• The Incubus Dance


    The summer is at full force. The sun is impossibly hot and the air is thick with wetness. This is a jungle heat. It has no place in the city. People walking hurriedly to work look up at the distorted blue and scorching sky and curse the weather. Men sweat through cotton shirts and their ties lay loose around their necks. Each breath is a burden, each step a test of will. The Children who are normally gather on stoops to share music and beers stolen from their parents’ fridges are nowhere to be seen. They abandon each other in the face of this malicious heat. Everywhere there are grimaces.
    Today however, something is disrupting the world. The street is alive with sound. A crowd has gathered on the corner, a writhing mass of flesh and sweat. The windows above are lined with faces, some blurred circles shining through humidified glass. Those who have opened their windows, despite the unpleasant wetness that comes sweeping into their homes, have a better view of the festivities. One man watches from an awning high above the crowd. He stretches and leans over the awning, tasting the empty air below. His eyes are black lines on brown leather. Despite his ideal vantage point, he struggles to see. His eyes are not what they used to be; they are dry and empty. However, whether he can see below or not is not as important as the action of watching. As long as he is watching he can share in the energy of the crowd.
    Pushing through the canyon of sweat-soaked torsos reveals a small clearing delineated by a tight border of shirt and skin. On the far side, two men beat a fast rhythm on the surface of a trash bin, which has been turned on its side. Its contents are strewn about on the searing asphalt. Rotting garbage fumes and disrupts the air, making waves of nothing. No one cares about the stench, and if they do, they aren’t about to complain. There is no complaining here, not when there is a chance of an escape.
    In the center of the circle, a young man dances feverously. He is shirtless, and his skin glistens with beads of sweat. He changes shape with the music, moving like he has no bones or flesh. He has too many arms, and they fly through the air independent of the rest of him. Hands grasp at the air, and catch it. His feet never touch the ground. Instead, they hover inches over the asphalt, mocking those of us who are bound to the earth. His eyes are closed, yet as he moves around the circle, he never approaches the crowd.
    As more and more people gather to watch, his movements speed up, and the drummers speed up with him. Impossibly fast. He moves in streaks of light, leaving ghosts of himself behind. The crowd’s energy becomes his own. He can taste their spirits as they flow into him. His leg sweeps though the air at face height. A gust of wind cools the faces of those who have pushed to the front. Eyes close as the current whips across them. Beads of sweat pull back on their faces and for the first time since the heat wave hit, they feel comfort. The beat becomes louder now, more frenetic. His dancing too, becomes hectic. He flickers now, a candle flame facing a breeze. At times he seems to disappear altogether, vanishing for a moment and reappearing in new shapes. He seems darker then before, as if he were cloaked in a shadow.
    Suddenly, wisps of color erupt from him in arcs and flashes. Blinding reds and electric blues. Greens and whites and yellows. They dazzle the crowd. Many gasp at the sight. His wings tear outward towards the sky and contract with sudden fervor. Their black leather flaps noisily as he whips around. This was no longer the heat of summer that engulfed them. Their faces sear as if they were leaning into a raging fire. The asphalt beneath their feet quakes and cracks. Clouds of dust whip around them, obscuring their vision of the outside world. His claws rake at the ground below, making deep gashes that run black with tar. The wind has become a deafening roar, a lion’s roar. The crowd buckles in pain. Hands shoot to the sides of heads. Eyes slam shut. Screams cut through the howling wind and the street turns upon itself in a sudden jerking motion.
    Then, without warning there is silence. Slowly, people rise, wiping dust from their eyes. Up above, a man hangs slumped over the railing of his awning. His dry eyes remain open, but see nothing. Slowly, the crowd gathers to look at the burned asphalt. Then, one by one, the crowd dwindles. People go back to their homes and offices, people forget. Some look up at the rain clouds forming above and curse the weather.