sacred male/female duality than I’d expected.
“Come on,” Leeta said, squeezing me tighter. “We have to dance.”
I put my arms around her guardedly. With her elbow, she shoved my right forearm downward, so my hand was only a hair’s breadth from touching her rump.
“Now I assume,” Rashid called to Leeta, “you represent Mistress Night and the boy represents Master Day?”
“That’s right,” she called back over her shoulder. “Come on, dear,” she said to me, “you aren’t going to break me. We’re dancing here. You have to hold me like you mean it.”
Reluctantly, I squeezed a little tighter. She leaned into me…the way a woman leans into a man when she doesn’t have patience for preliminaries.
“And this dance,” Rashid called out again, “somehow transfers energy…cosmic force…some mystical something…from Master Day to Mistress Night, to redress the balance of light and dark?”
“You’re talking like the Patriarch,” Leeta said. “This dance goes back to the saner days of Tober Cove, before the Patriarch came along. There’s no doubletalk; it just fixes things.”
“How does it fix things?” Rashid asked.
“Talking won’t help,” she said, annoyance creeping into her voice. “Keep still now. Words only get in the way.”
Rashid shrugged and settled himself on the edge of a low limestone outcrop. Steck sat at Rashid’s feet and leaned against the knight’s armored legs—an intimate pose, probably intended to offend me. I ignored it; my attention was dominated by the jab of milkweed pods on Leeta’s belt, now crunched tight against my crotch.
We began, slowly, to dance, holding each other like lovers. No music; no sound at all but the crackling of the campfire. For a while I kept my eyes open, staring at the dark trees beyond the firelight so I wouldn’t have to look at Rashid and Steck. But Leeta had her eyes closed, with the shadow of a smile on her wrinkled face…dreaming of other dances, I suppose, other men, or maybe other women from her long-ago male years.
I tried to get dreamy myself: to think of past dances with Cappie and others, to think of anything besides the smell of wilted daisies curling up from Leeta’s hair and the prickle of animal claws digging into my chest.
Slow rocking, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other…not really a dance at all, no steps, no explicit rhythm, just that slow movement. I wondered if I should lead: I was the man, I should lead. But when I tried directing our motion, toes got in the way of toes and Leeta’s hand clenched into a fist where it rested against my back.
I gave up steering.
Time passed. The fire faded to coals. Gradually, the claws on my sash, the milkweed pods, everything else prodding between our tightlocked bodies tweaked into more comfortable positions and drifted out of my consciousness. Leeta and I danced together in the quiet dark, alone among the trees. Distracting thoughts about Rashid, Steck and Cappie slipped away, as I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to do. I stopped thinking much at all—time blurred and thought blurred, but the dance went on.
Two people in the sleeping forest.
Back and forth in the quiet dark.
At some point, we stopped. Neither of us made the decision; the dance was simply over, and we clung motionless to each other for a time that might have been seconds or minutes. Then we parted, blinking in slow surprise, like children awakened from sleep. I wondered if I should do something—maybe bow and say, “Thank you.” But a leaden awkwardness weighed me down so strongly I couldn’t speak. I turned away, looking off into the forest…away from Leeta, away from Rashid and Steck whose presence I had just remembered. Despite the warmth of high summer, I felt chilled and naked.
Leeta poked the fire with a stick. Maybe she was stirring the coals; maybe she just felt as awkward as I did, and needed time to draw in on herself. After a moment, she muttered,
“Come on,” Leeta said, squeezing me tighter. “We have to dance.”
I put my arms around her guardedly. With her elbow, she shoved my right forearm downward, so my hand was only a hair’s breadth from touching her rump.
“Now I assume,” Rashid called to Leeta, “you represent Mistress Night and the boy represents Master Day?”
“That’s right,” she called back over her shoulder. “Come on, dear,” she said to me, “you aren’t going to break me. We’re dancing here. You have to hold me like you mean it.”
Reluctantly, I squeezed a little tighter. She leaned into me…the way a woman leans into a man when she doesn’t have patience for preliminaries.
“And this dance,” Rashid called out again, “somehow transfers energy…cosmic force…some mystical something…from Master Day to Mistress Night, to redress the balance of light and dark?”
“You’re talking like the Patriarch,” Leeta said. “This dance goes back to the saner days of Tober Cove, before the Patriarch came along. There’s no doubletalk; it just fixes things.”
“How does it fix things?” Rashid asked.
“Talking won’t help,” she said, annoyance creeping into her voice. “Keep still now. Words only get in the way.”
Rashid shrugged and settled himself on the edge of a low limestone outcrop. Steck sat at Rashid’s feet and leaned against the knight’s armored legs—an intimate pose, probably intended to offend me. I ignored it; my attention was dominated by the jab of milkweed pods on Leeta’s belt, now crunched tight against my crotch.
We began, slowly, to dance, holding each other like lovers. No music; no sound at all but the crackling of the campfire. For a while I kept my eyes open, staring at the dark trees beyond the firelight so I wouldn’t have to look at Rashid and Steck. But Leeta had her eyes closed, with the shadow of a smile on her wrinkled face…dreaming of other dances, I suppose, other men, or maybe other women from her long-ago male years.
I tried to get dreamy myself: to think of past dances with Cappie and others, to think of anything besides the smell of wilted daisies curling up from Leeta’s hair and the prickle of animal claws digging into my chest.
Slow rocking, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other…not really a dance at all, no steps, no explicit rhythm, just that slow movement. I wondered if I should lead: I was the man, I should lead. But when I tried directing our motion, toes got in the way of toes and Leeta’s hand clenched into a fist where it rested against my back.
I gave up steering.
Time passed. The fire faded to coals. Gradually, the claws on my sash, the milkweed pods, everything else prodding between our tightlocked bodies tweaked into more comfortable positions and drifted out of my consciousness. Leeta and I danced together in the quiet dark, alone among the trees. Distracting thoughts about Rashid, Steck and Cappie slipped away, as I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to do. I stopped thinking much at all—time blurred and thought blurred, but the dance went on.
Two people in the sleeping forest.
Back and forth in the quiet dark.
At some point, we stopped. Neither of us made the decision; the dance was simply over, and we clung motionless to each other for a time that might have been seconds or minutes. Then we parted, blinking in slow surprise, like children awakened from sleep. I wondered if I should do something—maybe bow and say, “Thank you.” But a leaden awkwardness weighed me down so strongly I couldn’t speak. I turned away, looking off into the forest…away from Leeta, away from Rashid and Steck whose presence I had just remembered. Despite the warmth of high summer, I felt chilled and naked.
Leeta poked the fire with a stick. Maybe she was stirring the coals; maybe she just felt as awkward as I did, and needed time to draw in on herself. After a moment, she muttered,
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