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The sky, on that first occasion, was alive with frosted stars, and a fat, over-fed orange moon sat on the brow of the Mynydd reflecting enough light as to make the crackling torches of the spectators almost superfluous. Lovely it was. Two sepulchral-white ghosts, dancing like smoke in the breeze. Clear in the air, the sharp, crisp snap of knuckled-fist on bone, and the meaty, staccato thumping of mallet to flesh. Bobbing, twisting, and weaving, like shaman casting intricate spells, the guttural, low-throated murmur of men in thrall to the dance, moving with them like shadow-cousins, throwing short punches, hooks to the air. Then the acknowledging grunt, as one dancer drops to a knee, or skews suddenly sideways to bless the earth. On and on they turned and spun and gavotted, until a long time later into this hypnotic ballet, only one solitary, cut-marble statue stood, a gladiatorial fist raised to the spinning stars, and a bucket of water to the busted marionette in the dirt.