The Dancer and The Devil

Present Day

The teens looked warily at the giant chasm that lay nearly 30 feet from their current location. They huddled together under thick blankets surrounding the annual bonfire, eager to finally hear the story of The Dancer and The Devil. This year, it was my turn to creatively explain to the young teenagers why they mustn't venture close to the edge. At this point, it was tradition to share the story about the young girl that fell in love with the devil at the bottom. For years, we have been told about the tragedy in our small town's streets and cautions to take because of it.

Amelia, a timid 15-year-old, spoke first, "Miss Lyra, do you believe in the story?"

"Of course I do," I whispered, "why wouldn't I?"

Her older brother, Jacob, muttered, "Because it's a silly ole wives tale to keep kids from falling off a cliff?"

The teenagers snickered at the commentary, most not believing something so silly as a girl who fell in love with the devil at the bottom. Amelia, docile and curious, glared towards her brother's ridiculous accusation and leaned towards me. I knew more about the chasm than most would care to, about the draw of the deep nothingness and the man who sits at the bottom. He had a name once, a long time ago, and would often venture out of his chasm to visit his family. He hasn't seen us in centuries, not since she fell into his graces, leaving behind his only sister to wander the surface alone.

Sternly I turned and said, "If it is of no interest to you, you may leave. Otherwise, stay and listen to the story of The Dancer and The Devil."

They quickly shut up, curiosity sparking through their veins, as I begin,

"Her life was built on a purpose. At least she desperately hoped so. If she had no purpose driving her in this world, then her life stumbled on the edge of irrelevancy. She peered over the edges of her demise as she danced behind the devil's closed eyes. He watched her dance along with the rhythm of uncertainty, balancing on the edge of the cliff that would bring her closer to him. She screamed into the abyss below, begging him to reveal himself. Always begging him to come back; show her she isn't crazy, show her that she matters to someone, just show her. He wouldn't listen; he couldn't. He just sat and watched, concealed by the darkness waiting for her to grow tired so he could take her back home.

It never mattered how many times he brought her home. To the safety of her bed and watchful eyes of parents because once she awoke, she was pirouetting along the cracks of her dangerously high existence. She had no regard for her own safety, only trusting that if she fell, he'd be there waiting beneath the surface of the oblique wishing well. He hated how she trusted him to make the right choice for her, how she stared below with a coy smile, how she would dance along the edges, making eye contact with the depth, hoping to see the glint of his eyes. She didn't understand the danger of playing too close to the edge. That the darkness can quickly take over the light, that no matter how inevitable the closure of her existence, she couldn't will it to happen faster than necessary.

He wished she would forget that he was there, waiting and that she would sprint happily into the arms of peace. Yet he knew that she would also tumble her way into his field of vision, a vision filled with how she let life exist through her without the need to live in harmony with it. It was the way their lives happened now, he would bring her back to the warmth, and she would fling herself back against the edge of chaos.

Neither one was willing to change what happened until she grew the courage to throw herself into the chasm of desperate inevitability. For years, some say centuries, this dance continued until the day the youthful girl found a tune much more suited for the challenge. One day, he was watching as he always found himself doing and ran from his darkened entrapment to keep her from breaking in the free-fall away from light. As he caught her shaken form, she looked into the eyes that gleamed below an inky black surface and said, "My existence has been for you. It was always the unavoidable, inescapable you."

The end."

The teens looked wide-eyed towards the chasm, deathly silent in hopes of hearing the tune the young girl heard when she fell. If only they had the chance to catch the same glimpse of the devil that caused such a story. They desperately wanted to know what was so enchanting about the "man" down below that the girl would always go back. My eyes wandered to the spot too, where I found the ballet slipper my first winter here, a sign of warning the locals will inform.

I didn't believe them, with their superstitions about the chasm devil, until one night I saw those eyes gleaming towards the sun. I had sunk to my knees, leaning towards the abyss, when a gust of wind threw me back into the snow-covered hillside. I often venture to the edge, even if I'm terrified of falling to my demise and becoming one with the legend of our streets and returning to a world where I no longer belong.