The voices in her head berated her. A constant stream of negativity and self-admonishment persisted in informing her that she had no place performing the M’atahd, despite how many years of her life she had spent in both preparation and giddy fantasy throughout her childhood. And then, when the moment finally came upon her, she froze completely. The crowd watched her intently, and she could do nothing but shudder in her insecurity. Finally, she fled the open field, leaving behind the murmurings of the crowd.
Running through the darkening woods, she came to the stream
she knew so well. There, she sat by the
water’s edge and began to softy cry at her own ineptitude.
She soon felt a strong and familiar hand on her shoulder.
“Why did you leave, Ashanta?
I was so looking forward to your performance this evening.”
The voice was deep and resonating, with the soothing effect
that could only come from her father.
“I…I can’t, Father.
I’m too scared. A-and I hate it!
My whole life I’ve wanted this, and now that the time is upon me, I
can’t do it!”
Q’una wrapped his arms around his daughter and embraced her
as she shook.
“What is it that frightens you so, child? The M’atahd is your birthright. It is a time of joy, not of trepidation.”
“I…I know. But…all of
their eyes are on me…and…what if they don’t see the colors? And what will happen to me after? I do not wish to leave!”
“You speak as though you won’t return to us. Everyone returns here, and is better for the
experience. And as for the colors…”
Q’una turned her around.
Lifting her chin, he looked at her squarely.
“Ashanta, I have seen
your colors. They shine more brilliantly
than any the World has yet known. And
once you are finished, they will create such beauty in Otherworld.”
She was silent for a good moment. Finally, she sighed in fatigue, as if a
portion of the burden shecarried fell off of her shoulders and rolled into the
stream behind her. Night was approaching
quickly, and the glowfish would soon leap at her ethereal troubles, thinking
them to be a food source.“You…say that with such certainty. I think what scares me more than anything else, is proving you wrong. I do not wish to disappoint you. And I do not wish to be made a fool of in front of our entire village. That would no doubt reflect poorly on you.”
A scowl crossed his face at that. “Nothing you do could ever disappoint me,
short of just that: doing nothing. If you truly worry about my image, then do what is really in your heart – what you were born
to do. And do this without regard to how
others see you. That is all I ever
require from you, daughter.”
With that, he added, “You are a Skydancer, despite whatever fears you hold this night. Tonight is your turn for the journey. Embrace it, for you have earned it.”
And then he stood.
His word was final, and echoed what she herself already knew. Without another exchange between them, they
walked together back into the valley.
By then, it was already quite dark. On that starless night, the conditions for a
skydance could not have been better. The
crowd hushed as they saw the two figures emerging from the woods.
Addressing the audience, Ashanta apologized. “Forgive me for my abrupt departure
earlier. I was not certain if I was quite
ready to perform for you, and my doubts got the better of me.”
The spectators nodded in understanding. Q’una smiled at her, and took his place among
them.
“I am ready to begin now.
Father, if you would please start again?”
As before, Q’una spoke in a booming voice that reached the
entire valley. Despite having already
heard the introduction, the villagers were once again enraptured by it.
“We are gathered here today to bear witness. My daughter Ashanta is of age to perform the
M’atahd. Let all she touches bear the
light of her life. May Otherworld teach
her the meaning of beauty. May that
beauty be brought back to us. This is
our cycle. This is our M’atahd. But this is her dance. May Otherworld
know the name: Ashanta!”
As before, the villagers chanted her name in support. “Ashanta! Ashanta!” they shouted in unison. Instead of fleeing this time however, she
began to slowly rise. A few inches at a
time, and then a few feet, the ground separated itself from her. They continued to chant as she approached the
skyline. Finally, she came to a stop,
and an expectant hush came over the crowd.
A few silent moments passed.
And then she began.
Slowly, she outstretched her left arm. Her fist uncoiled, and a soft, blue light
illuminated the sky directly adjacent to it.
The light slightly pulsated, as a musical note echoed throughout the
valley. Then, the light faded, and the
note stopped. The sky returned once
again to black.
Looking below at her audience, she became dizzy. Stage fright, combined with a fear of
heights, did not make this an entirely pleasant experience. The knowledge that a single note could be
heard everywhere at once – every gesture and every mistake visible for miles –
made her nauseous and feel faint.
Nevertheless, she gritted her teeth and tried to focus. Stretching out her right arm, she repeated
the process – this time, producing a brilliant green color, and a note on a
higher octave reverberated against the night sky. This too, faded.
Finally, she stretched both hands, and the colors and notes
harmonized in a dramatic fashion. The
notes and colors sustained.
Thus, she began her dance.
She pointed. She
kicked. She turned. With every gesture came a flash of color and
a note – her own body used as both a paintbrush and a musical instrument. The audience below her chanted her name
wildly in joy: “Ashanta! Ashanta!” they
cried out.
Her body twisted.
Colors and sound emanating from every appendage created a kolidiskopic
symphony the likes of which could only be captured by the paintings of madmen
who would dismember their own ear in a futile attempt to convey the light
behind their eyes that only they could see.
Finally, in a climax of color and sound, Ashanta exploded
the night sky. The spectators cheered
maniacally. “Ashanta! Ashanta!” they
chanted throughout the valley.
And Ashanta disappeared.
***
Truth be told however, the main reason this orchestra had
become so popular lately was due in no small part to its newest conductor.
She had taken the classical world by storm. Even as early as six years old, she had been
considered a prodigy by many. Growing
up, new age gurus referred to her as an “indigo child.”
Now, at thirty, she had reached the pinnacle of her
career. And she was feeling nervous.
“Five minutes until curtain, Miss Ashantanoa. Will you be alright?”
She smiled, despite her tremor. “I’ll be fine John, thank you. I just wish these jitters would go away. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m supposed
to be here.”
He grinned at her. “Look
at it this way, ma’am. No matter how it
goes tonight, it’ll be an experience.”
He added, “Something to write home about, eh?”
Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013
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