

Ahmed A. Khan

I was seventeen when I came to the first major crossroads of my life. Two paths diverged before me and, unlike Robert Frost, I did not take the path less traveled by.

It began as a very special winter night, a night with a very special moon and a very special snowfall. A night full of benevolent, but potent magic.

Till that time, I had been a loner by nature, a shy boy who had difficulty in talking to girls, even though I felt that girls were attracted to me, probably not so much for myself as for the fact that I belonged to a rich and prestigious family. I think it is to my credit that I usually managed to hide my shyness behind a mask of seriousness.

That night, something in the air made me think of the ice skating rink. I dressed up, gathered my skating shoes, put them in a knapsack and hung the knapsack on my back. I thought of taking my motorbike, but the air outside was so invigorating that I chucked the idea and jogged all the way to the rink.

As I jogged, the wind played with my hair, snowflakes softly brushed my cheeks, and my moving legs seemed to draw power from the very earth itself.

The slumbering, snow-tinged trees, the sleepily blinking far-away houses, the silent moonlit road—everything reconfirmed my earlier feeling that this night was magic.

My legs pistoning powerfully against the earth, and my body cutting through the snow-laden air, I imagined that I could actually feel the earth rotate beneath my feet, bringing the skating rink nearer and nearer to me.

Ahead, I heard cheerful voices raised in carefree banter. It was a group of young people sauntering along to the ice rink. I waved to them as I passed them, and they cheerfully waved back. One of them, a blonde girl in a red dress, a girl whom I knew slightly, shouted out my name. She blew me a kiss and it made my step falter. And then I had left them behind.

I could see the rink. And in front of me, I could see a graceful silhouette of a girl in a white dress, jogging in easy, zestful strides towards the rink. She had a pair of skates slung behind her back.

I slowed my jog and hung back, letting the girl stay ahead of me all the way to the rink. I saw her face clearly as she passed the lighted doorway of the rink and recognized her as a girl I had seen a few times in the town. I had always been fascinated by her loveliness and her look of innocence. Of course, I had never talked to her. No one had introduced us to each other and I did not have the guts to approach her directly.

Through the lighted doorway she passed into the rink and I followed her quietly.

On account of a beautiful moonlit night, the managers of the rink had sense enough to put off the artificial lights that normally shone over the rink. The pearly moonlight, falling on the ice, transformed the rink into a land of enchantment where fairies and elves danced with throat-choking grace.

She was a fairy queen among all the lesser fairies skating around. The moonlight, when it fell on her ice-white dress, formed an aura of purity around her, and when it fell on her cloud-dark hair, gave it a lining of sparkling silver. The snowflakes were like stars in her hair.

A sudden impulse took complete control of my body and propelled me toward her, and my hands reached out and held her around her waist, and my lips said, "Mind if I skate with you?" And she turned her face to me and looked at me and I was bathed in the light of pure, joyful innocence and beauty and loveliness that made me catch my breath and made my heart strain against my chest.

And together, we skated around for an eternity that passed in an instant.

Gloriously tired, we then sat on a snow bank, talking and watching others skate. Playfully, I picked up some snow and threw it on her, adding more stars to her hair.

Then it was time to go. I walked with her to her house, and as I parted from her, I said, "I will call you."

Alone, I made my way home. On the way, I once again passed the blonde girl in the red dress. This time she was alone, and she fell in step beside me and started talking to me. Just before we reached the main street of the town, she turned to me and whispered in my ear, "My house is just around the corner and I am all alone today." Then she took my hand in hers and pulled me off the road and into a side street, and I followed her like a zombie, fully controlled by my so-called raging hormones.

Later, when I emerged from her house, there was a horrible emptiness within me, a crushing sense of loss. It was then that I knew that I would not keep my promise to my fairy queen. I would not call her ever again.

I no longer had the power to face her innocence.

Ahmed A. Khan is a Canadian writer who has sold works to magazines (Strange Horizons, Ideomancer, Anotherealm, Lovecraft's Magazine, etc.) and anthologies (Open Space, Cybertales). His first book length work, Ghelenden, has been published by Whortleberry Press (www.whortleberrypress.com) in 2004. He maintains a blog at http://ahmedakhan.journalspace.com

Melinda is a self-taught artist and writer; drawing came first, writing second. Her favorite genres are fantasy and sci-fi because of the depth of imagination.