Dance Fiction: The Minstrel
A story about how I met a fairy who danced for me on the evening of the Snow Moon, February 2023.
Welcome!
You’re reading DanceChatt, a publication dedicated to dance writing centered in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
You know, I’ve been hoping for some dance-centered fiction or poetry to wend its way to this newsletter, but since that hasn’t happened yet, I guess I’ll drop some here myself. The term of art for this mode of writing is ekphrasis — art inspired by art, one piece of art depicting another piece of art.
In this story, I meet a fairy man and he dances for me. It mostly did happen, except the man wasn’t a fairy — unless he was, of course. This story is set in winter. Imagine a chill February wind cooling you down a bit.
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The Minstrel
By Jenn McCormick
“I know very well on certain days I’m in my first quarter, and my second quarter. And I must say that in the full moon I have a bit of trouble.” — Tomi Ungerer
Because it’s the Snow Moon and because I’m having a bit of trouble — the kind of trouble that prompts me to remind my housemates, “I’ve told you before there’s schizophrenia in my mother’s family, you knew what you were getting into when you moved in here, this is just a touch of mania” — I decide to spare them and me each other’s company and take myself for a walk.
Of course one prefers, like Bilbo, to step out the door and get on with it, but my street has no sidewalks and the street it gives onto has no sidewalks, no sidewalks at all anywhere from the corner of Tunnel and Shallowford until you come to Brainerd Road, so I put on my 13th Doctor coat and ride downtown and begin walking along the river.
I wear my 13th Doctor coat because I’m looking for an adventure. Not looking for one, exactly. Walking with my eyes open, ears open, pores open, swinging from one leg to the next, and what a marvel it is, walking I mean, a conversation between balance and fall —
My 13th Doctor coat is good for night walking because it’s a light, satin-lined, needs-cleaned, looks-gray-but-is-actually-violet, trench coat with lots of skirl; it’s the Highlander’s coat made of cloud. A big coat lets you carry everything in your pockets; a big coat frees you to run, dance, jump, and climb; a big coat lets a small person project a little more fool around and find out.
The air smells like fish (of course) and living dirt, the kind of dirt that has worms and thrusting shoots in it. River to sidewalk, sidewalk to bridge.
I should tell you, if you’re one of my out-of-town readers, there’s a big truss bridge that spans the Tennessee River. Half a mile of once-gentrified, rotting-once-more pedestrian walkway. It’s called the Walnut Street Bridge. Two folks at least have been hanged on this bridge. Crossing it should be eerie, like walking through a cemetery. We should bow our heads.
But we don’t bow our heads; we eat ice cream — even under a Snow Moon in February — and ride bicycles and play music and think our various thoughts. All sorts walk here: courting couples, elder couples, South American couples with strands of beautiful children running out in front of them, Brainerd High girls shouting greetings and challenges to Howard High girls, photographers, fitness fiends, people who sketch or sing or spit verse or play music or simply lie on their blankets until they get rousted elsewhere.
The river markers cast their lights: red and green verticals shimmering on water. To the east, Snow Moon climbs clear of the near horizon — a mix of industrial buildings and spidery tree line.
I’m a pretty basic old lady, I don’t mind saying, invisible when I want to be, but my coat is mythical and it flows out behind me, spinning to a stop when I see something that halts me: a guitar case planted in the exact middle of the bridge, with an open umbrella protecting the case from prying eyes or perhaps the near-cloudless sky.
Leaning against a vertical, a man is watching the guitar case from the east edge of the bridge. From where I stand on the west edge, I look at the guitar case. I look at the man. A flight of children comes dancing; I take a couple of running steps to cross the bridge ahead of their path.
“Is that your music box?” I ask the stranger.
“It sure is.”
The stranger is a barrel-chested man of medium height. He’s smooth-skinned with a Roman nose and big mobile features to match. A black felt gambler hat tilts toward his light-colored eyes; two or three long feathers laid flat on the brim angle back into the air on each side, as if the hat had wings. He wears a lot of clothes with a big coat on top, so of course he’s my guy.
He lets me take in that he’s barefoot — by the spread of his feet, always barefoot — and who knows what he’s thinking of me, clearly an elderly lady up close, his age or more, but there’s that moment of shared curiosity and delight.
“Do you sing?” he asks.
“Not a bit,” I say. “Do you?”
“I sing very well. I’m Tim Cruise and if you like I’ll sing you a song.”
Tim Cruise holds out his hand and I take it — not his skin, he moves the grip up, so we take each other’s arm through our coats. He asks my name. “Jenn,” I say.
“This song was handed down to me through three people,” he says. He lists two: Elvis Costello, Cyndi Lauper. He can’t remember the third. He begins humming, voiceless, then in voice. The song is a thread. A whisper. Then a drone. He steps away from the vertical, spreading his arms. Invoking.
I lean there, listening.
The song grows. It’s “Dip Your Big Toe in the Milk of Human Kindness,” and Tim Cruise, as he nears full voice, sings like a set of bagpipes — nasal, profoundly resonant, a sound you hear in your meat and your bones.
He slides his foot to the side along the rough wood and squats into a deep wide plié, glancing down to the side as he bends. A sly fierce look.
I know that look. And I know that dance. I’ve seen it at powwows, seen it online. It’s the first move of the sneak-up dance. It’s a hunter’s dance. You pantomime sneaking up on game — or an enemy, perhaps. But in the context of this song, Tim’s sneaking up on happiness, kindness. Joy.
He sings and dances the sneak-up dance for a long time, long enough for the song to spin its own world. He finishes his dance.
He bows and thanks me for listening. He puts his hand on his heart. Both hands.
“You didn’t lie,” I said. “That was beautiful.”
He spreads his arms. “This is a no-lying space.”
He starts rolling a cigarette, holding his blue plastic tobacco pouch in one hand and rolling the cigarette single-handed. Of course I’m impressed, and of course I don’t say a word.
Turning to leave at last, I bow in return. “Thank you for your song, Tim Cruise.”
He starts. “How did you know my name?”
“You gave it to me.”
“Ohhh — and what’s your name?”
“It’s Jenn,” I smile. He’s not the only person I know for whom some things are constantly born fresh.
“Jenn.” He holds out his hand.
I hold out my own, expecting it as he reaches in to grasp my forearm. But then he surprises me. Holding me fast — not firmly but inescapably — he asks: “Now what’s your whole name?”
You know you never give a fairy your true name. But he gave me his first. Besides, in the full moon I am a bit of trouble.
“Jenn McCormick,” I say.
He holds me firmly. “Jenn McCormick of Clan McCormick.”
I don’t mention that I’m definitely not Scottish. My name has charmed his memory for some reason; I leave it at that. Pulling away, I let our hands touch, palm to palm.
I bow, I go. He hollers after me, lots of praise, I don’t know what. I sketch a pirouette in a low second, boot toe to the sky, just to make make my coat spin.
I don’t look back.
Fair friends, let me tell you a secret. It may end badly for you, but why did the gods give you life if not to throw the bright ball as high to the heavens as you can and see where it falls? The secret is this: when a fairy asks for your name, you give it to him.
About the author
Jenn McCormick is a writer, editor, and dancer working in Chattanooga. She is the publisher and managing editor of DanceChatt.
This story first appeared on Elf’s Writing, where I share my fiction.
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Until next time, keep dancing.