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| Beltane |
Excerpt from Chapter One of Beltane
Copyright, 2007 by Erin E. Schmidt A.K.A Erin O'Riordan
“Allie, you can’t get married in that.”
Jane ran her fingers over the satin of the red, sleeveless dress with the Mandarin collar. Allie was Jane’
s best friend, but Jane was getting restless. This was the third boutique the two of them, along with Allie’
s sister Zen, had been to that morning.
Allie just smiled, serene as always. She lifted the red dress into the air, studying the front and the back.
“Why not?” she said. “This dress is absolutely gorgeous. When Paul Phillip sees it, it’s going to take his
breath away. I’m going to try it on.”
Jane winced. “For the love of St. Peter, Allie,” she said. “It’s red!”
Allie looked Jane right in the eye. “I always knew I was going to get married in red, Jane,” she said.
Zen, who was studying a low-backed chiffon bridesmaid dress in canary yellow, turned around. “It’s
true,” she said. “When we were little girls, she used to draw pictures of herself in a long, red dress.”
Jane was about to say something, but Allie cut her off. “White is for little girls,” she said. “It’s a great
color for an initiation ceremony, like a baptism or a first communion. Red is the color of love and
passion. For grown-up women in the middle of the greatest sexual adventure of our lives, red is
definitely the color.”
“That’s exactly why we wear white,” Jane said. She spun a rack of traditional white wedding gowns with
one hand. “Because this isn’t supposed to be the middle. It’s supposed to be the beginning. You want
Paul Phillip’s family to think you’re an innocent virgin.”
Allie laughed. “You forgot that I’ve already met Paul Phillip’s family,” she said. “They’re not going to be
fooled.”
“Fine,” Jane said. “Get a red one. But not that one. Don’t you want something that, you know, has
sleeves? To cover up the tattoos?”
It was February, and the three women were wearing thick parkas to keep out the chill of the Indianapolis
winter. But underneath, Allie’s body was a virtual gallery, with four very prominent pieces of art. On her
upper left arm, there was the lion-headed Egyptian goddess Sekhmet, who represented the heat of the
desert sun. Above and below Sekhmet, bands of lotus blossoms in the ancient Egyptian style circled
Allie’s arms. On her upper right arm, Allie had a Celtic-style design depicting the Irish sun-goddess
Brigid, surrounded by green bands of Celtic knot designs. On her breastbone she had a Polynesian-
style drawing of the Hawaiian volcano goddess Pele.
The most spectacular of Allie’s tattoos, though, was the one on her back. It was a replica of an artwork
by one of the master Japanese painters. In the center was the Japanese sun-goddess Amaterasu in
flowing robes of black, orange, pink and blue. Her feet were among green hills, and red sun-rays rose
above the horizon all around her.
Zen let out a low whistle at the mention of Allie’s tattoos. “Don’t go there,” she told Jane.
“What?” Jane said, looking up from a white beaded gown. “Is it the Pagan priestess thing?” She gave
Allie a playful shove. “You act so normal at work. Well, if you don’t count the fact that you won’t eat any
meat, and you won’t go out drinking with the girls and me. You’re going to pick your wedding day to let all
the freak shit hang out?”
Zen looked worried, but Allie just shrugged off Jane’s comments. “A wedding is one of the most sacred
moments of a woman’s life,” she said. “I’m going to be myself. Not just the self you see at the
architecture firm, but the Goddess-loving, red-wearing, sexual, tattooed, Pagan self. The self who loves
Paul Phillip Washington– who, by the way, accepts me just as I am, even though he was raised as a
Baptist. Do you want to come to the wedding, or not? Because you’re about to talk yourself out of an
invitation.”
“I’m really sorry, Allie,” Jane said. She gave Allie a little kiss on the cheek. “Of course you’re going to be
yourself. I love you just the way you are, too. Even though you’re not letting me and Zen pick out
matching dresses or anything. But you’re still going to let me do your hair and make-up, right?”
“Of course,” Allie said. “I may be wearing red, but I’m still a girl. I still want to look pretty in my wedding
pictures.”
“Would you just go try that thing on already?” Zen said. Allie nodded, and went off into the dressing
room. When she was out of earshot, Zen said to Jane, “I’m glad she’s not making us get bridesmaid
dresses or matching pedicures or anything. I already have a dress picked out.”
“Let me guess,” Jane said. “Black, with a matching pointy hat.”
Zen grinned. Unlike her sister, who hated the “w” word, Zen was happy to call herself a witch. In fact,
she was a professional. She owned an occult bookstore that also sold “magical” objects. Books were
her main source of income, but she made a little extra money by telling fortunes. Zenobia Van Zandt had
an uncanny knack for knowing what other people were feeling. “The gift of empathy” was what Allie and
Zen’s foster mother called Zen’s special talent. Her gift, plus those psychology classes she took before
she dropped out of community college, made her pretty good at guessing what people were thinking,
and what they wanted to hear.
Jane didn’t believe in Zen’s gift, and liked to tease her about being a witch.
“Ha ha,” Zen said.
“Zen!” Allie called from the dressing room. “Come help me with the zipper!”
Jane occupied herself with looking at a pair of crystal-studded shoes while Allie changed. The next thing
Jane heard was Zen, saying, “You look gorgeous, Allie. Just gorgeous. And I’m not just saying that
because we’re twins.”
Jane turned around. Allie stood there in the red dress. Its cut flattered her body perfectly. The bodice
enhanced the curve of her breasts, suggesting them without showing off. It clung to her hips and made
her legs look even longer and more slender. The dress showed off her well-toned arms, tattoos and all.
Somehow Jane didn’t mind the tattoos so much anymore.
“I take back everything I said,” Jane told Allie, taking her by the hands. “It’s perfect.”
Copyright, 2007 by Erin E. Schmidt A.K.A Erin O'Riordan
“Allie, you can’t get married in that.”
Jane ran her fingers over the satin of the red, sleeveless dress with the Mandarin collar. Allie was Jane’
s best friend, but Jane was getting restless. This was the third boutique the two of them, along with Allie’
s sister Zen, had been to that morning.
Allie just smiled, serene as always. She lifted the red dress into the air, studying the front and the back.
“Why not?” she said. “This dress is absolutely gorgeous. When Paul Phillip sees it, it’s going to take his
breath away. I’m going to try it on.”
Jane winced. “For the love of St. Peter, Allie,” she said. “It’s red!”
Allie looked Jane right in the eye. “I always knew I was going to get married in red, Jane,” she said.
Zen, who was studying a low-backed chiffon bridesmaid dress in canary yellow, turned around. “It’s
true,” she said. “When we were little girls, she used to draw pictures of herself in a long, red dress.”
Jane was about to say something, but Allie cut her off. “White is for little girls,” she said. “It’s a great
color for an initiation ceremony, like a baptism or a first communion. Red is the color of love and
passion. For grown-up women in the middle of the greatest sexual adventure of our lives, red is
definitely the color.”
“That’s exactly why we wear white,” Jane said. She spun a rack of traditional white wedding gowns with
one hand. “Because this isn’t supposed to be the middle. It’s supposed to be the beginning. You want
Paul Phillip’s family to think you’re an innocent virgin.”
Allie laughed. “You forgot that I’ve already met Paul Phillip’s family,” she said. “They’re not going to be
fooled.”
“Fine,” Jane said. “Get a red one. But not that one. Don’t you want something that, you know, has
sleeves? To cover up the tattoos?”
It was February, and the three women were wearing thick parkas to keep out the chill of the Indianapolis
winter. But underneath, Allie’s body was a virtual gallery, with four very prominent pieces of art. On her
upper left arm, there was the lion-headed Egyptian goddess Sekhmet, who represented the heat of the
desert sun. Above and below Sekhmet, bands of lotus blossoms in the ancient Egyptian style circled
Allie’s arms. On her upper right arm, Allie had a Celtic-style design depicting the Irish sun-goddess
Brigid, surrounded by green bands of Celtic knot designs. On her breastbone she had a Polynesian-
style drawing of the Hawaiian volcano goddess Pele.
The most spectacular of Allie’s tattoos, though, was the one on her back. It was a replica of an artwork
by one of the master Japanese painters. In the center was the Japanese sun-goddess Amaterasu in
flowing robes of black, orange, pink and blue. Her feet were among green hills, and red sun-rays rose
above the horizon all around her.
Zen let out a low whistle at the mention of Allie’s tattoos. “Don’t go there,” she told Jane.
“What?” Jane said, looking up from a white beaded gown. “Is it the Pagan priestess thing?” She gave
Allie a playful shove. “You act so normal at work. Well, if you don’t count the fact that you won’t eat any
meat, and you won’t go out drinking with the girls and me. You’re going to pick your wedding day to let all
the freak shit hang out?”
Zen looked worried, but Allie just shrugged off Jane’s comments. “A wedding is one of the most sacred
moments of a woman’s life,” she said. “I’m going to be myself. Not just the self you see at the
architecture firm, but the Goddess-loving, red-wearing, sexual, tattooed, Pagan self. The self who loves
Paul Phillip Washington– who, by the way, accepts me just as I am, even though he was raised as a
Baptist. Do you want to come to the wedding, or not? Because you’re about to talk yourself out of an
invitation.”
“I’m really sorry, Allie,” Jane said. She gave Allie a little kiss on the cheek. “Of course you’re going to be
yourself. I love you just the way you are, too. Even though you’re not letting me and Zen pick out
matching dresses or anything. But you’re still going to let me do your hair and make-up, right?”
“Of course,” Allie said. “I may be wearing red, but I’m still a girl. I still want to look pretty in my wedding
pictures.”
“Would you just go try that thing on already?” Zen said. Allie nodded, and went off into the dressing
room. When she was out of earshot, Zen said to Jane, “I’m glad she’s not making us get bridesmaid
dresses or matching pedicures or anything. I already have a dress picked out.”
“Let me guess,” Jane said. “Black, with a matching pointy hat.”
Zen grinned. Unlike her sister, who hated the “w” word, Zen was happy to call herself a witch. In fact,
she was a professional. She owned an occult bookstore that also sold “magical” objects. Books were
her main source of income, but she made a little extra money by telling fortunes. Zenobia Van Zandt had
an uncanny knack for knowing what other people were feeling. “The gift of empathy” was what Allie and
Zen’s foster mother called Zen’s special talent. Her gift, plus those psychology classes she took before
she dropped out of community college, made her pretty good at guessing what people were thinking,
and what they wanted to hear.
Jane didn’t believe in Zen’s gift, and liked to tease her about being a witch.
“Ha ha,” Zen said.
“Zen!” Allie called from the dressing room. “Come help me with the zipper!”
Jane occupied herself with looking at a pair of crystal-studded shoes while Allie changed. The next thing
Jane heard was Zen, saying, “You look gorgeous, Allie. Just gorgeous. And I’m not just saying that
because we’re twins.”
Jane turned around. Allie stood there in the red dress. Its cut flattered her body perfectly. The bodice
enhanced the curve of her breasts, suggesting them without showing off. It clung to her hips and made
her legs look even longer and more slender. The dress showed off her well-toned arms, tattoos and all.
Somehow Jane didn’t mind the tattoos so much anymore.
“I take back everything I said,” Jane told Allie, taking her by the hands. “It’s perfect.”
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