by Sharon Hinck
But another part of me longed for the time when life was simple, when I had a place to belong and everything made sense. I opened my eyes and sought comfort in the stark orderliness of my room. In this large edifice, the floor subdued the movements of the ground. The drums beat consistent patterns. Novitiates followed schedules. Everyone knew her role. Despite Tiarel’s cruelty, the tug of the familiar tempted me.
I gingerly wrapped another layer of bandage over my throbbing wound. What was I thinking? I could never belong here again. All I’d ever had to offer was my dancing, and I was no longer a dancer.
“One last time,” I whispered. “Dear Maker, please show up tomorrow.”
If He didn’t make Himself known, I’d never have a chance to share His letter. The rimmers would attack the Order. People would die. Whatever the outcome of that battle, our world would continue to be bound—either by faulty laws or by chaos.
I curled up on the mattress and pulled a coarse blanket over my shoulders. In spite of my throbbing leg and the looming test ahead, a strange peace surrounded me, much softer and more comforting than the bedding. Live or die, the Maker loved me. Whatever happened tomorrow, He could still bring about His purposes.
I was almost asleep when I heard a thud against the wall outside. Had Ginerva returned? Or did Tiarel regret her promise? Had she sent soldiers to kill me?
Scrabbling sounded at the lock, and I grabbed my staff and pressed to my feet. The door flew open and a cloaked figure rushed inside and scooped me up. Muscled arms held me tight against a broad chest that smelled of leather and seawater.
“Stop!” I pounded his head with my stick, connecting sharply with his skull.
He fumbled me, holding me with one arm while fending off my cane with the other. Still, he eased me down carefully and pushed back his hood. “Ow! Cut it out, dancer. I’m here to rescue you.” Brantley rubbed the crown of his head, further tangling his mop of curls. “But we have to move fast.”
Typical. I had a plan to forestall a war, and he felt he had to rescue me. I glared at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He grabbed my arms and gave me a rough shake. “Wake up. It’s too late for that. I know you’ve done remarkable things with your dancing before, but now . . .” He swallowed and fixed his focus on my bandaged leg. Pity and resignation flickered across his face.
His compassion nearly broke me, and the heat of shame crept up my neck. “But now . . . ?” I demanded he finish his sentence.
He squared his jaw and met my gaze. “You can barely stand. Admit it. Your deal with Tiarel is an exercise in futility.” His tone softened. “Let me get you to safety before our alliance invades tomorrow.”
I couldn’t stay angry with him. His path wasn’t mine, but he’d risked everything to come for me. I placed a hand over his heart. Even through his tunic, I felt the warmth of his body, the strength of his muscles, the passion in his blood. “No,” I said simply.
He seized my arm again, but I jerked away, almost toppling over. “Don’t make this harder, Brantley. I’m where I need to be.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Back in the Order? Is this what it was all for? You think they’ll welcome you back? I should have known this is what you wanted.”
I gasped. I thought I’d felt every kind of pain imaginable this past day, but I was wrong. A thorn pierced and tore at my soul. “Is that what you think of me?”
“Why not?” He scowled. “You’re back where you belong. You used me to guide you back here so you can be one of them again.”
“How can you say that? You know it’s not true.” I searched his face for any sign he didn’t believe his own accusations. “I’m only here to serve the Maker.”
A hint of color rose on his cheeks, giving lie to his words. He rubbed the back of his neck as if to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t grab me again. “So prove it.” He glanced toward the hallway. “Come with me. Now.”
I drew a slow breath. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to.” He reached out and cupped my face in his hands. Powerful currents played in the depths of his ocean-colored eyes. “I can’t watch you die tomorrow.” His voice broke.
With our faces only inches apart, I sought a way to comfort and reassure him. Gently, my lips touched his, then I burrowed into his chest and savored the strength and protection of his embrace.
“Nothing I say will convince you, will it?” he murmured.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“How do you expect me to trust the Maker when He asks such things of you?”
I leaned into his chest. “I don’t know.”
A moan rose from the guard collapsed in the hallway. Brantley released me. “The soldier is coming to. Last chance. You can still escape.”
I shook my head, letting all my affection shine from my eyes. “I can’t. Please go. Stay safe. And ask the Maker to help me be brave.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but then clamped his jaw and nodded. In the space of a breath he slipped away. I sank down to the bed, wrapping my arms around myself to hold in the last traces of his warmth.
The primary sun woke the world, brightly unaware of the angry rimmers encircling the Order, or Tiarel’s plans to keep control, or my quailing fears. Ginerva brought bresh loaves and fruit to strengthen me, but my throat was too constricted to get any food down. My bold proposal to dance for the Maker seemed ridiculous in the light of day.
As the subsun began to chase the first sun across the sky, two prefects arrived to escort me to the center ground. I tightened the scarf over my hair, and brushed off my mottled tunic and leggings. I looked nothing like the pristine dancer I’d once aspired to become. Even with my staff, I could barely support my own weight.
The men led me to the entrance from the dancers’ wing and stopped there. Only dancers or drummers could step past the threshold. I was neither. I braced myself for the ground to split and swallow me at my presumption as I hobbled into the grounds—imperfect, outcast, unnamed. But under my bare feet, the earth and daygrass welcomed me.
Tiarel and all the saltars formed an impressive border around the edge of the clearing. White-garbed dancers continued their work, ignoring this unheard-of intrusion into the sacred space. The morning turning pattern kept them tightly in the center. They danced the very steps that fought the Maker’s purpose, chaining our world into place. As they pivoted, I recognized friends I’d trained with my whole life. Under one white scarf, Starfire held her expression, cold and impassive. Her presence was another thorn piercing my heart, and as it bled, I felt even weaker.
Tiarel took control, easily raising her voice over the drums. “Village leaders will observe from my office to bear witness to the truth. Your rebellion must end. The Order must be supported.”
Rimmers were here? I glanced up, but saw only novitiates in tunics of every hue peering down from balconies. Finally, I spotted the representatives, watching from the large window in Tiarel’s office. They each wore a green scarf of truce knotted around their necks. I doubted that ancient tradition would protect them if I failed. Tiarel’s soldiers would never let them leave. A Windswell elder edged aside, allowing Brantley to step forward near the glass. Seeing him here was both comfort and agony. I wanted to talk to him once more, to seek his understanding or approval for my course. But I didn’t dare allow myself that distraction. I hobbled a few steps further into the grounds. One lone cripple against the might of the Order.
Saltar River raised her arm, pointing her finger at me as if it were a sword. “I protest this desecration of our consecrated place.”
Tiarel frowned. “Your opinions have been noted. The decision is made. The rimmers have pledged that when this outcast’s delusion is proven, they will return home and continue to send girls as candidates for our vital Order.”
I gasped. That would be worse than civil war. If I failed today, there would be no one to stand against the Order. Our world would continue to be bound and would eventually die
. The Maker would be forgotten again. My heart pounded; my legs shook.
A light breeze found its way to me and brushed my face. “This is not your battle, dear child.” The Maker’s voice whispered to my heart, so gentle I wondered if I was imagining it. “The truth does not rely on the strength of your legs, the wisdom of your mind, or the skill of your tongue.”
“What are you waiting for?” Tiarel asked. “Show us your mythical Maker.”
I shut out the crowds, friend or foe. I turned my gaze skyward. Only one arm was free, since I needed the other to hold my staff. But I danced with that free arm, swaying in a gentle approximation of the opening movements of the calara pattern.
Tiarel’s laughter rang out, harsh and loud as a dinner bell.
I fought to ignore her derision. Centered over my good foot, I swiveled my body to one side and then the other, opening my arms in an expansive gesture that would have been beautiful if I hadn’t needed to hop awkwardly to keep my balance.
The drums fought me, pounding their fixed pattern. Then another sound rose from all around me. The saltars had drawn out the rhythm sticks they used in class, and added more power to the driving beat.
I pushed against the noise, trying bits of one pattern and then another.
Tiarel raised her hand, and the drums stopped mid-beat. The dancers in the center froze. Would she finally allow this to be a fair test? Would she let me invite the Maker’s presence without her interference?
She chopped her arm downward. Instantly the drums and dancers began a new pattern. Leeward storm again.
The wind picked up and clouds scudded overhead, blocking both suns. I resumed my feeble motions, but rain sheeted down. The tempo grew faster, and the center ground became slick with mud. I limped to the left and stretched my arms, lifting my damaged leg behind me, fire pulsing through the wound. I pushed weakly against the storm with patterns of sun and warmth, but when I raised my face to the sky, the rain threatened to drown me. Soon the mud sucked at my feet, making each movement even more impossible. I returned to the edge where the daygrass gave some purchase. Palms up, I again offered the simplest of movement.
The storm continued to beat me down, my wet headscarf plastering my head.
I sank to my knees. I’m so sorry. I’ve failed You. I don’t know what to do.
Beneath me, the earth shuddered. “Let me teach you a new dance.” The deep voice of the Maker rumbled from the core of our world. “My dance.”
The wind tugged at my tunic, but the gale no longer attacked me. Instead, courage breathed over me, through me, into me. Then even the awareness of courage gave way to the simple joy of being with Him.
The pulsating drums faded into an unimportant background. Music like distant birdsong guided me. From my knees, I stroked the beloved earth of Meriel, lowered myself even further, prostrate on the ground. Yes! This was His dance. The Maker who formed a world from the clay of His love. The Maker who offered Himself to His people. The Maker who reached out again and again to rescue His children.
I rolled to my back and my arms reached skyward. Tucking my good foot under me, I arched and let my heart reach up in response. I curled, contracted, then released with a spring that brought me to my feet. He gave, I responded, He called, I answered. My movements echoed the story of His letter.
The saltars continued to tap their sticks, their faces expressionless under the downpour. They weren’t hearing the powerful music.
But I heard every note. I smiled.
Too full of love to contain myself to any pattern now, I spun a series of turns around the dancers who continued their work in the middle. Each time I pushed off my bad leg, the sharp reminder of Tiarel’s knife tried to distract me. The pain called out, but it was muted under the exquisite delight of moving with Him.
The ground that was usually so stable here in the middle of our world began to ripple. A few dancers stumbled, missed a motion or two. I leapt, and the earth propelled me upward, then cushioned me as I landed.
This wasn’t any pattern the Order had ever taught. Yet the storm scattered and the suns burst into the space again. As my leaps carried me around, I glimpsed Tiarel’s face. She waved her hands frantically, insisting on an even faster tempo. Her arrogant confidence gave way to panic. The other saltars’ faces reflected even more alarm. Over the pounding drums and the rumbles of the earth, Tiarel shouted, “Resume the turning!” The rhythm shifted again, faster and faster. Even the saltars turned in place, adding their efforts to those of the others. Prefects in balconies banged staffs against the floors as novitiates on each level joined, spinning in place. Their frenzied acts were an obscene parody of the gift of dance the Maker had bestowed when He made our world.
Should I dance faster? Leap higher?
“Stand and watch.” The Maker’s words breathed into my heart. I finished the circle of leaps, and held my ground.
As if His hand rested on my shoulder, He gently turned me in one slow rotation. I saw everyone with vivid clarity. The smallest girls, barely able to see over the balcony on the top floors. Burly prefects and exhausted attendants. Saltars with their angry sticks. Dancers drenched from sweat and rain, faces drawn with desperation. Ragtag rimmers watching in confusion. Brantley, dear precious Brantley, worry and doubt painted across his face.
Compassion welled up in me, as if the Maker poured one tiny drop of His ocean into my heart. He loved His children. Even these angry, prideful ones who resisted Him at every turn. Even me.
Please let them see You.
“Unbound!” His deep voice resonated through the earth. The dancers in the center tried to obey Tiarel’s command to perform the turning pattern, but a few stumbled. Some covered their ears. Others fell to their knees. The drums ceased, and one of the drummers fled the center ground.
“Fight it!” Tiarel stomped her feet, as if her will could hold the world in place. New cracks splintered along the stone walls. Her voice no longer carried over the groans and shudders of the earth, but she kept flailing.
The very world seemed about to rend apart.
Then He whispered, “Now.”
Casting aside my staff, I flung my whole being into the love of my Maker.
He swirled me around, breathed through me. His presence blazed brighter than both our suns. His voice consumed me with sounds sweeter than morning birdsong. His love drew me forward with the strength of a hundred dancers, so compelling that even my crippled leg obeyed.
Forsaking the edges of the space, I danced right through the center.
The last remnants of the Order’s symmetry fractured. Many dancers backed away. Others reached to grab me but caught only air. Their pattern broke completely, and before they could resume, the earth groaned and shifted. This time everyone heard.
Tiarel’s face whitened, her tight eyebrows and pursed mouth standing out like the tiny embroidery stitches on her gown. A couple saltars grabbed the tower wall, and the ground roiled again. A stone jarred loose from an upper balcony and tumbled down. A dancer screamed and ran to the door.
Heedless of the chaos, I spun toward the center again and stopped. I felt our world break free with a last quiver as it sailed forward on a new current. My feet touched the earth’s joy, and I skipped lightly in place, savoring the exhilaration, the rightness of the moment.
Shifting my gaze down, I saw one dancer sitting and hugging her knees. A strand of auburn hair had escaped from her sodden headscarf. I reached for her hand. Starfire lifted her chin.
I smiled at her, and the panic left her eyes. Mischief scampered over her face, and she took my hand. Perhaps she thought that if our world was crumbling away underfoot, she may as well perish while dancing. Or maybe she welcomed the voice of the Maker reminding us of who we were meant to be. Whatever the reason, she joined my steps as we lightly sprang forward in a long-forgotten pattern of trust. We invited other dancers and many joined in. A low thrumming of the ocean below provided the only rhythm we needed.
We moved with shapes and designs
that were new and free of any desire to control. We weren’t ruling the world; we were celebrating the Maker’s creation. Harrier birds and forest hounds, soft clouds and prickly lanthrus, fountain fish and stenella, wind and waves. Our island world sailed forward again.
My lifetime of longing to be a dancer could never have been fulfilled by the rigid rules of the Order or by movements separated from the Maker of the dance. Somehow all along, my spirit had longed for this true movement and connection. I savored the freedom of my limbs, but also of our island, no longer intimidated by the saltars or worried for the rimmers. The Maker was here and all would be well.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Saltar Kemp take a few unsteady steps away from the wall. A smile of wonder tugged at her wrinkled cheeks, and she lifted one arthritic hand toward the sky. But other saltars cringed or tossed their heads, as if driven to madness by hearing and resisting the Maker’s call. Tiarel crouched tight against the wall, hands over her ears, and mouth open in a silent scream. Saltar River helped her up and guided her to the door into the dancers’ wing.
As the world shook free of its shackles, a new deeper rumble sounded. A child screamed from an upper floor. Those who had been looking down from balconies ran back into the tower, and shouts rose from the windows that faced outward.
Had the rimmer army decided not to wait for the report of the delegation? Or was some other disaster approaching? I ran inside, out of the dancers’ wing, and to the old familiar stairway to see what was causing the distress. Several saltars and a few dancers came with me. Taking the steps two at a time, I paused each time the tower shook. I raced past children, some crying, some clutching each other, past the horrible storage closet where I’d once been punished, and to the ladder that led to the roof. Once I reached the highest point of the ringed building, I scanned the horizon in all directions. The rending sound became a crackling, crumbling, tearing roar. Was our island no longer capable of sailing the waves? Were we about to rip apart?