Sneaking Out for the Dance

A chill wind rustled his dark linen garments and stirred up a song like the rasping of fallen leaves.

He leaned into the darkness and the cold and wrapped himself in shadows as he sped to the first invitee on his list.

This was to be a busy night.

***

She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She breathed slow and easy.

She had to seem asleep.

She had to fool them.

Because her parents knew about the big dance, and they didn't want her to go....

They'd said she was too young to go out dancing. But to her, they were just being selfish.

And foolish.

Really this was all beyond their control. She was old enough. There wasn't even an age limit for the dance.

She was ready.

And she was sneaking out whether they liked it or not.

So she shut her eyes and listened and waited.

***

The first address on his list was well lit and cozy, but isolated. The very picture of solitude.

A cottage of sorts on the outskirts of town.

The last time he had visited this home, the front walkway had been perfectly manicured. The bushes had been heavy with roses and the lavender ground cover had been in full bloom.

Now the front walkway was overgrown. The lavender was choked with weeds and the rose bushes were unkempt, strangled by their own gnarled brown stems.

And his first guest of the night was standing at her open front door. Her face was thoughtful recognition and her voice was strong: "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

He grinned, for that was the only expression he could manage. Then he said, "I'm glad to see you're ready. Let's go to the dance."

She sighed through her nostrils and said, "I guess it's about time."

***

She heard them talking in their room.

Well, her dad was talking. Her mom wasn't saying much. Actually she was sobbing.

The girl could hear those soft, broken sounds creeping through the wall.

That's how it was most nights... Her dad would talk. Her mom would cry.

And the girl would lie there trying not to listen.

But the words came through and gently laid themselves down upon her bruised ears. "Let's go check on her."

***

There was nothing quaint or humble about the next house-- it was too big to be cozy. In fact it was lavishly built on sprawling land.

This made no difference to him.

It could have been a cardboard hovel built against the wind of an overpass.... the invitation would be delivered all the same.

He moved between the entry columns at the head of the driveway. His steps cut the air like ice through water and the sound of his footsteps on the cobblestone was like the steady beat of a metronome.

***

Even through her softly lidded eyes, she saw a dim glow: a knife's edge of hall light spilled over her.

The door opened wider, and there stood her parents; haloed silhouettes at her open door.

Her father's voice was desperately hush: "Our angel. Our sweet girl."

Her mother's voice was a squeak and a tremble: "She's asleep."

***

His voice was the wind yawning through beaten trees, or a rush of water over sharp rocks. It was mournful, cold, and insistent as the winter: "It's time for the dance. Are you ready?"

The man before him grimaced. "No, no I'm not. I don't want to dance."

And he grinned. After all, that was the only expression he could manage. Then he said, "The music will soon come. The beat and timbre of that dirge will move you, whether or not you want."

The man refused again. But a deep vibration began to seep up from the void and it filled the air with gravity. The weight grew and intensified, and finally registered as a profoundly low, pulsing sound.

It took on a marching rhythm, like an ancient chant it welled up from the rocks and the dirt and the foundations of the earth.

The music wormed its way into the man's bones. His mind quailed and his body lurched clumsily into the first steps of the dance.

***

The light vanished and she heard the door pull softly shut.

Then foot steps in the hall. Two sets drawing away and one set drawing near.

The door cracked open again and there he was, grinning.

It was time to sneak away.

She heard him speak, and his voice was soft like the evening and cold like the shadows.

Are you ready to go to the dance?

Her heart began to flutter. She felt ready but... also guilty. She felt bad for her parents. It felt wrong to sneak out on them like this.

Was she bad?

His grin seemed sad. His voice was soft: No. You were good, and this wont change how much they love you.

And she thrust aside her fears, she knew she had to go to the dance alone.

But then she saw him shake his head. Everyone dances, but no one has ever danced alone and no one ever will. I will be here and I will dance with you.

And then she heard music. It buoyed her up and seeped into her body. It was like the voice of pale flowers under moonlight, if such things could sing.

What would it be like?

It's different for everybody, but you'll do just fine. You will feel clumsy at first, but in that regard this won't be so different from the dance of life.

And she saw his grin wasn't really as sad as it had first seemed.

Almost, it was a smile.

***

***

***

Well that's it as far as the story is concerned. You might say it was a somewhat lazy write, since this theme has been done countless times before. But I've always been fascinated by the "dance of death" allegory, and wanted to try my own spin on it.

In my first draft of this story, there were a lot more characters, and the story itself was far more dialogue-heavy: I wrote rich people begging for a little more time with their things. I wrote poor parents begging for a little more time to set their surviving children up with some kind of inheritance. I wrote artists begging for a little more time to finish their unknown masterpieces.

And death told them all 'tough shit'.

But I didn't like that first draft at all. The scope was too broad, it felt too preachy, and the dialogue made the personification of death sound like an annoying gothic horror cartoon character.

Hopefully this aggressively chopped and heavily revised final draft managed to steer clear of those three major failings.

Before I close outta this self-indulgent scrap of explanation, I'd like to share a couple links with you.

This is a wikipedia article about the "Danse Macabre" as an art genre, it features some cool visual art: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danse_Macabre

and this is an link to an audio file of "Totentanz", which is a bomb-ass song on the theme. Composed by Liszt and performed by Neal O'Doan: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Liszt_Totentanz.ogg

And of course, thanks for reading!