Don't cry when I'm gone

Mother never wanted me to dance. She told me that I could do better, that dancing sluts never got anywhere in life. She should know. She danced on the streets for as long as I can remember, and she sang. She was a beautiful singer. Folk would come around to hear her wail a ballad, and pay her in copper and sometimes silver. Then we would eat for days, and even have meat that was only a day old. But we always had to leave, no matter how much coin we made, because Ma was afraid. She was afraid that her past would follow her to wherever we were.

Well, her past won’t follow her anymore. A week ago, ma died, and all my problems began.

Mother and I had just been in Anaia two weeks when she got sick. Real sick. She couldn’t sing, and for a few days we had nothing to eat. I was hungry, and she had no medicine, so I pleaded with her to let me dance. Only this once, I reasoned, and then I could pay for a doctor to make her better. How could it hurt? I begged her. She, always stubborn as a mule, refused to bend. But I, too, was stubborn, and one evening while she slept, I dressed myself in my old dancing skirt, a white blouse with no more than five holes, and no light cloth I had sewn into shoes. Then, with a prayer to the Mother above, I slipped out of the house to go dance.

Exhilaration swelled within my soul as I made my way to the corner of Town Square, ready to amaze the crowd. Upon reaching my destination, my nerve faltered a bit. Mother’s beautiful face was enough to attract the first of her listeners. Her hair was dark as a raven’s wing, with a gentle wave, while mine hangs straight to my hips, a dull shade neither brown nor blonde. Her lips, rosy and plump, would open into a beautiful smile, and her skin was a gentle copper. My mouth is plain, my skin pale and alabaster, like a northerner’s. Only our eyes are the same, large, mahogany, with thick eyelashes. But my eyes were closed as I stood, nervous, blocking out the outside world and seeking the music within me.

There it was! I listened, letting it flow through me, a gentle melody of hope and rebirth. Slowly, without my controlling it, I felt my body move. Long limbs stretched; my back arched gently. I raised my leg and spread my arms, twisting my body. Real music started somewhere, but I did not hear it; I was absorbed in my motions. I swayed, I spun, I leapt and crouched. Faster I went, letting my figure move, letting the music carry me, on and on until my muscles were sore and I could stand no longer. Then, finally, I came back to myself and my eyes sprang open.

People stood around me, watching. As the silence drew on for heartbeat after heartbeat, my fear rose within me. Just when I felt fit to burst with it, a little girl stepped forward. Her chin was stubborn, her hair as black as Ma’s, and her eyes shone a fierce blue. Part of me wanted to flee, but those eyes held me entranced, and all I could do was stand, frozen, as she walked up to me. Her gaze never left my face as, slowly and deliberately, she drew something out of her pocket, and placed it in my hand. Only when I looked down did I realize it was a little doll, crudely made but still beautiful, obviously the girl’s own creation. The thing was dressed in clothing similar to mine, but much nicer, and apparently modeled as dancing garb. Tears stung my eyes as I tore my gaze away from the gift and back to the girls face, but before I could tell her that such a precious thing was something I could never accept, she stopped me with her own words. “When I grow up,” declared that strong little voice, “I want to be a dancer like you. My father has girls who he pays to perform, but they are not like you. You are a real dancer”. I could not hold my emotion at these words, only clamp my eyes to hold in the stinging tears. When I opened them, the girl was gone.

My joy would turn to misery far too soon thereafter. After collecting a good assortment of coins, enough, I believed, to pay for a doctor, I ran home. The sight that met my eyes when I got there shall remain forever imprinted on my mind. A man, our landlord, stood at the door, holding my frail mother by her wrist. A bruise had already made its way across her face, and he had raised his arm to strike her again when I screamed. I ran to my Ma, dropping my earnings as I went, and cradled her gently in my lap as she had so often done to me. Then I looked up, fury in my eyes, at the beast of a man who was our landlord. He was calmly counting the coins, his ugly face calm, not a drop of sweat on his huge, hideous arms. Coldly, he turned to us and said, “It’ll do fer now, but ya owe me a sil’er more, an’ mark my words: if I get it not by the end of the week, ye’ll pay dearly.”

And so we did.