The Dancer of Absolon

The Dancer of Absolon

    Demetre Vazul considered himself a good man, moving throughout the crowded market with a coin purse dangling from the leather belt strapped about his waist. He was scorned by society, a Tinker who, by law, wasn't allowed to hold position within the large Duchy of Absolon. He was tall and lanky, a mesh of black hair spilling over his shoulders that tried desperately to escape the cloth wrapped tightly about his head, revealing an earring or two on his left ear. His tunic, made of fine woven wool, was bright and held the many colors of an exotic bird, though now, it was beginning to fade and the hem was starting to ravel. His leggings were a taut leather, his feet flopped as he pushed his way through merchant and buyer, his greedy hands moving towards the nearest coin purse easy enough to grab. A beaded beard fluttered at his chin, while a shadow of rough and course hair lined his jaw. He smiled, his oaken eyes gliding over the marketplace, searching for something to keep his interest-swindling became such a bore-until they landed on a gathered congregation near a baker's stand.
He chuckled lightly to himself, raising a hand to part the mass of people, and turned a smirk upon an odorous peasant, whose jaw had fallen at the sight before him. Demetre crinkled his nose at the rancid man, moving away in order to escape the fumes coming from him. He made a face once free of the obnoxious smell, feeling himself sigh in relief as he stepped up to the front of the crowd after passing a burly noble and his haggard wife.

    There came a flash of red and yellow as a woman emerged from behind a veil, draped in velvets just as crimson as blood. Her eyes, two coal-colored orbs, were lined in ash while in the center of her forehead, a medallion dangled, held up by a bit of leather intertwining with her raven hair. Bells and punctured coins rattled and chimed as she darted forward, the veil dancing through the air as she spun and cried out "Opah!" before spinning towards the group of musicians behind her. Placing the veil near a basket, she bent low, a bit of ringing and clattering coming from her belt and top, and gathered a large purse and turned, showing the black and brown bag to the crowd. She said nothing, only smiled and placed the purse on the cobbled ground before the audience, then spun backwards, raising her hands into a clap as her hip dropped and raised.

    Again she cried out, the musicians taking their cue to begin the drumming. Quick but steady beats erupted, causing Demetre to gasp and clap along as the woman flitted about the semi-circle to the thunderous sounds of each leather and wooden drum. He watched her with the interest of a little boy seeing his first bow and arrow. He laughed, stopping every once and a while to fiddle with his beard or to toss the locks of hair behind his shoulders. Then he remembered-his coin purse was full today; and reaching into the small leather pouch, he produced two gold coins and into the air he flicked them, watching them land near the woman's own purse. His eyes never left her, watching her draw up the veil once more, moving like a weaving snake being charmed by the Tinker men behind her.

    One of the men called out her name, and Demetre silently repeated it to himself: Arizma. Suddenly, his eyes widened as the glint of a sword flew through the air, the startled gasps of the crowd drawing his attention to the woman as she danced forward. The sword, with its tassels and polished blade, balanced on her head, or thigh, or waist.

    Demetre felt his heart swell.

    Arizma didn't slow down until the end of their impromptu performance. Her back arched as she bent backwards, her arms held up before her. The music died away, the musician's fingertips lightly tapping out the last bit of the nameless song, the leather drums echoing as the audience-Demetre especially-cheered and tossed gold at the band and their dancer. Arizma bowed, turning to clap for her players; they obliged and clapped for her as well. Soon, they were gathering their belongings and getting ready to move on while the crowd surged forward suddenly.

    Demetre struggled to get through the sea of people, growling when the stinking peasant got in his way and shoved him back. All he wanted was to see her, to meet her, and to congratulate the woman on a well-done performance. Perhaps even to ask her out for a night ride through Absolon's near by woods-if she wasn't taken, that is. He slumped his shoulders and turned, his fight with the audience to no avail. At least, he had gotten to see a goddess dance; she must have charmed him more than the others present. He turned to go, heading up the cobbled street, past the butcher's, the cobbler's, and made his way home.

    The next day, Demetre found himself walking through the marketplace once more, his smile now a frown and his face set into a depression. He didn't move with a strut in his step, and didn't bother to defend himself as a noble bade his squire to spit at the Tinker's feet. He sighed, turning the corner and drifted through the realm of buyer and seller, distant from the rest of them as he felt for the coin purse now just a few coins full. He lifted his head as he saw the baker's stand from the day before, his heart pounding deep in his breast as he rushed forward.

    "Have you seen the woman? The dancing woman from yesterday, old man?" His voice was quick, his hands shaking as he leant forward. The baker's answer made his heart sink, and he turned to go with a slow, floppy walk, but felt a gruff hand clasp his shoulder that made him stiffen. He hadn't stolen any bread, at least not today!

    "But she left you this," the baker spoke at last, releasing the Tinker.

    Demetre turned and beheld the red and yellow veil Arizma had used to dance with. His fingers moved out slowly, the silken texture appealing as he rubbed it against his face, his eyes closed as once again he pictured her dancing. The baker stood back, watching with a toothless grin, telling the Tinker that the caravan had moved on, most likely, the night before, and probably wouldn't return until the next season. Demetre nodded and thanked the man, knowing now that he had not gone unnoticed by Arizma; and knowing now, as he stepped out into the street and strutted through the market, that next year, he'd watch her move like an agile cat to rhythms just as exotic as she.