Nestled among the striped tents of the carnival stands a worn, faded canvas hut, appearing older than time itself. The entrance flap waves a timid hello in the gentle breeze of the still evening, only to be greeted by the wandering silence of fellow carnival patrons. Inside, the air shimmers with the heady scent of smoke. Tendrils of the mysterious substance guide your eyes to the shifting figure in the centre, surrounded by dancing columns of flame. As the expectant audience takes their seats, you feel a hush fall over the space. The atmosphere fills with an overwhelming sense of anticipation and a hint of fear, snatching breath and stimulating minds.
Consumed by the heavy darkness, the central figure extinguishes her fiery medium. It is as if you are confined to an abyss where the edges of your vision blur into smudges of inky blackness. A spark flickers and then goes out. For a split second, you see the amber eyes of your entertainer glimmering. Another second of darkness and the tent lights up in an explosion of flames, a gush of hot air forcing your eyes shut.
In a ring of glory, the fire engulfs the seemingly petite performer. Yet as mistress of her talent, she gives the impression of possessing a hidden wisdom far beyond her years. The flames obey her, pulsing in rhythm with her own breaths. The jet black of her hair shimmers gold as it reflects the light, and then all is plunged into darkness. You feel a cool breeze raise the hairs at the base of your neck. Time holds no power over this woman as she stretches seconds into hours, captivating an audience of circus patrons with silence.
You taste a trace of spices on the breeze which seems to be wafting from the smoke which fills the room yet still allows you to breathe deeply. The smoke dispels and the performer is lit up again. An eerie smile curls across her face, passive as she almost indiscernibly tilts her head, guiding her flames in the same direction. You now cannot tell if she is smiling or grimacing as the flames lick around her and distort her face into expressions found only in the images of ancient mythology: you watch and listen to discern whether she is breathing, but can find no noise or motion which would confirm it. You are enchanted.
A few audience members squirm beside you, breaking the spell which she had cast over you. As the flames take their final bow, the performer turns and disappears in a flash of fire and smoke. The tent is left with a lingering tension, with unanswered questions and the shadow of the woman left to haunt you forever.
The Dancer
by Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)
Once there came to the court of the Prince of Birkasha a dancer with her musicians. And she was admitted to the court, and she danced before the prince to the music the lute and the flute and the zither.
She danced the dance of flames, and the dance of swords and spears; she danced the dance of stars and the dance of space. And then she danced the dance of flowers in the wind.
After this she stood before the throne of the prince and bowed her body before him. And the prince bade her to come nearer, and he said unto her, “Beautiful woman, daughter of grace and delight, whence comes your art? And how is it that you command all the elements in your rhythms and your rhymes?”
And the dancer bowed again before the prince, and she answered, “Mighty and gracious Majesty, I know not the answer to your questionings. Only this I know: The philosopher’s soul dwells in his head, the poet’s soul is in the heart; the singer’s soul lingers about his throat, but the soul of the dancer abides in all her body.”
