The pace doubled. The line of dancers didn't just move; they surged. Their bodies became a single, undulating wave of energy. Ali felt the sweat prickling his brow, but he didn't feel fatigue. The rhythm of the Cida took over his limbs. Every time the drum crashed, the dancers let out a collective "Hah!"—a shout of defiance and joy that echoed off the stone walls of the houses.
Then, the zurna shifted. The melody became frantic, climbing higher and higher, swirling like a dervish. This was the "Hızlı Halay"—the fast dance. The drummer began to strike the center of the skin with a deafening crack.
The circle tightened and spun faster. The shoulders of the men moved in a synchronized shimmer, a blur of white shirts and dark vests. The elders watched from the sidelines, their eyes gleaming as they remembered their own days at the head of the line. For a few intense minutes, time didn't exist. There was only the scream of the reed, the thunder of the drum, and the frantic, rhythmic pounding of feet against the ancient earth.
At the center of the square, the zurna let out a piercing, high-pitched wail that sliced through the evening air. It was the signal. The "Cida" was beginning.
When the music finally reached its crescendo and snapped into silence, the square was still. The only sound was the heavy breathing of thirty men and the settling of the dust. Ali looked at his friends, their faces flushed and grinning. They had danced the Cida; they had honored the ground they stood on and the life beginning for their brother.
"Slowly now," Ali whispered, his shoulders squared. They moved in unison, three steps right, a slight kick, a rhythmic sway. The dust began to rise around their boots.