January 21, 2020: Stolen Dance
Song: “Stolen Dance” by Milky Chance from The Algorithm is Right Sometimes Mix
(from thoughtco.com
They were warned.
They were told the dance was not for them. That even seeing it was a special thing. An unusual thing. A gift, of sorts, but one for their memories alone. Not to be written about it. Not to be shared.
But, especially, never to be tried.
The dance, they had been informed, held power. Power not meant but for a few. Power that they could not possibly understand.
They watched quietly, enraptured. Perhaps they truly meant what they promised before the dance started.
However, in the way of these things, that promise eroded with time. It began with questions. Why did it feel that way to see it? What was the power that they couldn’t see and yet absolutely knew was there? Wouldn’t it be better to share the power rather than hide it away? Why couldn’t anyone do the dance?
With each step their promise faded. Their commitment grew thin. Their word was shredded.
Those answering, the ones who could dance, saw it, of course. They knew what was happening. While it had been years, they were hardly the first outsiders to watch the dance. And amongst those that did, it was nearly always the case that they would not honor the pledge. The keepers of the dance kept trying, kept making room for trust. But time and again, the outsiders, the outsiders who lose their taste for keeping their promises.
Some tried to write about it. They were easily handed. Nonfiction dismissed as fiction. Fiction dismissed as without proper fiscal potential.
Some tried to talk about it beyond their friends, beyond their family. To TV or radio or newspaper. They were more difficult. Often there was no choice but for them to disappear. It was grim work but it had to be done.
But this group…none were quite like this group.
The keepers had seen that straight away. The keepers thought this meant something different though. Thought it went they would be the first worthy of the trust. Not the first to try and make the dance theirs.
By the time the keepers realized, it was clear they had already begun. Already arranged the items, already selected instruments, already set the fires. Still the keepers rushed onward. Perhaps there would be something to be done.
But there was not. Only to bear witness
At first, the dance seemed perfect. Almost more so. The energy seemed bigger, the power somehow more malleable, more in control.
But then one of them dropped to their knees. At first it seemed an accident. That they tripped. But the noise made it clear it was not. A sound more like twisted metal than anything organic. And then the fallen one’s wailing. Nearly screeching. A noise like an injured cat. Not human at all.
Another fell. The twisting metal noise grew louder. This one more grunted than wailed. Deep, repetitive. It made one feel dizzy and sick to hear. Then their noises began to almost harmonize.
And so it went for five hours. They tried to stop dancing. They could not. They tried to run. They could not. They tried to beat “it” whatever it was but of course they could not. And so they suffered. And suffered. And suffered. And the people in the valley below, who eventually heard the metal noise and the harmonizing screams and grunts and groans. They too suffered. They were twisted and changed.
The keepers could not stop it, could only destroy it. Destroy it with fire and tar and chemicals. It would make that piece of forest and the valley as well uninhabitable. Perhaps forever.
The alternative though? It spreading? People accidentally stumbling into the area and being turned? That was too much. So the keepers ended everyone and everything there and left it barren and smoldering.
It would be 18 years before more would stumble upon the keepers, would learn of the dance. 18 years feels short but it is actually long. Long enough to forget. Long enough to think the past is not living but single events receding forever. Long enough to imagine it would be different this time.
But, of course, it would not. It would just be worse.