Under the ground, in a stone cave with no fire, the tribe gathers to be hunted by a heartbeat.
There is a drum, but no drummer. It beats faster than any chest, faster than a running deer, and it never grows tired, never slows to breathe. This frightens me. A drum that does not tire is not alive, and a thing not alive should not have a heart. Yet the whole tribe bends to it. They move their feet the same, all together, eyes half shut, mouths open, sweat running like they have run a great hunt. But no deer falls. No meat comes. They chase nothing for many hours in the dark.
Lights burn with no flame, red then white then nothing, striking the eyes like lightning that will not kill. In the flashes I see the faces frozen, one moment a man, next moment gone, next moment there again. The spirits are close here.
No one speaks. There is no talk of who is strongest, no ranks, no fighting for the good spot near the fire, because there is no fire and there is no good spot, only the beat, and the beat holds them all at once like a single great animal breathing.
I watch a long while. They give the drum their whole night, their strength, the water in their bodies. They ask for nothing back. They do not eat. They do not couple for the tribe's future. They do not sleep, though sleep is safety.
I understand it now. This is prayer. They have made a false, tireless heart, and they dance until their own hearts match it, so for one night no man dies alone.
Strange gods. But I would dance.