A New Day Has Come: Another Story from the Maya

Nothing much is happening in the Grand Entrance, and then something is.

Onstage, a solitary light appears from overhead.

Those in attendance go nuts.

“Emilie Dawn is coming,” veteran Suitors say to vestals and Fags. “Lucky you.”

“Who’s she?” ask the least intiated vestals.

“She’s the first Diamond Siren,” explain the experienced, as patiently as their excitement will allow.“She’s from New Zealand. I’ll bet you she does two Celine tributes.”

“The first of her class,” explain other experienced Palace dwellers nearby who are excited enough to chime in on a strangers’ conversation. “The Diamond Coronation was created for her.”

The experienced all clamor to tell the vestals about Emilie.

“In the early days of The Auburn Palace, when these women were getting these powers, and lot of them were either young or had just been modded to look young, they had a lot of power go to their heads and they were very aggressive and very controlling.”

“But not Emilie. Emilie was really quiet and benevolent and she became one of the most popular Anodynes in the palace.”

“She would play her ukulele and sing lullabies to entire Theatriums. She’d even prism with Fags every now and then, but not enough to get her in trouble.”

“She would be nice to everyone. Even people that couldn’t help her stats. So she just became the one that everyone wanted to know and everyone liked. And then she gained so many Disciples that they decided to create another level of Coronation for her specifically.”

“She could fucking tame anyone, man.”

“And she occasionally does public shows in the Grand Entrance, unannounced. And that white light means she’s coming.”

The experienced and vestals alike watch the empty stage with starry-eyes and open mouths.

Music starts.

Piano and strings, pretty and sweeping.

Rather than explode into a frenzy, the entire Entrance goes totally silent.

Then, there she is, appearing onstage in a slash of white light.

She’s a beautiful young woman — she looks about 25 — with long brown hair. She wears a pure white corset. There is an array of diamonds hanging at her throat and collarbone. Her hair is long, past her shoulders. Her face is high-cheeked, her lips pink and prim, her eyes narrow and kindly. Her skin is porcelain cream. She’s all shoulders and hips and bare feet.

Though gorgeous, she doesn’t look quite like a lot of the newer folks were expecting. She’s thinner, quirky, very elfin in appearance. Almost plain. She doesn’t wear much make-up. She doesn’t strut her ass or chest. Rather than radiate distracting waves of sex appeal, she radiates a sort of commanding eccentricity. She’s entrancing in an odd way. It catches the unitiated off-guard.

The thousands in the Entrance remain quiet, enraptured. Tears roll down faces at her presence.

She stands for a moment, regarding them like a priestess. She sings without a word of introduction.

Hundreds of sharp breaths are drawn at the sound of her voice. The only worthy description would be to compare it to a crystal refracting sunbeams — one beam is soft, the next harsh, the next thin, the next broad. Pure and bold, perfectly blending and transferring in and out of each other. She does this with the notes she sings.

Everyone hears her perfectly, as if she’s right in front of them individually. They feel as though she was singing to them and only them.

I was waiting for so long

For a miracle to come

Everyone told me to be strong

Hold on, and don’t shed a tear

She moves on the stage like a phantom, motioning, performing. It is a simple show. Her voice pierces the vast silence.

Everyone puts their hands to their mouths and murmurs as quietly as possible, “A New Day Has Come, Celine Dion, may her voice live on.”

Through the darkness and good times

I knew I’d make it through

And the world thought I had it all

But I was waiting for you

The light over the stage splits open as if sliced with a razor. What was formerly a beam becomes a deluge. It pours over the stage, brilliant and blinding, erupting from between a cushion of white clouds.

Emilie turns toward it and holds her hand out. The waterfall of light stretches down, funneling as it does so. It lands in her palm.

Hush, now, I see a light in the sky

Oh, it’s almost blinding me

I can’t believe I’ve been touched by an angel with love

Emilie twirls about, coiling the beam of light with her as though it’s a sash, and the audience puncutates the performance with scattered vocalizations of desire and cries of “a-LAH, a-LAH!”. They are crying out involuntarily, moved to voice by passion and desire.

The piano is little glints of light off stones submerged in the steady stream of strings. The crowd is singing along softly now, a city-sized chorus.

Let the rain come down and wash away my tears

Let it fill my soul and drown my fears

Let it shatter the walls for a new sun

Everyone is singing now. This is a moment to be shared.

A new day has come

A new day has come

Emilie vocalizes as the great light pulsates above her, a new white sun. The first-timers have never heard anything like her voice. The hardest rock-hitting sons of bitches feel their cheeks get wet as Emilie does her soft dances in the white light, her voice as sweet and rich as caramel cheesecake.

The strings swell, the vocalizations swell, and Emilie steps to the very edge of the stage.

She takes a finger, puts it in the hollow of her throat, and her corset disappears off her. Her naked body glows with the same intensity of the blast of white light above her.

Her voice rings out clear and controlled.

Let the rain come down and wash away my tears

Let it fill my soul and drown my fears

Let it shatter the walls for a new sun

The Entrance can’t contain their responses now. Cheers and cries of exultation abound.

The response to the removal of her corset isn’t a cry of lust; it’s a cry of triumph. Here she was, exposing herself, becoming her most vulnerable on a stage in front of thousands.

A new day has come

A new day has come

The first-timers begin to notice that when Emilie’s voice hits certain emotional highs of the song, they feel strange.

The song finishes, the music falling away, and Emilie spreads her arms and declares to the crowd, “Energy never dies!”

“Excelsior!” the crowd roars back.

Emilie strolls to and fro, buck naked, regarding everyone with a wide, diplomatic smile. In other circumstances, she could’ve been taken for a royal or the spouse of a state leader.

She speaks.

“We gather here today, as we do every day, to pay tribute to the Passing of the Veil, which delivered us from the hell of heavyspace, that realm of struggle and torment and hardship. We pay tribute to life itself, the miracle of consciousness, the joy of sex and song, the eternity of vibration and the cycles of all matter.”

She holds her hands aloft.

“Energy never dies!”


“Follow my voice.”

“May your voice live on!”

Another song starts, a violin throwing swirling ribbons of song into the air, and the first-timers can’t deny that they feel extremely odd.

They feel light-headed. They feel… sparkly, numb, a reckless euphoria that threatens to bloom within them until they’re consumed by it.

“What’s going on?” a few of them ask.

“Oh, God, he’s never been Hallelujah’d before,” say a few of the experienced, giggling as they remember their first time tripping on Song.

“Hang on,” say some of the kinder experienced. “She’s just gonna get us all high with her voice.”

“She’s got the most powerful voice in the Palace. Just hang on. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’ll be over with quick.”

“Full journeys all around, too, I’ll bet. She wants everyone to get hyped for the Equinox.”

“I told you she’d do two Celine tributes.”

“Harmonize! Just sing! Join the choir! Join in! Don’t be afraid!”

Down on the stage, Emilie’s eyes are glowing white. She strides in a sea of boiling white clouds boiling with that white light. A small cupid plays the wistful melody on a small violin, zooming around her head with his red cheeks and his fat tummy.

Emilie’s lips move. Her voice settles into the music like cream into coffee. She dances like a sugarplum fairy.

Take me back into the arms I love

Need me like you did before

Touch me once again

And remember when

There was no one that you wanted more

She launches into the chorus and the Hallelujahs in all several thousand skulls nearly prevent everyone from paying tribute to the song and artist.

“To Love You More, Celine Dion, may her voice live on,” they all say into their hands as best they can.

Emilie’s voice is like a power plant, filling everything with that pure white light. The first song wasn’t even a preview of what she could do. She has gale force breath control, and the notes that emerge from her throat are clad in diamond and platinum.

I’ll be waiting for you

Here inside my heart

I’m the one who wants to love you more

Can’t you see I can give you

Everything you need

Let me be the one who loves you more

The song keeps climbing. There’s no stopping this ascension. The first-timers hold on and feel themselves somehow moving. They’re still seated but moving. Upward.

Emilie’s voice burns into him. They wither like paper in fire.

Somewhere all the love that we have can be saved

Whatever it takes, we’ll find a way

Each individual is spun off into oblivion.

They’re alone for a moment, floating, but then they see the cherub with the violin fluttering in front of them and their feet find solid ground. The world phases in around him, a winter path in a windy snow squall.

They follow the cherub up the snowy path.

Emilie is up ahead, the blizzard parting to reveal her, and she’s naked and the snow picks up until there’s a blizzard raging all around them. Her face is pure kindness, and everyone is comforted as she offers them a hand. They take it and she draws them to her as if they’ve known each other their whole lives.

She sings to them and only them.

Believe in me

I will make you see

All the things that your heart needs to know

I’ll be —

The music drops out for a beat, and in that beat the vision ends and suddenly everyone is back, in their seats or standing spots.

Emilie blasts them away with voice.

Waiting for you

Here inside my heart

I’m the one who wants to love you more

Can’t you see I can give you

Everything you need

Let me be the one who loves you more

As the song closes, there is a humongous orgy going on in the mosh pits. People randomly switch partners, choose each other. It’s intense and surreal and hedonistic but at the same time there’s no maliciousness or anything sinister about it. There’s only a joy and a release to it all.

Her work done, Emilie blows a kiss to the congregation and phases offstage in a burst of white stars.

She doesn’t need to say anything in farewell. She never does.

Everything is a work in progress.