The Peddler's Reward

by Carrie Anne Noble

  The Peddler’s Reward Copyright © 2019 by Carrie Anne Noble. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The short story THE PEDDLER’S REWARD first appeared in Deep Magic E-zine.

  Carrie Anne Noble

  Visit my website at www.CarrieNoble.com

  The Peddler’s Reward

  The huge bay stallion trotted in a wide circle, its noble head held high as seventeen-year-old O’Neill rode standing on its back with his arms raised in triumph. A few small boys cheered while their uncles and fathers shook their heads in wonder. They’d come to watch the visitor fail to tame an animal they’d declared untamable. Because horse training and circus arts were in their Gaskin blood and none of them had succeeded in subduing the beast, they’d believed it could not be done. But there could be no denying what they’d just witnessed with their own eyes: a sunburned peddler boy newly arrived from the north charming the monster into submission within one warm, Floridian afternoon.

  O’Neill leapt to the ground and bowed to the men whose respect he’d just earned.

  The tallest, most imposing of the men approached O’Neill, the man the nomadic Gaskins called their king. There was authority in his gait but, O’Neill observed, a twinkle of mischief in his dark eyes. “You possess a rare gift,” the king said in a deep, accented voice. He draped a gigantic arm around O’Neill’s slim shoulders. “That horse will now fetch a good price instead of ending up in the stew. What would you have as a reward?”

  A hank of blond hair fell over O’Neill’s forehead and poked him in the eye before he raked it back. “Fire juggling lessons?” he suggested as the king propelled him through the camp of brightly painted house wagons. The boy had longed to learn the art of fire juggling ever since he’d seen the Gaskins’ circus perform in Maryland last summer.

  “Surely there is something more precious you desire,” the king said. “A young bride, perhaps?”

  As if she’d been waiting for her cue, a teenage girl stepped out from behind one of the wagons. She flung a handful of black curls over her shoulder and boldly met O’Neill’s gaze with gold-flecked amber eyes. Her womanly figure was adorned in layers of colorfully embroidered skirts and shawls, but her ankles and feet were bare and dusty. In his travels with his peddler guardian, Ezra Scarff, he’d seen plenty of pretty girls. In fact, he was smitten with one particular pretty lass he’d left behind in Pennsylvania. But this girl … it almost hurt to look at her. A single glimpse of her might inspire volumes of sonnets.

  “My seventh daughter, Mizella,” the king said with a proud grin. He playfully jabbed O’Neill in the ribs with his elbow. “Unmarried as of yet.”

  Mizella smiled widely, and O’Neill’s knees weakened. Not because of her great beauty, but because, instead of rows of white teeth, she flashed a mouthful of shiny silver daggers.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, miss,” O’Neill said for the sake of politeness, his voice quavering with shock. No wonder the girl was unmarried. One serious kiss from her could prove fatal.

  A fit of coughing came from inside the caravan to their left. Although he wasn’t happy old Scarff was ill, O’Neill was thrilled to have an excuse to leave the king and his daughter before the topic of marriage came up again. “Please pardon me while I check on Scarff. I’ll see you at supper.”

  “Of course,” the king said. “We shall further discuss your reward later, yes?”

  Wishing he could unsee the king’s conspiratorial wink and the girl’s flirtatious simper, O’Neill scampered into the caravan as if pursued by a dozen hungry wolves and a half-starved crocodile. Wintering in Florida with a band of merry traveling folk was supposed to be all fun and games — but suddenly he suspected most of the fun would be theirs — and that he might well be the game they captured if he didn’t keep his wits about him.

  Two weeks after his introduction to Mizella, the news of his engagement fell upon O’Neill with all the gentleness of a cannonball.

  One sunny morning, as he hurried through the camp to fetch a jug of cool water to soothe Scarff’s sore throat, he overheard two little girls chattering about the dresses they’d wear to Princess Mizella’s upcoming wedding to the peddler boy.

  His wedding to Mizella.

  Blanching, he stopped short. The girls giggled and pointed before launching into a bawdy song about a golden-haired lad and his silver-toothed bride. Obviously, the ditty had been composed by someone much older and worldlier than they. Their skilled harmonization led him to believe that this was not the first time they’d sung it.

  For the love of heaven! He’d thought — and hoped — that the king had reconsidered betrothing his daughter to a virtual stranger, as the man had made no mention of it since the day he’d tamed the bay stallion.

  How long had he been unknowingly betrothed, anyway?

  He took off running back toward Scarff’s caravan. If ever he’d needed his guardian’s guidance, it was now.

  Perhaps if Scarff had not fallen ill, O’Neill lamented as he dashed through the camp, one of them might have caught wind of the wedding plans before things had gotten out of hand. But the sickness had stricken Scarff with the force of a runaway freight wagon, confining him to bed ever since the day they’d parked their caravan alongside the Gaskins’. Were it not for wise woman Madame Vadoma’s devoted nursing and herbal concoctions, no doubt the old fellow would have already traded his brightly painted caravan for a plain pine coffin — a thought that made O’Neill shudder as if he, too, were gravely ill.

  Although adopted as a newborn babe, he bore one jagged scar of orphanhood upon his soul: a terrible dread of any separation from fluffy-bearded, often cantankerous Scarff. Anytime he imagined a life apart from his guardian, panic seized him like a mad dog.

  He imagined it now.

  His already rapid pulse broke into a flat-out gallop. Waves of dizziness swept over him as he stumbled up the caravan’s steps, desperate for Scarff’s counsel, praying he’d find him miraculously healed and ready to make a quick exit from the Gaskin camp.

  Alas, Scarff greeted him with a hearty snore. O’Neill loved his ailing guardian too much to interrupt his much-needed slumber.

  His problems would have to wait.

  An ivory crescent moon stood over the circle of colorful wagons. In the center of the circle, a few young girls darted back and forth, giggling as they collected bowls recently emptied of alligator stew. The damp evening air made O’Neill’s skin sticky, and wood smoke tickled his nose. As much as he missed Scarff’s presence, it seemed best that his guardian had chosen to rest indoors where conditions would not provoke his hacking cough.

  O’Neill avoided Mizella’s gaze as she stared at him from the other side of the red-orange campfire, but he still felt it on his flesh like a creeping rash. If that wasn’t bad enough, the girl’s gigantic father plopped down beside him, too close, and offered a jug of spirits so potent that one whiff made his nostrils burn. He waved the jug away with a meek smile, hoping not to offend his host. He might not have been the worldliest fellow, but he knew better than to fall for a scheme that ended up with him blind drunk and accidentally married before dawn.

  He swallowed hard, regretting every bite of the stew his stomach threatened to expel, knowing in his marrow
that the king was about to broach the topic of the impending nuptials.

  “Come now,” the king said as he clapped a mighty hand on O’Neill’s shoulder. “Let us speak plainly, as men. My daughter Mizella has chosen you to be her husband. You are not of our blood, but as you have a way with horses and a clever mind, I will permit the marriage. Mizella is of age and ready to be a proper wife. Already we have built a fine caravan for your home. I see no reason why you should not wed upon the next full moon. Unless you would prefer tomorrow?”

  “Scarff is still unwell,” O’Neill blurted, mentally scrambling to think of a polite way to reject the offer of a king. “I should like to discuss things with him. And … well, sir, as much as I like Mizella … I intend to marry another.”

  It was true. His heart had belonged to a Pennsylvanian girl since they’d barely known how to speak in full sentences. Now, faced with imminent marriage to someone he’d just met — someone who, to be honest, scared the liver out of him — he realized the depth of his feelings. He made up his mind to propose to the girl he loved upon his return to the mountain where she lived.

  If the king let him live that long.

  The king’s brow furrowed for a moment. O’Neill held his breath, waiting for the man’s anger to boil over into angry threats and punches. Instead, the king waved away O’Neill’s words as if they were a puff of smoke in the air. “Bah. She is surely no match for my daughter. Does this girl you speak of have eyes bespeckled with gold and skin as smooth as polished alabaster? Does she have royal blood and the hips of a goddess? Teeth with which she might tear your enemies asunder, should you meet them on the road?”

  “She has regular teeth, sir. Still …”

  “You are nervous, yes? My people have a saying, you know: a shy bridegroom makes a kindly husband. Surely my Mizella has chosen well for you both. We will wait for Scarff to recover and grant his blessing, if that is your wish. But now, on this glorious night, you must dance with your bride.” The king gestured for the fiddler to strike up a tune, and then, with surprising nimbleness, he leapt up and pulled O’Neill to his feet. He raised his huge fists and declared, “Behold, the man betrothed to the princess Mizella! Let us celebrate their joining with dancing and song!”

  In seconds, O’Neill found himself in Mizella’s arms, being twirled around the fire at breakneck speed. Her black curls flew out behind her like a wind-whipped flag. Her closed-mouthed smile, broad and bright, might have melted the heart of any other young man.

  “We need to talk,” he shouted as they spun. Taking the lead, he danced her away from the fire and beyond one of the caravans.

  “You may kiss me now,” Mizella said, tipping her head back and gripping his shoulders.

  “No, thank you. I mean, it wouldn’t be proper.” He ran his knuckles over his intact lips. He had no intention of letting her slice them up like a Christmas ham.

  “I do not object. You are to be my husband soon.” She batted her thick eyelashes and leaned closer. With her guileless enthusiasm and her cheeks flushed pink by the dancing, there was no denying that the girl possessed charm.

  And a mouth full of stilettos.

  Clearing his throat, he pressed her away gently. “Look, Mizella. The truth is I cannot marry you.”

  “You must. I am the king’s daughter, and I have chosen you.”

  “I’m not actually your father’s subject, and besides, my heart already belongs to another. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Mizella stomped her shapely bare foot and flashed her pointed fangs. In the faint moonlight, they glistened like a full set of silver cutlery. “You will marry me.”

  “No, I will not.”

  Covering her ears with her hands, she declared, “No more talking. A bride needs much sleep to perfect her beauty. I will go to bed now and give you time to accept your fate with joy. Tomorrow afternoon, you will meet me by the pond, and we will plan the wedding. I will bring the new clothes I sewed for you.” Lightning streaked the sky as she ran toward her mother’s wagon.

  For three seconds, O’Neill stood in utter bafflement. But he knew better than to linger. The girl might return to steal a kiss, or her father might find him and strong-arm him into sipping from the foul jug. And so he sprinted to his own caravan home and the comforting company of his sick guardian.

  Their return journey north could not come soon enough.

  The peddlers’ caravan shook as if in the hands of an enraged god. Dishes rattled. Wares tumbled from shelves and crashed to the floor. Shouts in a foreign tongue penetrated the walls. Something rammed against the door repeatedly.

  Scarff coughed and wheezed as O’Neill sat up beside him on their shared mattress. The faintest hint of daylight showed through the slats of the window shutters.

  “What in the devil is going on?” Scarff asked between coughs.

  The door fell inward with a crash. The king stepped inside, fists raised, face red as beet soup. His eyes nearly bored holes into O’Neill. “Where is my daughter? Have you no honor, boy?”

  O’Neill threw back the covers and set his feet on the Persian carpet. “Mizella? I haven’t seen her since the dancing, sir.”

  “Liar,” the king said as he advanced on O’Neill like an angry bull, “I will kill you if you do not tell me where she is at once!”

  “Wait, Papa!” One of Mizella’s sisters shouted outside. A moment later, she poked her head into the caravan and said breathlessly, “Mizella left a message for you. She has run away because this boy did not accept her hand with gladness and grace. She says, ‘A prize given freely holds no worth, but a reward won through valor is priceless.’ She is hiding deep in the swamp and will not return unless he overcomes danger to find her and brings her a ring of gold. This she swears by all the fish in the sea and every star in the sky.”

  “It seems you’re in a pickle, lad,” Scarff said.

  “She left a few clues along the way,” the sister said, her nose twitching with disdain. “Lucky for you, for I have little faith a pretty boy like you could last a day in the wilderness without help.”

  Too flummoxed to be insulted (or complimented), O’Neill simply shook his head with disbelief.

  “You shall leave within the hour,” the king said, pointing a finger at O’Neill. “And if you return without her, the full wrath of the Gaskins shall crush you and your Scarff like beetles.” With a huff, he spun on his heel and exited the wagon.

  “What just happened?” O’Neill asked, rolling his eyes heavenward. Instead of providing an answer, Scarff succumbed to a violent fit of sneezing.

  A wrinkled, matronly face surrounded by a rust-red kerchief appeared where the door had hung — a face that belonged to Scarff’s diligent and domineering Gaskin nurse. On the woman’s shoulder perched her usual companion, a shiny black raven named Pilsner.

  “Madame Vadoma,” O’Neill said. He felt sick all over. He’d always considered himself an adventurer until now — when faced with an adventure Scarff would neither share nor oversee. “I do hope you’ve brought more medicine.” He could have used a strong dose of something himself.

  “Of course. And I have here a few things for your journey.” She held up a leather satchel with her plump fingers. “A little bird told me you’d be leaving this morning, and it is unwise to go into the wild unprepared. Neither is it good to waste time gawking with your mouth open like a Venus flytrap, boy. And do not fret over the care of this old man while you are gone. I will nurse him like one of my own.”

  “Saints preserve me,” Scarff murmured from the bed. “Death might be preferable.”

  “Kraa-kraa,” said the raven, sounding far too amused for a bird.

  O’Neill swallowed hard as he took the satchel. While Madame Vadoma slipped Scarff a spoonful of foul-smelling syrup, he pocketed his short knife and a flint for fire making. Finally, wound tight with nerves, he bade Scarff goodbye and headed out to search for the runaway. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be able to return. He hoped.

  Madame Va
doma clucked her tongue as O’Neill reached the doorway. “If only I had three feathers from a golden-beaked ibis, I might be able to cook up a cure for your papa. Without them, I am sorry to say I fear the worst. But the swamp is full of magical things, so if the fates favor you, perhaps you shall find both the feathers and the princess.”

  “I will do my best.” He shouldered the satchel and exited his wheeled home.

  “Go straight to the east. You’ll want to keep an eye out for the fire mosquitoes,” Madame Vadoma called after him. “And do watch your step!”

  “Saints preserve me as well,” he said dismally, raking a hand through his hair.

  If he survived, he promised himself, he’d never set foot in Florida again.

  Strange birds and bugs chattered overhead as O’Neill trudged through the woods. He eyed the narrow path and the treetops in turn, vigilant for snakes, alligators, skunks, panthers … anything that might prove bothersome or fatal.

  Luminescent yellow fungus clung to the tree trunks, and tiny, winged frogs with bulbous, twinkling eyes stared down at him from the branches. He had a sense for magic — and just as Madame Vadoma had said, this place was thick with it. Molasses thick. Every hair on his arms stood up as he advanced into the shadowy swampland.

  A strip of dandelion-colored fabric dangled from a branch above a fork in the path, an obvious clue from Mizella, who always wore a yellow ribbon around her right wrist. The ground under his feet grew spongier as he continued on the path indicated by the ribbon. The air hung heavy around him, dank and pungent with the stench of rotting things. Gnats surrounded his head in an ever-shifting cloud, invading his ears and nostrils and buzzing at a pitch that made his brain twitch. Without stopping, he slipped Madame Vadoma’s satchel off his shoulder and started to rummage through its contents for something to repel the critters.

  He found an apple, a wedge of hard cheese, a gold ring, and a finger-sized glass bottle of purple liquid. He was about to uncork the bottle to check if its contents might deter gnats when three of the biggest bugs he’d ever seen darted into his path, orange flames spurting from their mouths, their round bellies glowing like hot coals.