From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison)
Date: 18 Jun 93 00:43:45 GMT
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [MG] Kadrys: Dancing on a Highwire

[ADMIN]  Posted for Andrea Evans.


Moving on forever, maybe she don't care
Holding on together, maybe it just ain't there

You're dancing on a highwire
You need to be so sure
There used to be a lifeline
There isn't any more

	- Alan Parsons Project			     
			     

Grey sky overhead as Kadrys closed the Inn door behind him. A grey, grey day.
The world gently weeping. Water trickling down his cheeks, splashing into his
eyes as he glanced up at the clouds. It was as close as he could ever come to
tears.

Walking for hours, aimlessly, his mind strangely silent, his emotions numb.
Absorbed in simply soaking up sensations. Sitting bonelessly beside one of the
fountains of the Arcade, emptily tracing the fitful streaks of the rain,
comparing their glint, the sound of their fall, the scent of their water, with
that of the fountain itself. Unheeding of the cold, oblivious to the way the
rain drenched him to the skin, turned his hair into a dripping shroud over
his face. Moving on, for no particular reason. Just walking for the sake of
seeing the scenery move. Walking.

...Walking in the rain...
Memory. Clashing melodies. Dozens of inconsequential songs heard down the
years. He gave a faint sardonic smile. A distant corner of his mind stirred
itself slowly.
'How can people find _this_, the cold, the dampness, _romantic_? Yet still
they write their sentimental ballads around this theme. Amazing. The sheer
optimism it takes to celebrate such - misery...' He paused, drew a single
ragged breath, jammed his hands through his wet hair and shoved it back off
his forehead. No matter how much he concentrated on silencing or on immersing
himself in the stream of surface thoughts, he could _not_ distract himself
from the pain of Kardia's recent declaration.
'Stupid to try. No place to run, not inside my own head.'

He heaved another sigh, stopped the walking which had no other aim than to
put the Inn as far behind him as possible. He leaned against an inset
doorway, seeking shelter: as much from the dim sunlight, as from the
insistent, cold stroking of the rain.

'All right. No place to run. _Think._ Why am I so - so _cut_ by her decision?
Eh? Just what was I expecting? That she'd just take it all in her stride,
that that "Oh" of hers would be all the reaction she'd have for what I am?'
He laughed out loud then, a bitter, stinging sound, that drew startled
glances, sent the few passersby hurrying on faster than the rain could do.
'What a lunatic I am. Always dreaming about acceptance, about love. Crazed.
All I had to do was look at it from her side for a moment. She's a woman in
her prime. Attractive, talented. If she wanted someone all she'd have to do
is take her pick. Why in hell would she want a dead man? Give her heart to a
monster? Live with a leech draining her life? Have to grow old while seeing
him stay changeless as a statue? ...  In-sanity.
How in Hell could I ever have expected her to decide otherwise?'

But he realised that all of this reasoning could not remove the dull, dragging
ache in the depths of his spirit. The grief, souring at its core, darkening
slowly, dangerously towards despair. He clenched his hands into fists as he
thrashed round in his mind for means to fight the feeling. His inner voice
whispered darkly,
'And after all, why should I care? Why _should_ I? What have I lost?
An opportunity for worse grief to come, when she dies...' 
He choked this thought back, recoiling from it. Yes, this was one way to
avoid grief, but not a way he wanted any part of. This was the icy calculation
of the predator. It was the curse speaking in him: trying as always to twist
him into a hunter, a thing that kills as casually as any carnivore.
His resolve to resist it was ancient and entrenched deeply in him. But that had
never made the fight easy.

No, it was not even a fight, it was a balancing act.
He was poised with terrible precision: between the fire of emotion, (sometimes
a glow to warm, often a tormenting flame) and the cold perfection of logic.
Between empathy and callousness, humanity and monstrosity.
He was walking a tightrope between these two opposites. Leaning too much
either way would mean his downfall. If he abandoned the logic, the detachment,
then the grief and pain of losing his loved ones (as eventually he _must_),
would grow beyond all enduring, would cost him his sanity and his life. But if
he ever weakened his desperate grip on his humanity, then the curse would have
finally won. He would be nothing more than a murderous monster, and would be
hunted down and slain as such monsters eventually are. But the man inside
would already have been destroyed.
Yes, a balancing act.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the idea, the resolve gripped him, and he grinned
ferally. There was a maniacal glint in his eye as he watched the empty
clothesline swing back and forth across the strip of cloud above the lane.


(slide down to the centre of the arc) Here I am. (stillness, extend the arms,
then drop them. Unneeded for balance.) On my left, the cold, the abyss of
monstrosity. (leap, sense the way the line ripples in the breeze, rejoin it
with my feet) On my right, the searing flame of emotion. (spin, whirl, flick
the line out with my toes, catch it on the backswing) Lean too far either way,
and I fall. I _fall_. (right foot forward, left foot back, slide into a forward
split) Too far either way, disaster. (spin the torso until my shoulders are in
line with my hips. Feel the way my body fills the bottom of the line's arc)
The line is wet and flailing in the wind. Roll with it, move with the
turbulence of Life. (slide my feet together, smooth, rise until I stand again.)
Fail to give in to the turns of Life's path, and fall. Lean too far either way,
and fall. So very very easy to fall. And yet... And yet, I stand. It is still
possible to stand. Still possible to live. Feel it... Know it... Be it...


Silvi was bored. There was nothing to do indoors and Mama said she couldn't
go out to play in the rain cos she got her dress muddy the last time. She
flumped down on her bed and pouted at the ceiling. Who cared about a stupid
dress anyway? The mud all came out in the wash. Now all her friends were
out having fun and here she was. Stuck in her room. She dragged herself to
her feet and wandered over to the window.

There was a man out there! Right out there by her window, way way above the
ground. Standing on nothing but the bit of line Mama hung her washing on.
Ooo that looked _dangerous_! The wind was blowing and the rain was still
falling but Silvi just had to see better. She wrenched open the cracked
window and stuck her head out. Yep, there he was. And he wasn't just
standing there anymore, he was _dancing_! Jumping high, fast, like he had
springs in his feet, or like he was one of those string puppets the theatre
man had showed her. She just stared, so amazed that she forgot why she'd
opened the window. But a flurry of rain made her remember.

"Hey! Mister!"
The man looked over and gave her a really big white smile, like he
was kinda excited. "Hey! You better get down from there, you gonna fall!
You'll hurt yourself!"

The man laughed and shook his head. "No, little lady, no I won't. See?" And
he bowed, a full sweeping bow like she was some sort of princess, and then
he leaped. Backwards, without looking back. Then one bare foot snared the
line and he landed, looking somehow real sure of himself, nevermind the way
the rope was swinging in the wind. Silvi laughed and clapped her hands.
This was _fun_! This was much better than slopping around in some old
puddles. It was even better than the theatre man. "Again!" she cried,
beaming. He glanced up at her, the same big smile, and strolled forward
until he was in the middle of the line. Then he just seemed to flick both
feet out and up, and he spun backward in the air like a pinwheel. The line
sprung tight when his feet hit again, and raindrops were snapped away by
the impact. Silvi clapped again and started to cheer at the top of her
voice. The man held his finger to his lips for silence, hurrying along the
line toward where it was tied to the wall of her house. Silvi quieted, afraid
she'd made him mad. She didn't want to make him mad, cos then he wouldn't
dance for her again. But his smile when he drew near reassured her.
"That was great!" she cried excitedly, "Are you from a circus? Do you do that
all the time?"

The man's smile quirked, and he nodded slowly. "Do I walk a tightrope all
the time? Yes, you could say that. Yes. I do. I was just practising...
Making sure I still know how..." Silvi nodded. The man leaned a little closer
and added "Let's keep my practise here a secret. A real deep secret, just
between you and me, all right?"

Silvi's face grew solemn. "Why?"

"Because your folks would be mad you didn't call them up to see."

Silvi considered this, then nodded. "All right. ...Serves 'em right f'r
making me go to my room anyway." she added under her breath.
The man grinned and nodded. He stepped aside from the string and dug a foot
into the brickwork, lowering himself down the wall as easily as taking a walk.
Silvi watched him all the way down, leaned out and watched him pull on his
boots and walk away down the alley, watched him until he vanished into the
distance and the rain.


In after years, Silvi was amazed at the vividness of her childhood imagination.
Yes, other children had imaginary friends, but her Dancing Man had seemed so
vivid, so real. Of course, she came to realise it was impossible. No-one could
do the things she remembered him doing. No-one else had even seen him. Of
course not. Still, the memory of his smile, his skill, had become a precious
personal myth, a private source of comfort when other sources failed.