Dance of Death: Square Dance

[bonesofbirdwings]

So, brief introduction to this - a year or so ago, a friend and I were arguing about whether the dance of death was a square dance or a waltz. I wrote the following as evidence.

Midwest Death - his scythe is well-used, not only for reaping souls, but for cutting the grass as it grows long and tall, swaying in a wind that is heavy with humidity and the scent of a distant thunderstorm. He drags his bone-fingers along the wicked blades of mechanical choppers and the humongous frames of tractors. When he speaks, his voice is the deep rumble of thunder and the crack of lake-ice.

He has a fiddle, of course. Old, worn, but cared for meticulously. His bow is strung with the hair from his own horse, which is currently in the pasture behind the old parish school, grazing on the sawgrass that grows wild and untamed.

On crisp summer nights, when the fireflies beat out their mating calls of light and the frogs sing in the reeds, he rosins up his bow and he plays a simple tune - 4/4 time. Their feet thumping in time to the beat, townspeople stream from their houses, blindly reaching out for each other’s hands. Round and round they spin, circles within circles, their hearts pounding to the beat of the music. Death’s fingers fly across the strings. Faster and faster - the music rises, becoming frantic, urgent. Sweat soaks their clothing, their breath coming in harsh pants. They spin and spin, wind whipping around them. There is a crash of distant thunder. Lightning sparks from their joined hands. They spiral inwards, the wind drawing in tighter and tighter. They open their mouths, and there is only an endless howl.

In a house far away, a girl points out a distinctive funnel shape in the clouds. Her parents hustle her away, the mother casting one last anxious look over her shoulder as they descend the stairs to the basement.