The Tales of Tarya, Books 1-3

Chapter 1 - The Players Arrive-1

The Players ArriveHarlequin blew in with a summer storm, sweeping change before him. When the rain and fury settled, the cobwebs of Mina’s memory cleared and she remembered long-forgotten details from when her brother Paolo ran away to make his fortune as a travelling player. Before then she had remembered only the happy years of childhood, and the lonely years after he left. Paolo’s departure sat like a wisp of smoke, formless and dark, in her thoughts. Until Harlequin’s return.

A musical tinkling broke Mina’s concentration as she sat reading at her window seat. Curious, she opened her second-storey window and tried to make out what was happening in the distant village square. A large wagon lumbered into view, spilling out people whose clothes splashed scarlet and blue against the town’s white-washed buildings. The villagers, scurrying like ants in their drab colours, surrounded the newly arrived wagon.

Artisans! Across Litonya, artisans were regarded as living treasures for their talents. Unfortunately, they came to isolated Andon rarely. It was too much trouble.

Mina leaned from the window, trying to decide what type they were. They might be cirquers, with acrobatic tricks and funny costumes, or perhaps musicians. Not a story teller, because none travelled in such a gaudy contraption. Carefully placing the precious book on her bed, Mina raced downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen doorway.

‘I’m going to see what’s going on,’ Mina gushed.

‘Be back in time for dinner. Papa will be mad if you’re late.’

‘I know.’ Mina kissed her mother on her cheek. Behind Mama, seated at the table, Uncle Tonio looked up and gave Mina a sad, lopsided grin.

‘Do you want to come, Uncle? There’s something happening in the square. Artisans of some kind.’

Uncle Tonio rose up from his seat, a grin splashed across his face, nodding. Mama quickly stepped in to block his way.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mina,’ she murmured.

Uncle Tonio looked down, his shoulders slumped. ‘Want to go!’

‘Let’s find out what it is first,’ Mama said in her most soothing voice. ‘Mina can come back and tell us what she finds, okay?’

She helped Uncle Tonio back to his chair and grabbed a shawl that was draped there. Mama followed Mina out the front door and held it closed behind her, handing Mina the shawl.

‘If it’s travelling players,’ she said in a low voice, ‘don’t tell him.’

‘Why not?’

Mama shook her head. ‘Just don’t.’

Mina tried to hand the shawl back. ‘I won’t need this. It’s perfect weather today.’

Mama turned to re-enter the house. ‘Take it. There’s a storm coming.’

Mina walked the short distance to the town centre, puzzling over her mother’s words. Her parents had always spoken disparagingly of travelling players, but she had never known why. As far as she knew they had not played any role in the family tragedy. Before Mina was born, Uncle Tonio’s wife, Ana, died in a fire in the fruit shed. Mama had been crippled trying to save her. No one ever spoke of it, but once, Mina had seen the scars on her Mama’s legs, like great rivers running through the flesh. She’d never forgotten. After Ana’s death Uncle Tonio had changed, become like a child, but no one ever spoke of that either.

Mina put those thoughts behind her. At seventeen she was entirely bored with the steady, unchanging routine of her days, longing for colour and change. Today it appeared her wish would be granted. When she reached the square it became clear the visitors were travelling players. Their wagon dominated a quarter of the town square. Mina’s breath caught as she saw how its every surface was painted with landscapes of vibrant green fields and mountains so purple they almost didn’t look real. The colours were a little too garish to her eye, the proportions not quite right. But the pictures were vivid and exciting, easily catching everyone’s attention.

Most of Andon was bustling about, pretending to go about their business as they waited for the players to begin. Gradually they moved closer to the wagon, like wasps to a sugar well, chattering with nerves and excitement. They hushed momentarily as a tall man with long brown hair appeared from behind the wagon, a player in garish tights and bright tunic. He turned his back on them and opened the side of the wagon, a huge double door. Everyone drew a collective breath of anticipation.

On the inside of each door was an elaborate painting, one showing a sumptuous room, with cushions and gold leaf, and the other a stand that held a great book. The scenic paintwork was so vivid it could have been painted the day before. Behind the open doors emerald curtains hid the secrets of the wagon. Though these shifted a little, teasing, the wagon was otherwise still and silent amidst the expectant murmurs of the townsfolk. With so little to see, the crowd let out their breath again with a disappointed sigh. Mina thought the wagon was like a jewellery box with hidden compartments, and wondered what marvellous secrets might be revealed. Above the shimmering curtains were more paintings, too small to see, perhaps dancing lads and lasses. The tall man reappeared and placed a set of steps, blue as the sky, with clouds drifting across them, in front of the curtains, leading down to the audience.

Despite the movement of the curtain, nothing seemed to be happening, until a pipe and drum began playing music to dance to, although from where, no one could tell. As one, the crowd surged toward the emerald curtain. Mina found herself caught up in the crowd, pushed toward the front without conscious choice.

A figure ran by her, creating a breeze that spun the air. He wore a tight-fitting suit of coloured diamonds and a dark, long-nosed mask. He was singing as he ran, in some strange language Mina thought she might understand if she listened hard enough. A few stragglers followed, lured by his song. When they saw the player wagon, they stopped and quieted and waited. The man ran up the three steps at the front of the wagon to stand before the curtains. He waited, fingers to his lips, breathing in the energy of the crowd.

He seemed to grow larger. Then he spoke.

‘I am Harlequin,’ he cried. ‘I may be who I am not, but I may be who I am. Who is to say? Listen to my riddles and you may hear the truth. If there is truth to be found. Some say there is not. But let me not bore you with my mystery. Shall I show you a tale?’

Eager, the crowd called out, voices overlapping each other.

‘Yes, a tale. Show us your best tale.’

Harlequin spun, pulling a cloak from nowhere and swirling it around his body. He came down one step and put his finger to his lips.

‘A tale of joy, or a tale of woe? What is it to be?’

The crowd called out contradictory desires. Harlequin played them, putting his hand to his ear and promising the tale to those who could demand the loudest. Finally he broke the cacophony with a sweep of his hand.

‘I think it best if I ask just one person, or I stand to lose my hearing! What say you, little bird? Shall it be joy, or woe?’

Strange, Mina thought. One minute his eyes are blue, the next grey, then green, then brown. They never settle on a colour. Then she realised Harlequin was looking at her and the crowd was demanding she answer.

‘I don’t understand woe,’ she replied. Why had he called her a bird? That had been Paolo’s name for her, a nickname she only remembered as he spoke it.

‘Ah, you are fortunate not to know woe!’ Harlequin’s hands swept out from his body. ‘Perhaps we will show her, so she may guard against it.’

With a sigh, the emerald curtains parted. Filtered sunlight illuminated a backdrop painted with a village square much like Andon’s, showing distant buildings and a fountain. In the centre of the stage a couple faced each other, hands clasped together. Both wore white paint that masked their features, so at first they seemed expressionless, though their gaze indicated they were deeply in love. The man had blond curls and a confident posture, while the girl was slim with cascades of ash-blond hair. Both wore colourful, elaborate garb, a doublet for him and bejewelled dress for her. Mina had an odd thought that the girl should have black hair, but she forgot it as, with a few final shuffling movements and mutters, the crowd stilled and the performance began.

‘Now,’ began Harlequin, ‘Silvia loved her Silvio, more than all the world. And Silvio loved his Silvia more than the moon. When he held her hands, and kissed her soft cheek, he knew all the world was his.’

With those words, Silvio walked to the front of the stage, and sighed. He raised his hand, and the audience leaned forward as one. The playing was about to begin! Mina looked around at their eager faces. What was happening? She almost missed the moment, but something drew her eyes back to the stage as Silvio lowered his hand again. When it passed his face, his features transformed. His jaw became squarer. His eyes were suddenly wide and blue, and his hair seemed to glow with a golden sheen. He even seemed to grow taller. The painted face had melted into the flesh and blood face of a strong, handsome man.

The audience released their breath. The man turned to the maiden, and began declaring his great love for her. He thanked her for leaving her family for him, and spoke of the wonderful life they would lead together. The girl’s face seemed to shimmer, like a river’s surface when a pebble is dropped in, and then her features too changed. Mina shook her head, trying to shake off a feeling of light-headed confusion. Neither of the players looked like they wore white paint on their faces anymore. It was as though they had become someone else. Standing in the shadows behind them, Harlequin too changed, his mask seeming to melt away until his features were completely different. Mina reminded herself it was all illusion, part of the act.

There was a familiarity to their changing faces. As Mina watched the two lovers enact their love scene on the stage, under the hawk gaze of Harlequin, another memory tugged at her thoughts. When someone bumped her from behind, it flooded into her consciousness.

A hand placed over her mouth, to stop her screaming …

Mina had been seven. She knew this because Mama had told her this was when Paolo left. She had been watching the players then too, her excitement at their performance tinged with sadness, knowing her brother was to leave with them. She had gasped to see their strange masks appear to change before her very eyes, shifting from exaggerated features to normal faces in the space of a heartbeat. Yet the performance had barely begun when someone had seized her from behind. She had struggled to bite the big hand that held her mouth closed, kicking her feet against her captor, but his grip was too firm. Terrible thoughts rushed through her head. Paolo had told her tales of children taken and sold into slavery. And surely the perfect time to take a child was while all of Andon was captivated by the players.

She was dragged away from the crowd and into one of the narrow streets beyond the square. Usually a busy thoroughfare, it was empty now. Windows gazed blindly down at their passing. The entire village was in the square, enjoying the rare entertainment. Then her captor stumbled to a stop, dropped Mina, and squatted in the gutter.

Mina’s heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her throat. She looked around at her captor, ready to run, and her heart caught. Uncle Tonio had pulled himself into a ball, arms wrapped around his legs, and was rocking back and forth. His wild eyes saw nothing. Mina reached out a little hand to touch her uncle’s face. She’d never seen him so distressed. Quicker than she could imagine, he seized her hand, squeezing so it hurt her fingers.