Page 38 of The Goblin and The Dancer
“Maybe we will die down here—but I won’t die like this. Maybe we are trapped—but I refuse to let us all stay trapped like this.” She touched a place near her heart, as if something painful was lodged there.“This is worse than the dark,” she whispered. “I can’t stand it anymore, and I’m going to pretend it isn’t real, and you should too.”
As Grik and Paul continued to stare, Rosanna pushed herself slowly away from the wall and stood erect, raising her chin as if staring down some invisible enemy.Filthy, bedraggled, her pink gown torn and wet, she began to dance.
She went slowly on pointe, letting her arms drift out in front of her, fingertips towards the ceiling, as if reaching for the sun she couldn’t see, and then she bounded into the air, her feet sure even on slippery rocks.
There were tears streaming down her face, but she danced on, her tired shoulders straightening and her dirty head held high as the gift came effortlessly back to her, even down here.
Grik wiped his eyes, sniffing and staring in disbelief. He forgot everything. He forgot he was buried beneath the earth; he even forgot about the bad things he had done. The dark sewers around him seemed to melt away and become a darkened theater. There was only the dance and the dancer, a swaying, pirouetting enchantment, each movement a thread weaving him deeply into a blanket of warmth and wonder.
There was no music, so Grik sang for Rosanna, recreating in a wavery voice the symphony she had last danced to. Rosanna’s dancing seemed to turn it into a full orchestra. Grik could hear the wild singing of the violins as she leaped, feel the thrum of soft harps as she spun.
It only lasted a few minutes—Rosanna was too weary to do any more—and then she stopped and leaned against the wall, exhausted but eyes bright.
Grik stood up and clapped and clapped until his hands ached, beaming at Rosanna with unexpected moisture in his eyes.
Paul spoke slowly, like a sleeper suddenly roused awake. “That was . . . wonderful.” He looked at her as if her dance had been one of the most incredible things he had ever seen—perhaps it was.
Grik found himself standing up too, as if some weight had begun to slide off his chest. It was almost as if they had somehow tricked reality. By dancing and singing in the dark, they had almost made themselves believe that they were happy where they were, that they didn’t care, that nothing could make them despair. Even though the initial enchantment of the dance was over, the lightness of the moment remained, bolstering their spirits and their resolve.
“Your dancing . . . it made us feel that we could go on, that we could get out of here.” The poetry seemed to pull out of his mouth, uncaring that Paul was there or that Grik was revealing so much to Rosanna. His admiration for her finally came tumbling out without impediment or pause. “You made us feel that even if we didn’t, we had won. It was like the sun rose in the dark or birds started singing at night. It made us forget, and it made us hope.” He finally ran out of breath.
Rosanna’s voice was as moist and crumpled as a wet handkerchief. “Did it really do all that?”
“Of course it did!” Grik assured her. “More. Your dancing has always done that.”
“It’s a gift,” Paul said softly.
And no gift is worthless, Grik thought.They’re all worth something.The revelation fell open in his mind like a scroll that had been suddenly unrolled.
Every gift was important—whether it was a gift for being brave and soldiering or being joyful and dancing or being careful and good at navigating tunnels.
Paul interrupted his thoughts by leaning forward to reach out and brush the back of Rosanna’s hand. “All right, you’ve made your point. But, Rosanna, if we were both being ridiculous, then you were too.”
Rosanna smiled a little and wiped her face and nodded once, accepting his words.“We can’t give up,” she murmured. “And if we go on, we can’t go on like this. We forgive each other . . . and ourselves . . . don’t we? We have to.” She reached out, found Grik’s shoulder, and squeezed.Completely, her touch seemed to say.
Grik’s heart lifted.
Something scurried away from them in the dark, and with it, all of their past discomfort with one another seemed to flit away into the shadows.
Paul brushed off his uniform, as if he were preparing for an inspection. Rosanna raised her hands briefly, in a graceful, balletic movement, as if she were casting some invisible thing away from her. Grik took a deep breath. It felt like the first real breath he had taken in a long, long time.
A little truth and forgiveness, and they were ready to go on.
He shook his glow stick, and the illumination filled the room. It was as if a sun was coming up in the dark, lighting the way home.
They held hands this time, helping each other through the shadows and no longer feeling quite so lost.
They weren’t alone.
* * *
The journey wasone long progression of winding blackness, sometimes narrow, sometimes large, and all lit in the faint pink illumination of Grik’s glow stick.But it wasn’t as bad as before. The monotony was disturbed by their soft conversation, the oppression interrupted by the soldier’s song that Paul began teaching them.It was still terrible, the situation was still grave, but the darkness couldn’t swallow them up again, not entirely, not anymore. They had already defeated it.
Nothing much changed until the tunnel they were working their way through suddenly swelled, creating a little pocket that revealed a bubbling spring—a rocky grotto full of water and mica-flecked walls.
The three of them didn’t say a word, just dashed as one to the edge, despite the narrow confines, dropping down to drink from the unexpected oasis.
“Oh!” Rosanna spluttered as she held a palmful to her lips. “It’s warm!”
