Dancing Days

It all changed for Hans when Big Toby made the offer.

“You wanna come on the turnip run?”

“Yeah! But wait... what happened to Little Toby?” 

“Plague.” 

“Fuck that,” said Hans. Only last Sunday, instead of going to church, he’d been chasing Theresa through the dead orchard, and Theresa was sister to the girl who helped Little Toby’s wife Griselda with the turnip stacking, every other Wednesday. He recalled now that Theresa, once she’d finally let him catch her, had coughed lightly against his chest; the only bodily fluids they’d exchanged before she’d laughed in his face and ran off to church for the last knockings of the service.  

“I’m going to die,” he said. 

“No you’re not. He was an isolated case. He keeled over down by the river.” 

“From plague?” 

“Oh yeah. He was all swollen up.” 

“How long had he been down there before they found him?” 

“About a week. Maybe more.” 

“All swollen up.” 

“Yep.” 

“How’s his missus?” 

“She’s a bit cut up. But she won’t go without. No stranger to getting her hands dirty. No stranger to a turnip.” 

“I meant... is she well?” 

“Oh, yeah. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. You coming then?”  

“I’m in.” 

Not that Hans cared for selling turnips. They’d all heard the rumours coming down the mud track from the market town. There were people dancing in the street, Herschel had said. They were dancing in the fields too. Dozens, maybe hundreds.  

“Sounds like bollocks,” Little Toby had said, before he’d keeled over. 

“Sounds like fun,” said Hans. 

“They ain’t having fun,” said Herschel. 

“They’re having more fun than we are,” said Hans, “we don’t even dance on the holy days. No music. No fun. Just off to church for a sermon.” 

“Careful with your tongue,” said Herschel, who loved it up the church. He was that Presbyterian flavour that scowled upon fun and frivolity. His god was not the sociable type.  

“Anyway, they're not having fun,” he said, returning to the point, “They’re thrashing about from dawn ‘til dusk, dancing themselves to death. And more are joining in. It's a disease. From God.” Of course.  

“Still,” said Hans, “quite a gig, if you can land it.” 

“You ain’t getting it. There ain’t no music.” 

“What they dancing to then?” 

“Whatever’s in their head. Each other. God knows.” 

“Hang on, if there’s no music, is that still dancing?” 

“What would you call it then?” 

“Thrashing about. Don’t they have musicians in Market Town?” 

“Do we?” 

“Me!” cried Hans, irked at having to point his out.  

“You? You’re a turnip picker. No-one's a musician, either here or in Market Town.” 

“I thought they had themselves a bit of culture over there,” 

“In Market Town? Fuck no. It’s just like here, only bigger.” 

Hans often fantasised about living the life of a wandering minstrel. He’d heard all about them from the stories. If only he’d been born into a time, place and family more conducive to such a career. And if only he wasn’t so devoid of any musical ability. He was so lacking in aptitude it was nigh on a medical condition. In his defence his chosen instrument, the bagpipes, was just that – a bag with some pipes sticking out of it, that he’d fashioned himself from a pig’s bladder and some reeds. And a cowbone. He’d seen a drawing of one, and listened intently to the description of one given to him by his friend’s brother, whose wife had heard – and watched - a man play one in one of the villages on the other side of the Iron Hills. She’d said it sounded awful which Hans found encouraging for his own efforts were unlistenable. He must be doing something right. On those rare evenings when he could stay awake long enough, he’d pressgang his best friend Christen into banging a broken tambourine with a stick, and they’d performed their first – and only – gig outside the church after the Sunday service. If the villagers hadn’t been so poor they might have paid him to stop. As it was, they couldn’t afford the rotten vegetables to chuck at him, but they could – and did – offer to resort to extreme violence if he didn’t jack it in and fuck off. His new passion remained undampened by this, and on the free evenings he didn’t pass out Hans would head out beyond the plague field, out of earshot, and lay into his bagpipes, undeterred by his lack of progress. If he could, he’d drag Christen along to add a backbeat to which Hans would unwaveringly fail to adhere. 

They set off for market in the dark. They’d be home in the dark. It would be as long and laborious as staying at home in the turnips field, but the work wouldn’t tax the mind and Hans reckoned he’d find time here and there, between jostling for stall space, dragging the cart, unloading the turnips, shouting at the punters and shifting their pitch when the market warden hounded them for having no licence,  to scan the town for signs of pathological dancing. 

 The journey was predictably bumpy, but bandit-free and they got in with time to spare. 

“Market’s cancelled,” said the warden, poking his staff into the chest of Big Toby as he endeavoured to get their cart through the gate in the wall that surrounded the market town.  

“Fuck off,” said Toby smacking the staff away. 

“No,” said the warden “not fuck off,” but wisely planted the stave into the ground beside his leg, far from Toby’s chest. 

“Why then?” said Toby. 

“Dancing plague.” 

Music to Hans’ ears but bad news for the turnip run. If they didn’t manage to shift the turnips, they’d all be eating nothing but turnips. Good for vitamin C and roughage. That’s it. Toby didn’t have a clue about vitamin C but he could recall The Great Wasting from ten years back, when the wars from over the valley had bled over the horizon making it impossible to get to market. Four months of nothing but turnips; they could barely walk and all their hair and teeth fell out. 

“I can’t go home with turnips.” 

“I hear you. There’s a couple of fellas over there saying the same about their carrots.” 

Toby strolled over, had a chat, joined by other traders. There was talk of setting up an impromptu market outside the wall but it wasn’t going to happen at the drop of a hat so Hans took the opportunity to slip through the gates and into the town, taking his bag with him. 

He heard them before he could see them – the arhythmical clattering of clogs on cobbles accompanied by the slapping of sandals. Weaving through the ad hoc percussion were anguished cries, grunts, and some high decibel wails. Excited, Hans picked up the pace, turned a last corner, and there they were.   

 They weren’t packed in as tight as turnips in a cart but you’d have been hard put to cross the square without getting elbowed in the ribs or stamped on the toes. It was heaving, but there was room for dancing.   

After a fashion. The dancers reminded Hans of his dad when he’d tried to jack in the turnip schnapps. He'd been jerking about like a marionette and smashed up half his hovel. With no discernible sense of rhythm. 

But apart from Hans there were no other onlookers. The locals were sick of the sight of them, and sick and tired of trying to jog them on. Hans had them to himself. He had... an audience. 

He pulled the pig’s bladder out of his bag and breathed hard into the big hole at the top. Once it was inflated he fetched out the reeds and stuck them into the series of holes down the side of the bladder. Finally, he wedged the hollowed–out cow bone into the big hole at the top, put the end of the bone in his mouth, settled the bladder under his armpit, and began to blow and squeeze... 

“What the fuck have you gone and done?” 

Toby stuck one thick finger hard into Hans’ chest, whilst with his other hand waved in the direction of the townspeople gathering round the cart, muttering amongst themselves and pointing at Hans, who was hugging his pig bladder. Hans shrugged sheepishly; he honestly didn't have an answer. He didn’t know what he’d done and was as shocked as the encroaching crowd.  

“He’s a bloody wizard!” shouted one of the townsfolk. Toby stared at Hans. Wizard was a stone’s throw away from witch, and having a witch along for the ride in the turnip cart might lead to a good hard burning.  

“It’s alright,” said Hans, “I think it’s a compliment.” 

Toby didn’t relax. 

“Like I said, boy, what you gone and done?” 

Hans wasn’t so sure himself. All he’d really done is play his jerry-built bagpipe contraption. His sole purpose for agreeing to the turnip run. His one chance to play to a ready-made audience that he could pretend were receptive, enthusiastic even, on account of all their dancing. A bit of ‘let’s pretend’ to bring some cheer into his turnip-centric shit life. 

 The moment he squeezed that first ‘note’ out, they’d stopped. Like statues. As might anyone on first hearing the unholy squeal emitted form Hans's contraption.  Hans, caught off-guard by their abrupt cessation and the ensuing silence, also stopped. After a moment a two, he heard the slap of a solitary sandal, an isolated clip-clop of a clog, then...they were all back at it. Hans was intrigued, and admittedly crestfallen. This was his captive audience. And all his playing had done was bring their dancing to an abrupt halt. 

He tried again. He'd never get a second chance.  he squeezed out another painful wheeze of a note. Once again the square came to a standstill, but this time Hans kept on playing, breaking up the squeals and honks into a rhythm unrelated to any tune, but one could still tap one’s foot to. And then, they moved. Not on the spot, as a dancer might, but towards Hans. Towards the music. Instinctively, Hans stepped away. They continued to close in. Alarmed, he stopped playing. They stopped. He squeezed out a couple of notes. They started up again, in his direction. This time, he kept playing, but set off back the way he came, and they all followed, still dancing, not so fast that Hans thought he might get overwhelmed. And he loved it. He was making music, and people were dancing and trying to get close. He was a fucking legend.  

From that moment, Hans’ life changed unrecognisably, initially for the better, and six months later the much in demand Hans and Christen were at the gates of Magdhausen.  

“We look like twats.” 

“We look the part.” 

“The part of what?” 

“If you’re gonna get all self-conscious about it then take it off.” 

“I’ve got nothing on underneath it.” 

“It’s a costume, Christen. Showmanship. Projection. Not everyday wear.” 

“You’ve had yours on since we left home.” 

“I’m wearing it in.” 

“Yeah. It’s now I’m gonna get looked at that I just don’t fancy it.”  

“I'm the frontman. Just keep your head down. We’ll be stars.” 

They pushed on through the gates. 

“You make them yourself then?” 

“Really?” 

“Well who then?” said Christen, holding out a multi-coloured sleeve so he could take in the handiwork. 

“Theresa.” 

“Never! How?’ 

“I promised I’d leave her alone.” Not true. She’d offered to sew his costume together in a moment of guilt for flooring him with a bag of turnips, but the result was the same. Hans had foraged bits of cloth from round the village, mostly from round the side of the plague pit. He’d waved a bible over them to give them the all-clear. He’d gone for colours. It had taken a while. Everything was brown in Hans’ world.  

The costumes worked a treat. Got them noticed. Remembered. If anyone needed their town cleared of dancing plague they were directed towards the two brightly garbed lads with the unplayable instruments. As the money came in, they invested in ever brighter offcuts of cloth. You could spot them in a crowd. From a distance. They were known. Established. 

And then.... they reached Hamelin. 

“Seems quiet.” 

“Too quiet.” 

Cliched but true. Hans sensed a loser with this town.  

“We’ll find the square and announce our presence. See what happens from there.” 

They pushed on up the quiet streets, past the gibbet, past the inn, where the eyes of sullen locals followed them intently.  

Past the posters declaring: ‘Have you seen our kids?’ With attendant drawings of... kids. 

On to the market square.  

It was deserted when they got there. Very quiet. Then, they gradually began appearing. The townspeople. No-one was dancing. 

“What you wearing there?” 

“This old thing? Just something we cobbled together. You like it?” 

“It’s... very bright.” 

“It is!” 

“Multicoloured.” 

“Yep.” 

“You might even say... Pied.” 

“You might...” 

“Child snatcher!”  

Christen didn’t make it. Rumour had it they stuck him up in the gibbet.  Hans made it back to his own village later that month, his costume in tatters, its colours muted beneath mud and dried blood. The fingers of his left hand were broken and mangled beyond use. A solitary reed from his long-destroyed bagpipes poked out from the festering wound in his back.  

“Where you been?” asked Toby. 

“Don’t ask.” 

“You still pull a turnip?” 

“If I have to.” 

“You have to. Get Theresa to yank that thing out of you. You’re on in the morning.”