It was market day and Strasbourg’s Neumarkt was bustling. Traders shouted over one another, holding up carrots, turnips and onions still crusted with soil. A butcher’s boy rushed past with a pig’s carcass slung over his shoulder. Chickens protested from inside cramped cages, their cries weaving into the resounding chorus of human commerce. Somewhere, a child was crying. Or laughing, it was hard to tell. Another one darted about barefoot from stall to stall, sweating in the summer heat.

  The bells of the cathedral's clock tower rang noon. No one paid it much heed and it inconspicuously morphed into the myriad of present noises.

  Towards the northern edge of the square, near a stall selling dyed wool and ribbons, something was drawing attention. Heads had begun to turn, hands stilled mid-barter. A small but growing crowd was gathering around a cluster of dancers.

  A milkmaid moved in jerks as her apron twisted sideways. Her bodice was soaked with sweat. Her hair clung to her temples. She swayed too far, caught herself, then swayed in the opposite direction, stomping in place as if squashing something. Her eyes were unfocused and open abnormally wide, gazing somewhere into the distance.

  A thin, elderly woman tried to keep pace with her. She wore a handkerchief tied under her chin, and her legs trembled with every step. She collapsed suddenly onto one knee, eliciting worried murmurs from the gathering crowd. But she rose again and continued as before.

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  Near them, a butcher’s apprentice turned in frantic circles. His face was red, but he grinned through it. His teeth were clenched. It might have seemed comic if not for the wet red stain running down the inside of his leg. Probably blood.

  And just beyond them all was a girl, maybe twelve… or thirteen? She was barefoot and silent. She spun slowly, arms straight down at her sides, fingers rigid. Her eyes were wide and barely blinked.

  These people were dancing. But there was evidently no enjoyment or euphoria involved. They just… danced! Without any purpose, without pause!

  The increasing throng of onlookers began muttering.

  “Heatstroke,” said one man.

  “Witchcraft,” whispered a woman, clutching a rosary.

  A merchant called for his boy. “Fetch water… from the shady well. Go on.”

  Others didn’t speak at all. They just watched, caught between pity and fascination. A few turned away. Some crossed themselves. One old man made the sign of the horns and spat twice.

  Not far off, a fiddler had been playing for coin. He played a light tune, nothing remarkable.

  Then suddenly, he stopped. Now he stood frozen, bow hanging in mid-air. He stared at the dancers with a look that was a mix of fear and incredulity. The milkmaid had begun to move in rhythm, not exactly with his tune, but near enough mimicking it. Her limbs twitched in time with the last notes he’d played.

  The fiddler swore under his breath and, shoving his bow into its case, he slung it over his back. His coins lay scattered at his feet, but he didn’t stop for them. He was gone before the crowd could even notice.

  The music was now gone, but the dancing didn’t stop.