“Hello ma’am,” Billy said politely, as he waited for the remaining duties Ms. Menagerie would undoubtedly burden him with.
“And where have you slithered off to?” said she, lowering her knitted creation from her weak eyesight. “You’ve been gone all morning. Tea hasn’t been made, and this place looks wretched. It’s half past noon. You know what that means. Off you go.”
Billy took a deep breath. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for slave direction today, not with the festivities ramping up for the night. But he knew she’d never let him out unless he did what was expected of him.
“A fresh pot of tea, please. And once you’ve finished, the weeds need to be pulled around the house and do make sure to get all of them this time. You missed a section last week by the shed. When you’ve finished, the floors need a vigorous scrubbing. We’ll have guests staying with us for the week, and I want this place in tip-top shape, you hear that? That means baseboards, windowsills, and fresh linens in all of the rooms.”
Billy’s eyes meandered around the room, staring at floral printed wallpaper that bubbled from the walls and cobwebs that blessed the corner of most rooms. There was no way he’d finish before the night, but he had to if he wanted any chance of getting out. “Is there anything else?” he said, attempting to keep his composure.
“Yes. Wash up, you look filthy and smell horrid.”
“Right away.”
After the teakettle finished boiling, he poured Ms. Menagerie a fresh pot of tea and walked the tea cart over to her side. He then took matters of cleaning the floors. Ms. Menagerie’s estate was two stories tall with four bedrooms and two kitchens. He scrubbed for most of the day until his arms felt like they were boneless. When he finished, he dusted the windowsills and expelled the spiderwebs with a duster made of bird feathers. That was the easy part. However, when it came to pulling the weeds, Billy had to do so under the cover of rain. There was no surprise that when he had finished, the rain finally let up. Soaked through and nearly dead, Billy concluded his list and went to wash up. The place did look a lot better than before, even to him.
There were multiple knocks at the door throughout the day. Ms. Menagerie yelled for him each time to help the guest with their luggage. Billy couldn’t help but notice how interesting they all were. A distant cousin from Yorkshire. She had a stutter. There was an old tea companion from Bath who reeked of tobacco. And a man with an overly large cane. Billy noticed he had two different eye colors.
Once three guests had arrived, there was a fourth knocked at the door.
“Will you please see them in?” Ms. Menagerie said as she lowered her knitting needles.
“All the rooms are taken ma’am,” Billy said cluelessly. “Where will they stay?”
“In your room.”
“But where will I—“
“You’ll have to figure that out yourself.” Ms. Menagerie’s brow lifted. There was a sense of mockery running through her voice. Billy’s concern amused her. “Now off you go. Answer the door. I don’t want to keep my guests waiting any longer than you already have.”
Billy turned to hide his red face. He opened the door to find a wild-looking woman standing impatiently outside. She was tapping her foot.
“About time. Here take this,” she said as she shoved her things in Billy’s hands. “Oh, Trudy what a pleasure! How long’s it been? Five years? This place looks fantastic! You’ve done well for yourself.”
Ms. Menagerie rose from her armchair and embraced her old colleague. “Eleanor! Why thank you, you’re so kind. It’s troublesome work, but I do take pleasure in keeping my things in working order.”
“You may need to hire new help,” Eleanor said as she eyed Billy. “I hear gingers are bad luck and that one may be deaf.”
“Is that so?” Ms. Menagerie flashed her eyes at Billy. It was a warning. He needed to vanish somewhere quickly, so they could gossip about the comings and goings of Woolbury and the outside world. He could care less about warnings.
Ms. Menagerie’s guest talked about how brave she was to allow an orphan to live with her. Ms. Menagerie explained it as an opportunity to give back to the community of lesser fortunate folks, or so she told Eleanor. Billy rolled his eyes as he exited through the servant’s door in the kitchen. One day he would get out of this putrid place. One day.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Billy heard the crowing of Ms. Menagerie asking for another pot of tea. He felt the whip cracked across his back once more to serve his master. But a new feeling settled over him. Rebellion. Ms. Menagerie had given out his room for the week without notice. What’s to say she wasn’t in charge of him for the period of time? After all, he wasn’t bound by her rule if he wasn’t sleeping under her roof. No. Billy said to himself. I don’t think I will get you that pot of tea. Why don’t you fetch it yourself you old hen!
Billy left through the shrub maze of Ms. Menagerie’s back garden, down a shortcut he’d made, and joined the rest of Woolbury to see what mischief he could sink his teeth in to. The celebration had begun. He was free to savor it for the next five days without any responsibilities.
4
A few steps outside Abbott's house and things were unfolding before his eyes, distracting all thoughts circling worry. A man spewed bright red fire from their lips in the shape of a prancing mountain cat. After that, Abbott saw a blacksmith craft an elegant polished silversword and gift to a member in the crowd. Its edges were sharp enough to cut the very steel it was forged. Bright looking birds and tigers were ready for the attention of children as they lined up to pet the wild beasts. He heard peculiar instruments performing tunes with matching dancing to go along. They involved two-necked guitars, purple-skinned drums, and brass trumpets.
Of all the years in Woolbury’s history, this may have been the grandest celebration of all. Women and children chased each other whilst in-game and the men drank at the Three-Tailed Hare until they could no longer stand afoot. The start of the Woolbury Waxy Cap hunt was a day away after the sun disappeared and the moon unveiled herself the following night. Abbott could not be entirely sure though every guest in Woolbury came for the hunt. There were too many people, he alleged. Far more than the last year years put together. There must have been another reason why so many were summoned to the lonely little village of Woolbury. Nevertheless, it was an alleged question without a proper answer.
“Hello there,” Abbott said in a flutter as a posse of women walked by. They giggled and rushed off towards their silk-covered tents with blushed cheeks.
A performance hooked Abbott’s attention as he entered the town center. It dealt with some kind of weapon thrower. The man giving the show must have been three times his age. He had lingering grey hair and a thick mossy looking beard. But, no less, he hurled meticulously placed daggers and short axes at an assortment of targets. Some were little cut-outs of wolves, and others were objects such as candlesticks and wads of heavy spun rope.
The performer sliced the thorn off a rose fourteen meters away and did so with his back turned. A real surge of energy and enthusiasm ran through the crowd’s collective spirits as if this was the most impressive thing they’d yet to see in their ordinary lives.
“Shall a skilled thrower, as myself, be able to light the wick of a candle with this flaming arrow?” he asked his audience with a twirl of his lavender robe. A set of feathered wings dove overhead and landed on the wheel of his cart. With hues of brown and grey and abreast of snow, two enormously large pebble-like eyes locked onto Abbott intently. It was a barn owl. He'd seen one before. The owl's beak held a field mouse by its tail, and it dashed from side to side like the pendulum of a clock.
“Nay, I say no,” one of the villagers challenged.
“Ahh, ready yourselves to have your wits proved wrong and minds…altered.” He tucked a flaming arrow in his left hand and lifted the wager by blindfolding himself at the expense of laughter from the crowd. “Does anyone wish to challenge me?” No volunteers came forward.
No
one dared move an inch. Abbott’s head swirled around to see who would step forward. He certainly did not dare to do so himself.
“I will!”
The man raised his blindfold in utter bewilderment. Never in any of his shows had someone accepted the offer, and to think it was by a mere boy. Billy wedged his way through the thick circle of people with an ear to ear grin. Abbott knew at once what he was doing. The freckled face of Violet held a red rose clutched under her nose in admiration, a token of Billy’s love. Was he downright giving her a view of showmanship to woe her into his arms?
“––and the name of who challenges me on this night?”
“Billy's my name, sir.”
Billy was handed an arrow in the exact likeness of his opponent.
“If Billy successfully strikes the candlestick, he shall be granted a prize for which only he will know. But, if I am to win, then you’ll be stuck with bad luck for the next three years of your life,” The performer smiled. “Seems fair yes? One last trick. I shall be blindfolded yet. Luck be with you, Billy.”
The blindfold fell over the performer’s eyes. The audience anticipated with bated breath who the victor would be, whispering amongst each other with their theories. The act involved unlit candlesticks placed on a stump down a narrow field, both men had a long, heavy strung bow to hurl their arrow.
Billy had never held a hunting bow before, let alone known how to use one properly. The drawstring snapped in his hand as he practiced pulling it back. His brow wettened. This was it, his chance to show Violet just how special he was. He could not mess it up.
Together they lit their arrowheads in a cauldron of fire. Billy had to do so multiple times as the flames kept blowing out.
Abbott raised his hand intently over his eyes to shield himself from the embarrassment that was to come. Billy was in way over his head. He could not come to his rescue this time, but neither did he want to.
“On my mark,” the performer said. “Three, two…” With a whoosh and a fling from Billy’s bow, his arrow landed its mark. The wick of the candlestick burnt definitely on top of the stump it sat. The crowd turned in an uproar. Billy, quite satisfied, took his curtsy of victory.
Abbott shook his head in distaste. How was it that someone with no experience shooting a bow became as accurate as he was? Was it beginner's luck?
“My opponent has bravely defeated the Magnificent Martin Marksman! Let us all congratulate him with warm applause!”
“Quite the act,” said a smooth flowing voice, turning Abbott’s face the shade of the rose clutched in her hands. It was Violet. “And to think it was all for me. I’m rather flattered.”
“Yeah––isn’t he great,” Abbott sighed under his breath. “Congratulations may be in order, to an early draw.”
“Thank you, thank you all,” Billy said, bowing to his people. “A natural-born I am.”
“And what for the prize?” questioned a round audience member. “Do tell us!”
“Rules shall be rules,” the Magnificent Marty said. “I will discuss that strictly with the victor, but first a dedication?” His long narrow arm gestured to Billy, who was at a loss for words.
“I–– I dedicate this display to Violet, whom my heart belongs to,” he said.
Violet giggled in flattery as her cheeks filled with warm blood.
The Magnificent Martin ended his stage performance for the night. “I shall be back tomorrow,” he said, gathering his props. The crowd dispersed into other shows that caught their fancy. Violet stole Billy’s hand from the stage but not before Marty could whisper his prize into his ear.
Abbott watched with the jealous eyes of a cat as the ordeal unfolded. He was no good at reading lips, especially the ones from a heavily bearded man. There was, however, something he did notice. Behind Billy’s back, in his free hand, one of the arrows from Martin's prop bucket was tucked away like a thief. Now, what would he want with something like that?
“All a bit of nonsense isn’t it?” said an approaching figure. “If you ask me, it’s all a trick.”
“It is exactly,” was what Abbott wanted to say. Instead, he said politely, “I think it was brilliant.”
“If you’d watched it enough times as I have, you’d see right through the act.”
“And what makes you say that?” Abbott asked, acknowledging the interrupter.
“He’s my father.” The figure was masked underneath an enormously large cloak, the same shade as her father's, that pointed to a collar around her neck. She wore knee-high black leather riding boots with a pig-skinned holster wrapped around her hip. Inside was a silver tube about a hands length that sparkled in the darkness. Abbott had never seen anything of its like before. Her facial features gave him the impression that she was a know-it-all, and in the center were green eyes that may have been gateways to catastrophe. If her hair was not already an indication that a fire of passion burnt inside her, then her half-lipped grin did it just fine. “I’m Quinn.”
“Abbott,” he said as if insignificant in comparison. His measly brown farmer boots and overcoat could tell any stranger a story. He was far from being well off, barely knew how to dress properly. “If you’re so keen to reveal your father’s secrets, then how is it that he does it?”
Quinn hesitated for a moment, “Isn’t it obvious?”
But it was not obvious to Abbott. He waited, looking into her eyes for the answer.
“Magic.”
A laugh vented from Abbott’s mouth. “No, really? What’s the real explanation? Is it a mechanical device of some sort?”
“I’ve just told you.” Quinn wiggled her fingers before Abbott’s face like little spiders dancing on a web. “Magic.”
“Prove it,” Abbott said as he crossed his arms.
“You all need proof. Why don’t you just believe?”
“How are we to believe, when we're raised that such things are not real? Only the workings of books.”
Quinn chuckled, “Magic is yet another word you British say when you can't explain why something happens. Magic this and magic that! The sky is magic! The moon is magic!” she mocked in a masculine tone. “There’s a whole bloody world right under your nose. If you weren’t so blind, you might actually see it!”
“Blind I might be, but I'm no fool.”
“And you can’t take me for my word?” Quinn asked, but Abbott shook his head. “Oh, alrighty then. You see those bundle of arrows?” Quinn retrieved one from the dirt and held it an inch before his nose. “You see the markings by the arrowhead?”
“Hardly a marking, just a circle with an X over it.”
“Exactly! The symbol of magic,” Quinn explained. “Just whisper where you want the arrow to go, and it will do as commanded. They're enchanted with the tureen em viola marking.”
“But that doesn’t––”
In the middle of Abbott’s doubts, Quinn whispered, tossed the arrow towards the sky, and as if it were a bird, it flew in a circled maneuver, landing on the same targets Martin used during his performance. A somewhat easy explanation he thought. The wind can carry objects in undetermined directions, but Quinn did it again and again until she could see Abbott’s mouth on the dirt next to the pile of arrows. “Still don’t believe me?”
Truth was, he didn’t. Even after she’d proved him wrong multiple times. “You’re saying magic is doing all that?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
Abbott blinked viciously as if to wake himself from a dream. “But that’s impossible! Magic doesn’t––”
“Exist?” Quinn said cutting him off again. “I’ve just shown you, what’s not to believe? Ah, you people kill me. Everything needs explaining.”
There was much reason why Abbott could not believe what Quinn was saying. After all, he knew magic was the mere product of storybooks and made-up tales. Modern-day science had disproven any sparse possibility of unexplained happenings by supernatural occurrences. “Anyone can do it?” Abbott asked, carrying on with the conver
sation. “You don't have to be a magician or something?”
“No… that would be meaningless. The power is in the words, not the person. Magic is bound by their markings.”
The thought was enlightening to Abbot. “Then what kinds of things can it do?” He asked inquisitively.
“You know cut people in half, make you bloody rich,” Abbott’s eyes lit up, “I’m kidding. It’s much more complex than you might think— it has varying abilities, but it's dangerous.”
“Well go on,” Abbott said. By this time, Quinn and Abbott were among the only ones left. The people of the crowd disbursed into other parts of Woolbury.
"We regular folks hardly use it. My father's the only one I know who can, and it's taken his entire life to discover it. Quinn was a smidge shorter in height to Abbott, and she bobbed her head from side to side as she went on. “You’ve seen what it can do with objects— I bet it can do anything imaginable, all you have to do is think it up. You could make it rain for a year or stop the sun from rising. The most powerful magic can make you a fortune, grow love from nothing, and sometimes heal the sick. But I'm hardly an expert on the subject.”
The words struck a chord in Abbott. Heal the sick. “And how would someone do that?” he blurted out. If what Quinn was saying was real, then he’d just found the solution to his father’s illness. He could barely contain the excitement in his voice. His palm grew clammy and his feet turned jittery.
The Shadow of Our Stars: The Tales of Evinar Page 3