In the late evening, we found a woman with a travel sack heading the opposite way. She fawned over Hawke when she recognized who he was, and he in turn paid her some passing courtesies that elated her. When he asked her if she noticed anything on the road, she bristled and told us about the band of heathens who dared to nestle just off to the side. She was raving about their “barbaric rituals” and “honeyed words meant to lure in unsuspecting souls,” even blushing a bit as she admitted she was almost swayed by their charming ways. Her words made him break into a sweat and pale.
“Please, Lord Hawke, promise me you'll take care of it,” she implored.
“I was, uh, actually on my way to do just that,” he lied terribly, unable to look the woman in the eye. “Just tell me where the, er, heathens are and I'll make sure to take care of it, or something.”
“Oh, bless you, milord!” she said, oblivious to his unease. “They're just a few hours off! I'll let everyone in Val'Hala know of your gallantry as soon as I arrive!”
“Oh please, don't,” he chuckled nervously. “It's all part of being a king.”
“Oh, bless you mightily! Strong, just, and humble!”
She refused to leave until she could kiss his hand and finally started back her on her way with a happy tune on her lips. Hawke looked ready to fall off the horse.
“I don't think I'm ready to see Rouge like this,” he moaned. “Let's call it a night. We can catch them tomorrow.”
All through the evening, Hawke was a nervous wreck, spacing out when I tried talking to him and not touching a bite to eat. I had hoped that perhaps a good night's rest might do him some good, but it seemed that his brief encounter with narcolepsy had already passed. When I awoke in the early hours before dawn, he was still sitting where I had left him, wide awake, looking even worse than he had the night before. I forbade him from doing anything else until he had washed up and made something more presentable of his gaunt, haggard complexion lest he be mistaken for a grinel. After a long morning intermission of tidying up the nervous sod, we struck out again.
We were greeted with a cool, temperate morning. Aside from a few wisps of cloud floating carelessly about, the sky was opalescent against the sun's rays. It was the perfect day for travel.
At least, it would have been if Hawke didn't continue to jump and flinch at every little noise that cried out in the distance. I thought I was in for another tiring haul, but the woman's estimate held true. It was just a few hours before there came a commotion that made Hawke convulse uncontrollably.
I wasn't quite able to make it out right away, but the closer we drew the more I was able to start picking out the sounds of musical instruments and laughter. Over the brush and scattered trees to our right, I caught brief glimpses of brightly painted wagons and draw carts, with the occasional impression of someone wandering between them. A well-worn footpath opened in the foliage a bit down the road, and we were finally able to take in fully what we had stumbled upon.
It looked like someone had erected a town fair in the middle of the wilderness. People dressed in garish motley and flamboyant tunics milled around a camp filled with carts bursting full of oddities. Multiple campfires burned cheerfully in a multitude of colors that changed sporadically. One individual was juggling an assortment of balls, weapons, and lit torches with an almost bored look on his face. Occasionally a comrade would toss a new bauble into the rotation. Another gruff-faced fellow was chucking throwing knives at a man leaning lazily against a tree, the weapons burying in the trunk a mere hair's width from the lounger. There was even a woman covered in satin scarves standing atop a horse as it cantered around the site while the rider appeared to read a book.
One of the performers noticed us watching the chaos ensuing and bounded over to us with a friendly grin plastered on his face.
“Good morn to you, sir and lass!” he exclaimed warmly. “What brings weary travelers such as yourselves to our little slice of paradise?” I was struck dumb from the absurdity of everything I was seeing, but Hawke's silence seemed intentionally weighted. The man looked between the two of us, waiting for some sort of reaction. Then his eyes slowly rolled back to my companion. The smile dropped from his face much quicker.
“Triumph, it's me. Hawke,” my companion said softly. Our greeter took a step forward and gaped.
“By the Lord Ordained, he's actually done it,” he breathed. Another performer, much older looking than the others and donning a bright yellow robe and deer antlers on his head approached, laying a hand on his friend.
“What's the matter, Triumph? Have our new friends really impressed you so?” the geriatric cackled.
“No, you blasted codger, look with your eyes!” Triumph actually grabbed the man's head and turned it towards Hawke. The old man peered hard, smacking his lips a couple times, but it took only a second before his toothless jaw was agape.
“He's here! He's here, he's here!” the man rambled with his arms in the air. He continued this way as he shuffled into the camp and out of sight, the other campers now turning their attention towards all the fuss.
“I'll be right back with everyone! They won't believe it!” Triumph cried as he sprinted off hollering wildly. “Hawke's returned! Hawke's finally returned!”
My friend let out a groan so drained it made me tired just hearing it. He slowly dismounted and helped me off, just as the scarfed woman I had seen before approached us, still on the horse.
“Hawke, I'm so glad to see you again,” she said, though her passive face didn't impress much joy. Hawke put on a weary smile.
“I'm glad to see you too, Chestnut. You mind taking care of our friend here? His name is Sir Brown Horse.” He gave our steed an affectionate pat.
“Sir Brown Horse. A knight worthy of legend, to be sure,” she praised. “I will see to his every need.” She snapped a couple times and snorted. Sir Brown Horse's head swung to face her, and she gave a sharp whistle. Her own mount turned and trotted away, and to my surprise, Sir Brown Horse followed close on their heels.
We barely had time to start walking into the camp when a flood of colorful strangers began converging from everywhere, stepping out of tents and swinging in from the trees, and I swear one even tunneled in from the ground. They engulfed us in a circle and stared in rapture as if they had never seen anything more incredible in their lives.
A lone figure emerged from the cluster, considerably more normal-looking to me than the others. He wore a plain scarlet vest with polished gold buttons done up all the way to his throat. His satin grey pants hung loosely over well-worn moccasins that curled at the toes, which drew attention to the limp he walked with. His hair was heavily thinned and mostly white with thin streaks of bronze, though it grew long enough in the back to be pulled into an absurdly tiny ponytail. Hazel eyes regarded us, watery and swollen, and his bushy mustache crinkled as he smiled.
“I couldn't believe it when they told me,” the old man said. “I thought we'd be waiting here until we all turned to dust. Come here, little one.” I thought he was referring to me, but Hawke strode past and embraced the elder for a moment.
“You're looking well, Mirth,” Hawke commented as they broke their grip. The man gave a single hearty guffaw.
“Ha! If only looks were enough to keep up with this lot,” he said. There was a round of laughter from the group, but it was scattered and half-hearted. In fact, nearly all of the gypsies were looking somber and trying their best not to look at Hawke, which seemed strange compared to how they were acting just minutes ago. Even Mirth's mustache seemed to droop as he turned around and walked through the parting curtain of onlookers.
“So… where's Rouge?” Hawke asked in a higher voice than usual. The old gypsy stopped his gait mid-step.
“She's waiting in the same place she has been for years. I'll show you,” he said before shambling off again. Hawke started following, the color draining from his face.
“What do you mean she's 'in the same place'? Why didn't she come here with you? Hey!” H
awke's voice cracked as Mirth walked on without replying.
The crowd around me began to disperse, the atmosphere thick around them as they went back to their original tasks with none of the enthusiasm they showed before. I realized I had just been standing there without moving the entire time and rushed to catch up to Hawke.
“…on't make me say the obvious, child,” Mirth was finishing saying as I reached earshot of the two. They were just passing out the back of one of the tents and into a small forested area. Hawke was nearly pacing circles around the old man.
“You need to stop playing word games and tell me what happened!” Hawke was now yelling straight at him. Mirth turned left near an overgrown willow and stopped, pointing straight ahead of himself.
“There's your answer.”
I just managed to reach them, peeking around Hawke's legs to see where he had been led. A couple dozen yards ahead was a large patch of land that had been cleared of plants and stones, save for three distinct rings of rocks that stretched about six feet long and two feet wide. The dirt underneath the rings looked like it had been disturbed, and at the end of each formation, a wooden marker stood erect. There was no mistaking what we were being shown.
“Two taken by mobs, and her by illness.” Mirth sighed and shook his head. “I've done this so many times you'd think I would be used to it.”
If Hawke heard him he paid no mind. With shaky steps, he approached the graves and stopped before the middle one. He let out a choking sound and his knees buckled out beneath him. I cried out and tried to go to him, but Mirth placed a hand on my shoulder. As soft as his touch was, I felt like I was rooted in place.
“Let him be for a bit, lass,” he said. “He needs some time alone with her.”
“But–!” I stammered. I didn't just want to leave him there, stewing in whatever he was going through at that moment. It was Hawke who spoke up.
“Just for a bit, Micasa. It'll…be okay.” He sounded completely unsure of his own words, but Mirth gave me a gentle tug back towards the camp. Unable to think of a decent argument, I reluctantly let myself be pulled away.
It was impossible to think that after all this time, after all the fighting and effort Hawke had put into coming this far, that we'd be met with such an ending. My eyes started to itch fiercely, my vision blurring. Then the tears started to flow, tracing hot rivulets down my cheeks.
Mirth mopped them off my face with a handkerchief and made soft shushing noises while he took me back to the main clearing. The kindly gypsy brought me to one of the several rainbow strobing campfires and bade me sit. I assumed he would leave me to my own devices, but the old man instead took a seat beside me and gestured to no one in particular.
The juggler I had seen before appeared keeping five swords aloft, handling them by the blades without once so much as nicking his fingers. He hurled one high into the air and tumbled away as another performer bounded in and opened his mouth wide. The blade went straight down his throat, eliciting a horrified gasp from me. After a second the gypsy tugged out the sword, which was for some reason now covered in bright pink flowers. He plucked one off and held it towards me. I flinched away, not sure I wanted to handle something that had just been pulled from his mouth. With a flick of his wrist, the flower changed into a dove that fluttered into the sky.
From what might as well have been thin air, other gypsies continued jumping in one by one and putting on dazzling displays of skill and trickery. In spite of my dark feelings, I couldn't fight my amazement at their performance, each one as fantastical as the last. At some point, Mirth handed me a plate of food, and I had eaten half of it before I even noticed it had been given to me.
For a finale, Chestnut rode in standing atop Sir Brown Horse, who reared back on his hind legs and hopped backwards comically. The gypsy woman stepped off his head and leapt into the sky, somersaulting as she landed kneeling before me. The dove from earlier alighted onto her outstretched hand, and a quick snap of her hand turned it into a rose she held for me. I couldn't fight the smile creeping to my lips, and this time I took the flower. As she stepped back to bow, the other performers all rushed out to join her. Mirth and I both broke into applause.
“They're incredible, aren't they?” he murmured to me as he clapped.
I nodded. “Who taught them to do all that?” I asked. Mirth let out a chuckle.
“Nobody taught them. They're simply using talents of theirs to do what they love to do: make people's lives a little brighter.” He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and I realized I had completely forgotten my foul mood.
“Everyone who's talked about gypsies on our way here said you were monsters and evil,” I told him, “but why would they hate you if all you want to do is make them happy?” His brow furrowed.
“Quite a thoughtful question from one so young,” Mirth hummed. “I suppose people fear us because, for all the things we can do, they only think of how such skills could be put to darker purposes.”
“Like stealing someone's essence?” I ventured. The wizened gypsy's face slackened at my question.
“So you've heard about that. Yes, of course you would. Traveling with Hawke for so long, it'd be impossible not to.” He nodded to no one but himself.
“Hawke told me she stole his powers, but I still don't really get it,” I said, casting my eyes to the ground. We sat in silence for some time before Mirth spoke up.
“Micasa, is that right?” he asked softly. “Let me share something with you.” He stood and offered his hand out to help me up. Slowly, Mirth hobbled through the camp, his leathery grasp leading me along.
“You said Hawke told you about essence, yes?” he started saying. When I nodded, he harrumphed. “We gypsies don't think of such energy in so cold a manner. That strength is a person's soul, and that is what we strive to touch when we perform for people and connect with them. All living things, plant and animal, have a soul coursing through them. Reaching a person so intimately that we can touch their very soul, I suppose you could say that's the gift we gypsies have; what Hawke would call a power.” He rolled his eyes.
“Touching a soul?” I repeated aloud, confused. Mirth smiled.
“It must not make much sense, but as strong as a soul is, it's also very delicate. Even small things in life can change a person's soul so dramatically they become like someone else. Gypsies can forge bonds with people so quickly that we can learn secrets about them they never knew they had. We can see that soul in all its glamour, and thus learn a person better than they know themselves.” A sad expression crossed his face.
“Because of that, we also understand just how fragile a soul truly is.”
Our walk had taken us towards a large carriage where several gypsies were loitering about, looking ready to die of boredom. At our approach, they perked up considerably.
“What's up, Mirth?” asked one of the troupe members with a relieved grin. “Taking the little lady on a tour?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied without smiling back. “Do me a favor and get the trunk.” The cheer faded from the bunch almost instantly.
“O-okay,” the gypsy replied hesitantly. He looked at a couple of the other stragglers pointedly, and the three together rushed inside the carriage.
“On rare occasions, Micasa, a gypsy does something selfish that endangers the troupe,” he kept talking like our conversation had never stopped. “Our lifestyle is already one where we live in fear every day. For one of our own to threaten our ways, there is only one punishment.”
A large door swung open in the rear of the vehicle, and the three that had disappeared inside struggled to lug a bulky footlocker outside. They carefully deposited it on the ground, something inside clinking as it came to rest. Their work done, the gypsies split away and took position close by, looking far more alert than before.
Mirth approached the chest and undid a half-dozen clasps holding the lid in place. He beckoned me closer and lifted the top slowly. I inhaled sharply at the sight: hundreds of shine
stones were piled inside, blazing in all colors imaginable. Mirth looked sick at the mere sight of them.
“We do not kill those gypsies who endanger their fellows,” he told me. “We break a piece of their soul off, one that holds whatever they cherish the most. It may be a talent of theirs, or a fond memory, it matters not. Once done, they are exiled from us, never allowed to return. We place that part of their soul in one of these stones and keep them here where they usually sit, forgotten.” He closed the trunk as if he couldn't bear to look at them anymore and turned to regard me with heavy eyes.
“A broken soul is a terrible thing, lass. The wound left is invisible but never heals. It is a pain unlike any you can imagine. Most who suffer this can never sleep, so great is the agony, and in the end are driven mad by it. It is abominable for us to do this, and yet without such a deterrent we might very well die out completely.”
I was thunderstruck. Somehow I never thought just how terrible it was for Hawke to have his soul broken so. And his had been shattered into so many pieces! Just how much had he been suffering this whole time?
I couldn't leave him alone to deal with all that pain by himself. Ignoring the rest of what Mirth was saying, I rushed off to find Hawke at once.
Doing so proved simple enough, since he hadn't moved an inch from where we left him. I was afraid he'd be mad that I was interrupting his thoughts, but when he noticed me out of the corner of his eye, he actually beckoned me over with a hand.
I knelt beside him, but his focus was turned back to the grave marker, where 'ROUGE' had been carved roughly into the wood. Not wanting to disturb him, I contented myself with putting my hands in my lap and preserving the stillness of the moment.
Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Page 23