The Dancing Plague

I am not adventurous. Dusty tombs might draw the likes of Grenville, but not I. My scholastic investigations occur through books and interviews. I desire to piece together the folktales and culture bubbling in the unique pot of this island. To that end, I found the man with the oaken knuckles – his name is Zadok – and I plied him with libations and many games of draughts. Though his words slurred by the time he opened up to me, his pickled tongue hinted at intriguing tidbits indeed. He spoke of a dancing plague, a contagious compulsion to gyrate night and day. He spoke of a spreading pandemic and people dancing until literal death. He fell asleep before divulging more. What a delightfully bizarre notion. A dancing plague! -Ichabod Shaw