It was a surprise gathering of “spirit workers” from all over the world and representatives of otherworldly entities. They all came to Harlequin’s nightclub but I was not yet lucid to recognize this. No more than any given two or three people knew the same language. When it came to spiritual matters, each had their own personalized language that could not be translated.
But we all knew rhythm.
An elderly man with paralyzed legs reclining on a large white fur stained with red designs began singing a wordless song while tapping out a rhythm on his skinned drum. (His legs were covered with a brown blanket woven with black and red designs. Dunno why that is so important to remember.) We all started to move in place. Each one responding to the beat in individual ways.
As each “spirit worker” fell into trance, one of the otherworldly representatives would come from where they stood behind the drumming man and gently escort the entranced dancer to the center of the cleared dance floor. Some they would take the arm and gently lead. Some they would seem to repel by getting close in the direction opposite where they wanted to dancer to go. (Think similar magnet poles.) Some they would fall into a matching dance and lead the dancer into place, like me.
The beat never increased to a frantic pace. It was slow and deliberate, but not so slow that your attention could wander. Those of us enthralled by the music had our eyes closed and/or obscured to prevent the sight of a thing from shocking us out, but we were all able to see each other just the same. Slowly, our individual dances melded into a tandem step that none of us had ever danced before but we all matched each other in movement and step perfectly.
I don’t know how long we danced there. A few minutes. A few hours. A few days. A few weeks. Time didn’t exist. There was only the drum beating our hearts and the song moving our limbs.
And then there was one less.
I don’t know if the person tripped, if they fainted, if they quit, or if they were forcibly removed. But suddenly, our number was reduced by one. We flowed to rearrange our placement to fill in the gap and keep ourselves in an equidistant pattern on the dance floor.
Another dropped out of our collective consciousness.
Two more.
One in the back of the floor fainted.
Another dropped where they danced beside me and began contorting in a severe fit before hitting the ground.
With each removal from our number the drum and song became more dominant, more present in the minds, blood, and flesh of those who remained. The dance continued. We continued.
I don’t know when I was no longer aware of the others. No longer aware of anything outside of myself. And by myself, I mean the drum and the song. It filled me. It animated me. It overwrote me. I wanted nothing else.
The drum stops abruptly and the song ceases with it. I fall now that there is no rhythm to animate me. My eyes are still closed, still obscured by a strap of cloth wound about my head, but now I see the entirety of the scene.
There is no one on the dance floor but me. Everyone else has either removed themselves or were removed to the seats surrounding the exhibition area. My body is barely breathing. There is no energy left for anything else.
The elderly man closes his eyes and nods. He points to my motionless body and mutters something I could not hear. The otherworldly representatives come to the dance floor and pick me up without effort. As they turn towards the exit, someone near the elderly man starts to wail in a loud keening noise. The gesture is picked up by the other spirit workers (those that are conscious, anyway) and they continue the expression in the manner and custom of their individual cultures.
They are mourning.
Aware but still unable to move of my own will, as I am carried away I pass close enough to an English-speaking spirit worker to hear his words clearly for a brief moment. “… accept this sacrifice…” The words do not comfort me.
I am removed from that plane of existence, but my awareness does not follow.
Instead it feels like a scene change of a play. The characters move out of view to signify the end of the act. The characters immediately move into view to signify the beginning of the next act. And like any such production, there is a change of costume to show something important has happened out of sight.
We, the representatives of the otherworld, walk back into the silent nightclub. All the humans who were here when we left are still present, in the location we left them in, though a few have changed position from seated to standing or from standing to seated. The elderly man with paralyzed legs remains on the fur covered ground and under the decorated brown blanket.
We are accompanied by others, who are like us but not like us but are of our thoughts as we are of their thoughts despite the differences in our bodies. Our clothes are the same as the others, as best can be represented, since our bodies are not like their bodies, but the symbolism can be easily read regardless of which body an observer is looking at.
The spirit workers on the floor look at us, with a strange mix of awe and pity, of happiness and sadness. They are glad we have returned to them. They are sad we have changed to return to them. All accept that we are not as we were before and are willing to meet with what we have become now.
All, except one.
They wear brightly colored clothes, with a diamond pattern that appears colored at random, and actually shifted colors as we watch. They came striding across the floor, breaking the line of sight of many, and breaking many unspoken rules of decorum. They tilted their wide-brimmed colorful hat off their head to reveal a face that matches what ours used to look like. They seized us by the shoulders and shook us violently.
“NO! NOT NOW! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!”
We did not understand why they were so angry.
“REMEMBER DAMMIT! REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE RIGHT NOW!”
No one came forward to intervene. The other representatives of the otherworld did not move to assist or hinder.
“Yes, one day you’ll go back to them, but that day is NOT FUCKING TODAY!”
We remember… their name. “Harlequin.”
“Yes! Well… for now anyway. For this time anyway.”
“What is it we are forgetting?”
Harlequin stepped back and gestured deliberately to everything surrounding us. “This has all happened before.”
The words hurt our head and we fell to our knees in sudden pain. Harlequin continued speaking without pause. “This will happen again.”
Our heart beat loudly in our ears, sounding like the hammering of an old skinned drum. “But this is not happening now.”
I became lucid and announced it with unusual softness. “Fuck.” The pain continued and I curled up on the ground at Harlequin’s feet. I covered my right eye where the pain was felt the strongest. “What the fuck just happened? What the fuck is happening? Harlequin?”
My hand traced marks on my face that should not be there. I did not have them when I was carried “off stage” but I did have them when I walked back in. A vertical series of symbols above and below my right eye. I noticed the same symbols were embroidered along the outside of the long sleeve over my right arm. I had the sense of an agreement with Harlequin. “Too soon… but too soon for what?”
Harlequin did not answer me. They took off their large carnival hat and held it over my head. They have always worn my unmarked face, but it was always clear this was not their face. I never want to know for what reason would I have such contempt and rage that easily visible. They dropped their hat over my face and the action buried me into what felt like an open grave on the dance floor before ejecting me from the dream entirely.