The Butcher Dance

Here, I take a break from the most boring blog on the face of the earth to post a campfire story, first told around a campfire to the members of BSA Troop 649.... Or WAS it just a campfire story?  You can be the judge.  And if you have the courage,  tell this story aloud, around a campfire some night when the sparks ascend straight up to the starry heavens.  If you are bold, act out the dance steps at the end--but without the knives!  And you may just learn some eternal truth that (you will see!) was hidden in plain sight all along...

The Butcher Dance

You have probably seen documentaries on public television stations.  They are certainly educational, even interesting, but I doubt they are your favorite programs.  Nevertheless, somebody has to make them.  There are people who spend a career doing nothing but making documentaries.  Some of these people specialize in a particular kind of documentary.

Once upon a time, and not too long ago, there was a documentary maker who specialized in documenting folk dances.  He went all over the world, filming various kinds of folk dances.  In the course of his 20 year career, he filmed folk dances from pole to pole and sea to shining sea.  He had been to every country on the Globe where anybody did any sort of folk dance—many of them several times.  In a display case in his tiny apartment (he was hardly ever there), there were rows and rows of shining trophies, documenting the quality of his folk dance documentaries.  Twenty years into his career, this documentarian (we’ll call him “Jack”) became convinced that he had documented every existing folk dance anywhere on the planet.  He had decided to retire.

After successfully filming a documentary of a folk dance that he believed was his last job, Jack was passing through the airport in Brisbane.  He struck up a conversation with one of the baggage handlers.

“Interesting bags you have here, Mister,” said the baggage handler.  “What sort of work do you do?”

“I document folk dances for public television,” said Jack.  “I just finished filming a folk dance in Tasmania-- probably the last folk dance documentary that I will need to do.”

“That’s very interesting.”  Replied the baggage handler.  “Have you just lost interest in filming folk dances?”

“Oh no!  I’m still interested in folk dances, it’s just that I have now filmed every folk dance that is being done anywhere on the planet.  There simply aren’t any more folk dances for me to film.”

“So you filmed every folk dance in existence?  That is very impressive!  What did you think of the Butcher Dance?”

Jack raised one eyebrow and peered at the baggage handler.  “Butcher Dance?  Refresh my memory.  Where do they do the Butcher Dance?  I am sure I must have filmed it at some point.”

The baggage handlers leaned his elbows on the handle of the baggage cart, tipped his hat on to the back of his head, and stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “That’s not its real name, of course, just what the locals call it in my town.  To tell you the truth mister, I am not sure I should have even mentioned it.  The Butcher Dance is only done in a small community that is a hard day’s journey from Gundagai.  It is a terribly difficult dance, and they only do it once a year, during a certain phase of the Moon in a certain season of the year.  I saw it once when I was just a lad.  I think you would remember it, especially the part with the long long knives.”

By the middle of this impressive speech, Jack was certain that he had accidentally come across another dance, an interesting one that he had not yet documented.  He called the travel agent, canceled his plane flight home, and booked a fare for Gundagai.

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It took a little over a week for Jack to finalize the arrangements to make a new documentary of the mysterious Butcher Dance.  Minnesota Public Television agreed to pay for the documentary. 

“When you get to Gundagai,” his travel agent told Jack, “you’re on your own.  I can’t find anyone who has heard of that little village, or the Butcher Dance.  I sure hope this isn’t just some shaggy dog story.”

But Jack had a feeling, based on his many years of experience interviewing people, that there really was a small village in the middle of the Australian outback that was practicing an ancient dance.  Perhaps even an original dance of that most ancient of peoples, the Australian Aborigines.  The Butcher Dance, whatever it might be, could be the oldest continuously performed folk dance on the face of the planet.  He sensed that this could be the most important documentary of his entire career.

The travel agent had been unable to find information about the little town where the Butcher Dance was performed.  How could Jack possibly find anything else out about it?  Once again, his years of experience told Jack what to do.  After arriving in Gundagai, he quickly located a popular pub, The Town & Country, “where the atmosphere is great,” and arrived in time for dinner to seek information.

The bartender was polishing the top of his weathered bar.  He was an older man, trim and muscular, with a weatherbeaten face and smile lines at the corners of his eyes.  He looked up.  “G’day mate,” he said to Jack with a little wariness in his voice.  Jack was not one of his regular patrons.

Jack asked him about the Butcher Dance.  A look of amazement transformed the bartender’s face.

“Good Lord!”  He exclaimed.  “How in the world did you ever hear about the Butcher Dance?    Even many of the locals here don’t know of it.”

He interrupted his general wiping of the countertop, and looked down to concentrate on a particularly resistant stain.

“Of course,” he continued, with a trace of local pride creeping into his voice, “I know all about it.  Why should a foreigner such as yourself be interested in the Butcher Dance?”

Jack explained.  The bartender seemed mystified that a person could make a living filming folk dances.  But, after tending bar in the outback or over 40 years, he had seen a lot of mysterious things.  One such thing was why anybody wanted to live in the tiny remote town that hosted the Butcher Dance.  Another such thing was why anybody would want to go out and visit it.  True, the postal carrier had to go there, but even he could only attempt it once every two weeks.  And the postal carrier knew the easiest routes.

The bartender heaved a heavy sigh, and began to give Jack directions.  “It’s a tiny little settlement,” he began, “it doesn’t even really have a name.”  He pulled a piece of paper from somewhere, and began to make a map.  “Here we are in Gundagai.”  He drew a small star in the lower corner of the paper.  “You can go up to the state highway, and turn right where you see a pile of rocks at the side of the road.  You can follow the dirt road for about 40 km, but when you get to the second pile of rocks, the road gets too rough for motor vehicles.  At that point you have to switch to horseback.  Horses will get you 10 km closer.   When you get to the third pile of rocks, the terrain gets too rough even for horses.  You’ll have to leave the horse, and walk the last 5 km.  Pray that it isn’t raining.  If you get rain, you won’t be able to stand up.”

Jack thanked the bartender, paid his bill, and went back to his hotel room.  The next day he made preparations to take his equipment to the nameless town, and film the Butcher Dance.  Fortunately for Jack, he arrived three days before the butcher dance would start.  He hired a guide, rented an off-road vehicle, a horse trailer, and two horses (just as a precaution), and started out for the nameless town a day early, to be sure that he would make it in time for the dance.

The bartender had not been exaggerating.  In fact, the bartender understated the difficulty of getting to the nameless town.  By the end of the 40 km of dirt road, Jack’s rear end, and his head, had bruises from the violent bouncing of the rental car.  When they got to the second pile of rocks, Jack was very glad that he had brought the horses along.

As Jack and his guide were unloading the horses from the horse carrier, Jack thought he felt a slight breeze.  Sure enough, there was a small black cloud on the horizon, and it was heading his way.  Jack’s guide was in favor of turning back right then, but Jack could not endure the thought of bouncing back the same 40 km that he had already come.  The decision was made to move on.

True to the bartender’s description, the road was rocky, steep, and often dangerous.  At first, the breeze helped them by cooling things down a bit.  By the time they reached the third rock pile, the small black cloud had turned into a large black cloud and was covering the sky from horizon to horizon.  Jack, his guide, and the horses knew that they were in trouble, but Jack decided that he wanted to push on to the nameless village.  The Butcher Dance, held only once a year, was going to be held tomorrow.  Jack was certain that he never wanted to make this trek a second time. 

Heedless of the impending storm, Jack and his guide piled the camera equipment on a little wooden sledge.  Dragging it behind them, they started on the extremely rough road to the small nameless village.  Kangaroos were best equipped to jump from one bare spot to the next on the route that had been loosely described as a pathway.  Without the guide, Jack would never have known there was a pathway at all.  Halfway along the most difficult part of the journey, a torrential rain began.  Several hours later, Jack and his guide found themselves at the outskirts of the nameless village, crawling on their hands and knees through mud, the camera equipment dragging along on the sledge behind them.

“This had better be the best folk dance I have ever seen in my life,” grumbled Jack to himself, as he gingerly stood up to meet a curious villager that seem to be coming their way.

“G’day mate” said the unnaturally cheerful man, who appeared to be a full Aborigine, despite his flawless Australian English accent.”What brings you to our little town ter-dye?”

Jack introduced himself, and told the man that he was there to film the Butcher Dance. 

“Oh I’m sorry mate.  The Butcher dance is not ter-dye;  We held the Butcher Dance yes-ter-dye.”

At first, Jack’s tired brain didn’t understand what the man was talking about.  He thought that someone was going to die, possibly himself.  Then he thought the Butcher Dance included dyeing some sort of cloth.  Then he slowly began to realize he had missed filming the butcher dance by one day.  The bartender at the Town & Country had got his dates mixed up.

The tired of hope in Jack’s eyes faded into despair.  “Is it possible,”  he croaked, “that you could dance the butcher dance again, just this once, so that I might film it?”

“Ow no,” replied the old man.  “We could not possibly do the butcher dance again ter-dye.  The moon and the stars are all wrong ter-dye.  I’m afraid, mate, you will have ter come back again next year if you want ter see the butcher dance.”

There was nothing more to be done.  Jack thanked the old man as sincerely as he could, and after obtaining the correct, exact date for the butcher dance next year, he and his guide slowly turned around the sledge, and began the long crawl through the mud to the third rock pile, where they hoped that the horses would still be waiting.

During the following year, Jack changed his mind several times about going back to the nameless little town to film the butcher dance.  It had been such a terrible experience getting there that he honestly had no desire to go back again.  At the same time, he knew that if he did not go film the new dance, it would be something that he would regret for the rest of his life.  And so, a couple of weeks before the next dancing of the Butcher Dance, he found himself back on the road to Gundagai, making arrangements with the same guide that had taken him to the nameless village the first time.

If it was possible, Jack’s second journey to the nameless village was even worse than the first one.  The horses seem to remember him, and when they found that they were going to the same wretched place they’d gone a year before, they were balky and uncooperative.  Even the weather seemed to remember Jack.  The little black cloud appeared on the horizon, just as before, and it turned the third leg of the treacherous journey into mud a little bit sooner than the first time he tried it.  Jack and his mud covered, swearing guide crawled to the outskirts of the village with the last bit of their strength, still somehow dragging the video equipment on the sledge.  Just as before, the old man walk up to them from the village with the same cheery greeting that was now really beginning to get on Jack’s nerves.

“Good Day mate” said the cheerful old man.  Wasn’t it you, who kaime out ter see the Butcher Dance last year?”  When Jack nodded his assent, the cheerful old man said, “Right then!  You’d better get washed up and ready.  The Butcher Dance begins at sundown.”

As if on cue, the black clouds parted and began to move away.  A ray of sunlight  descended from the heavens, illuminating first the tiny village, then the surrounding countryside.  Birds began to sing.  After a shower and a change of clothes, the cheerful old man, who turned out to be the closest thing they had to a mayor, showed Jack the sacred and ancient place where the Butcher Dance was to be held. 

It was an enormous, perfect circle, somehow carved ages ago from a single unimaginably large stone.  Wind and weather had worn the surface smooth over thousands and thousands of years.  This was unfortunate, because in many places, the vast, perfect stone circle appeared to have aboriginal carvings of large groups of people doing some sort of dance.  Jack’s mouth dropped open in amazement.  He was now certain that the filming of the Butcher Dance would be his greatest work, and the crowning achievement of his long career.  Jack got to work setting up his equipment.

It was a sunset unlike any that Jack had ever seen.  When the sun touched the horizon, birds and insects stopped their singing.  The breeze died down, and it seemed as if the entire world was paused, waiting expectantly.  Stars began to come out in a violet sky as the last rays of the sun disappeared.  Almost immediately, an enormous, full moon rose on the opposite horizon, bright enough to cast long shadows on the ancient plain where the Butcher Dance would shortly be held.

Jack heard and saw the column of villagers moving slowly towards the great stone ring.  Every resident of the village, young and old, men and women, boys and girls were solemnly, quietly, marching in step towards the great stone ring.  The old man who earlier greeted him, no longer smiling, led the procession with a flaming torch.  Each of the villagers carried two long, sword-like knives that appeared to be very, very sharp, and a small bundle of wood.  The knives made Jack uneasy, but he somehow he knew it was too late to leave now.  Come what may, he had to remain until the end of the Butcher Dance.

The procession went through the center of the circle, each villager, dropping his or her bundle of wood at the center before taking up a preassigned place inside the edge of the great stone ring.  When all the bundles of wood were stacked in the middle, the old man walked forward solemnly and touched his torch to the pile.  A flame blazed up from the dry wood, and the villagers began to hum and sway.  The humming and swaying continued, building in intensity, perfectly synchronized as if the villagers had become a single organism in the center of the single circular stone. 

The long knives were slowly raised, pointed at the center of the fire.  Slowly at first, rhythmically, then faster and faster, the villagers began to waive their knives in time with the humming and swaying.  The circled villagers began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster.  Like some fantastic square dance of doom, they began swinging their knives in turn across the path of the person to each side of them.  Sometimes the dancers would leap.  Sometimes the dancers would duck down low.  In every case, the knife blade would miss the dancer, and still the dancing went faster and faster.

Jack was watching the dance and filming furiously, his mouth gaping open with surprise and wonder.  The flames rose straight to the clear Australian sky, casting sparks upward as if to add to the number of the millions and millions of stars.  Moonlight flooded the high lonely plain.  It seemed as if the earth itself was dancing in the rhythm of the dancers.  And now plainly, the dance was reaching its climax.

The ring of dancers stopped their motion.  With a single, coordinated turn, each dancer laid his or her two knives behind the circle of villagers, pointing outward, and returned to face the middle of the fire.  Silently, the villagers linked arms.  Perfectly coordinated, they thrust their left legs to the center, then backwards to the outside of the circle.  They thrust their right legs to the center then backwards to the outside of the circle.  It was then that the singing began.  It was then that Jack heard the words he would never be able to forget for the rest of his life.

“You But-cher left leg in,

“You But-cher left leg out,

“You But-cher left leg in,

“Then you shake it all about…”

“No.”  Jack breathed.  “No, it can’t be.”  He clapped both of his hands to his forehead as if to dispel the truth of what he was seeing.  He knew the song, of course, and the song itself was about the dance.  Everyone knew that.  But wasn’t it curious that, knowing the song, no one from Jack’s world ever saw that dance, let alone danced it?  He had never seen it himself--until just now…  Jack simultaneously knew that he was seeing the central meaning of all existence expressed in the form of this ancient dance.  He also knew he would never be able to sell his documentary to any public broadcasting station.  No one would ever believe it.

“But, it can’t be.” Jack whispered to himself.  “They’re doing the Hokey Pokey.”

“Ahh, so you know the secret name of our sacred dance.” The cheerful old man, smiling brilliantly once more, appeared as if from nowhere beside Jack.  He looked Jack straight in the eye, and with conviction, told him, “Yes.  Since the beginning of time itself.  ‘We do the Hokey-Pokey.’”  The old man paused, gazing at the vast plain, and then the stars.  “The Hokey Pokey—You see, The Hokey Pokey really IS what it’s all about.”

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Storytelling notes;

This is told in the folk story mode-- I recommend you memorize the main points of the story, ad lib the details, tell the muddy journey part twice only (though 3 times would be a more classic way to do it).  Invite the scouts or other listeners to stand up in the circle, link arms, sway and hum, and then finish with the Hokey Pokey if at all possible!  You will have a great time!   

--Dedicated to the Scouts and Scouters of Troop 649, Columbia, Maryland--