The Dancer VIII



The little dancer woke to see the city skyline standing black against a red-gold glow in the east. Directly above her head the Morning Star still shone bright. Behind her, in the west, the silver sliver of a new and waxing moon hung like a bright scythe in the sky. Beside her lay her friend, still, cold, and pale as the snow in which she lay. The dancer touched her hand. It was cold, cold as clay, cold as the pavement beneath her.

Not one thought of any kind crossed her mind. Not the slightest ripple of motion stirred the stillness of her heart. Not one tear fell from her eye as she sat holding her friend’s hand and watching the light in the eastern sky.

Suddenly one bright shaft of gold shot out from behind a distant spire. Then up jumped the sun’s topmost curve and a thousand rooftops flashed in the instant brightness.

An indescribable calm lay upon the dancer’s heart. The winter sun rose with quiet thunder. And as she sat gazing at it, there within the circle of its glory she saw a face – the face of her friend.

And now the Voice came to her once more, but still and soft this time, and full of quiet peace.

“Dance!” it almost whispered.

The little dancer stirred. She looked from the face in the sun to the face in the snow beside her.

“Was it you all along?” she asked. “Was it your voice I heard in the green hills and in the misty glens?”

“No,” came the gentle answer. “In dancing with the little girl you danced with me. And yet I am not the little girl, nor is her voice my voice.”

“Who are you, then?” she asked in amazement.

“I am the Dance!” came the reply. “Together you have danced well. Together you have won the prize. Very soon now you shall see my face.”

The sun was well above the rooftops now. Bright and blue grew the wide sky and all the earth sparkled in the new light.

The dancer smiled, contented. And then she too lay down and slept in peace.





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