by Anne Frost
You remember before. Your soft shoed feet resting on your father’s boots, your chubby arms holding his legs tight. He would sing a waltz in a confident baritone, moving to the rhythm and taking your small body with him. You would hug him close, your face pressed against his stomach feeling the echoes of the tune as you stepped that way, then this, in perfect time. When the dance was over he would take your hand, help you step down, then gravely bow his thanks as you bobbed a childish curtsey in reply.
They tell of your father now, of the curse that befell him. The man who danced at the funeral of his wife and whose punishment for that sacrilege was to dance evermore. For if he did not, he would die.
At first, you thought this penance minor, almost a blessing. You were honoured to dance, grateful for the time with him. Shoulder to shoulder, you felt the warmth of him, the strength of him. His voice set you on your shared journey, forwards and back. Memories and anticipation.
They spoke of you, then. The Good Daughter who saved her father from death.
They came to watch. Some brought drums to drive the beat. But by dusk they were gone. Content in the knowledge they had helped you. Just enough.
So many years. The steps, the notes. You were the dance. The dance was you. And he lived. How proud you were of that, the saving of him. How joyful it was to dance. To dance together.
What a tale it had become!
Slowly, though, the story changed. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he tired. You felt the weight of him, the doubt rising. The beat slowed. Little by little his feet grew uncertain. And when he finally stumbled, you, at last, understood the truth. The curse was not his. It was yours.
But still you danced. His sharp chin pressing into your shoulder, your arms guiding his faltering body. And when his voice withered you took up the tune, humming softly into his ear.
No-one spoke of that.
The drums were silent. No onlookers encouraged as you held him upright, his bony fingers grasping for the life you gave. Your grim shufflings no longer a waltz, but enough, just enough, to cheat death.
How long is a dance? The time blurs, the tempo fades, the days blend into sepia.
In the half-light your fortitude weakened, your throat dried. Finally, finally, you could sing no longer. There was silence.
You felt him tense before you stepped back. Clasping his hands, your outstretched arms a bridge, you stared into his watery eyes and watched as he waited.
Waited for your curtsey.
Anne is a fiction writer living in Central England. Although she has a novel lurking somewhere in the background, she is currently focussing on shorter fiction and her work has been shortlisted for the Scottish Arts Trust’s Flash Fiction Award. She is studying for a Masters in Creative Writing.
