"Show at the Faire" by Ryan Sanura Reynolds-Stickney

The crowd gasped at a sudden wall of flame in front of the half-circle of wagons, and it became the first beat of a low, bell-like drum. The beat from the flame joined seamlessly with the stomping of the dancers, and instruments came in with their own thing to say, one by one. A low, sinuous line from a stringed instrument slithered around the dancers' hips and writhing arms, and the flame at the front of the wagons fell until it was a circle of scented candles. A tambourine followed the line of the bow, punctuating the ends of the beats in a rhythm that was as complex and natural as the design by which the fair was laid out, a series of rows and circles running from one to another in a way which only seemed random until you heard the rest of the music.

There was a violin melody laid over the lower string drone, and she understood what it meant to have the hairs on the back of one's neck rise. It was so wild, nearly animal, but an animal that still screamed for human joy and danced with human ecstasy, that her body shook in sympathy. And then the dancers reached the front of the wagons and the band stepped into the light, an intricate lute solo weaving through the smoother run of the strings. He came forward one more step, and sang.

All the copper and gold of the fair, all the revelry of such a gathering were present in his voice when it washed over the crowd, and the crimson and viridian and azure skirts of the women dancing made the circle of candles around the wagons flicker like the stars. This was no plaintive song of road-dust, but a celebration of the sweet grass crushed in the dance of a waymeet. She closed her eyes and felt the music under her ribs, beating with the drums in her blood. Things could happen under this music that were impossible otherwise.

The drummer was utterly serene, her hands the only part of her which moved independently. She sat on the small platform with velvet cushions the colors of jewels, her drums set in a half-circle around her, her eyes closed in a passionate trance of performance. The viol, the girl could see now, sat between the knees of a man perched precariously on the rim of a wagon wheel, moving his entire body in the strokes he made with the bow. The man playing the tambourine was pacing in front of him, jumping or spinning occasionally with his vehemence. The violinist stood to one side, her lower lip caught between her teeth so that she thought it must surely bleed. Her back arched and her hips swayed, but her feet stayed in one place; this was not a wandering song.

The lutist may as well have been made of gold, he shone so. The wood of his lute was the surface of a molten pool in the firelight. The rings on his right hand made a glinting magic of his fingers as they plucked strings in an incomprehensibly ordered pattern, and the bracelets on his left wrist made every movement gleam when they swung. He held down threads of golden light, the fire falling down the length of them every time the pattern changed. His hands, his voice, the music were hypnotic.

At the last beat, pluck, strum, stomp, shout of the song, there was silence, and it woke her from her trance. The fervent cheers of the crowd rose to the black sky, exhausted as they were.