“Let who what?”

Dofnald tilted his head.

Elrhain did the same.

After a few seconds, his father finally realized that he forgot to explain out the details of exactly what he had to do. Elrhain could almost hear the unspoken ‘Aha!’

“Dance of prayers and blessings, to the hundred thousand lakes of Earthloch.” He gestured towards the lower-left corner of the wall of murals. “Start there. Then follow right. When you… reach the end. Go up. Then left again. Continue until you reach the upper right side.”

Dofnald tapped Elrhain’s forehead softly with his index finger, “Feel our ancestors commands, let them in.”

Elrhain rubbed his left eye. A fleck of dust must have fallen in when he had angled his head up to take in the huge wall. He wanted to get a full view of all the murals.

A casual glance told him there were thousands of steps and tens of layers. Each was drawn in ambiguous lines, both simple like cave art and sophisticated like anatomical illustrations.

They depicted a ritualistic movement impossible for most humans, or as his father called it, ‘A Dance’.

Something way above his toddler body’s motor skills.

“… You expect me to learn all this before midnight? Even if I somehow managed that, I don’t think I can pull the actual dance off during the rite, okay?” Elrhain said incredulously.

“Not learn, feel them. Don’t worry. The land, the spirits, and our ancestors will do the rest.”

‘Well, that answered absolutely nothing.’

“… Um, Elder Croneira said the shaman would explain it to me—you know what, let me give it a shot first.” Seeing his father’s shoulders droop, Elrhain sighed and decided to humour the man.

“Good luck, Rhain.” Dofnald cheered up, showing him the million-credit smile. He then walked away, leaving Elrhain standing alone on the stone podium.

“… Are all fathers puppies?”

***

Elrhain stood there on the right edge of the giant grey stage, struggling to make sense of these spirit-forsaken dances.

‘Let’s see. Arms go like this, legs go-ahg!’

He plopped to the ground on his butt.

“I’m okay, I’m okay. Father, stay there! I can do this.”

When the blush at last faded from his face, he was about to get up for another try but thought against it.

‘Feel, he said.’

Elrhain sat there with his cheeks resting on his palms and focused his gaze on the bottom-left most mural.

It looked odd, unbalanced, and blurry since the distance was so great, like trying to see the feathers of a bird soaring in the sky.

But rapidly, the mural in his eyes cleared until the blurriness was all but gone. The surroundings seemed to warp a slight, like a combination of fisheye and bird’s eye view, with every pixel in focus. But he felt no discomfort.

Because his brain erased out the disorientation.

Elrhain could see the entirety of the wall and every detail in high resolution, and he could concentrate on just one particular part if he so wished. Just like how he could see the suns when he first examined them in depth.

‘The starting line.’

Feeling the waltz in the mural without the help of imitation, touch, or a lick was nigh impossible. And the stones didn’t look particularly sterile either. So, he did the only thing he could.

He analyzed it.

‘Trace it with my eyes, connect the lines, and try to make sense.’

The first step showed two Dhionne figures—one holding a staff in his hands, the other carrying a jar at her hips.

There was no face drawn, merely a teardrop shape for the head. But Elrhain could swear the figures were looking at each other. And,

‘That looks like Annie.’

The thought piqued his interest.

‘…if Annie was twenty cycles older.’

The next mural showed the first figure slowly rotating his staff in a clockwise motion. The movements of his arms were strange, physically impossible for Elrhain. As if it wasn’t the hands that were gripping the staff, but something else.

Annie, No, the second figure whirled around, the water leaving her jar in a swirling wave. But the flow hung in the air like magic. They spiralled her in irregular orbits, as if they were strips of ribbons with one end tied to the jar and the other end whipping gently like a fountain.

The streams slowly elongated as more lines of water fell out from the clay vessel. Then they tore apart in two.

Half stayed by the woman, and the other half swayed to the staff. The man inside the water curtains ran his hands through one current.

Until his hand found hers.

They clasped gently, and the cavern faded from Elrhain’s vision.

***

A curve at the hips, a twist to the left. One leg up, let him support the waist.

Lift one hand up and the other under her spine, twirl her in the stream.

Wash away the past, but don’t let go.

The limbs, the backs, the chests and the heads.

Everything flowed in a unique tempo, like waves on a serene lake.

Like the snakes and fish, gliding free.

It felt natural, stimulating, seductive, and sensual.

He was inviting her to a tango of creation, with the void as the audience.

She peeked around and found no one there. It was lonely, oh so… lonely.

‘Huh?’

The limbs tangled more. It did more than tangle.

The figures became one. Thus there was three.

The third one left, towards the discs of green.

The first two danced, and the mist danced with them.

Enveloping, caressing, like their lustful aim.

Like a shawl of dim flame.

Opaque like nectar, covering nothing but their shame.

‘Love, oh sinful ones, and the flower’s immoral glory.’

Not enough were the eyes of one other, so they birthed a gallery.

The void grew, and the barren discs did too.

Progenies, life, trees and fish in the lagoons.

Hence, they came, and there was wars’ greedy tune.

‘… I’ve seen this. But where?’

The drums beat; the horns blew.

The tides swept the earth of all that grew.

Yet the water was fresh, and then it was warm.

Like a mother’s embrace, a father’s loving arm.

Protecting, nurturing, from the evil that alarmed.

Something was above! Bright, holy, scorching!

Angels! Figures of fire and feathers, it was salvation they were forging.

They flew down, tearing the void.

Raining lightning, stars, and the souls they toyed.

Steam!

The water sizzled, the blood of life rose, with the earth cracked and the skies they ashed.

Prayers, cries, screams, pleading, anguish, hatred, revenge, power, death, and everything clashed.

They came again, and again, and the figures cried in vain.

Again, again, the Angels campaigned.

Their baskets full of children, and their heart-rendering cries.

Their souls, life, and bleak, hopeless eyes.

The two figures watched, with nothing left behind.

They cannot fight; the angels had more than one measly life.

But not did their children, only deaths by the knives.

The figures had none, so it was a futile sight.

So, they danced and danced, and more children they romanced.

They prayed, they loved, and Eons amassed.

The crying spirits around, their misty eyes aghast.

Unseen to the figures, till the last children passed.

‘A beast, a tree, a myth, a beetle, and a cloud blazed alight.’

They were the first to cry, and first were they to fight.

More soon came; from within, the hearts unite.

And thus came the Angels, singing hymns of a harvest so ripe.

The discs darkened of life, with no words and song and laughter to inscribe.

Yet stayed did the spirits, for they had a different form of life.

Of a better, weaker, purer, more naïve design.

Slain by the Angels, but the souls survived.

‘… But so did the angels, with only two revived.’

The father sang in joy, and the mother sang in sorrow; their hopes no longer marred.

So they danced, and loved, and watched and cried, for the spirits that warred.

The first five died, the Angels did not spare.

But soon from within, stronger spirits appeared.

And in this war, some children were not sheared.

Each time a hundred; and nine times they dared.

The spirits more came, more powerful than the five.

They joined in the war, with the angels deprived.

And for the first time ever, the angels too did die.

The figures sang in praise, as the spirits rejoiced.

The progeny learnt to dance, with their souls and their lives.

Watched by the spirits, the song of discs they voiced.

‘… but the children hid from their parents, the pain their hearts hoist.’

******

Elrhain found himself in darkness, singing along with a strange song. Or was it a poem? He did not know.

The rustle of the robe on his skin was missing. And the sweet smell of moss in the caverns no longer preoccupied his mind.

He was not here in body, he deduced, as he watched on from far above.

His eyes saw everything like an omniscient god. He saw the first two figures fade as thousands more appeared. They spread from disc to disc, bringing along the spirits and manna.

Two new figures, one man and a woman, danced on the disc directly below him. The spirits of the north watched contently from the waters, skies, and the mountains in the surrounding.

The blues, greens, and everything in between glowed bright about to misty surfaces. Yet, the reds, violets, yellows, golds and all others slept a peaceful slumber under the Earth.

‘Weird, why only blue?’

They did not jeer or hiss as the figures tapped their foot clumsily on a dais. They didn’t leave for the eight other daises that floated on that disc. Not even for the one that blazed right in the middle.

The figure there, the one above the blaze, moved with grace and purpose. But it wasn’t dancing which the spirits surrounding him liked. It was,

‘Combat!’,

Elrhain looked around the void. His disembodied vision travelled infinite distances in all directions.

‘There were thousands of bright discs like the one under my being, and uncountable dark discs with no figures to be seen.’ He sang again, but it sounded wrong. The jagged tune of the song made his mind recoil as if he no longer belonged here.

So he decided to leave, but the story hadn’t ended yet. It wouldn’t let him go.

He once again observed all the discs. Threads in the void connected them to each other like puzzle pieces, but they could never fit.

His vision moved by itself to the ones with light.

Each shining disc, the brights had a mural of one step of an unknown dance, or a strange art of war, maybe? And no discs had two. They each had nine daises, with each dais having one or more figures moving on top.

But not all brights had a dais that blazed.

The discs that did have one shone brilliant with an inferno at the centre. Their dance more whole than the rest.

He only counted nine discs with such blazes, including his own. Yet the north dais was the only one that danced…

‘Which… dance?’

Elrhain shook his head. An image, like a needle pricking his brain, burned him from inside. But he pushed it down and concentrated on his eyes.

Something was begging him to watch on, and he obliged.

His eyes were back to the first disc, to the north dais.

The other daises had their own galleries, with the most bustling one indeed in the middle. The audiences were all the spawn of the first five and the stronger ones that came after.

It was true for the north as well. He observed the group of blue and green spirits surrounding the two clumsy figures. Some he knew, like the snakes, fishes, crabs, and snails.

While the others were nameless, Dhionne and Faediaga, animals and plants, and myths and monsters.

The two danced hysterically as if something was chasing them.

But then they slowed. Their forms still graceless, but the spirits could see their pure souls.

So they came closer. Till the manna touched them all. And the past flew away.

A blessing for the clan, a blessing to the disc, and another to the spirits. Then four to the heavens and the earths, the oceans and the voids.

Elrhain felt vigour course through his soul. The pain in his mind melted like the snow in spring, and the water that remained left his body unharmed.

The gentle torrents then converged, shaping themselves into a black star that floated above the dais.

He kept on watching as the dais became a kaleidoscope. Chants, prayers, and soothing howls of the spirits resounded from all around.

Finally, the spirits had all left, and the two figures sat alone. The female kneeled first, followed by the male.

Their hands were no longer held together.

But there were threads of blue and green and red, connecting the hands they had once clasped. The threads wove in the air, each passing through the black star as they did.

One final blessing, this one to each other.

The black star reminded Elrhain once again, that these weren’t the figures from the start of the story.

They had no staff or jar. They were foreign, clumsy, profane, and caring.

Elrhain smiled.

Then the Angels came.

And he woke up.