"The Dancer" by Emily Kirsch

She fell upon the ground, panting and sweating, but her long-legged form still managed to fold into a graceful, cross-legged position. Her swan-like back curved inward as she rose her hands bedecked with draping scarves and bells toward the star-salted sky. Beautifully shaped eyes rose to follow her fingers’ path through the white specks and she was so intent on this that she hardly heard the voice ring next to her ears. The bells at the end of her earrings jingled faintly the next time the breath passed near her shoulder and only then did she look – only then did her gaze meet the fiery orange one that was hovering so near.

"You dance beautifully," the eyes told her, and it took a good few breaths before she noticed the lips that spoke. The corners were creased into a faint smile and she had to struggle to pull herself away and back into her quiet-spoken self.

"I dinnae, sir," she said, casting her eyes downward as the thick gypsy tongue got in the way of the eloquence she was trying to summon. A few raven black strands blew across her upper lip and the regular smell of smoke from the nearby fire accompanied it, tingeing the back of her throat long after the breeze passed. She heard a noise that resembled a chuckle escape from the man’s visage and turned to look at him, a brow carefully raised. He said only, "You do," and turned away from her, watching the embers along the sides of the fire flare and die.

The night wore on and all through it she sat and watched him, the lewd comments from the rest of the caravan making her smile only when they made him. She told herself that the comment he had made meant nothing to her but in truth she wanted nothing more than for the band to begin playing so she could stand and dance. Hours later sleep was violently trying to overcome her but she resisted, intent on only him. The band would play soon.

As soon as the thought passed he looked over at her, his fiery gaze melting into her own weak brow-blue ones. As if he was some subconscious dictator the musicians rose from their slouched positions – all convivial talk stopped – and the music began. It was a lilting, lasy tune at first, and it reminded her of a flame undulating down a steep staircase, filling and feeling each step but sliding to the next one without another moment’s thought. Her legs had a mind of heir own and in seconds she was spiraling around the fire, the bells on her hips hissing along with the music in the background. She knew no one else but him; she heard nothing else but the music; and she could smell nothing else but the thick stench of smoke. It overtook her and her limbs went waving around her, unstoppable in their path. She danced for what seemed like hours and when the music had all but deteriorated applause surrounded her and the smoke lifted, revealing women with tears in their eyes and men with lust in theirs; children stared at her with delirious smiles and babies slept against their mothers’ bosom; even the fire had calmed from the raging inferno she had seen while she was dancing.

She stood still, then, although she felt her knees wobble; waiting until the last clap had dissipated into the night. She slunk back to her seat and fell, once again, into the swan-backed, crossed position, though she felt taller – her legs stronger, her chin firmer. She closed her eyes to revel in these new feelings until the man’s voice called her to open her eyes again.

"What would you give to dance like that every night?"

"Everything," she breathed, without hesitation. He reached forward and placed his fingers around her chin and pulled her forward until their lips were almost touching.

"Everything," he whispered, "is given." Their lips met and she felt a shiver run down her spine, though when it was gone but a minute later she hardly remembered it.

She danced every night from then on and every night she got the same, beautiful reaction. And every night, just before she fell deeply asleep, the man would kiss her gently on the lips. One night she had sat up right after the kiss and was going to ask him why he did so but no matter how hard she strained her eyes against the dark she could not find him. It was late, as well, and she did not want to get up for fear she might startle the sleeping caravan of her people.

Many dances later and after the band of gypsies had made their way all around the surrounding land she found they had come back to the camp where she had first met the man. Immediately her chest swelled and she knew that night would be a special one. Her heart thudded with anticipation and when the sun finally set she rose from her seat and clapped her hands together to signal the musicians play. They conceded but didn’t play the tune they had that wonderful night but still she danced, knowing that it would come soon for the eve was still young. After hours upon hour and dance upon dance had passed her song never rose from the midst of the other, mundane ones, but still she danced for there was never a break in the melody. From time to time she caught a glimpse of the man as she spun around the circle. His head was buried in his arms but when he did look up the dread and worry that clouded his fiery gaze was enough to make her feel uneasy. Before long the dark sky began giving way to hints of rose-orange, and the crisp morning smell ran over the smoke heavy air she’d been dancing in. The man rose and he looked at her, eyes wide and lips moving in shapes that didn’t form words but even if they did she could not hear him. Her dance went on. When the sleek rose hues began to overpower more than half of the sky the musicians began to play her song and she felt a new enthusiasm as her feet moved in the familiar patterns. She flung her hands to the sky and again shut her eyes to everyone but the image of flames rolling down beautifully carved staircases. Her feet kicked out and her bells rang clear; she blocked out all sound but the rhythmic chanting of her beads against her skin and the sweet aria of the bells, and she did not hear the first of the screams that came from the musicians. The agony that filled the air fueled the fire and it burst from its pit and curled and licked over everyone except her. Many tried to flee but they didn’t get far for the flames had exploded over more than triple the size of their camp.

And still she danced. She would have continued until the end of time if it wasn’t for the lone flame that found its way to the heel and ball of her foot and that forced her to hop from foot to foot in dire effort to alleviate the pan – but it would never happen. Forever would she be condemned to dance, trapped in the flames of her pride. All that was heard from her was a last, solitary ring of bells . . . and a distant scream that was drowned by the sea of flames.