As the sun lies down to rest, chants, claps and rhythmic stomps become stumbles and shouts of incessant jubilee. Sawdust stirs across the ground and covers bare and shoed feet alike. The bellowing melody of the tavern goers leaves no room for Rubeus's voice to grace their drunken ears. The strings of his lute accompany the chanters in tow, keeping their high spirits alive. There's no need for a jig or fancy performance-- the patrons were amusing themselves.
After playing the same tune thrice, the bard's fingers grow weary from the fast-paced plucks rubbing against his calluses. A heckler tosses a penny that taps on his heel and shouts, "Play us the Saltarello!" Another offers a half-groat, "Nay, the Tourdion!" This causes an upset as the crowd bickers over which encore they wish to receive.
The costumed fellow raises a hand for silence, but few acknowledge it. He has an idea to catch their attention. Setting down the lute, he searches for his recorder. To get a better look around the designated corner that is his stage, he lifts his mask and makes an exaggerated glance towards the audience. His brown eyes peek through the white cloth on his face, resembling a child with an undergarment on its head. A faint chuckle mixes with murmurs as the peasants wonder what was going on. He scratches his head, seemingly out of ideas for where that instrument could be.
With that same hand, he pulls the recorder from behind his collar and acts as if he's fishing it out of his mouth; onlookers none the wiser. They clap in unison while the minstrel returns his mask to his visage and clears his throat.
"Those in favor of Saltarello, holler like geese!"
A few laughs join the silly honks sounding across the boarded room.
"Right, that's enough. Those wishing to hear Tourdion, call the cows!"
The herd outmatches the gaggle. He begins the final tune of the day with a prelude, "Such a fine twist, that is: the Tourdion. We give our thanks to the French for-"
"Get on with it, Freakish Fallow!" A serf demands. "Very well," says the bard. "Only if you promise to sing for me. In fact, you should lead the choir," he retorts. The crowd offers the interjecting lad to the masked musician. "Ready when you are, boy," the volunteer slurs. With that began the encore as everyone chimed into song and dance once more.
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The tavern starts to close as many leave for their first sleep. Rubeus remains as he gathers his things into his humble wagon of amenities. "How do the brothers fare," asks a lingering maiden. He pulls his things closer to the doorway and nods, "Fairly well, madame. Three are in Skjern, two near the Varde. All are enjoying their wives and most still learning to toil in the heat as they earn their keep. I hear word from the letters they write."
The lady looks as if she has more questions just before Rubeus's eldest brother, Alphard, enters. The minstrel tips his skull and bids farewell to the venue as he sneaks away with his kin. Alphard slaps an arm around Rubeus’s slender shoulders, "It's been awhile, brother. I'm glad to see the town folk haven't torn you apart, yet! Need new ideas for your routine?”
The two begin catching up on new events and recalling old times as they walk through the village. They reach a stone wall high enough to cover the singer's body from most angles, and Alphard gives the go-ahead for Rubeus to remove the lavish garb hanging from his form.
A maiden in her adulthood looks up at her brother with a sigh of relief. "Thank you for this, Alph. It's been getting harder to hide my sex these days," Rubeus admits. "No worries, Parva," the oldest of the family assures his little sister as he uses a cloak to cover the top of the wagon. With the ménestrelle's identity and inventory concealed, the two siblings carry on their stroll to the outskirts of the manor Alphard serves.
There they meet the eldest's wife who welcomes the small, scraggly girl into their share of housing for the noble's farmers. She asks about Parva's hair that's been cut since she last visited; how it ended up so short. "I had tangled myself in a mess of branches on my way here," she sheepishly explains, acting ashamed of her appearance. "I've had to wear a hood upon my head for a week now."
The wife offers to weave a hairpiece from the manor's leftover wool; but the two-sided in-law stammers, saying that she couldn't possibly use what isn't hers. "She'll be alright," Alphard assures his beloved. "Knowing my sis, she's already working on a fine headpiece fit for a lady. She's learned many trades from our mother, after all."
The weaver nods and shows Parva the bed they'd be sharing that night. Offering a stew she had saved from the pot, she frowns, "It's too bad you didn’t arrive sooner. I would've went to Rubeus's show with you." The guest nods, "I saw the crowd leaving the tavern as I passed by. I missed the performance entirely. Perhaps next time."
The traveler sleeps through the midnight hour, rising as most fell for their second rest. Racing against dawn, Parva swiftly wheels her trove away from the manor. Her brother, however, is not one to be tricked. He's already waiting at the edge of the lord's land to wish his only sister safe travels. "Where to next? Back north," he presumes, asking in a hushed tone. "Actually, I'm looking to venture further south, toward the Empire," Parva replies matter-of-factly. Her eldest frowns and steps closer, "We've never been there as children. Why change tradition? Are you really looking to make a name for-"
The ménestrelle interrupts defensively, "I'm the one changing tradition? Far from it, brother. I am the sole survivor of the Rubeus line that carries the trade of our forefathers. When was the last time you carried a tune? Held an audience? Nay... The rest of our kin have forged their own path. True, I wish to entertain new lands, but-"
In sibling fashion, one speaks over another. "Parva, you have no right to involve your brothers when you are but a maiden. I keep a watchful eye on our family and only agreed to your wishes because you remain in the route of our parents before. But this-- this isn't something you can do alone."
Unsure of how to persuade her brother, she delivers an ultimatum. "Give me a moon. One moon to prove I can hold my own. I shall return in two fortnights. If I should return before then to seek sanctuary, I’ll serve your lord's house. You know well the ways of survival we were taught as babes. You know I can keep this promise."
Alphard groans in reluctance, but agrees nonetheless. With a final embrace, Parva begins an odyssey of her own.
Dawn breaks, and the village she leaves behind reflects the warmth of morning light. Fresh dew weeps from well-worn grass, the moisture soaking into Parva’s pattens. Her feet should stay dry with the wood covering her leather slippers, but such a hard layer will wear out her heels by midday.
Her first morn into the unknown is blessed with an unassuming town that pays her no mind. Most passersby mistake her for a kid young enough to look down on but old enough to warrant no pity. The cart she tugs along wards off any recruits looking for workers as they presume she’s already on some kind of mission. If she doesn’t make eye contact, hardly anyone notices her femininity and tries to lay claim.
Once the anonymous commoner reaches her second mile south of that quiet settlement, she rests to relieve her sore feet. Her hand slides into the satchel perched in her lap and pulls out a handful of stale bread. Dreams of her future had staved off hunger until now. While savoring what little sustenance she has, Parva’s mind trails back to her brother’s words.
She understands why Alphard looks out for their siblings since the passing of mother and father. What’s more, women were always to be kept safe. But, has he seen her as less than capable; inadequate for the life of a jester? Was he no different than a mere stranger who didn’t know her from Adam? Dwelling on such a thought would only cultivate self-doubt.
Popping the top off a leather canteen, she drinks the last of her supply of water. Such a seasoned traveler now regrets avoiding the market a few miles back. Perhaps there would be foliage worth foraging along the way. Parva had become an expert at finding the best road snacks for her family of actors when gratuity was hard to come by. Now she only has to feed herself, but must remember her own needs in order to do that.
A hearty breeze refreshes her drive to carry on as she watches the untamed meadow sway with the wind. Her hands coax the pattens off her slippers and chuck them into the wagon. The ground was dry enough to tread upon with ease. Rising to her feet, she dusts off her pants and faithfully follows the road ahead.
Hours pass, and Parva has walked as much as she can. She slowly treads off the winding path to retreat underneath a tree. It stands alone in a dry, arid field, scalding in the afternoon sun. The roots below prove fruitful as the soil nourishes its foliage and grants mercy to tired travelers. A dense forest lies to the east of this clearing— perhaps the outlying shade gets its strength from the grove underground.
Her hips and knees buckle as she dives for the tree’s base. Before getting comfortable, she grunts and leans forward to pull her wagon closer. Her back thuds against the steady trunk and eyelids rest for a moment’s peace. She’d have to find a place to camp soon; her body clearly states it’s had enough traveling for one day. A weary wrist slides into her satchel to retrieve today’s harvest. She managed to forage sweet clover, ramson and sorrel. It should at least provide enough energy to search for respite.
While plucking and chewing the wild herbs, collective footsteps pace towards Parva’s rest stop. Her umber eyes follow the sound and land upon a group of wanderers: two men and a woman. Rising to her feet, she gives a friendly nod to the trio once they arrive.
"Welcome and well met, travelers," she says, greeting the party with her best boyish tone. The party says nothing in return as their gazes prowl over her. They neither smile nor scowl as they walk past and approach the cart that holds her livelihood. One lad bends over to inspect its contents before glancing back at Parva.
"What have we got here," he asks rhetorically, alarmingly amused by the array of garments and instruments he beholds. The second man starts to shuffle through the wagon, and this provokes Parva to grimace, "You lot have nothing, for what's there is mine and is not for sale nor trade." Her chest swells as she stomps toward the scavenger assaulting her belongings.
"Sure, kid," the lady retorts as she steps in her path, her hands defiantly on her hips. "We'll have whatever we like."
Such an audacious bunch was nothing Parva hadn't encountered before, and she knows she must act quickly.
Rubeus crouches and barrels through the lass's legs. The offensive broad's blockade tumbles behind her as she reaches for a bow peeking out of her wagon. She swiftly lunges at the prodding arms within the carriage, sweeping them with the sharp edge of her fiddlestick. Parva doesn't wait for the men's hands to retreat before hauling it to the forest nearby. The thieves weren't to be bested as their pride chases after the scraggly child and his goods.
The wagon is thrusted ahead as Parva pushes it in front of her, its contents jostled back and forth from her speed. The occasional bump makes her racing heart skip with worry that something may fall out of her trove. The trees draw closer as her legs struggle to keep outrunning the three assailants shouting and gaining on her.
Among the huffs of her own breath, beating of her heart and protests of the bandits, grows the sound of running water and...
A melody.
Perhaps there stands a camp within the woods. Finding the settlement may provide sanctuary. The assaulted traveler weaves her way through the winding roots and trunks towards the sound of hope. However, the footsteps that were once behind catch up to her, and she lets out a cry, wishing she could run faster with her wagon. It carries all she holds dear. She never thought it could hold her back from chasing her dreams. It still doesn't-- but maybe she isn't strong enough to carry the treasures of her forefathers. Maybe everyone who knows who she truly is are right after all.
To her surprise, the bandits dash past her and the wagon, seemingly abandoning their target. Do they know the person playing ahead? Are they seeking their assistance in taking her down?
Parva swivels her head all around, frantically looking for another way to run. She veers left in a desperate jog as the rush of adrenaline ebbs away. After turning left, she returns to the path she was already taking, following the robbers. She comes to a halt and tries to charge left again, but her feet pace forward once more. As the rhythm of the river and fiddle grow stronger, her legs that were once worn cannot be stopped.
Amidst the confusion, her wagon feels lighter; her toes and heels no longer sore. It feels natural to her body to follow the music while her mind screams to turn the other way. She is certain to meet the three who chased her into this forest if she finds this fiddler.
Her vision blurs and pulse pounds through her skin as she finally slows to a stop. While squeezing her eyes shut and catching her breath, the sound of rushing water fills her ears and the music stops. She slowly lifts her head, her vision clearing. 14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3WLDG7XBz4
Three bodies float downstream; the bodies of the three thieves. Her eyes follow their voyage in shock as she freezes in place. 14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡspIXTOoblS
"Drink," a soft and low voice breaks her trance. 14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXLr3agJseI
Startled, Parva shifts her focus on the voice. 14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdjtWNsQ6GS
A man perches atop a crag peeking through the stream. He's sitting with his legs resting in the river. The water seems to make his legs appear blue. But once Parva takes a closer look, she realizes the man before her is entirely indigo.
The fiddle once played so alluringly rests upon his lap. “Drink,” he beckons again, nodding toward the fresh water.
Baffled by the unfolding events, Parva’s neck darts back and forth between the suspicious creature and fallen criminals. “N-No,” she stammers. “How do I know you won’t… drown me, too?”
An unbelievably blue arm rests on the rock as it holds the man’s weight. He turns toward the violent bunch now drifting away. “Ah, them. Weren’t they chasing you first? Nature had their way with them, is all.”
“Nature?” the shocked ménestrelle echoes. “But… whatever kept me following them must have wanted me to meet the same fate.”
The blue boy lifts his fiddle and tilts his head at her with a gaze as soft as his tone. “My music is made with nature, and it has helped you find rest. You need not worry.”
He sets his fiddle aside and gathers the river’s nectar in his palms, leaning and toward the trembling jester. His arms stretch to meet her, the tempting water now dripping between his fingers.
He encourages once more,
“Drink.”
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