sighs. He leans his own head into the corner of the nook; his hand laying gently over Bronwyn’s head, a hand so large it seems to engulf it like a pink starfish devouring a clam. The big fingers gently stroke the hair above her ear and soon he, too, is asleep.
It is still dark when a rap came at the door. Thud, as usual, is instantly awake. Bronwyn is still asleep; her head looks like a russet cat curled in his lap for a nap. He shakes her shoulder,
“Princess? Princess? It’s time to wake up.”
Another light tap at the door. Bronwyn sits up, blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, as Thud goes to the door.
“Yes?” he asks it.
“It is me,” comes the voice of the gypsy, “and Henda. It is time to leave. May we come in?”
Thud throws back the bar and the door swings open. The gypsy and the boy enter, shutting the door quickly behind them.
“Good morning, my friends. I hope that your sleep was pleasant, if unfortunately too brief.”
“Was I even asleep?” asks Bronwyn, who aches in every bone and whose eyes seems filled with powdered glass.
“I hope so. It will be dawn in an hour. We are late in leaving, but none of the others wished to disturb you so soon. Now, however, we must hasten.”
“What do we have to do?”
“Trust us.”
The four exited the caravan. The sky is blushing with the suggestive promise of dawn; the air is crisp and damp. A dozen people are busy in the plaza, puffing white vapor into the cold air; the paper lanterns are gone, the grass has been combs of every scrap of litter, the cooking and campfires has vanished. The iron tripod, its kettle, the folding stools and benches are all gone as though they has never existed; the strips pavilions of the fortuneteller and sideshow have collapsed upon themselves, disappearing like a magician’s card trick. The other gypsies, male, female and young, barely spare Thud and Bronwyn a glance.
“You are lucky, my friends, that the dancing bear died. I did not know about you, Thud Mollockle; you might have presented me with a difficulty, no?”
Thud does not know what the man is talking about and keeps quiet. The gypsy leads the two to a wagon that has large barred openings in its sides. These are normally hidden by a pair of large, hinged panels that are now swung up like wings. It is an animal cage, though presently unoccupied. The frame of the wagon is as floridly decorated as the others. As they approach, a gypsy is harnessing a brace of small, shaggy horses to the wagon tongue. They look at the strangers with sleepy, doleful eyes.
“This was the home of poor Gretl. Ah, how the children loved her, she was so gentle and such a fine dancer. But she was an old bear and three days ago, in the night, she died, just like that. We loved her, old Gretl, but what can we do with a dead bear? She was as big as you, friend Thud. Can we bury her in the plaza? No! How can we do that to such a loyal friend? It is out of the question and no doubt also illegal. So, being a practical people, we sold her. I like to think that Gretl will be feeding many hungry children and keeping them warm with her fine, thick pelt. Also, the money we were paid will be keeping a company of excellent gypsies honest and fat. Would Gretl have asked for more? I see you agree!”
They has circled the empty wagon. The horses had in the meantime been harnessed, as similar animals had been, to all of the other wagons. These are beginning to be pulled into a rough line, guided by gentle flicks from the drivers’ whips and encouraged by lilting words in the gypsies’ musical language. It is apparent that the band is anxious to depart.
“Hottl!” cries their gypsy friend to the driver of the empty bear wagon. “These are our new companions; do you have the coat?”
The man called Hottl gives Thud and Bronwyn a curt look, turns, reaches behind his seat and pulls out what at first the girl thinks is some sort of large, limp animal. It is the biggest fur coat she has
It is still dark when a rap came at the door. Thud, as usual, is instantly awake. Bronwyn is still asleep; her head looks like a russet cat curled in his lap for a nap. He shakes her shoulder,
“Princess? Princess? It’s time to wake up.”
Another light tap at the door. Bronwyn sits up, blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, as Thud goes to the door.
“Yes?” he asks it.
“It is me,” comes the voice of the gypsy, “and Henda. It is time to leave. May we come in?”
Thud throws back the bar and the door swings open. The gypsy and the boy enter, shutting the door quickly behind them.
“Good morning, my friends. I hope that your sleep was pleasant, if unfortunately too brief.”
“Was I even asleep?” asks Bronwyn, who aches in every bone and whose eyes seems filled with powdered glass.
“I hope so. It will be dawn in an hour. We are late in leaving, but none of the others wished to disturb you so soon. Now, however, we must hasten.”
“What do we have to do?”
“Trust us.”
The four exited the caravan. The sky is blushing with the suggestive promise of dawn; the air is crisp and damp. A dozen people are busy in the plaza, puffing white vapor into the cold air; the paper lanterns are gone, the grass has been combs of every scrap of litter, the cooking and campfires has vanished. The iron tripod, its kettle, the folding stools and benches are all gone as though they has never existed; the strips pavilions of the fortuneteller and sideshow have collapsed upon themselves, disappearing like a magician’s card trick. The other gypsies, male, female and young, barely spare Thud and Bronwyn a glance.
“You are lucky, my friends, that the dancing bear died. I did not know about you, Thud Mollockle; you might have presented me with a difficulty, no?”
Thud does not know what the man is talking about and keeps quiet. The gypsy leads the two to a wagon that has large barred openings in its sides. These are normally hidden by a pair of large, hinged panels that are now swung up like wings. It is an animal cage, though presently unoccupied. The frame of the wagon is as floridly decorated as the others. As they approach, a gypsy is harnessing a brace of small, shaggy horses to the wagon tongue. They look at the strangers with sleepy, doleful eyes.
“This was the home of poor Gretl. Ah, how the children loved her, she was so gentle and such a fine dancer. But she was an old bear and three days ago, in the night, she died, just like that. We loved her, old Gretl, but what can we do with a dead bear? She was as big as you, friend Thud. Can we bury her in the plaza? No! How can we do that to such a loyal friend? It is out of the question and no doubt also illegal. So, being a practical people, we sold her. I like to think that Gretl will be feeding many hungry children and keeping them warm with her fine, thick pelt. Also, the money we were paid will be keeping a company of excellent gypsies honest and fat. Would Gretl have asked for more? I see you agree!”
They has circled the empty wagon. The horses had in the meantime been harnessed, as similar animals had been, to all of the other wagons. These are beginning to be pulled into a rough line, guided by gentle flicks from the drivers’ whips and encouraged by lilting words in the gypsies’ musical language. It is apparent that the band is anxious to depart.
“Hottl!” cries their gypsy friend to the driver of the empty bear wagon. “These are our new companions; do you have the coat?”
The man called Hottl gives Thud and Bronwyn a curt look, turns, reaches behind his seat and pulls out what at first the girl thinks is some sort of large, limp animal. It is the biggest fur coat she has
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