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In the long years after the fall of Barad-dûr, when the wounds of Middle-earth had healed and its great tales had passed into song, Gandalf dwelt beyond the circles of the world. There he walked beneath unfading stars, and no burden lay upon him save memory.
Yet one evening—if evening it may be called in a country where neither sun nor shadow rules—the Lady Varda summoned him.
“A spark of the Secret Fire has fallen into the mortal world,” she said. “Small it is, yet perilous. For it kindles not only flame, but desire, courage, frenzy, and joy. In the hands of the wise, it may awaken hearts. In the hands of a tyrant, it may enslave them.”
“Where has it fallen?” asked Gandalf.
“Into an age of noise and colored light.”
Thus was Gandalf sent once more across the Sundering Seas, though not to any shore that he remembered.
He awoke in an alley beneath a sky stained purple by the lamps of a vast city. Towers of glass rose around him. Horseless carriages roared through the streets, their eyes blazing white and red. Great signs shone upon the walls, advertising cigarettes, cola, and garments of astonishing width at the ankle.
Gandalf stood, leaning upon his staff, dressed in white robes and wearing upon his head a tall and weather-beaten hat.
A young man passing the alley stopped and stared.
“Man,” he said at last, “that is one serious outfit.”
Gandalf looked upon him. The stranger wore a crimson shirt open nearly to the waist, a golden chain upon his chest, and trousers that seemed to have been designed during a disagreement between a tailor and a bell.
“Tell me,” said Gandalf, “ where might I find the greatest gathering of music and dancing in this city?”
The young man pointed toward a brilliant sign glowing several streets away.
THE INFERNO — TONIGHT: SAURONIUS FUNK
“Biggest floor in town,” he said. “But they won’t let you in dressed like that.”
Gandalf gazed down at his white robes. “We shall see.”
The Inferno had once been a theatre, but little remained of its former dignity. Its pillars were painted gold, its balconies draped in velvet, and above the entrance revolved a silver ball that cast wandering stars across the pavement.
Gandalf felt warmth within his breast.
The spark was near.
At the door stood a man of enormous stature wearing dark spectacles and a suit the color of crushed plums.
“Name?”
“I am Gandalf.”
“Last name?”
“I have had many names in many lands.”
The doorman lowered his spectacles.
“You on the list?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Then you ain’t getting in.”
Gandalf planted his staff upon the pavement.
“I am Gandalf the White, servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. I have passed through shadow and returned from death. I did not cross the circles of the world to be turned aside by a man wearing six-inch heels.”
The doorman looked down at his shoes.
“They’re four-inch.”
“Then stand aside.”
Something in the wizard’s gaze—ancient, bright, and decidedly uncool to challenge—persuaded him.
Gandalf entered.
At once he was surrounded by thunder.
Drums shook the walls. Guitars scratched and wailed. Horns burst forth like the trumpets of a victorious army that had discovered leisure suits. Beneath a storm of colored lights, hundreds of dancers moved across a floor made of glowing squares.
Gandalf had seen the courts of kings, the caverns of dwarves, and the radiant trees of Valinor. He had never seen anything quite like this.
Men pointed toward the ceiling and then toward the earth, as though repeatedly explaining the structure of the universe. Women spun in silver dresses. Hair rose in magnificent clouds. Everywhere there were sequins, medallions, satin, and enough exposed chest to alarm even a Wood-elf.
Gandalf moved through the crowd, seeking the spark. The beat was powerful. It entered through his staff, climbed his arm, and settled somewhere behind his ribs.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
He found his foot tapping.
“This,” Gandalf murmured, “is not entirely disagreeable.”
Then the music ceased.
A spotlight struck the stage.
There stood Sauronius Funk.
He was tall and lean, clad in black velvet. His boots rose to his knees. His cloak glittered like a midnight sky, and his hair was shaped into a sharp and towering crown. Around his neck hung a golden chain bearing a fiery crystal.
The spark of the Secret Fire.
“My beautiful people!” cried Sauronius Funk. “Are you ready to surrender your minds, your souls, and your natural sense of rhythm?”
The crowd roared.
Gandalf lifted his staff.
“Sauronius!”
The room fell quiet.
Sauronius Funk peered into the audience. His smile faded.
“Hold up,” he said. “Who invited Father Time?”
A path opened through the dancers. Gandalf strode forward, his white robes shining beneath the mirrored lights.
“You possess a fire that is not yours,” he said. “Give it to me, and depart from this place.”
Sauronius laughed, low and smooth.
“Old man, this fire belongs to whoever can handle the heat.”
“You cannot handle it. Already it has twisted you.”
“Twisted me?” Sauronius spread his arms. “Baby, it perfected me.”
The band struck one ominous chord.
Sauronius descended from the stage. His boots landed upon the illuminated floor.
“You want the fire, Snowbeard? Then you earn it.”
“How?”
Sauronius pointed one long finger downward.
“Dance-off.”
A murmur passed through the crowd and Gandalf’s face grew grave. He had faced the Balrog upon the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. He had ridden beneath the Nazgûl. He had stood before the Black Gate while the hosts of Mordor gathered around him. Yet never had so many people expected him to dance.
“I do not perform for amusement,” he said.
“Then step aside, pops. This groove train has no brakes.”
The beat returned and Sauronius Funk began to move. He slid backward without lifting his feet. He spun, dropped to one knee, rose again, and pointed into the heavens with such force that several people looked up. His cloak flashed. His hips appeared to operate independently of the rest of his body. Every step drew power from the fiery jewel upon his chest, and the dancers cried his name.
“Sau-ro-ni-us! Sau-ro-ni-us!”
The floor darkened except for one white square beneath Gandalf.
The wizard sighed.
“All right,” he said softly. “Let us boogie.”
The crowd gasped.
Gandalf cast aside his cloak.
The bass hit.
At first he moved with the solemn dignity of one performing an ancient ceremonial measure. One foot crossed the other. His staff turned in his hand. His beard swept across his shoulder.
A few people laughed.
Then Gandalf pivoted and his robes flared like white fire. He brought the staff down upon the glowing floor, and every square blazed at once—gold, crimson, emerald, and electric blue. The mirrored ball overhead began to spin faster. Beams of light wheeled across the room like the stars of Varda getting down on a Saturday night.
The crowd went wild.
Gandalf stepped left.
Smooth.
He stepped right.
Smoother.
He pointed one hand toward the ceiling and the other toward the floor, not as a confused mortal, but as one who truly knew what lay above and below. His heels clicked. His shoulders rolled. His staff twirled behind his back and returned to his palm.
“Great grooves of Gondor!” shouted someone.
Sauronius Funk stared.
Gandalf advanced. “You may have the flash,” he said, moving with the beat, “but you lack the light.”
Sauronius Funk responded. He spun once. “You may have the heat.” He spun twice. “But you ain’t got the fire, brother.”
In rebuttal, Gandalf leapt. For one shining second he hung above the dance floor, robes streaming, hair blazing silver beneath the lamps. Then he descended into a split so flawless that three men fainted and one woman immediately proposed marriage.
The shock wave rolled across the floor and Sauronius staggered. The golden chain snapped. The fiery crystal flew through the air and landed in Gandalf’s hand.
At once the dark lord’s magnificent hair collapsed. His velvet cloak became a cheap polyester cape. One boot heel broke beneath him.
The crowd fell silent.
Sauronius looked around, suddenly small and extremely unfunky.
“My groove,” he whispered.
“Was borrowed,” said Gandalf. He closed his hand around the crystal. Its fire sank into him, warm but obedient.
The band began to play again, cautiously at first.
Gandalf retrieved his cloak and placed his tall hat upon his head.
“Yo, Gandalf!” called the young man in the crimson shirt, who had somehow made his way inside. “Where you going? The night is young!”
Gandalf turned toward the dance floor. The lights shimmered. The horns sang. Hundreds waited, hoping the white wizard had one more number in him.
A smile appeared beneath his beard.
He raised his staff.
“My friends,” he said, “it's time to boogie like a Brandybuck.”
And beneath the revolving stars, Gandalf the White got down until dawn.