Oh, Muse. Oh, Catharsis!

My legs were on fire by the time they left the ground. I surged upward like a spark, stretching my arms toward the ceiling—grabbing, reaching. I landed hard on my calloused soles. Once more, then, I leapt, gaining height. The third jump took me higher still, and as I returned to the floor, catching sight of myself in the mirror, I rolled my whole body downward.

I found a strange foundation there in the scuffed surface, and I allowed this discovery to take root in the depths of my stomach. It tugged me to the ground like a magnet, providing momentum as I sank. I felt my whole body contort with it, bending in half, caught, flailing, like a moth in a web.

“Stop! Stop!” His voice echoed sharply off the white walls, the beating of a mighty drum. It startled me out of my panting half-trance, and Louisa, the stage manager, a severe, spectacled woman in a beige blouse, reached out a hand to pause the tape player. The music, that music—driving, discordant, utterly electric—screeched to an abrupt halt. There was silence.

Tugging down my shirt, I averted my gaze from the mirror and extended one leg, gently trying to loosen my muscles. But booming in that same voice, the voice of the giant that he was, he rose from his chair and began to circle me like a desert bird. “You’re dragging, Hector,” he said. “You’re descending into the earth too slowly, you understand? You lack impetus.” His words rattled his throat as though it were an iron cage. “The dance is precise. That is the challenge of it, yes? It looks wild; it feels wild when you are in it, I know. But it is precise. It is specific. Every motion has intention. One, two, three….”

He slammed his foot with each word, punctuating them with the thump, thump, thump of his shoe. He rocked his pelvis down, trying to mime for me what exactly I was ruining. And while he could no longer exert himself the way he could in his youth, I saw the whisper of strength in his limbs, the dancer, the echo of the titan he once and still was. At that moment, I hated myself for dancing badly. Really, the only thing worse than dancing badly is knowing that you are dancing badly, that others can tell you are dancing badly. 

I never imagined I would dance badly before Dimitri Lamoureux. I never imagined I would be dancing this piece before Dimitri Lamoureux—choreographer, director, writer, living legend. He had, in his prime, created six variations of what he called “human dramas with music”—not quite musicals—but real, honest-to-God works of art. And in my mind, they still towered over the blockbusters dominating Broadway at the time. Louisa, his longtime collaborator, had worked on every premiere and some revivals, such as this one. 

Lucky her. Lamoureaux had practically invented a new language of movement—a language which would inspire crude imitation after crude imitation. Yet, nothing compared; he had flown close to some secret glory, some cosmic thing that no other artist had ever even glimpsed. He was Icarus, never fallen. 

And I was just me, stupid out-of-work me. Through dumb luck (I never believed they really liked me in that singing prescription pill commercial), I would actually get to perform “No-place,” the “No-place,” that seminal solo dance from human-drama-with-music-number-one—Katabasis.

It was not quite a featured twenty-minute dream ballet, no. In fact, it had been described by at least one critic as a night terror—primal, cerebral, something that burrowed into a person’s head. It was a career-maker, though. The role of “the dancer” had no dialogue and, sure, it spent most of the show backstage. I hadn’t even rehearsed with the rest of the cast yet. But if I could step out and command the room for just six minutes and eighteen seconds, I would get to do this and nothing but this forever, until my body gave out. And I wanted that more than anything.

I saw a grainy recording of “No-place” on PBS as a child. Flipping through the channels in that little apartment, my knees digging into the living room carpet, I paused as a lone figure emerged onto a darkened stage. Dressed in gray fabric, hunched in a solitary white spotlight, his body heaved with bracing breaths. Ignited by a swell of wind and the crash of drums, he spun in a circle before bending backward completely, with a flexibility I could only hope to one day possess. 

With each movement, though, with each count, I found myself drawing closer and closer until I was practically pressed flush against the screen, near enough that I could feel the cold static pricking the skin of my face. Poised like that, I extended both my arms outward and began crudely mirroring the dancer’s steps.

“Back up, Hector. How many times do I gotta tell you? You’re gonna burn your goddamn eyes out,” my father growled. Coming up behind me, he ripped the remote from my hands and changed the channel. He barked at me for blocking the picture, but I had already seen the dance. I had seen it, and having seen it, I craved it—like I had tasted blood. And from that day forward, I devoured TV listings whenever I found them, flipped through magazines in grocery stores, or turned on the guide channel to let it roll, blue in the static dark, searching, hoping it would appear again. 

I had asked my mother for lessons once, I remember, but she never really gave me an answer. I think she hoped I would simply forget, not because she didn’t want me to have them, no, but because he wouldn’t have wanted me to. I had overheard one morning a suggestion that he would smash my toes if he caught me standing on them like a ballerina. I figured she had broached the subject.

Either way, they aired the recording of Katabasis again in the autumn, very late at night, long past the hour I would be in bed or sensible people would be watching. But I had planned for it. For weeks, I had been saving wherever I could—change from lunch or from errands to the corner store. Standing in the doorway to my bedroom, one eye on the alarm clock, I, knowing I couldn’t be late, clutched the blank VHS tape to my chest. I had scrounged up just enough to buy it for this singular, solemn purpose. 

I had made this walk many, many times, the long corridor past my parents’ bedroom to the living room. And I knew, by then, that I had to take the trek in threes—extending my legs every third step to avoid the spots where the floor creaked. I listened to my father’s snoring, holding my breath as I moved, three by three, avoiding the noise, avoiding the discovery, only to take off running as soon as I felt carpet.

Hurrying to the television, I muted it with the remote before shoving the tape into the VCR. And as soon as I was sure that little red light was blinking, I watched. Yes, I watched, and I mirrored the silent movements as if compelled, as if called. And while I didn’t learn to dance for real until high school, when I could spend more time outside the house, I did dance for real that night. I hid the tape in a corner of my closet and snuck it out again and again, whenever the opportunity arose, until it broke and I couldn’t even rewind it anymore.

“I’m sorry. I’m in my head. I can do it,” I said at last, speaking to Lamoureux in the mirror of the rehearsal room. I shifted my eyes to the floor, but he pulled up my chin, forcing me to look at myself. 

“I know you can, Hector. We saw it in your audition. Do that.” 

“Shall we run the section again?” Louisa asked. Her finger hovered over the tape player. 

“No, no. I’m tired of sections. We’ve been doing nothing but sections. Let’s weave them together now. He needs to feel the full scope, yes?” He locked eyes with my reflection. “You can do the full piece? From the top?” I nodded because I did not know what else to do, and I realized, in that moment, that, more than anything, I wanted to impress him. I didn’t want him to regret entrusting me—of all the dancers in the world—with this most sacred thing. 

And so, I lapsed into my pre-routine. Walking in a circle, the wood cold beneath my feet, I counted my steps in threes—stretching my legs at every third, out of habit or tradition or superstition. I rolled my hands downward next, running my pointer finger along each of my toes, counting out all ten, before taking my place before the mirror. Lamoureux settled back in his chair with a grunt, and turning to Louisa, I gave a nod. She pressed a few buttons, and with a low analog whirr, the music began.

I exhaled, my whole chest heaving, and counting to myself, I began. Turning, whirling, writhing, I bent myself backward, stretching my entire torso. Lamoureux too began keeping time, stomping away with his foot, watching every movement I made, driving me forward, taking hold of the energy I was hurling out into the space. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Each beat seeped into me, filling the pores of my thrashing body and setting my muscles ablaze. I blinked. And at first, I was not even sure I had seen it. It began as something of a flicker of light, a vague shadow over my left shoulder—almost a smudge on the mirror. The music hastened, and Lamoureux thumped time. And as if keeping up with it, the thing in the glass moved. I spun too, and it seemed to spin with me. But locked into the dance, I did not stop to look. No, I spun, and I spun, lost completely, and with each turn, the shape seemed to take more solid form until I, facing the mirror, panting, aching, could see it, really see it.

Skeletal limbs, impossibly long, arachnid almost, pulsed with tendons and throbbing red veins. It swayed back and forth—collapsing and contorting in on itself, creating and uncreating, almost imitating my movement but stretching them to the mocking brink. It was a figure, a rotting husk, forged as if from teeth and flesh and living darkness. It moved in a way nothing I had ever seen moved, choreographed chaos, a star imploding in on itself, a jellyfish, and yet, a man. Bending completely in half, twitching, it flipped its torso upside-down, and its swollen head smacked the floor with a sickening wet crunch.

Somewhere beneath the thumping, I thought I could hear a raw, splintering noise, one that could burrow into a person’s skull, digging like claws through grave dirt. Its spine had shattered, I thought. It had snapped itself in half and yet continued to move. Beneath the music, I could hear the sick, screeching grind of bone-on-bone. Thump, thump, thump. I leapt, then, just as I had leapt before, unable to stop. I stretched my arms upward, once, twice, three times. 

The thing leapt with me, limbs flailing, fingers breaking, twisting and cracking as it furled them toward the ceiling. I cried out—landing hard on the floor, traveling too far in the final leap, plummeting askew. The illusion broke. I rolled upward, legs burning, trying to catch my breath. I almost thought I would vomit, and when I looked, there was nothing in the mirror.

“Oh! Why don’t we take a break?” Louisa was the one to crack the strange stillness that settled over us, her voice firm as she stood from her chair and pierced the catacomb that the rehearsal room had become. “Step into the hallway, Hector. Are you alright? Do you need me to file an injury report? Why don’t you get some water?”

I was working too hard, I thought, as I slumped against the wall in the corridor. Closing my eyes, I took a long swig from my bottle, using the back of my hand to wipe away the layer of sweat that now drenched my brow. The shape in the mirror flashed into my thoughts like a thundercrack. I winced. There had been nothing there, I decided. Of course there had been nothing there. Nobody else had reacted, so there had been nothing there.

An absentminded hand came down to rub my knee through my tights, and for a moment, I was a little kid again. I could feel the living room carpet digging into my bare legs as I let my thoughts drift to that apartment, to my mother, to my father, and to that low-quality VHS recording, to the countless nights I spent caught in the dull glow of the television, dancing in the dark. Louisa came to collect me fifteen minutes later, and as I stepped back into the rehearsal room, assuring her I was just fine, I saw that she had taped a wide blue circle onto the floor.

“You traveled too far last time,” Lamoureux said from his perch. “I had Louisa mark the edges of the stage. It’s shaped like a disc. You must stay within the circle, understand? Are you ready to try again?”

“Yes, but I was just thinking…I mean, sitting out there, I know why I’m falling behind. I first saw this piece on television, the PBS recording, you know? Hundreds of times. And the dancer only jumps once. During the climax, I mean, he only jumps once. I’m jumping three times,” I explained. “It throws off the next measure for me, so I’m behind the music, and then I rush…” 

Louisa dropped her script on the floor, interrupting me and catching Lamouroux’s attention. He looked back to me after a moment. 

“I remember that dancer. From the recording,” he said. “He was a last-minute replacement. He was not like you. He lacked stamina. He lacked strength. Could not do all three jumps and keep going, so we had to alter it. The cameras were already there, and the show must go on, yes? But you have the ability to perform the piece as conceived, Hector. It’s why we chose you. Three jumps. Forget what you know.”

Watching him, I felt something strange fluttering in my stomach. Maybe it was nausea. Maybe it was embarrassment at him trying to flatter me. But it was enough. I walked my circle of threes, counted my toes, and straightened up. And looking at Louisa, I gave a nod. The music began.

It was different this time, I thought, my whole body struck by a new momentum. I lurched to the left and then to the right, writhing downward, finding each moment, each breath, each precise movement. Lamoureux was not thumping, and while I only caught glimpses of him as I spun, something odd bubbled across his face, excitement maybe, or pleasure. 

And I had done it, I thought. I had danced before the master, and at last, I had done it well. Still, I found that I dared not look in the mirror, not really, dared not allow my eyes to focus too long on my reflection, lest I see the mover. Some part of me, even then, thought maybe it was still lurking there. 

I jumped, once, twice, three times, extending my arms, my feet finding the floor as I plummeted down, sinking into the earth. I rolled, discovering that solid foundation again, finishing the dance with one final gasp as the music surged and ended in a cacophony. I had done it.

Panting, soaked, breathless, I looked up, then, my limbs ablaze. I looked up. And there simply was no mirror. 

In its place, there was only an unbroken wall of black, an abyss. Something moved within it, though, dancing through the void, crunching, whirling, twisting, and thumping. I watched it now, watched the way it transfigured itself. It was almost divine, some odd part of my brain thought, the way it moved, like nothing else had ever moved.

“Stunning, yes?” Lamoureux said, coming up behind me as I knelt there. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Louisa joined him, and all three of us looked. “Do not be afraid. It dwells there in the dark: No-man in No-place. Yes, always there, I think, just beyond what we can see…at least until we descend into it ourselves.” He laughed. “Do not look for the dead in the glass. You’ll not like it.” He squeezed my arm. “The dance, exactly as devised, three jumps when not in public performance, thins the veils. Allows us to see. A ritual, if you like. Are we artists not magicians? ‘And David danced before the Lord with all his might.’ Louisa and I have not seen in a long time, but ah, I can no longer dance like you.”

“What is it?” I asked hoarsely.

“Do I know? A muse? It moves like the breath of the universe, walks the edge of it, an echo of what has always been. Maybe God. Reductive, but to filter even one part of it for mortal eyes, to be able to imitate some whisper of its aspect…transcendent. Look. It’s choreographing our next masterpiece.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Inspiration chooses, Hector. It chose me.” He ducked down to speak into my ear. “I knew when you gushed about that videotape at your audition. Katabasis has never been recorded for broadcast. Why, then, did you and only you see it? How? To learn.” My eyes widened. “So be its filter. Be its mirror. Be sainted.” 

I rose. I watched. My legs burned. 

Lamoureaux had chosen me because it had chosen me. 

Yes, I thought. Yes, I wanted it. 

Me. Out-of-work me. The filter. Chosen,

I danced.