Drum Circle (Beltane 2014) - a reading
Today marks the return of
Celtic summer, a day of bonfires, May poles, Lords and Ladies of the dance. And
as we dance, the circle remains unbroken.
On this day seven years ago,
I stood witness to a battle. I was the ghost that roamed the ramparts on the
eve of Karen’s sacrifice. I watched abjectly as the trebuchet began adjusting
fire. Below, in the courtyard stables, our warhorses stamped and nickered in
their stalls, impatiently awaiting the day we would throw open the gates and ride
out to relieve her siege. I feel no need to recount that grim tale set forth in
the Chronicles, her personal Prose Edda.
Today, instead, I’ll relate the
untold story of Karen’s victory celebration. The siege had been lifted, the
counterattacks repelled, the dragon finally slain. Her pennant flew
triumphantly on the hill overlooking of her fortress. At twilight, a circle of
friends and companions gathered in annual pilgrimage. That night, she had proclaimed
she would dance at the drum circle deep within the Dragon’s lair.
Allow me to set the scene. A sultry,
summer night in Atlanta
Just before midnight we entered the labyrinth of conventions rooms in the
basement of the Hyatt Regency on our way to a ballroom. We arrived early: the
drummers were still setting up. The lights were on, the crowd light and mixed.
The drums sat in a half-circle scribed with chairs. Masters hammered out
instructional rhythms, simple to complex, for novices and journeymen to learn.
Like their handlers, the drums themselves ranged from improvised to ornate. A
random collection of bongos, bodhrans and bass drums; tabors and tom-toms; frame,
hand and standing; anything that could bear a skin. All slapped, tapped,
pounded or caressed by sticks, mallets, fingertips and palms as the rhythm
required. One guy with a pickle bucket and a pair borrowed drumsticks held his
own against the professionals.
A few brave souls expressed
their appreciation on the dance floor. Yet the song remained unbalanced, all
bass baritone with a touch of top tenor, but not a note of a sweet soprano
counter-song. Karen, freshly outfitted in a circle skirt, peasant blouse and
belled anklet, held position at the edge of the crowd. It was not yet her time.
She would choose her dance wisely. This night was her homecoming, her prom, her
graduation dance, all rolled into one.
During a lull between the
sets, a hush descended. Then the high, rhythmic chime of multitudinous tiny
carillons keeping time with a couple dozen footfalls presaged their arrival. The
belly dancers parted the crowd like Moses’ twin sister, not with power but with
presence. They sashayed in, all swirling skirts and brightly sequined bra-tops with
bare, bangled midriffs, arms and ankles.
The drum master nodded as
they moved to the center of the room, their aura holding back the overawed,
encircling crowd. A slight smile played across his face as he held silent the
boys of his improvised drumline. The girls formed two lines on the parquet
floor, their eyes atwinkle with mischief.
A mallet descended onto the
central drumhead. The drumming resumed with a new vigor in an explosion of
well-time beats. A song emerged with no melody or harmony, all cadence and
secondary rhythms. Toes tapped, feet stomped, hands pounded walls and chairs
and thighs. The room throbbed, pulsed, pattered and thrummed with backbeat syncopation.
A ringing metal bar rose above the base-note tempo like the sing-song of a
childhood taunt.
In the center of the circle,
the twin lines of dancers responded, mirroring their movements to the measure,
all shoulders, curves and swinging hips in a single, fluid, undulating motion. They
flowed from one routine to another in a stylized, synchronic seduction. Then, with
supple arms tinkling with brass and silver bells, they encouraged the audience
to join. Karen and her friend slid through the crowd toward the dance floor. Others
soon followed. They danced and twirled, skirts billowing out from bare legs,
Karen’s crocheted shawl floating above her shoulders. A barefoot, bare-chested
male sword dancer in genie pants took up the challenge in a counterpoint,
stretching and bending in ways that would make even the most flexible yogini
envious.
The dancers were held hostage
by Hawaiian militants: John Bonham, Neil Peart, Kodo and Kitaro. Their war
drums drove the synchronous mass of swaying femininity. Through the rising
crescendo, dance and drumbeat merged in a primal mix of masculine and feminine.
In an atmosphere charged with skin-glistening pheromones, reverberating
rhythms, and entwined motion, a new energy arose. An archetypal image of the
horned god and triple goddess conspiring in an epicene re-enactment of a
springtide Wild Hunt. We ignored the rising heat, our thirst and pure
exhaustion as the tireless tempo pushed us onward. In that frozen moment, we all
longed to belong. We were the dance and the dance would never end.
Yet sometime in the early morning,
it did, at least for us. We departed the drum circle as a new, anarchic,
glow-stick dance took hold, the younger crowd devolving into a chaos of tribalism
without tradition. Returning to the cool, night air, we remained content. Karen
had claimed her time upon the stage to celebrate her victory. Together, we had
given her a near perfect Beltane dance.
Although the music has now
faded, we still sometimes get swept up in the memory of that dance. And as we
dance, the circle remains unbroken.
© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III
