Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: [MG] Kadrys: Dancing on a Highwire Message-ID: References: <1993Jun5.172906.19013@data-io.com> Date: Fri, 18 Jun 1993 00:43:45 GMT [ADMIN] Posted for Andrea Evans. Moving on forever, maybe she don't care Holding on together, maybe it just ain't there You're dancing on a highwire You need to be so sure There used to be a lifeline There isn't any more - Alan Parsons Project Grey sky overhead as Kadrys closed the Inn door behind him. A grey, grey day. The world gently weeping. Water trickling down his cheeks, splashing into his eyes as he glanced up at the clouds. It was as close as he could ever come to tears. Walking for hours, aimlessly, his mind strangely silent, his emotions numb. Absorbed in simply soaking up sensations. Sitting bonelessly beside one of the fountains of the Arcade, emptily tracing the fitful streaks of the rain, comparing their glint, the sound of their fall, the scent of their water, with that of the fountain itself. Unheeding of the cold, oblivious to the way the rain drenched him to the skin, turned his hair into a dripping shroud over his face. Moving on, for no particular reason. Just walking for the sake of seeing the scenery move. Walking. ...Walking in the rain... Memory. Clashing melodies. Dozens of inconsequential songs heard down the years. He gave a faint sardonic smile. A distant corner of his mind stirred itself slowly. 'How can people find _this_, the cold, the dampness, _romantic_? Yet still they write their sentimental ballads around this theme. Amazing. The sheer optimism it takes to celebrate such - misery...' He paused, drew a single ragged breath, jammed his hands through his wet hair and shoved it back off his forehead. No matter how much he concentrated on silencing or on immersing himself in the stream of surface thoughts, he could _not_ distract himself from the pain of Kardia's recent declaration. 'Stupid to try. No place to run, not inside my own head.' He heaved another sigh, stopped the walking which had no other aim than to put the Inn as far behind him as possible. He leaned against an inset doorway, seeking shelter: as much from the dim sunlight, as from the insistent, cold stroking of the rain. 'All right. No place to run. _Think._ Why am I so - so _cut_ by her decision? Eh? Just what was I expecting? That she'd just take it all in her stride, that that "Oh" of hers would be all the reaction she'd have for what I am?' He laughed out loud then, a bitter, stinging sound, that drew startled glances, sent the few passersby hurrying on faster than the rain could do. 'What a lunatic I am. Always dreaming about acceptance, about love. Crazed. All I had to do was look at it from her side for a moment. She's a woman in her prime. Attractive, talented. If she wanted someone all she'd have to do is take her pick. Why in hell would she want a dead man? Give her heart to a monster? Live with a leech draining her life? Have to grow old while seeing him stay changeless as a statue? ... In-sanity. How in Hell could I ever have expected her to decide otherwise?' But he realised that all of this reasoning could not remove the dull, dragging ache in the depths of his spirit. The grief, souring at its core, darkening slowly, dangerously towards despair. He clenched his hands into fists as he thrashed round in his mind for means to fight the feeling. His inner voice whispered darkly, 'And after all, why should I care? Why _should_ I? What have I lost? An opportunity for worse grief to come, when she dies...' He choked this thought back, recoiling from it. Yes, this was one way to avoid grief, but not a way he wanted any part of. This was the icy calculation of the predator. It was the curse speaking in him: trying as always to twist him into a hunter, a thing that kills as casually as any carnivore. His resolve to resist it was ancient and entrenched deeply in him. But that had never made the fight easy. No, it was not even a fight, it was a balancing act. He was poised with terrible precision: between the fire of emotion, (sometimes a glow to warm, often a tormenting flame) and the cold perfection of logic. Between empathy and callousness, humanity and monstrosity. He was walking a tightrope between these two opposites. Leaning too much either way would mean his downfall. If he abandoned the logic, the detachment, then the grief and pain of losing his loved ones (as eventually he _must_), would grow beyond all enduring, would cost him his sanity and his life. But if he ever weakened his desperate grip on his humanity, then the curse would have finally won. He would be nothing more than a murderous monster, and would be hunted down and slain as such monsters eventually are. But the man inside would already have been destroyed. Yes, a balancing act. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the idea, the resolve gripped him, and he grinned ferally. There was a maniacal glint in his eye as he watched the empty clothesline swing back and forth across the strip of cloud above the lane. (slide down to the centre of the arc) Here I am. (stillness, extend the arms, then drop them. Unneeded for balance.) On my left, the cold, the abyss of monstrosity. (leap, sense the way the line ripples in the breeze, rejoin it with my feet) On my right, the searing flame of emotion. (spin, whirl, flick the line out with my toes, catch it on the backswing) Lean too far either way, and I fall. I _fall_. (right foot forward, left foot back, slide into a forward split) Too far either way, disaster. (spin the torso until my shoulders are in line with my hips. Feel the way my body fills the bottom of the line's arc) The line is wet and flailing in the wind. Roll with it, move with the turbulence of Life. (slide my feet together, smooth, rise until I stand again.) Fail to give in to the turns of Life's path, and fall. Lean too far either way, and fall. So very very easy to fall. And yet... And yet, I stand. It is still possible to stand. Still possible to live. Feel it... Know it... Be it... Silvi was bored. There was nothing to do indoors and Mama said she couldn't go out to play in the rain cos she got her dress muddy the last time. She flumped down on her bed and pouted at the ceiling. Who cared about a stupid dress anyway? The mud all came out in the wash. Now all her friends were out having fun and here she was. Stuck in her room. She dragged herself to her feet and wandered over to the window. There was a man out there! Right out there by her window, way way above the ground. Standing on nothing but the bit of line Mama hung her washing on. Ooo that looked _dangerous_! The wind was blowing and the rain was still falling but Silvi just had to see better. She wrenched open the cracked window and stuck her head out. Yep, there he was. And he wasn't just standing there anymore, he was _dancing_! Jumping high, fast, like he had springs in his feet, or like he was one of those string puppets the theatre man had showed her. She just stared, so amazed that she forgot why she'd opened the window. But a flurry of rain made her remember. "Hey! Mister!" The man looked over and gave her a really big white smile, like he was kinda excited. "Hey! You better get down from there, you gonna fall! You'll hurt yourself!" The man laughed and shook his head. "No, little lady, no I won't. See?" And he bowed, a full sweeping bow like she was some sort of princess, and then he leaped. Backwards, without looking back. Then one bare foot snared the line and he landed, looking somehow real sure of himself, nevermind the way the rope was swinging in the wind. Silvi laughed and clapped her hands. This was _fun_! This was much better than slopping around in some old puddles. It was even better than the theatre man. "Again!" she cried, beaming. He glanced up at her, the same big smile, and strolled forward until he was in the middle of the line. Then he just seemed to flick both feet out and up, and he spun backward in the air like a pinwheel. The line sprung tight when his feet hit again, and raindrops were snapped away by the impact. Silvi clapped again and started to cheer at the top of her voice. The man held his finger to his lips for silence, hurrying along the line toward where it was tied to the wall of her house. Silvi quieted, afraid she'd made him mad. She didn't want to make him mad, cos then he wouldn't dance for her again. But his smile when he drew near reassured her. "That was great!" she cried excitedly, "Are you from a circus? Do you do that all the time?" The man's smile quirked, and he nodded slowly. "Do I walk a tightrope all the time? Yes, you could say that. Yes. I do. I was just practising... Making sure I still know how..." Silvi nodded. The man leaned a little closer and added "Let's keep my practise here a secret. A real deep secret, just between you and me, all right?" Silvi's face grew solemn. "Why?" "Because your folks would be mad you didn't call them up to see." Silvi considered this, then nodded. "All right. ...Serves 'em right f'r making me go to my room anyway." she added under her breath. The man grinned and nodded. He stepped aside from the string and dug a foot into the brickwork, lowering himself down the wall as easily as taking a walk. Silvi watched him all the way down, leaned out and watched him pull on his boots and walk away down the alley, watched him until he vanished into the distance and the rain. In after years, Silvi was amazed at the vividness of her childhood imagination. Yes, other children had imaginary friends, but her Dancing Man had seemed so vivid, so real. Of course, she came to realise it was impossible. No-one could do the things she remembered him doing. No-one else had even seen him. Of course not. Still, the memory of his smile, his skill, had become a precious personal myth, a private source of comfort when other sources failed.