“Prologue”
The gypsies could tell right away that the man was injured. He limped into their camp like a vision from a nightmare, his robes stained scarlet and his face a ghostly shade of white. A woman laid in his arms, apparently unconscious and breathing heavily as sweat poured down her face in droplets. The man didn’t say anything to the gypsies, just plead to them with his eyes before he fell to his knees and collapsed.
The celebratory atmosphere that had surrounded the camp ceased immediately as everyone rushed to help the strangers.
“We must take these two to Madame Sila!” cried one woman as she knelt over them. “This man is badly wounded and this woman…my word, this woman is with child! Hurry!”
Old Madame Sila, the blind healer of the troupe, lived on the outskirts of the camp in a large wagon surrounded by sweet smelling torches and brightly colored tarps. Madame Sila herself was lounging comfortably on a large cushioned chair, her feet propped up before a fire and an elegant curved pipe between her teeth. She had heard the commotion in the camp but had thought nothing of it until she heard the scramble of what seemed to be half the troupe making its way towards her.
“Zander dear, what do you see? What’s got everyone in such a huff?” She asked. Zander, a small boy of three who Sila had since adopted as her assistant, had been sitting on a pillow at her side, poking at the fire with a stick.
“I don’t know,” he said “but it looks like some of the men are coming this way, and they are carrying something big.” Madame Sila nodded and turned her blindfolded gaze towards the sound of approaching men. They set the stretchers bearing the strangers down by the fire, but before anyone could say a word Sila raised a hand for silence. Removing her pipe from her mouth, she leaned in close and breathed deep through her nose, her nostrils flaring with each intake.
“Curious…” She muttered, then leaned in closer and breathed again. The men were silent. Madame Sila had been a member of the troupe for longer than any of them could remember, and in that time had proven on multiple occasions a skill unsurpassed by any in healing, despite her blindness. There were many mysteries surrounding this aged woman, but no one had bothered to ask.
“The man has lost much blood. Possibly too much, though it is difficult to say.” She said finally. “The woman, I’m afraid, seems to be in a very sorry state; I can smell the fever on her. However, there might still be a chance to save the child. Place them in my wagon.” The men immediately obeyed. Zander stood and took Madame Sila’s hand to lead her to the wagon door.
It was larger than the other wagons in the camp because it served both as an infirmary and as Madame Sila’s home. Three small cots lined one side, leaving only a cramped walkway to the back, and every inch of wall and ceiling were covered with cupboards and bundles of drying herbs. The pungency of the various herbs was like a wave crashing against the nose. Madame Sila’s was the only one that didn’t wrinkle upon entering.
The men laid the two strangers on adjacent cots and, after being assured that there was little else they could do, they filed out of the wagon. The last one to leave glanced anxiously back at them before shutting the door behind him.
Madame Sila, having memorized the layout of her home, picked up a small stool and set it in between the cots. Then she searched the cupboards for a mortar and pestle and, sniffing the air, pulled down the herbs needed for a medicine. After she had everything, she sat down on the stool and began mashing the herbs. Meanwhile, little Zander sat by the door anxiously awaiting orders.
“I’ll be needing the kettle of water from the fire, dearie, if you would.” She told him. “After that you may join the others.” Zander nodded furiously and dashed out to get the water. He came back not a second later, set the kettle at Sila’s feet and immediately sprinted out again. Sila chuckled to herself as she mixed some hot water with the herbs. The poor boy was still a little squeamish around the sick.
Ever so gently, Sila smoothed back the lady’s long damp hair and, after feeling the contours of her face, raised the bowl of medicine to the lady’s lips. Sila could hear her sipping the mixture.
“There you are, child.” She crooned. “This will bring down your fever until the baby is born.” With her other hand Sila prodded the lady’s extended stomach. “By the feel of things, you still have a while yet. An hour, at least.” Whether or not the lady heard Sila in her feverish state Sila never could have guessed. From behind her she heard the moan and rustle of the man.
“And you,” she said, turning vaguely in his direction. Its obvious that your not human, so don’t waste the precious energy you have making up lies.”
The man turned to face her, astonishment highlighting his pale, exhausted features. “How could you tell?” he rasped.
Madame Sila smiled and tapped the side of her nose. “Sometimes the blind see more than those with sight. I could smell your blood the instant you were brought before me, and if I’m not mistaken,” she leaned slightly forward and breathed deep. “You’re a dragon.” She sniffed a few more times, her brow rising in amazement. “A gold dragon nonetheless!”
A smirk crossed the man’s dry lips. “Right on all counts.” He closed his eyes for a long second and when he opened them they were no longer circular but shaped with cat-like slits and colored a shining gold.
“May I be so bold as to ask your name, my lord?” Madame Sila asked as she began to dab at the man’s wound with a clean wet rag.
“No need…to be so formal.” The man responded through gritted teeth. “Just like you, I have other senses, and it seems…that I’m not the only one who chose a more humble station in life. Even so, my name is Baldor.” This time it was Sila’s turn to smirk, but she remained silent. She put down the warm rag and opened a drawer below a cupboard on her wall. From it, she selected a small paper envelope sealed with wax.
“There is no need for medicine. “ Baldor said. “The wound is poisoned. Even in my true form I wouldn’t be able to resist it. I have little time left.”
Madame Sila nodded grimly. “Yes, I noticed.” While she was cleaning the wound she could feel that the flesh around remained ice cold, and odd smells undetectable to anyone but her seemed to swell from it, a sick combination of rotting corpses and lilacs. All in all, the poison was very strange to her, and Baldor was getting worse by the minute. Time was the only thing she could give him. “This is not medicine. Or rather, it is not a type of medicine that can cure you. I’m afraid your condition is beyond my skills as well as that of the woman…”
“Kesslin…my wife.” Baldor interrupted with a groan.
“I see,” said Madame Sila. “I can, however, stay off the poison until the birth of the child. You’re child.” She broke the seal on the envelope, positioned it over the wound, and gently tapped it to sprinkle on a pinch of a scarlet looking powder. “This is pollen from the phoenix flower. “ she said. “It’s very rare, but can only be used as a temporary cure for all ailments. In this case, little more than an hour.”
Baldor reached out from his cot to grasp his wife’s hand. “That’s all I need.”
The hour passed, and soon the wails of a newborn babe broke the silence surrounding the wagon.
“It’s a girl.” Madame Sila said with weak enthusiasm. It was truly a bittersweet moment, for soon this child was to become an orphan. She showed the babe to Baldor, who smiled despite the pain and exhaustion.
“She has her mother’s hair.” He said, acknowledging the flaming red locks adorning the child’s head. “and…my eyes.” Sila could sense that the baby had indeed inherited her father’s blood, but when she first held her had hoped, for the child’s sake, that none of it had showed in the child’s physical appearance. However, at brief glimpses of the eyes between the child’s shrieks and wails, one could see that rather than being large and round they were golden with cat-like slits for pupils.
“What would you have her named?” Madame Sila asked.
“B-Bethel.” Came a weak voice from the other cot. “Her name shall be Bethel.” Baldor and Sila turned towards Kesslin, who had awoken but was only barely holding on. She gave a weak smile to her husband, then closed her eyes for the last time.
“I’ll be with you soon.” Baldor said, gently squeezing her hand. “My lady, we are in…in great debt to you.” He then said to Madame Sila. “And yet I must ask more.”
No one in this world can ever claim a debt from a gold dragon.” Replied Sila. “Name what you would ask.”
“You…you know much about our kind. You would understand Bethel…” He began, but he need not have finished. Madame Sila knew what he was going to ask.
“I will watch over her and guide her as best I can.” She assured him. “But what of the Trials, my lord?”
“In the Malkrin Mountains…near the Griffon’s Pass, there is an old d-dwarf keep where another gold dragon lives.” He gasped out, his voice growing fainter by the second. “Her name is…Beyonna. Mention my name, and she will understand.”
“It shall be done, my lord.”
It was late. Very late. Yet still Havoc sat in his study, glaring into a hearth that had long since diminished to glowing embers. The only other lights in the room were the flashes from a raging storm outside and a faintly glowing blue orb atop an ornate pedestal at his side.
“They should have been back by now.” He said through steepled fingers. “Long before now, in fact. I can’t tolerate and further delays.”
“Just a moment longer, Master.” Came a wispy voice from the orb. A pale blue smoke swirled within the orb, every so often shaping itself into the resemblance of an ambiguous then sweeping away. “I sense that they have arrived.” Not a minute later, there came a hesitant tap at the door.
“Enter.” Said Havoc, his focused stare never leaving the hearth.
A burly man walked in flanked by two knights in black armor. No faces shown beneath the knights’ helms, only deep shadows, and on their tabards they bore a curious insignia, a black adder entwining a dagger. The man seemed nervous to be between these two and immediately stepped forward. The knights, meanwhile, positioned themselves on either side of the door, standing as still as metal statues.
“General Starsky, welcome back.” Said Havoc. With a snap of his long, pale fingers, the armchair rose from the floor and turned to face the general. “I trust your mission was productive.”
“W-well…” Starsky stammered, his thick mustache twitching. “Yes and no…”
Havoc stood from his chair, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Even though his face remained smooth and emotionless, Starsky could almost see the flames behind his eyes. “Either the mission was a success, or it wasn’t. There is no middle road.”
Starsky stepped back, attempting to make for the door but was immediately seized by two gauntleted hands. “No, wait, I can…”
“Are the dragon and the woman dead?” interrupted Havoc.
“Yes! Yes, they are dead!” Starsky cried, struggling.
“Did you find the stone?”
“I…I mean they…they didn’t have it, Lord Havoc! We searched, but couldn’t find…”
“That is terrible news, Starsky. Truly terrible.” Havoc snapped his fingers again and the fire roared to life, fully illuminating the room. Starsky stared and trembled at the numerous paintings and portraits on the walls, all of hellish scenes and faces contorted in agony. Havoc watched his discomfort and the faintest glimmer of a smirk almost crossed his lips, but immediately disappeared.
“Admiring my art? That’s very flattering.” Said Havoc, walking over to his desk. From a top drawer he withdrew a leather bound sketchbook. “Here, let me show you another piece I’ve been working on.”
“No!” Starsky cried “Please!” but before he could protest any further, Havoc opened the sketchbook up to a blank page and gestured with a flick of his wrist. Starsky froze with a look of terror on his face and all the color drained from his person, leaving him a black and white husk before melting into a charcoal-like smoke that whisked up to splash upon the blank page. Havoc looked down at the page, frowning, to see a sketch of Starsky, his face still wearing that same look of terror.
“Hmmm…not exactly my best work.” He said to no one in particular, tearing out the page, crumpling it up, and then throwing it into the fire.
Resting his elbows on his desk, Havoc began to massage his temples in frustration. “Volo, please tell me that you have a trace on the stone.” He asked the glowing orb.
“I’m afraid not, sir. It is still shrouded from my sight.” Answered Volo, a slight tremor in its voice.
“But if the dragon is dead, then whatever powers he was using to shroud it should have dissipated by now.” Havoc muttered to himself. “Which means...he didn’t have it! CURSE IT!”
Nearly Ten Years Later
The sun shone down brightly that afternoon, filtering through the thick canopy of the forest and painting the scenery an emerald green. Zander, now a tall and gangly thirteen year old, walked leisurely through the woods, whistling along with the songs of unseen birds as he gathered twigs and branches for that night’s fire.
Once he had a good armful, Zander tied the branches into a bundle, then tied the bundle to several other bundles he had strapped to his back, then continued on to fill his arms again. Enthralled by his task and the beauty of the afternoon, he almost didn’t notice the birds go silent.
Zander stood rigid and listened intently for any sound. Slowly, he slipped the bundles from his back and set them gently on the ground. He could feel someone, or something, watching him from the leafy shrouds of the woods as if it were a physical sensation.
Suddenly Zander leapt and tumbled to the nearest tree as a thick branch swooped in with a massive THUNK and imbedded into the ground not two inches from where he had been standing. He landed with acrobatic grace on his feet and leaned against the tree for cover.
“Curse it,” he muttered to himself. “That was too close.”
There was a sweeping rustle in the treetops, and Zander realized almost too late that there was no wind that afternoon. Again he ducked and rolled as another branch was hurled out of the trees with spear-like precision, this time picking up a smooth stone as he went. Coming out of the roll, he took aim where the last branch had flown from and flung the stone into the leafy cover.
“Ouch!” cried a voice. “That got me on the head!”
“Serves ya right!” Zander cried back. “I told you I didn’t want to play Willow Lord today, Bethel.”
Bethel jumped from the tree, landing nimbly on her feet. Her flaming red hair was a tangled mess of leaves and twigs and Zander could see that she had already managed to cover her new pants in grass stains.
“Why not? You never want to play with me anymore!” Bethel said, stamping her foot.
“It’s because I’ve got a lot to do now, and I don’t have time for childish games.” Zander picked up his bundles and flung them back over his shoulders.
“You didn’t think Willow Lord was so childish two weeks ago.” Bethel retorted. Zander, having figured he had enough wood for the fire, started off in the direction of the caravan.
“Two weeks ago I wasn’t thirteen. Two weeks ago I hadn’t been given more responsibilities to the troupe, as well as a routine in the Trade Festival.” Zander glanced down at Bethel walking beside him and immediately regretted his last comment. Her eyes, those strange golden eyes, filled with hurt and disappointment at the mention of the Trade Festival. Like every year, she would be confined to the “safety” of their wagon during the day light hours, only allowed out at night if she covered herself with her hood. And like every year she would sit and listen to the other children playing, to the sounds of merriment and joy throughout the various fairgrounds, and not be allowed to participate because she was different.
“Bethel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s ok, Zander, I understand. I’m different. I know I have to be careful. Besides,” she said, a smile returning to her face. “I think I’ve worked out a plan that will allow me to perform in the festival as well as keep my secret!”
“Uh oh,” Zander groaned. “Bethel…”
“I’m sure Mama Sila would approve, don’t worry! It’s a really good idea!”
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes too high, sis.” He said. “You know why Sila says you need to stay hidden.”
“ ‘Because some people wouldn’t understand, and people have always feared what they don’t understand.’” Bethel said, quoting their foster mother in a high-pitched mimic of her voice.
The caravan was even busier than usual that afternoon. Those that weren’t doing the standard chores and duties of the troupe were busy preparing for the Trade Festival. By noon tomorrow the troupe would be camped just outside Amorrin’s capital city of Cardash, where they would sell wares and goods from all over the world as well as entertain with various performances throughout the course of a week. As Bethel and Zander walked through camp they saw Doogin Marco opening up crates to check on his stock of porcelain from the east and stopped to listen to the Kessly sisters practice their duet. Zander leapt back with a scream as a wave of fire suddenly swept up before him, immediately followed by the cruel cackles of Griggle the fire-eater.
“You almost singed my eyebrows off, you little toad!” Zander shouted as he aimed a kick at the miniscule man.
“Just making sure your reflexes stay sharp, lad.” Griggle said, casually twirling his flaming baton. “I hear you’re going to do an acrobatic display at the festival tomorrow. Wouldn’t want ya to blow it and give us all a bad name.”
“Why, you worried he’s gonna take your job?” Bethel retorted, grasping Zander’s hand to hold him back. Griggle just smiled, flashing his blackened teeth, and walked away.
“I swear that toad’s half goblin.” Bethel said.
“If he isn’t, he’s just as pathetic as one.” Zander replied. “Every penny that he makes with that fire-eating act is gonna go straight to the taverns, you can count on it.”
Madame Sila was sitting in her chair and puffing on her pipe when Zander and Bethel arrived.
“Already managed to soil your new leggings, have you Bethel?” Sila said, the sweetened tobacco smoke swirling up and around her wizened head. Despite the many years that had passed, Sila still looked the same as any of them could remember.
“How did you know?” Bethel said, glancing from Sila’s sightless gaze to her grass stained knees.
“You just told me, dearie.” Laughed Sila. “I expect those to be washed before we reach Cardash tomorrow. And from now on, wear your old pants when you’re out gallivanting through the woods. Zander…” she turned to his general direction. “Set that bundle by the side of the wagon. Then, if I’m not mistaken, you have a routine to practice. Carlo left his tightrope up, and Din said you are welcome to his mat if you need it.”
“Oh, ok then. I’ll be back in about an hour then to help with supper.” He said, taking one last quick look at Bethel before he walked off. She was going to try it; he knew she was. Zander only hoped she didn’t get too disappointed when Sila turned her down again.
Bethel sat down next to her foster mother and warmed her feet by the fire while running her fingers through her hair to remove the twigs and leaves. Now was the perfect time, she thought. The only thing she didn’t know was how to begin. She tried several times, hesitated, then closed her mouth as if she hadn’t started to say anything.
Madame Sila smirked past her pipe. “Something on your mind, dear?” she said.
Bethel glanced up in surprise. It was scary sometimes how Sila could do that. But, with an opening now at hand, Bethel decided to jump right in. “Actually, I was thinking about…the Trade Festival.”
“What about it?”
“Well…you know I’m ten now. Ten and a half, actually. Practically eleven, and…I was thinking maybe I could do a performance this year! Something like a ‘Strong-man’ show, I could lift boulders, trees, people on chairs. I think it would be a big hit and I wouldn’t even have to practice or try very hard and…”
“Bethel…” Began Sila.
“I know, I know, the eye thing. Well, I thought of that too.” Bethel continued. “See, I was thinking I could wear a mask. That way there’s even a bit of mystery to the show!”
“Bethel, dear…”
“And maybe I could even accept challengers! We could offer a sack of gold to anyone who can beat me, and charge a silver piece a try!”
“Bethel, please, would you listen to me!” Sila interrupted in raised tones, placing a loving hand on Bethel’s head. “Do you really think that is a good use for your gifts? Have you forgotten what you are?”
“I’m a…a half dragon, you said.” Bethel answered, slightly taken aback. The previous conversations they had had never quite gone in this direction. Normally Sila just said no and was done with the whole issue.
“Half GOLD dragon, Bethel. You know this. And gold dragons are amongst the most noble and powerful creatures on this earth! Now…” Sila lifted Bethel’s gaze to meet her own. “Would you ever see such a great being performing side-show tricks at a gypsy fair?”
“But how is it any different from using my gifts to lift Marx’s wagon when his axel broke like I did last week! Or from when I cleared the small rock slide that covered the Hellion Pass the week before!” retorted Bethel, tears starting to swell in her golden eyes.
“You did those things to help people, to help the troupe. Do you understand the difference?”
“No, I still don’t.” Bethel wiped her sleeve across her face.
“You’re still very young. You’ll understand when you’re older, I promise.”
“I don’t think I ever will.” And Sila heard Bethel stand and run away.
Sila sighed and began to stoke the fire. Bethel was ten years old, well past the age when the Trials should have started for her. Every day that passed Sila knew she was breaking her promise to Bethel’s father, but just couldn’t bring herself to give the girl up yet. She loved the girl dearly, and understood her pain more than Bethel would ever know. Yet, as Sila sat in her chair puffing thoughtfully on her pipe, she couldn’t help but feel a time of change fast approaching.
“You’ll understand soon enough, dear one.” She muttered to herself. “Soon enough.”
The caravan arrived at the walls of Cardash just before noon the next day. Sila, along with Jorgin Stern, the head of the caravan, walked up to the gates to announce their presence.
“Greetings gentlemen!” saluted Jorgin, flashing his widest smile. Despite his surname, Jorgin was naturally a very cheerful man and a greatly admired leader. He bowed to the guards with a flourish of his colorful clothes and removed his bandana out of respect. “As we do every year, our happy group of travelers would be honored to entertain your citizens with a festival to both delight the senses and enrich the soul!”
“Not this year you don’t, gypsy.” Grunted a guard.
“I beg your pardon?” Jorgin replied, taken slightly aback.
“There have been too many incidents in the kingdom of late.” The guard replied. “Whole villages have been massacred, their attackers never leaving so much as a trace to their identity. Its just not safe to open our walls too…”
“Gaius, where are your manners!” a guard bearing the insignia of a captain walked forward. “Jorgin and his troupe have been welcome guests here every spring for almost twenty years, we have nothing to fear from them.”
The now very cowed Gaius nodded “Yes, Captain” and walked away to the guardhouse.
“Nice to see you again, Cal!” Jorgin said with a grin as he shook the captain’s hand.
“Always a pleasure, Jorgin. You’re troupe is a little later than usual this year.”
“We had some trouble with a mountain pass being blocked off by a rock slide.” Jorgin laughed. “Fortunately some members of our troupe are very capable.” At this, Sila smirked, but remained silent. “But what’s this about that guard not allowing us to put on the festival this year? He mentioned something about villages being attacked…”
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, my friend.” Cal replied, but Jorgin could a see a shadow pass across his friend’s face. “ Several villages have been attacked in the past few years, leaving few if any survivors and absolutely no trace as to who might be behind it. This year, however, the number of attacks has doubled.”
“You think it might be another barbarian war-band from the north?” asked Jorgin
“That’s what we thought at first, but warlords tend to be a bit more flamboyant in their deeds, attaching a name or symbol to every target they attacked so as to promote fear. These attacks are far too subtle and no name is ever left behind.”
“That is indeed disturbing.”
“It is. Which is why I hope you understand that, even though it is obvious you and your people mean no harm, the gates will be closed every night at sunset and none of you will be allowed to remain in the city after that time.”
“Perfectly understandable, Cal. Perfectly!” smiled Jorgin. “All business we may have inside can be accomplished before nightfall, and there will be plenty of festival during the daylight hours for the good citizens of Cardash to enjoy! I trust we have your official permission to set up then?”
“Go on then!” Cal said with a laugh. “I’ll even send around the town crier to announce you.” And with a wave and sweep of his scarlet cloak, Cal re-entered the guardhouse.
“I don’t suppose you have any guesses as the root of these attacks?” Jorgin asked Madame Sila as they walked back to the troupe, leading her on his arm.
Sila snorted. “I’m a healer, Jorgin, not an oracle.”
“I don’t know about that.” Jorgin said. “I’m positive there is much more to you than you have ever let on. My father spent much of his life trying to figure you out, and my grandfather, and my great grandfather, and my great-great grandfather…”
“I think all that deduces is that I am very old.” Sila said with a smirk. Jorgin laughed and left it at that.
By the time the sun came up the next morning the simple gypsy camp had been transformed into a spectacle of flags, banners, and color. When the gates of Cardash opened for the day the gypsies welcomed it with a joyous wave of music, and almost immediately men, women, and children wondered out from the city to partake in the festival. There were shows of comedy and drama, delicious fair foods such as candy apples and roast nuts, and tents that housed goods for sale from all over the world.
Bethel stood on one of the cots in Sila’s wagon and stared out of a small window as a group of children ran past; probably off to buy some of Tannis’ sweet bread or watch Mako swallow a sword.
“You’re only making it harder on yourself.” Zander said, slipping on a red silk vest.
Bethel glared at him. “It’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to spend the whole day locked up in a smelly wagon!”
“But look at the bright side, at least you won’t have any chores to do.” Zander pulled on a pair of purple, fingerless gloves, the final touch to his acrobat costume. “Sila never gives you chores during the festival, and I’m still expected to fetch the water, sweep the floor, and start the evening fire.”
“Small price to pay…” Bethel muttered, returning her attention to the window.
“It’s not like you’re stuck in here forever, Bethel.” Zander said, taking another shot at cheering her up. “Its only a few days out of the year, and…”
“You wouldn’t understand!” Bethel replied with a snap. “So just go put on your little show and leave me alone!”
Zander knew that he had lost this fight. Bethel was right, there was no possible way that he could ever truly understand her feelings. So, with one last pitying look, he left her in her loneliness.
Several minutes later, Sila entered the wagon to hear a continuous THUD, THUD, THUD. She didn’t need her sight to tell her that Bethel was tossing her ball back and forth against the wagon wall, a scowl on her face and a dent most likely on the wall.
“Bethel darling, would you mind trying to not put a hole in the wall? I’m rather attached to this old place, you know.”
Bethel turned her scowl towards Sila, but reluctantly obeyed by tossing the ball into a small wooden box that was her toy chest. Sila, meanwhile, picked up a woven basket of knitting and felt her way over to a chair.
“I’m making you a new scarf and mittens for the winter.” She said. “They’re even red, your favorite color. At least…” Sila picked up a ball of grey yarn and looked at it comically. “I think they’ll be red.” Bethel, determined to stay mad at Sila, tried to repress her laughter but failed miserably.
“There, that’s more like it!” Sila said with a smile. “Now, would you mind helping a poor old lady keep her knitting from getting tangled?”
“I guess so.” Bethel replied, returning the smile as she sat down next to the basket.
After helping fix a few tangles in Sila’s knitting, Bethel pulled out a small embroidery piece she had been working on (a scrap covered in knots, in which the intended picture could barely be discerned. It looked kind of like a donkey, though Bethel insisted it was a cat) and the two worked on their projects side by side for much of the afternoon. As what usually happens on quiet afternoons, Madame Sila began to nod off and eventually fall asleep. Upon hearing her soft snoring from the chair, Bethel stood and, after placing Sila’s knitting back in the basket, found a quilt and draped it over her. By now bored with her own work, Bethel put her embroidery in the basket as well and went to lay on one of the cots, completely uncertain of what to do with herself next. She lay there for a time, staring at the ceiling, and eventually the lure of outside (which had temporarily been forgotten) came back with a vengeance.
She could hear the music and the laughter and desperately wanted to be a part of it. She knew she was missing out on so much, and just because she was different. But then a thought came to her mind. The whole troupe was made up of people who were different; people with different talents, different origins, different customs. Yet they all traveled together and considered each other family. Also, all of them were aware of Bethel’s gifts, and most were aware of her origins, yet they all loved her. So why wouldn’t the good people of Cardash, or anywhere else, be just as accepting? Maybe, just maybe, Bethel thought, Sila was worried for no reason.
Bethel looked over at the old woman dozing peacefully in the chair and knew that she could be like that for hours. Surely it would be no problem for Bethel to just step outside for little while, maybe just to see a bit of Zander’s show or walk about a bit. After all, she would be back before Sila woke up, and what Sila didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, right?
Her mind made up, Bethel walked cautiously over to the door, her eyes never leaving the sleeping woman, and took down her little red cloak and hood. Ever so slowly so as to not make the hinges creak, Bethel opened the door and stepped outside into the sunshine. Almost immediately a wave of excitement washed over her. She was actually going to do it! She was actually going to participate in the festival! Without so much as a glance behind her, Bethel ran towards the sounds of music and commotion near the center of the camp, doing the clasp on her cloak and putting up her hood as she went.
The camp was a throng of activity the likes of which Bethel had never seen before! Hundreds of people from Cardash had come out to see the shows and other forms of entertainment the troupe had set up, as well as shop and enjoy numerous sweets and delicacies. Bethel was almost overwhelmed by the vastness of the crowed. Having spent her whole life within the confines of the troupe and having never met anyone from the outside, it frightened her to see how many people there really were in the world. And this was just one city! As she passed among the people, however, and saw their smiling faces and heard their laughter her excitement quickly returned and left a grin on her face that she was sure would never leave.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” came a cry through the crowed. “In his Trade Festival debut, the The Flying Zander wishes to amaze and astound you with feats of great acrobatic skill and balance!”
Bethel, immediately upon hearing this, ran towards the source of the announcement. There, balancing upon a pole roughly six feet off the ground, was Zander, his arms spread wide and his face fixed in a look of pure concentration. Bethel and the crowed watched in wonder as he walked out onto a tightrope being held by an adjacent pole, never even so much as wavering. When he reached the middle, Zander paused, then leapt into the air and back flipped to land gracefully on his feet back on the tightrope. Applause and cries of approval erupted from the crowed, Bethel’s being the loudest. Zander then did a one-eighty spin to face the people, again landing gracefully back on the tightrope, and bowed.
“Well, he’s gonna have a swollen ego in the morning.” Bethel laughed to herself, and walked away to see the rest of the festival. She stopped to watch more shows that her friends and neighbors had put on, as well as pausing to look at some of the merchandise they were selling, but never stayed long and always kept her hood up lest one of them recognize her and tell Sila.
At the edge of the fair, while casually watching a puppet show, Bethel noticed a group of boys and girls running and chasing each other. It seemed that they were playing a game where one of the children would try and catch all of the other children, and once he or she had finally caught one of them that other child would have to try and catch the others. It seemed to Bethel to be great fun, and pretty soon she lost interest in the puppet show altogether and went to go watch the other kids instead. One of the girls in the group, a freckled young thing with long sandy hair, noticed Bethel watching them and called a time-out to the game.
“Hey Brolly, come here!” she called to her brother, a large boy equally freckled and sandy haired.
“What you stop the game for, Sissy?” complained Brolly. “I hadn’t been caught yet!”
“What you think about letting that kid play with us?” Sissy gestured over towards Bethel, who had been sitting up against a wagon.
“That gypsy kid? Why?”
“Cause she’s been watching us and I think she wants to play.” Sissy replied “and I don’t think she has any of her own kind to play with, they all seem too busy with the festival.”
“Well,” said Brolly “I don’t mind if no one else does.” Brolly and Sissy looked around to see shrugs and stares of indifference on all the other kids.
“All right then!” declared Sissy. “Hey kid!”
Since the children had stopped playing, Bethel had allowed her attention to wander elsewhere. She was just thinking about an early supper when she noticed that one of the kids, the sandy haired girl, was actually addressing her.
“Yeah?” Bethel answered, a little nervous. She had never actually expected to talk to any of these people.
“We were just gonna head over to Slagman’s Pond to play tag. You wanna come too?”
“Uh, yeah, sure!” Bethel replied, both surprised and delighted, and ran over to meet the kids.
The girl introduced herself as Sissy, and the large boy next to her she said was her brother Brolly. One by one the kids gave their names, though there were so many that Bethel barely caught them all. Once they were all acquainted, more or less, the children set out for Slagman’s Pond, a small but deep body of water nestled right against the wall of Cardash and around the corner from the main gate. The children preferred this place to play at because a small cluster of trees surrounded the pond, creating a wider variety of hiding places and obstacles for their games.
The children then huddled around in a tight circle, each putting his or her right foot in. Bethel, not knowing what was going on, cautiously followed the crowed. Brolly bent down and began touching each foot in the circle while reciting a rhyme.
“Hasenpfeffer, hasenpfeffer in a pot, how many soup bowls have you got?” the kid whose foot his finger stopped on then chose a random number, and Brolly counted out that number going in the opposite direction of the circle. The kid whose foot Brolly’s finger landed on this time gave a groan of annoyance, and all of the kids suddenly scattered with squeals and giggles of glee. Bethel realized almost too late what this meant, and only narrowly managed to dodge a swipe of his hand before running off so as not to get tagged. She ran amongst the trees, laughing with the rest of them and occasionally pausing to adjust her hood. It was just as much fun as she had imagined!
At one point Brolly had gotten himself cornered near the wall and was tagged. After a brief cry of frustration, he took off to try and capture the other kids. He spotted Bethel behind a tree near by and chased after her, his hands outstretched for the tag. Bethel squealed and ran as fast as she could, but Brolly was quickly catching up. He had chased her all the way to the pond before he finally came within reach, and with a burst of energy he managed to tag her, though a bit harder than he had intended. Bethel stumbled and fell head over heals, but was not hurt in the slightest. She came out of the roll with a grin and sprung to her feet to give chase. Brolly, however, made no attempt to run. He stood there, a look of terror on his face, and Bethel noticed that her hood had fallen down.
