In the Town of Eyam

Sitting on the banks of the River Caen, between the two peaks, there is a little town by the name of Eyam. In this town rapids slow and birds cease their chirping as the sun rises. Through the air floats petals: scarlet, cerulean or emerald. Once in an apricot moon may you find a lilac blossom, spreading its gift throughout the sky. Spirits drape themselves across the clouds, cushioning their lithe limbs and softly grazing their smooth skin. When they tilt their gaze to the earth, they gaze upon Eyam. For there, in those blooming meadows, play their children.

For if you take a carriage up the winding Oely Lane, travel through the ethereal gates and set your feet upon the ripe Eyam earth you will find yourself looking upon the realm of a race of the most beautiful creatures anyone could lay eyes on. Others call them faeries, or pixies, or elves, or other fanatical descriptors that release them as balloons in the imagination: they soar up to the heavens without any tether to the ground. Perhaps it is their acute ears, bold amber eyes and locks like rivers that invite the imagination, but if you stay a while in the town you begin to discover a lot more. In the daytime, they sit beside each other and weave flower crowns, they cook exquisite meals and titter excitedly over the most mundane of things. Above all, they dance.

Extended arms, twisted torsos, pointed toes. Simple yet intricate beyond comprehension. Amongst the grass, their hearts pound, their movement knocking the flowers and throwing the petals up into the air. From across the world, travellers flock to witness the spectacle, anyone who has an interest in anything from natural oddities to simply a good show leaves with their handkerchief dabbing the corners of their eyes. When you step into the meadows to experience the wonder, a feeling of enchantment washes over you. For this dance is not some country prancing, arranged for the barmaid and the farmer boy to find love. No, this is a true beauty, and most importantly it is true magic. Coursing through the weaving limbs is powerful, ancient magic, gifted to the populace of Eyam by the spirits themselves. In this arrangement they are children of an ancient pact, never to be tampered with. According to this deal, they invite all from around the globe to look upon their marvels. They spread the word before anyone else could. 

Talia was five. As her mother taught her, she folded her hands neatly behind her back and straightened her spine to perfection. At that moment she was a spectator, just like all the others who had journeyed to her village and were gazing upon her people for the first time. Although, this was not her first time. Every evening she watched their dance, and every morning when she rose. It brought her great joy to feel the energy coursing through their veins, she could feel it within herself. Even more so, it pleased her to see others relish in the magic as she did. Somehow it made her feel appreciated. It reminded her she was not invisible. Talia tucked a strand of loose chestnut hair behind her sharp ear. Around her, the audience clapped politely as the dance reached its climax. Once it finished, the Chief Dancer of the time stepped forward.

“That will be all for tonight. Thank you for coming!” Her voice was silk. It seemed it was not as smooth as Talia thought because this announcement was met with jeers and an uproar so loud Talia wanted to shrink away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! We are tired, we cannot perform for you anymore.” Then one of the men, in the front row, seized her arm and yelled something about continuing. The Chief Dancer’s eyes were wide and her cheeks lost their glow. She swallowed and brought forth a smile. How she conjured such a thing in those conditions, Talia never understood. “Very well!” So they carried on. 

Talia is ten. Now her hands do not fit together so neatly as they once did, and her posture has lost its childhood strength. She places herself on the fringes of the crowd, sensing the rise and fall of their joy, currents of the ocean. She has come to understand the dance must always continue, for them. In between her peoples’ shouts she sees the longing to whisper. When a dancer may rest and instead tend to the bread, or the gardens, those are the happiest moments of their life. Soon Talia will begin her training, her preparations to carry on as an icon for her people. The weight of their exhaustion will be placed on her shoulders. Absence of sleep is oh-so heavy. Talia thinks the audience might as well tie strings to the dancer’s shoulders, maybe that would finally satiate their appetites for entertainment. Remarkable, how a few yards between them can create two entirely different worlds. 

Left to the Chief Dancer is her mother. A lift of an arm, a swing of a leg and then something goes awry. She stumbles to the ground, clutching her ankle when she is collapsed into the earth. Talia rushes to her side and, along with a few others, lifts her away. The crowd laughs, they laugh! Hidden away in their cottage, the senior dancers advise her mother to rest, so she might return to dance for them once more as soon as possible. Talia stays by her side and holds her hand. Here, in the quiet of their home, she feels at peace. The walls dull the roar of the crowds. 

“Mother, why do we dance?” She asks. The fire flickers; it trembles. Her mother stares at her, a look blank at first then cautious.

“Why do you ask?”

“As a people we savour the quiet moments, we live for them. Why, then, must we put on a show? If we do not wish to display ourselves, why do we do it?” Her mother sighed.

“You have seen what will become of us if we stop to dance. Difference requires distance. Get too close and they might see us as real, as human. Spirits forbid, similarities might arise. And that, oh, that is unacceptable.” In that last line, her tone is mocking. Talia shakes her head. 

“What if you stop? We do not bloom and blossom to simply entertain. We should stop dancing! We should close our doors and lock them away, live a peaceful life, I understand that is the town’s true wish.”

“If we stop they will chain us and force us to continue. I shall dance until I die, that is my fate. A rebirth to the spirits is closer to freedom than the alternative.”

“But is this even freedom?”

“In this world, Talia, when you are different this is the closest to freedom you will ever come. Chin up, darling. Soon you begin your rehearsals.”