“It's funny,” Hawke said suddenly. “When I gained the power to heal, my bad eyesight from the old days vanished completely. It felt so liberating not having to wear glasses anymore. Then one day, Rouge and I are talking about nothing in particular when she looks me straight in the face and says, 'You know, you'd be cute with glasses.' ” He took the pair off his nose and flipped them over in his hands with a sad smile on his face. “Been wearing fake ones ever since.” His smile tightened into a wince.
“I'm sorry,” was all I could think to say to him. I scooted closer and wrapped my tiny arms around him. They didn't even fit all the way around his chest, but I squeezed as tightly as I could. His arm snaked around me and pulled me closer.
“It's like everything I look at reminds me of her,” he wheezed, his eyes growing watery as the first tears began to sneak down his face. “You know, you do look quite a bit like her. Same hair, same olive skin, nearly the same eyes even. Maybe deep down, part of me wanted to bring you along because you reminded me of her, even if just a little.”
“Do you…want me to leave?” I said in a tiny voice, my heart like lead. He replied by pulling me to his chest and hugging me as tightly as I did him.
“No, Micasa. Not ever,” he sobbed. Together, we cried in silence until well after the sun had disappeared.
Chapter 19: The Nostalgic Man
Neither Hawke nor I felt that leaving the gypsy camp in such spirits would bode well on the last leg of our journey, and decided that some down time would do us both some good. This delighted the gypsies, who hadn't had any guests partake of their hospitality for a long while. They cleared out a tent for our use with astonishing speed, furnishing it with foldaway feather beds and a personal bath so quickly I suspected that they were betting on our extended stay the whole time.
Life around the camp seemed to be a neverending whirlwind of action. All of them rose at the first peep of sunlight, milling about with fierce energy that for the life of me I couldn't muster straight out of bed. Everyone had a hand in cooking breakfast for the camp, led by their head cook who called himself Porridge and seemed to perpetually have flour covered hands. While all the gypsies did their best to make food for the lot, Porridge moved so quickly in their slapdash kitchen it made wonder if he really needed the help in the first place. When I made an off-hand reference to the Sandwich Man, he chortled.
“I love that story!” he exclaimed, but he added with a wink, “The Sandwich Man doesn't have anything on me, though!” He scooped up a seemingly random assortment of ingredients he had just been preparing and started rolling them in his hands while whistling. After a couple seconds he held out his palm towards me, presenting the most elaborate breakfast biscuit I'd ever seen. One bite was all it took to see he wasn't just idly boasting.
“Uwa, it's so good!” I squeed through a mouthful of egg and salsa. He puffed up proudly and talked about cooking while I finished my food, then sent me off to help serve the others.
Everyone ate in a great tent that had been purposed into a sort of mess hall, where a nonstop cacophony of stories, jokes, and arguments clashed together over their meal. Once they finished, quick work was made of cleaning the dishes before everyone scattered to begin practice for the day.
Rehearsal was a vital part of their livelihood to them, for they never knew when their next performance was, as evidenced by the show they had given me the other day. Most of the time they simply honed their various expertise in solitude, but there were always at least one or two groups of gypsies who were discussing ways to fit their acts together. Fires were started, objects were sent flying, and arguments boiled into near fistfights everywhere you looked, and by the way everyone else reacted, it was clear that was simply the norm for them.
Hawke popped up one late afternoon after lunch looking for me. Before he could start talking, though, he was beset by a small mob of gypsies that surrounded him.
“Hawke, do something with this fire I need for my new trick!”
“Hey Hawke, can you do that mind lifty thing on me? I got a great idea!”
“Hawke, tell me what you think of this song I'm working on!”
He was pulled every which way and gave me an apologetic look as he let himself be dragged away to tend their requests. With all his power, it seemed he was well equipped for a life of entertainment. An image of Hawke in jester's motley and facepaint flashed through my head, and I had to fight hard to contain a fit of giggles.
When he had finally accommodated everyone an hour later or so, he found me again, looking like he had just been hauled through mud.
“I was afraid I'd never get away,” he grumbled. He took a deep breath and tried his best to recompose himself before asking me if I was interested in starting swordplay lessons.
I was taken aback by the offer, mostly because Hawke had always seemed reluctant about the idea of me handling weapons. I still had the short-sword from Val'Hala, though, and it was the first lesson he had offered in something that didn't involve reading a book or playing with locks.
So, while the gypsies spent each day honing their acts, we found our own little corner of the grounds to practice in (relative) peace. He tried to introduce me to the proper way to grip a hilt, which way to attack when certain openings were made, and how to perform parries against an opponent.
The problem was that Hawke was, in fact, as terrible a teacher as he told me he had been long ago. He explained things too quickly for me to grasp, got irritated when I didn't pick it up right away, and would just as quickly skip to another lesson before I had any decent understanding of the last one. It was so bad we started drawing a crowd who would openly laugh at his attempts.
“Wow, this is beyond terrible!” cried out one young boy, only a few years older than myself, during a practice where Hawke was failing to explain how to disarm a foe. Hawke's face went rigid, and he turned on the boy with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“You're right, son. Perhaps a practical demonstration would help Micasa learn better,” he crooned. “Would you be so kind as to grab a training sword and help me?” The boy flinched but, seeing that I had his attention, tried to make a show of bravado.
“The name's not 'son,' it's Darkfire!” he declared. Hawke slapped his palm to his face as the boy stammered, “O-of course I'll help!” He flounced away and returned shortly with a dulled metal blade. Hawke was already standing at the ready with his usual sword poised, still splotched as ever with rust.
“H-hey, I thought we were just training!” the boy calling himself Darkfire whimpered when he caught sight of the curved blade. Hawke put on a reassuring sneer.
“Oh, this old thing is even duller than yours,” he promised the lad. “Now, you've been taught the basics, I'm sure? Good. Micasa, you signal when to begin.”
The two squared off, Darkfire with knees trembling and my companion looking ready to fall asleep. At my call, the boy launched at Hawke. In less than a second, the training blade was on the ground and Darkfire was yelping in surprise. Hawke looked like he had barely twitched.
“And that's the proper way to disarm someone,” Hawke declared with a smug look.
“You went too fast. I didn't see a thing,” I said. Someone coughed behind me, and I turned to see Mirth looking angrily at the two of them.
“Are you really baring Symphony at children now, Hawke?” he said, his tone cold. For once, Hawke had nothing to retort with. Mirth turned his gaze on the boy. “And, Darkfire, you know better than to make a nuisance of yourself to guests! Now go find something useful to do!” He looked back to Hawke. “Both of you!” And with that, he was gone.
The boy muttered some apologies and skittered off with the training sword. The few who had watched their quick scuffle shambled away, some still snickering or shaking their heads. Hawke had turned a deep shade of red.
“Sorry, Micasa, I did something really stupid there.” he muttered.
“Kinda. What did Mirth call your sword? Symphony?”
“Huh, I thoug
ht I had mentioned that before,” he said bemusedly. “Yeah, Rouge gave it that name long ago. She said watching me practice with it looked like I was conducting a symphony, and the name just sort of stuck.”
“Ooh, did she give you that sword?” I asked.
“No, Uraj made it for me. That was a long time ago, though.” The color drained from his face as his stare trailed off into what I could only assume was a distant memory. When I asked him if he was okay, he blinked and shrugged off the question.
“I think we've practiced enough for one day. I'll take Mirth's advice and go find something else to do,” he said. He gave me a little wave as he trundled off.
Of course, when Hawke said he was going to do something, it was a sure bet that he was going to sit at Rouge's grave. When he wasn't sleeping, eating, or trying to teach me the way of the sword, it was the only other place he spent time. Sometimes I would join him, and we would sit for some hours without a word between us. He never complained when I was there, but I knew that there were times when he likely just wanted to be alone and sort his thoughts. This seemed to be one of those times.
My sword “lessons” were the only thing I really had to look forward to during the day. Without those, I was left to wander around camp and find ways to pass the time. Mostly this boiled down to watching the performers at their craft or trying to strike up conversations with those who were taking a break. They were friendly to be sure, but I had little idea what to say to them other than talking about what they were working on.
The only one who seemed interested in seeking me out to talk was Mirth himself. He would frequently show up when I was sitting by myself, and we would talk about whatever popped into our heads. That was how I found out he was more or less the de facto leader of the gypsies, though I had gathered as much by the reverence the others showed him on matters around the camp. He would ask at length about my adventures with Hawke, taking a keen interest in my growing talent with locks.
“Hawke's told me you were once a slave, is that right?” he brought up during one of our conversations. I nodded, trying my best to suppress the memories that came flooding back at the mention. Mirth nodded sadly.
“You may not believe it, but many of us here have been down that path too,” he confided in me.
“Really?” I found it hard to believe with how upbeat everyone seemed all the time.
“Indeed. Very few children are born into our ways,” Mirth explained. “Almost all our numbers are runaways: some from slavery, others from the army, and some who were just tired of the life they were living.” He gave me a meaningful look. “We're always willing to take newcomers into our ways, if you need a place where you'll be accepted for who you are.”
I wasn't expecting the offer. Of all the places I'd been, it certainly was one where I felt most at ease. Still, I shook my head.
“I want to keep traveling with Hawke,” I told him. “But I'd love to come visit you all again someday!” His mustache scrunched up as he grinned.
“Of course, child. You and Hawke will always be welcomed like family.” He gave me a gentle pat on the back and stood with a groan to leave. Before he left, he added, “Oh, speaking of children, I haven't seen you playing with any of them around here. Maybe you should introduce yourself?”
I hadn't thought even once about trying to reach out to the kids of the camp. I had seen them from time to time playing games or watching the adults practice from afar, and a couple times they even yelled at me, trying to get me to join them. Truth was, I was uncomfortable around children my age. I spent basically my whole life only speaking to and interacting with adults, so I had no idea what to say to or do with other kids.
I decided that maybe it was time to take that plunge and went to go find some to talk to. It didn't take long to find a few of them squatting in a circle and cheering. As I approached with trepidation, one of them noticed me and waved wildly.
“You're just in time! The race is almost over!” she cried out, pointing excitedly at whatever they were watching. I ventured close enough to see a pair of snails were gliding languidly along the ground. They were going completely different directions, and I couldn't make out any point in either one's path that would constitute a finish line.
“Uh, who's winning?” I broached. They all tried to exclaim over each other.
“I am!” “No, I am!” “I picked both!”
I was almost overwhelmed by their enthusiasm for something so ridiculous, but my curiosity once again got the better of me. I stuck around until one of the boys hopped into the air with fists held up triumphantly.
“I knew it, yes!” he bellowed, running to me. “You came here with Hawke, right? I'm Shrub!” He pointed to the girl who had waved me over. “That's Goggles, and he's Potato!” The boy he pointed to looked dejected, though I couldn't figure why: both snails had barely moved from where I last saw them.
“I'm, uh, Micasa,” I introduced with a nervous chuckle. “I like your names.”
“Thanks!” exclaimed Goggles. “Everyone here gets to pick their own!” She turned back to their other friend. “Stop being a baby, Potato! Micasa is here to play now!”
As if just noticing me, the boy rubbed the snot from his nose and bounded to his feet. “Now we have enough for leaf racing!” Potato declared, which sent Goggles and Shrub into a fit of cheers.
So that's how I was dragged along into their games, which they jumped between without a moment's notice most of the time. We skipped between racing leaves on tiny streams, hunting for the biggest pinecone (in a forest bereft of pine trees), seeing who could throw a stone farthest, and hide and seek. They barely bothered to explain the rules, and when they did usually broke them almost immediately. Yet by the end, I was laughing right along with them and making up my own rules along the way, to their delight as well as my own.
I decided to have a bit of fun with them by showing them my talent, pretending to close a padlock with the key and challenging them to open it. They scoffed, but soon all were throwing the lock on the ground in frustration and saying I broke it. I answered them by picking it up and shaking it open with one hand. They exploded in applause, making my face burn in humiliation.
“Can you do that to anything?” Potato asked in awe. When I nodded sheepishly, the three looked at each other with devilish intent.
Suddenly we were sneaking into Porridge's kitchen, with promises of some great treasure being whispered in my ear by the trio as we stealthily made our way to the cook's pantry. I saw what they had in mind the moment I laid eyes on the massive latch securing our target's bounty.
I felt guilty about sneaking behind the chef's back after he had been so nice to me, but the other kids were so excited I couldn't bring myself to disappoint them either. It took hardly an effort to break in, and in a flash the kids grabbed handfuls of sweets and cakes and were off, beckoning me to hurry. I took another second to secure the pantry again before we were all bolting away, running as if our lives depended on it.
Their unadulterated joy at our success seemed completely overblown to me when all we got away with was a bunch of junk food. That didn't stop me from joining in on their excitement as we reveled over our spoils.
And so the days passed in a whirlwind of watching the performers, training with Hawke, and spending time with my new young friends. Thinking about it now, it was perhaps the longest time Hawke and I ever stayed in a single place, even years later. It was the only place that ever really felt like a true home to me.
* * *
The cold fall nights often brought everyone into the largest tent during the evenings, where they built a great fire to warm themselves with after dinner while entertaining each other with grand tales and bawdy songs. It was during one of these little get-togethers that Hawke, who had avoided them for the most part, slid into the tent at some point and quietly watched from a little corner of his own. He had already been there for some time before even I noticed him, and I bade him join me as I roasted a marshmallow over the flam
e. He did so reluctantly, to the jeers and hollers of the gypsies berating him for hiding so long.
“Oy, Hawke, you're the only one who hasn't performed for a night!” Chestnut slurred at him. Her face had been steadily growing redder as she downed tankard after tankard. Shouts of agreement roared all around us.
“Yeah, even li'l Micasa put on a show with her locks! You gonna let her upstage you!?” cried Edge the knife thrower. Hawke gave me a sideways glance and smirked.
“Did you now?” he asked, making me turn away embarrassed. He chuckled. “Well, I guess you're right then. What should I do?”
A dozen suggestions were thrown at him, but he ignored them as his eyes scanned the crowd.
“Hey, Four Chords!” he finally shouted, getting the attention of a gypsy who was never seen without his acoustic guitar in tow. “Lend me Sheila for a bit!”
“Ah, a solo it is then?” the musician cackled as he slipped the instrument to my companion, “Be gentle with her, though, or I'll have yer head.”
His warning brought a few laughs, but the look in his eye was deadly serious, and he only let go after a long hesitation. Hawke carefully strapped it to his shoulder and struck a few notes, reaching to the tuning pegs. He stopped short when Four Chords shot him a venomous glare.
“Write anything new while on the road?” Mirth asked while tending to the fire. Hawke shook his head.
“Well, this song is a bit of an old one, but only one other person has heard it before,” he explained. The room itself seemed to dim as everyone grew somber. He looked up with a tiny smile. “We're leaving tomorrow, so I thought I'd make one last memory of Rouge to share with the troupe.”
He strummed a couple chords, nodded to himself and took a deep breath, then began to play. The melody was surprisingly tender, yet not nearly as sad as I was expecting. When he began to sing, it was with a high, unusual twang I'd never heard him speak with.
I hear you whisper quietly you wish to soar away
Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Page 24