Chapter One: The Circus Troupe (part two)

The time Ezra and Emma spent together was often in silence. This was typical for Emma; she was someone prone to listen more than she spoke. For Ezra it was more unusual. Numan suggested that Emma had a calming effect on Ezra– on everything, really, but the sibling’s closeness evoked a stronger effect on Ezra’s demeanor. Ezra wasn’t sure if it was something mystical or strange; he glanced at her now, as still as if she were carved out of stone. When it was just the two of them, Ezra just found it easier not to speak. It was as if it were more difficult to want to.

Ezra reached out now and took her hand, Emma inclining her head in the direction of their contact, and then returned his affection with a soft squeeze. Partly from necessity, touch was another normalcy of time spent with Emma; a held hand, or an offered arm when walking to help her see. For all the hours spent together he’d never been able to crack her most innate and mysterious nature. Every time he felt like he was about to understand the stillness her exterior would shift, she’d smirk, say something snarky, and Ezra would follow her changing demeanor and let it go, returning again to the ever-busy world.

Vincent continued to work beside the fire pit, whistling, humming, turning a long piece of wood in his hands and taking his short carving knife along the shaft. He would pause and hold it up to his eye, peering down the length, muttering to himself, before turning to select another tool. Ezra’s eyes wandered with his mind, across the pavilion to the other side of the fire, away from the stillness of the seats he shared with Emma. A small group of men had gathered, huddled against the sudden wind that traveled the lanes of camp. The trio of old men spoke in hushed tones to each other, tugging or stroking long beards and creaking stiff joints. They were called Elders, the oldest, allegedly wisest members of the troupe. Ezra knew their faces and names, but he rarely spoke with them. The Elders kept to their places and times and the youth kept to theirs. Still, they were good for gossip, and Ezra was bored, so he strained his ears to hear their conversation.

“Gregory, all I meant is that there are more and more forts on the border every week, so it feels.” The man who spoke was named Koobin, a man of short stature and steep appetite. He also had an uncountably crooked nose, because it had been broken uncountable times. Ezra knew he had once been a wrestler, a champion in fact, and local legend said he had overpowered bears and wolves in his prime. In his prime his rigorous exercising required him to eat hefty portions. While his exercise decreased with old age, his appetite did not. He wore simple robes, a brown tunic and a tan vest, with a coat to his knees lined with bear fur. Ezra felt unfair calling him fat, but he was much bigger than Numan, an already large man, and of course Koobin’s size wasn’t height like it was for Ezra’s friend.

“And in that I agree with you; I have heard the same thing.” Gregory spoke now. He was as tall as Numan, and quite a bit larger. His exercising had increased as he got older, and powerful, round shoulders still filled out the folds of his long green robe, in addition to the rotund middle befitting a strong-man of his caliber and reputation. “Perhaps the Master should consider taking us on a different route?” Gregory stated his observation like a question, twirling the twisted end of his long gray mustache. “What do you think to that?”

“Oh, surely! That goes without question.” Koobin nodded with vigor, his hands resting on his large waist. “I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it by now. Why, if I was in charge of our path we’d be traveling back down to Southerly already, three weeks ago I should say.”

“Let’s strive to speak freely but cautiously, shall we, Koobin?” The final Elder spoke. He was taller than Ezra, though well stooped, and he was thin. His name was Timothy, and few in the camp remembered him in his prime. Rumors grew organically in the close confines of the traveling circus; Timothy was a baker, an archer, a mercenary, a merchant, or even all of them at once, depending on who you asked and what day of the week it was. Ezra liked him, and knew him well. It was no secret he was in the closest council of the Circus Master, the father of Ezra and his siblings. He was also the man’s oldest friend, uncle Timothy to them. “Say what you want to about the forts and the war; kindly leave the Master out.” Koobin and Gregory fell silent, the latter nodding and shuffling his feet, both large men cowed by the smaller man’s words. “It’s easy for any fool to run his mouth, but it’s much harder to run a group of people; wise men know they don’t know the burdens of others, and keep silent.”

“Mayhap you’all bes’ keep silent about doom and gloom, eh?” Vincent spoke without turning his eyes from his work, though his eyebrows had risen in surprise at the careless conversation of the three older men. “At least in the company o’impression’ble young minds like Emma and Ezra ova’here.” Timothy turned his old eyes over the two siblings, sitting on the other side of the pavilion, and smiled apologetically at Ezra, the deep creases and wrinkles of his aged face making his eyes vanish beneath his expansive eyebrows.

“Vincent’s right, boys.” The old man said slowly. “Let’s away with us.” Mumbling agreement, the other two men led the way out of the awning, nodding their heads politely to Vincent who took no notice of them.

“Don’t worry about our words, young ones.” Gregory said with a wink in passing. “Just rumors and nonsense of old codgers.” Ezra showed his disappointment to Timothy who deepened his smile and walked off after his friends, his nose upturned just slightly. Uncle Timothy never minded spoiling Ezra’s fun, especially when it was supposed to be good for him to do so.

“Sorry Ezra,” Vincent said with a shrug and a glance at him. “I won’have my fire be a pool for hearsay when the hearers and sayers be as young as you two are.”

“Aww, c’mon Vincent,” Emma whined. “It’s so hard to find good gossip.” She leaned in, giving the old Cajun her best pleading puppy eyes. “What were they talking about, forts and war?”

“Ah, cher!” Vincent laughed. “I expected that from Ezra, I’m always forgetting that you got a devious streak a mile wide, hee hee hee.” Vincent met her eyes, unfazed by her overly dramatic pleading. “Just rumors and nonsense to you two, nothin’ to worry young heads over.”

Ezra rolled his eyes and turned his attention to his bad ankle, trying to roll it. He couldn’t move it very much for the bandage wrapping it, but what little he could move it hurt, a throbbing ache reverberating through the joint. Sighing, he looked out into the street, hoping for something interesting to distract him. The sun was beginning to set; it’d be pretty dark soon. Dinner must be ready by now. His eyes were drawn to a woman he’d never seen before, who was walking towards them-- she couldn’t have been much older than Ezra, he thought. The young woman had bright red hair, falling freely in waves about her shoulders. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of a large black jacket with fur lining the hood; she pushed her hair back behind her right ear as she glanced back over her shoulder. Ezra looked to see what she was looking at but didn’t see anything. Her eyes were pale, piercingly blue, and they invited Ezra to stare into them forever.

The way she walked made it look like she knew exactly where she was going, and every step was intentional, filled with grace and poise. Her head cast to the right to glance down a side street but she continued in her path. She had a nameless expression, intent, a faint smile fixed on her lips. The red hair grabbed your attention, but the blue eyes kept it. As much as he longed to look at her eyes, and they asked him to stare, Ezra found his own eyes straying to the rafters in the tent the closer she got, until finally he stole a look; she was practically in the tent with them, and showed no signs of stopping.

“Hi, Vincent!” She called cheerfully, walking right up to the iron basin where the old man worked.

“Oh,” Vincent said, hardly looking up at her. “Hello der, cher.” He must not have realized who he was talking to, because his greeting was far too casual for someone like her. Ezra was convinced she was someone important, but he was certain he’d never seen her before.

“Who have we got here?” The girl with red hair asked. Ezra noticed she was looking at them now, and he sat up straighter and returned her warm smile.

“They can introduce themselves.” Vincent grunted, unhappy at having his work disturbed further. “Don’t worry. Dey’re both old’nough.” The red haired girl looked between Ezra and his sister and he returned her gaze, a little dumbly; his tongue had gone numb. Emma suddenly elbowed him in his side and he jumped in his seat. He threw her an accusatory glance that he knew she couldn’t see.

“Ezra.” He said quickly. “That is, uh, I’m Ezra. Hi.” His hand shot out and she accepted it, inclining her head and giving a slight curtsy.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Ezra.” Ezra was pretty sure they were about the same age.

“And I’m Emma.” His sister cut in. She held her hand out and stared just past the woman’s head. The red haired girl threw a quick, questioning glance at Ezra but he panicked and hoped she’d look away. The girl took Emma’s offered hand in both of hers and smiled at her, leaning in, her eyes shifting between Emma’s pale eyes.

“It’s my pleasure to meet both of you.” The red haired girl said, absolutely sincere.

“Your hands are rough, ma’am,” Emma observed with a laugh. “Your voice is so sweet I would’ve thought they’d be soft!”

“Well that’s very kind of you to say, Emma.” The red haired girl said as she straightened up to her full height again, and replaced her hands in her pockets. “What brings two young people like you to the tent of an old codger like this one?” She threw a smile over her shoulder at Vincent, but he just grumbled under his breath and continued his woodwork.

“Ezra hurt his foot,” Emma said, and Ezra felt his face flush red. “So Vincent’s making him a crutch.”

“Ah, yes of course.” The red haired girl said, and she watched the Cajun work for a little longer before continuing. “He’s a very gifted man, in many ways. Surprising even.” Her lips curled in a smile. Ezra realized a second later that he was smiling too and looked down at the ground, blushing hot again.

“What are you here for?” Emma asked, breaking the silence. “Do you need Vincent to make you something?”

“No,” said the red haired girl and she turned back to the two of them. “No, I’m just visiting with him. We have some things to talk about, between friends.” She winked at Ezra. “Don’t worry about it.” Ezra wanted to press her to know more, wondering if this strange red haired girl had some connection to the old Cajun, but Vincent prevented him.

“Here you are, Ezra,” the old man said, and he limped over, holding out his handiwork. “Try this out for size, eh?” Ezra stood up onto his right foot; the red haired girl was at his arm in a moment, supporting him without much difficulty. Ezra could’ve balanced on his own, but he didn’t tell her that. Vincent showed him how to hold it under the crook of his arm and made him take a few steps to be sure it would work. The crutch was rudimentary, but clearly well made. It had a cushion under his armpit. “I think that’ll hold up to any tomfoolery you get yourself into. Now off wi’ you, ruffian! And mind your sister.” Vincent’s face curved in a friendly grin, dotted with missing teeth before he turned back to clean up his work. Ezra returned the man’s smile and started off.

“Thanks Vincent,” the boy said. “More than you know.”

“Oh I do, Ezra,” the old man laughed. “But be off, the both of you! ‘For your daddy gets on me for makin’ you late for supper!” The old man was already gathering up and putting away his tools. The red haired girl knelt down to help him.

“It was very nice to meet the two of you,” she said, giving Ezra one last smile. “Best of luck healing, Ezra!”

Ezra waved at her and then took Emma’s hand. He hobbled off in the lead, getting used to his crutch, and leading his sister back towards the camp center. They were about to round a corner and lose sight of the purple tent, and Ezra paused. He looked back and saw Vincent and the red haired girl disappear inside the awning, the old man’s various wood carving tools in hand.

“You okay, Ezra?” Emma asked him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He responded, his voice soft. “Let’s go home.”

***

Mother was preparing dinner out in the yard when they approached.

“Oh my poor boy…” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as she walked hurriedly over to the two of them. “What did you do to yourself?” The worry was evident in her voice as she knelt down, seizing Ezra’s ankle in gentle and surprisingly strong hands.

“It’s fine, it’s nothing,” Ezra protested. “It barely hurts at all!”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, testing the ankle’s range of motion. Ezra cringed and winced, until finally she let him go. “Numan came by and told me the whole story.” She said reproachfully, standing up and taking Emma’s arm. “Honestly,” she said to Emma. “He’s worse than Temias ever was.” Ezra grinned as the girls went over to the cooking fire. His sister took a seat while their mother went back to her cooking, continuing to cast concerned eyes and furrowed brows towards him as he went on towards the family tent.

Their older brother Temias had been no saint, but it was true any of his rebellions were always tamer than Ezra. Temias had always been a guiding presence for Ezra, his equal unlike Numan or their father, but responsible and mature beyond his years. He lived now in his own tent, one he’d spent weeks crafting himself. It wasn’t fancy, but he was incredibly proud of it, and Ezra realized he was proud of him for it. Temias collected and carved all the posts himself and sat through long hours learning how to weave and sew and plan. Their mother and father had taken the time to teach him what he didn’t know, but Temias had been insistent on doing the work himself. Mother had advised Ezra to learn alongside him and save himself the trouble later when it was time to live on his own, but Ezra had preferred to go off and do something fun; there would be time later.

It was unspoken tradition and expectation to move out of your family’s tent around the time you were twenty, if you didn’t meet a prospective partner or spouse before then. The way Ezra saw it, he was only seventeen– he had at least three years before he needed to start worrying about it, and there were still lots of things to do every day before he resigned himself to spending his days working. Temias always encouraged him to reconsider, pointing out that Ezra could meet someone and fall in love unexpectedly like had happened to him. Ezra always laughed him off on the grounds that they both knew everyone in camp– where would he ever meet someone he could fall in love with? Now, as Ezra stepped inside the darkness of the large tent where his family lived, Ezra wondered if Temias had been right. He quietly scolded himself and tried not to think about the red haired girl.

Their tent featured a large round chamber, with multiple rooms off of it separated by thick curtains. A circle of stones sat at the center of the main chamber, hot coals smoldering there for warmth. Ezra’s parents’ room was at the far end from the door, while Ezra’s and Emma’s rooms were off to the left, side by side. Temias’ room used to be beside Ezra’s, but they had taken the curtains down when he moved out. There were a few other small curtained rooms on the other side of the tent as well, but Ezra headed directly for his own room. He sat on his cot and began to take his left boot off. It wasn’t easy, but after shifting and sliding it about, the boot finally slipped off his foot and he dropped it to the floor with a sigh. The ankle was swollen, as he expected, and as Ezra slid some of the bandages out of the way he got a sight of how red it was. He grimaced as he pushed them back into place, letting the air chill his foot. He left the boot sitting beside his cot as he hobbled back into the main room on his crutch. The front door flapped open and a tall figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“There you are,” Ezra’s father said. His voice was strong, and kind, and Ezra could just see the familiar pair of bright eyes glowing faintly beneath his mane of jet black hair. “I came as soon as I heard the news. Let me see.” He approached and knelt down at Ezra’s feet, his hands running over the injured ankle with barely a touch. “Just as Numan said: barely a twist in it.” He looked up and smiled at Ezra. “You’ll be running by the end of the week.” He stood back to his full height, only just shorter than Numan would be. He placed his hand on Ezra’s shoulder for a moment, his fierce, blue eyes meeting Ezra’s deep green, before turning to exit the tent. “You can still get a fire started, Ezra, limp or no.” He called over his shoulder. Ezra smiled and limped over to the ring of stones about the fire pit; coals smoldered within, so Ezra sat down on the floor. The bare earth was covered by a patchwork of rugs to guard against the cold and the walls were insulated in the same way. Ezra moved a few sticks into the pit, arranging them before digging in his own belt pouch for his tinder box. He produced a small, round tin that opened with a twist; inside he found his crescent shaped steel and selected a small piece of flint. The wood he’d picked was dry, and covered in sap, so he hoped it would catch.

Ezra’s first few attempts yielded nothing. At last he managed sparks, but the sparks didn’t do much to actually start the fire. Ezra was beginning to wonder why they needed a fire; dinner was being cooked outside, and it wasn’t that cold in the tent. As he was wondering under his breath the door of the tent flapped open again and the Master returned, his black hair and the tails of his coat tossed by the draft. He had a stack of firewood in his arms.

“You get credit for trying Ezra,” he said with his broad smile. He set down the firewood and crouched down next to Ezra. “Now let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?” Ezra’s father shifted a few logs but largely left Ezra’s work alone, nodding his approval with a satisfied smile. “That would’ve made a good fire, if you could get it to light.” Sheepishly Ezra held out the flint and steel. “No, you were using it right.” His father reassured him, ruffling the boy’s blonde hair. “It’s the woods fault for not catching. I think it’s being stubborn. Here, I’ll outsmart it,” he said with a wink. The Master placed his hand into the fire pit, almost touching the arrangement of sticks, and closed his eyes. He spoke softly under his breath in words Ezra didn’t know. Finally the wood began to smoke, ever so faintly. In the silence, Ezra’s eyes wandered to the Master’s ears, angled points that stuck out of his long hair.

It was these moments that made Ezra’s neck hair stand on end; it was these moments when Ezra remembered the Master was not his blood father, and he wasn’t entirely human. The Master’s mother was a human, but his father was an Anthoran, mysterious people from the North, from the distant continent of Anthor. They were tall, and pale, their ears pointed and their features angular and well defined. Ezra had never seen one, so he pictured them like the Master, only less human. They possessed strange powers, just like Ezra’s father, the Master, powers over nature, powers beyond what a human could do. The log’s smoke turned into flames, snapping Ezra back to reality, and the other logs with it soon caught fire too. The Master stood to his feet and left Ezra with a smile. Ezra looked back to the fire, no evidence that it had been started by anything but natural means.