The Sweet Far Thing
Page 169
Mrs. Nightwing has scarcely put on her spectacles again when the girls besiege her, begging her to reconsider.
“Oh, please!” they cry. “Please!”
Our headmistress is resolute. “They’re not to be trusted. When I was a girl, they were likely to be run out of town. Beggars at best, thieves and more at worst.”
“What’s worse than beggars and thieves?” Elizabeth asks.
Mrs. Nightwing’s lips tighten. “Never you mind.”
This sends every girl to the windows to peer out into the dark, hopeful of a glimpse of these forbidden men. Danger calls and we answer too eagerly, our noses pressed to the glass. The mummers are not turned away so easily, it would seem. They’ve set their lanterns upon the grass and have commenced with their performance. We open the windows and stick our heads out.
“We bid you good evening, gentle ladies!” one of the mummers calls. He juggles several apples at once, taking a bite out of one each time it comes round, till his mouth is filled. We laugh at such sport.
“Please, Mrs. Nightwing,” we beg.
At last she relents. “Very well,” she says with a deep sigh. “Brigid! Keep close watch over the silver and let no one inside!”
We push out onto the lawn. Fireflies wink to us with their shining tails. The air is calm and pleasant and we’re thrilled to have a show. For all Mrs. Nightwing’s hand-wringing, the mummers are more clowns than criminals. Their faces have been blackened with burned cork, and their costumes are well-worn, as if they have been walking England’s roads for weeks. The tall man in the middle wears a tunic with the emblem of Saint George upon it. Another man wears Oriental dress, like a Turk. Yet another looks like a physician of sorts. I see the feet of two others beneath the costume of a dragon.
The leader of the troupe steps forward. He’s a tall, gangly fellow with hair that wants cutting. His face has the sharp planes of the thin and hungry. He wears a top hat that has seen better days, and his tunic is graying. In his hand is a wooden sword. He speaks with the rolled rs and airs of a music hall actor. “What story shall we tell to enthrall you, my fair damsels? Do you wish a tale of sweet love? Or a tale of adventure and possible death?”
Excited gasps trickle through our motley crew of girls. Someone calls for love, but she is shouted down.
“Adventure and death!” we cry. The romantic girl pouts but there it is. Death is infinitely more thrilling.
“Perhaps the tale of Saint George conquering the dragon, then? A princess fair on the brink of sacrifice? Will she live? Will she die? Tonight, we shall introduce to you a hero, a doctor, Doubt, the Turkish knight, and of course, a dragon. But first, we require a princess. Is there one among you who would be our doomed maiden fair?”
Immediately the girls beg to be chosen. They wave their hands and clamor for attention while the mummer appraises us while slowly striding up and down.
“You there, my Titian-haired lady.” It takes me a moment to realize that the mummer points to me. By virtue of being the tallest and having the reddest hair, I’ve stood out. “Would you honor us by being our maiden fair?”
“I…”
“Oh, go on with you,” Felicity says, giving me a push forward.
“Ah, thank you, fair maiden.” He places a crown upon my head. “Our princess!”
The girls are disappointed. They clap halfheartedly.
“Let us begin our tale in a most bucolic city-state where a golden river runs. But what is this? Alas! A dragon has built its nest there!”
The men in the dragon costume move forward, growling and snarling. They hold a pennant to suggest fire.
“The citizens, living in mortal terror, can no longer draw water from the river, so frightened are they of the hideous beast. And so, they devise a desperate plan—they sacrifice a princess to the dragon to satisfy his hunger—a daily sacrifice!”
The younger girls gasp. There are a few girlish screeches. Felicity calls out, “Bad luck, Gemma!” and the older girls fall into laughter. Even Miss McCleethy and Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckle at this. I am well loved. How fortunate. The dragon’s incinerating breath grows more appealing by the second.
The mummer doesn’t care for having his show corrupted in such a fashion. He uses his most commanding voice. It thunders in the dusky air in a way that brings goosebumps to my arms. “The fair princess screams for salvation!” He points to me, waiting. I answer his patience with a perplexed expression.
“Scream,” he whispers.
“Aaaah.” It is the most anemic scream in the history of screaming.
“Oh, please!” they cry. “Please!”
Our headmistress is resolute. “They’re not to be trusted. When I was a girl, they were likely to be run out of town. Beggars at best, thieves and more at worst.”
“What’s worse than beggars and thieves?” Elizabeth asks.
Mrs. Nightwing’s lips tighten. “Never you mind.”
This sends every girl to the windows to peer out into the dark, hopeful of a glimpse of these forbidden men. Danger calls and we answer too eagerly, our noses pressed to the glass. The mummers are not turned away so easily, it would seem. They’ve set their lanterns upon the grass and have commenced with their performance. We open the windows and stick our heads out.
“We bid you good evening, gentle ladies!” one of the mummers calls. He juggles several apples at once, taking a bite out of one each time it comes round, till his mouth is filled. We laugh at such sport.
“Please, Mrs. Nightwing,” we beg.
At last she relents. “Very well,” she says with a deep sigh. “Brigid! Keep close watch over the silver and let no one inside!”
We push out onto the lawn. Fireflies wink to us with their shining tails. The air is calm and pleasant and we’re thrilled to have a show. For all Mrs. Nightwing’s hand-wringing, the mummers are more clowns than criminals. Their faces have been blackened with burned cork, and their costumes are well-worn, as if they have been walking England’s roads for weeks. The tall man in the middle wears a tunic with the emblem of Saint George upon it. Another man wears Oriental dress, like a Turk. Yet another looks like a physician of sorts. I see the feet of two others beneath the costume of a dragon.
The leader of the troupe steps forward. He’s a tall, gangly fellow with hair that wants cutting. His face has the sharp planes of the thin and hungry. He wears a top hat that has seen better days, and his tunic is graying. In his hand is a wooden sword. He speaks with the rolled rs and airs of a music hall actor. “What story shall we tell to enthrall you, my fair damsels? Do you wish a tale of sweet love? Or a tale of adventure and possible death?”
Excited gasps trickle through our motley crew of girls. Someone calls for love, but she is shouted down.
“Adventure and death!” we cry. The romantic girl pouts but there it is. Death is infinitely more thrilling.
“Perhaps the tale of Saint George conquering the dragon, then? A princess fair on the brink of sacrifice? Will she live? Will she die? Tonight, we shall introduce to you a hero, a doctor, Doubt, the Turkish knight, and of course, a dragon. But first, we require a princess. Is there one among you who would be our doomed maiden fair?”
Immediately the girls beg to be chosen. They wave their hands and clamor for attention while the mummer appraises us while slowly striding up and down.
“You there, my Titian-haired lady.” It takes me a moment to realize that the mummer points to me. By virtue of being the tallest and having the reddest hair, I’ve stood out. “Would you honor us by being our maiden fair?”
“I…”
“Oh, go on with you,” Felicity says, giving me a push forward.
“Ah, thank you, fair maiden.” He places a crown upon my head. “Our princess!”
The girls are disappointed. They clap halfheartedly.
“Let us begin our tale in a most bucolic city-state where a golden river runs. But what is this? Alas! A dragon has built its nest there!”
The men in the dragon costume move forward, growling and snarling. They hold a pennant to suggest fire.
“The citizens, living in mortal terror, can no longer draw water from the river, so frightened are they of the hideous beast. And so, they devise a desperate plan—they sacrifice a princess to the dragon to satisfy his hunger—a daily sacrifice!”
The younger girls gasp. There are a few girlish screeches. Felicity calls out, “Bad luck, Gemma!” and the older girls fall into laughter. Even Miss McCleethy and Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckle at this. I am well loved. How fortunate. The dragon’s incinerating breath grows more appealing by the second.
The mummer doesn’t care for having his show corrupted in such a fashion. He uses his most commanding voice. It thunders in the dusky air in a way that brings goosebumps to my arms. “The fair princess screams for salvation!” He points to me, waiting. I answer his patience with a perplexed expression.
“Scream,” he whispers.
“Aaaah.” It is the most anemic scream in the history of screaming.
