by Kristy Tate
Fester lifted his finger at Petra. The nail seemed almost as long as the finger, curling under as if it bent beneath its own weight. The finger and nail were both gray, the color of dead flesh. “You, my dear, are the fool. I am your warning.”
Kyle’s the fool, Petra thought, fighting a hot flash of anger, if he thought I’d find this freak show even remotely entertaining. She bit back a rude remark and instead asked, “Of what?”
Fester, who had been sitting in the corner, somehow suddenly flashed to Petra’s side. She flinched from the strong, garlicky smell and the warmth of his body. Petra held her breath and took a step closer to the curtains that led outside.
He followed. “If you think your life is here and now, you are mistaken. Indeed, there is no time or space.”
“My only mistake was putting twenty dollars in your jar.” Petra’s voice sounded screechy in her ears.
“Harbingers of ill will do not always mean you harm.” Fester laid his fingers on Petra’s arm and sent a jolt of electricity that lifted her off her feet.
Petra watched the crystal ball sail through the air and the strings of hanging beads swayed, sounding like a rush of wind chimes. Potion jars spun in the air, tarot cards floated around her like large, one-dimensional snowflakes. The ball connected with a flying jar and shattered into thousands of pieces, crystal and potion glinting midair as the poles supporting the draped damask groaned and teetered.
Earthquake, the rational part of Petra’s mind told her, but Petra was listening to another voice, one that said, run. Amidst the fluttering curtains Petra flew, whirling her arms and feet, a mid-air mime pantomiming running.
When the earth settled, Petra found herself buried beneath a pile of fabric and pillows. She sat up, dazed. Other than the drapes of cloth and the swaying crystal beads, the tent looked about the same, give or take the tarot cards scattered about. She pushed them away so she wouldn’t step on them.
Looking around, she didn’t see the fortuneteller. She wondered where he was and if he was hurt. Dazed, she tried looking for him, but the incense stung the back of her throat and filled her head. Needing air, she pushed through the curtains, brushed off her dress and straightened her tiara. Taking a few faltering steps, she stopped.
The only other earthquake Petra remembered had been on Easter Sunday, less than a month earlier. She had been with her family at the dining room table and had watched the chandelier swing above the ham and creamed potatoes. That quake had rolled rather than shook and had lasted less than a minute but Zoe had wailed in terror. Zoe had to be frightened now.
Where was Zoe?
Too bad this town square didn’t have stocks and pillory. They would have come in handy about five minutes ago. Then she would have known exactly where to find Zoe.
A three-legged, dog of indeterminate breed charged and took Petra off her feet. She landed hard on her butt in the dirt, legs splayed in front, dress around her thighs. She stared after the animal and watched the crowd filling the dusty street to see how they’d react to a dog breaking leash laws. No one seemed to notice.
Petra wanted to ask someone about the earthquake, but she didn’t see anyone she knew. Where were the yellow jackets? Principal Soak-a-Bloke? Mrs. Brighton in her witch’s hat? Petra stood, dusted off her dress and sat down on Zoe’s abandoned stump.
Petra remembered the advice she’d been given on a Girl’s Scout hike, when lost stay where you are. She didn’t know if Zoe had ever received similar advice, but it made sense that Zoe would eventually return, if only for the funnel cake. Petra closed her eyes, trying not to picture the trouble she’d be in when Zoe blabbed. Maybe Robyn was with Zoe. The thought made her feel a little better, but when she opened her eyes, the fair looked as strange as it had before.
Petra drew in the dirt with the toe of her slipper. The blue shoes had a smattering of faux diamonds across the top. She’d been annoyed about not being able to wear heels to the prom until her dad pointed out to her that last year’s date, Micky Lund, had yet to hit a growth spurt. Slippers were a kinder choice. Petra hadn’t cared that much about the shoes or Micky, but she was glad now to be in slippers.
Except none of that mattered anymore because she was ready to go home. Not spotting Zoe’s familiar tangerine hair, Petra climbed onto the stump for a better view. Standing with her hands on her hips, she glanced back at the fortuneteller’s tent and then twisted around completely. Somehow the tent had been replaced with a blacksmith’s shop. A giant fire blazed in a forge, and a thick armed man wearing a leather apron and wielding a hammer stood where only moments ago she’d visited Fester. Right? Petra climbed off the stump with weak knees.
The blacksmith swung his hammer onto a flaming red piece of metal and sparks flew. Again and again the hammer struck; the pounding rang in Petra’s ears.
Where is Zoe? Petra’s anger melted into confusion. She must have hit her head during the earthquake. That’s why she thought she was flying mid-air. She must have had a concussion . Knowing that a head injury would soften her parents, Petra sat, waiting. Zoe and Robyn would turn up any minute…and maybe even Kyle.
But waiting didn’t calm Petra. It reminded her of the very first time her mother hadn’t met her after school. She’d stood at the corner near the crossing guard, surrounded by other second graders waiting for their moms, just as her mother had instructed. Eventually all the other kids disappeared into cars and she’d been left alone with the guard, who’d marched her to the office, where she had to sit on a hard plastic chair, while the gum chewing secretary called her mom.
And then her dad.
During the second phone call, the secretary’s voice had changed from cranky to hushed, and her gaze slid to Petra with a look of pity that Petra would later know too well. When her dad showed up, he seemed worried, harassed, and withdrawn. No one, not her mother or her father, had apologized for making Petra wait.
A donkey-pulled wagon rumbled by and brought Petra out of the memory. A trio of dirty- faced kids in brown cloth tunics gazed at her with wide eyes from their perch in the wagon. Their rags made Zoe’s pillowcase look good.
Petra tried again to orient herself. She saw the jousting arena but not the funnel cake booth. She rubbed her head and decided that she must have left the tent from a different side. From this new angle the fortuneteller’s tent looked different.
Perception can alter reality. In AP psychology they’d learned about mental maps and paradigm shifts. Thinking about Doctor Burns and the class bolstered Petra. She wasn’t stupid, ditzy, or dizzy. Blonde jokes, in her case, didn’t apply. Still, as she stood on the stump, she felt increasingly lost. Silly even.
She tried to recall Doctor Burn’s words. If you had an incorrect map of a city and were looking for a specific location, you would be both lost and frustrated. Experience determines perception.
Right now she needed a map not of her psyche but of the fair. She’d gotten lost. The three-legged dog, the blacksmith shop spouting flames and sparks (something she couldn’t believe the fire marshal would allow), the three story-buildings and thatched roofed cottages, well, those were all things she hadn’t noticed before when she’d been preoccupied with Kyle and his supposed prom invite.
She was on the wrong tree stump! Abandoning the stump, she wandered around looking for the fortuneteller’s tent, but she couldn’t find any bright colored fabrics or strings of crystal beads. Refusing to believe that she would have noticed a blacksmith shop spouting sparks, she squared her shoulders and set out to find the information booth where Mrs. Jordan handed out maps.
Ten minutes later when she couldn’t find the booth or Mrs. Jordan, she turned toward what she hoped was the direction of the stables. She hoped to find Zoe with hot Horse Guy and thought about what she’d say to Zoe. The angry, why did you leave the stump? And, why didn’t you stay where I put you? Quickly turned to, I’m sorry I lost you.
“Zoe!” Petra called out, her voice mingling with the calls of the vendors. “Robyn?” No one was pay
ing any attention to her. “Zoe? Robyn? Anyone?”
***
Emory tagged Chambers through the marketplace crowd. Farmers, artisans and peddlers shared the square, competing for business, breathing the same foul air. Hawkers called out, voices rising above the bellow of cows and the snorts of pigs, but no one called to Emory.
Two old men smoking long pipes and sitting in the shade of a vegetable cart looked up as Emory moved past them. A child teasing a cat with a bit of fish didn’t see Emory, but the cat took note. Emory slipped into a dark alley, away from the market’s chaos, and leaned against the wall. Dark, cool, the passage had a line of doors, but Chambers had chosen the furthest from the crowd, and, for perhaps the first time, Emory applauded Chambers’ judgment.
Emory listened to the voices on the other side of the door: half past midnight, two nights hence, the rectory. Emory marveled at Chambers’ audacity, at his ability to believe he worked in the name of God. Chambers didn’t know Emory, or anyone, knew of his plans. Chambers’ pride allowed him to believe that the Almighty would partner with such barbarians.
Emory felt no fear, although he knew if caught Chambers would have him killed. Or try. Emory smiled, pulled away from the door when he heard the scratch of chairs on the stone floors. Footsteps, shuffling, voices approaching, a rattle of the latch. After a quick survey of the alley Emory realized the entry, his means of escape, had been blocked by a gaggle of geese. Not wanting to wade through them and draw attention, Emory headed toward the closest door. Finding it unlocked, he slipped inside, praying the room would be uninhabited.
He saw a chair by the fire, tools spread across a work bench and a floor strewn with wood shavings. Emory leaned against the wall and listened. He heard the geese, the rumble of Chambers’ voice on the other side of the wall, villagers outside the window.
Then he heard another noise, much closer, and more threatening.
A low growl.
Emory looked around and spotted an arthritic mongrel slowly rising from his ragged mat. The growl grew deeper as the dog lifted his lips exposing jagged brown teeth.
Putting out a hand, Emory whispered, “Good dog.”
The dog’s fur rose like a razorback along his massive shoulders. His head lowered and his ears flattened. Drool gathered on his lips, and when he barked, the spittle flew.
Emory tried to listen for the men’s voices, but the neighboring room now seemed hushed, while in Emory’s room several noisy things happened at once. The dog lunged, sinking his teeth into Emory’s breeches. A tall, apple-shaped woman wielding a large wooden spoon appeared from a back room.
“Out! Out,” the woman cried, belting Emory with her spoon.
“I mean no harm,” Emory said, covering his head with his arms and trying to shake the dog off his leg.
“Out! Out!” The wooden spoon beat on Emory’s shoulders and back.
Tripping over the dog, which he’d managed to kick in the jaw, Emory made it to the window. The dog leaped for Emory’s throat but missed as Emory clambered over the sill. Snapping at Emory’s feet with brown and rotting teeth, the animal grew frantic. A tear in Emory’s breeches caught on a wooden peg, but after a few moments of awkward hanging, Emory fell face first into a woodpile.
Above him, the woman shouted obscenities and the dog barked, but to Emory’s relief, the room that Chambers had occupied hadn’t a window on the woodpile side. Emory scooted off the wood, scattering logs and planks, offered the woman a lopsided grin and an apology. “A simple mistake, good mistress. A wrong door, tis all.” He ratcheted up the charm in his smile and watched the woman’s expression soften. Her lips twitched as he caught a log rolling down the street, picked it up and waved it at her before returning it to the heap. The gesture won him a toothless smile.
The dog, however, refused to be charmed. Paws on the sill and head poking out, he continued to bark, spraying slobber. He likely was too old and rickety to clear the window, but Emory didn’t stay to find out. He ran through the alley, turned a corner and stopped short when he saw a girl about his age dressed in blue wandering through the crowd. Blond hair piled on her head. Jewels glistened in her hair and in her ears. She moved like a feather on the wind, graceful yet aimless. A tiny frown pulled at her lips and a worried scowl creased her eyebrows. Turning, she faced him and her eyes widened, as if in recognition. He took a step toward her, pulled by an invisible cord. The geese complained as he pushed through, honking and pecking as they surrounded him.
“Give way, lad,” the goose girl shouted.
But Emory wasn’t listening to her. He strained to hear what the girl in blue was saying. Emory felt a flash of sudden, inexplicable pain, knowing she would never call for him.
***
A murmur ran through the crowd. Above their heads Petra caught sight of Kyle on a decked out horse. The Arabian gleamed in the late afternoon sun, mane and tail glistening like an onyx ring, and he wore a bright colored coat. Kyle had his eyes trained on a falcon flying toward the jousting arena.
“Kyle!” Petra called, relieved that the charade was near an end. Finally, he’d ask her to prom and together they could find Zoe. Mike had asked Blondie by hanging a sign on a freeway overpass. Mark had delivered a bouquet of helium balloons to Nicki. Ryan asked Heather while wearing a gorilla suit. But this had to be the most convoluted invitation ever. She swallowed her hysteria and felt a moment of relief.
A few people turned to look at Petra, but Kyle didn’t. Anger flashed through her. She called again, but instead of turning Kyle spurred his horse down the dusty path. People moved for him like the Red Sea had parted for Moses. In fact, some bowed, practically scraping the ground. Was this really an invitation to prom? Had egotism extraordinaire replaced hotitude? This skyrocketed Kyle’s arrogance to a whole new stratosphere.
So over him and shaking in anger, Petra plucked a slimy vegetable off a nearby cart and lobbed it at Kyle. The discolored beet, slightly smaller and much more solid than a softball, would have landed true, squarely on the back of Kyle’s head, except for another three-legged dog. The animal darted beneath the Arabian’s hooves with a chicken in his mouth, and the horse danced away, carrying Kyle with him.
Wait. Where would a dog get a chicken? A live, white and black, squawking chicken? Had he stolen it from the petting zoo? She tried to imagine Frosty stealing a chicken. He didn’t even chase rabbits. A child darted after the dog, shouting. She’d thought the three-legged dog from before had been dingo-looking and this was more shepherd mix. How many three-legged dogs running free could there be? One seemed over the top.
Even weirder, Kyle disliked riding. He called Petra’s own thoroughbred a giant rodent and refused to even mount Laurel’s fat, slow, Gwendolyn. Could that afternoon, three months ago, have been part of the ruse? Not likely.
A bad dream then, she reasoned. I’m having a bad dream. Doctor Burns said many cultures believe that dreams are a means for the soul to leave the body and experience other dimensions. Some psychologists believe that dreams represent the workings of the unconscious mind. So the dream couldn’t exist outside her mind. None of this was real. She didn’t think she was asleep, but if this was some peculiar life-like dream, what was her unconscious mind trying to tell her?
She didn’t have a clue. She didn’t know why she had suddenly been transported to Elizabethan England, but she did know Kyle. He needed to help her find Zoe so they could go home.
Petra picked up another beet and cocked her arm, but stopped short when a vice-like hand clamped her wrist. She struggled against the grip, fighting to send another missile at Kyle’s big head. An arm snaked across her waist and pulled her against a solid chest. She squirmed and rammed her elbow into her captor’s diaphragm. It hurt her funny bone, but he didn’t even budge. She tried to stomp her feet, but soon realized she was at least two inches off the ground.
“Think twice, my lady,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Chapter Three
Gold or silver coins - no paper currency
. 240 pennies or 20 shillings equaled one pound. Each penny had a cross not only to symbolize Christianity but also to be used as a guideline for cutting the pennies into halves and quarters. The halfpenny was worth half a penny and the farthing was worth a quarter, or a fourth, of a penny.
What would be the cost of a rotting turnip?
—Petra’s notes
The breath against her neck sent shivers down her back. His hand on her wrist felt like fire. He stood behind her, holding her arm over her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his voice had a Harry Potter accent.
An angry, muffin-faced woman bustled toward them gabbling, droplets of saliva flying from her loose, flapping lips.
Petra couldn’t understand a thing.
“She wants to know how you’ll be paying,” the warm voice said. He didn’t release her arm, but lowered it behind her back and plucked the beet from her fingers. Holding her against him, he whispered, “Offer her handsomely, and she’ll not call the watch.”
Petra looked at the sorry collection of spotted and bruised vegetables and then at the woman’s fury. Muffin Face wore a mud colored shawl and an apron splattered with crusted blood. Most of Muffin’s hair had been stuffed beneath a scarf, but bits of gray blond fuzz had escaped and framed her red, mottled skin.
“So sorry, of course,” Petra said. The guy released her wrist. Petra fumbled through her bag, a tiny silk pouch held closed with a ribbon. She’d had it made to match the slippers and it held little more than a vial of perfume, Zoe’s Girl Scout gadget, her phone and a few dollar bills. She handed the woman a five and the woman gawked.
Petra glimpsed at the guy who’d captured her wrist, instantly recognizing him from the stables. Solid, warm, and strong, he brought out in her the ridiculous desire to hide behind him from the insane woman. This bothered her for two reasons: She was still angry that he’d blocked her shot, and she wasn’t the hiding sort.