Chapter 3

The Square was alive with noise again by mid-afternoon. A loose ring of children surrounded the Gleeman, their voices rising in bursts—calling, laughing, urging him on. Off to one side stood Clef, his flute idle in his hand, his hat on the ground at his feet. He watched, not quite part of things.

After a few moments, the Gleeman gathered the balls into his arms and held them close, stilling the game.

“Would you like to try a new one?”

The answer came at once—bright, eager, overlapping.

He smiled slightly. “Let’s imagine these balls are tied to me with invisible elastic. I throw one to you—when you catch it, you come flying back past me to the other side. Watch.”

He tossed a ball. The child caught it, hesitated, then—prompted by the Gleeman’s small pulling gesture—ran past him to the opposite side of the circle.

“Well done. Now two.”

Then four.

The pattern began to form. The children moved quicker now, their paths crossing, their timing tightening. The Gleeman’s hands guided them—small movements at first, then more definite, shaping the rhythm of the game.

“This needs music,” he said. “Why not ask our busking friend there to help?”

Before Clef could refuse, the children were on him—pulling, coaxing, insisting. He resisted for a moment. “I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood for that kind of playing today,” he complained.

But the children wouldn’t take no for an answer, pushing and pulling at him to drag him over. Rather than create a scene, Clef gave in reluctantly. “All right, then.”

He raised the flute and began to play. The first notes were tentative, but the melody steadied quickly. The tempo built. With it, the movement changed.

The Gleeman no longer simply threw the balls—he directed. His arms wove patterns in the air, and the children followed, pulled into lines and loops that tightened and shifted like a living thing. Their feet kept time without effort. Their laughter thinned into something more focused, more intent. The game had become something else.

Gislane came into the Square just as the rhythm reached its stride.

She stopped in horror at what she saw happening

“Oh no ... not already.” Her eyes fixed on the movement—the way the children responded, not thinking, not choosing.

“And he’s drawn Clef in ... how? This has got to be stopped. But he mustn’t know. Oh Ruach, what to do? “ Near panic, she said in desperation: “I wonder if ... It’s dangerous, but we’ve got to do something.”

For a moment she stood frozen, then turned sharply.

“Cameron! Quickly!”

He appeared a few seconds later, breathless from the effort of crossing the Square on his crutches.

“What’s the matter?”

She pointed. “That dance—we’ve got to stop it.”

He frowned. “They’re just dancing—”

“No.” Her voice was tight. “They’re not, but they don’t understand that. Please—don’t ask why right now, just listen. It just has be stopped. But I can’t do it. I’m going to have to rely on you, because the Gleeman must not know I have anything to do with it.”

“Me!? How can I do anything? Cameron responded. “I can’t dance.”

“That’s the perfect reason why. But please don’t ask questions just now.” She leaned closer, urgent.

“Go to Clef. Take the flute and throw it—hard. I’ll go round behind them and catch it. Don’t worry if Clef gets mad at you, I’ll explain later. But please go. You’re my only hope. And whatever you do, don’t touch the juggling balls.”

Cameron stared at her. “I can’t—”

“You’re the only one who can.”

Before he could answer, she had already slipped away around the edge of the Square.

“I can’t do that. It’s too hard ... Oh, no, she’s gone already. What’s going on? Why me? This is crazy! Clef will kill me.”