Golden (5 page)

There was a wagon in our front yard, the likes of which I had never seen before. Behind the driver s seat was what looked for all the world like a house made of canvas. It had a pitched canvas roof and four sturdy canvas sides. One of them actually seemed to have a window cut out of it. Lashing ropes held the sides in place, but I thought I could see how they could be raised as well, causing the house to disappear entirely when the weather stayed fine.

Along each of the sides dangled the strangest assortment of items I had ever seen. On the side nearest to me was a set of pots and pans, with a set of wind chimes right beside them.
Well that explains the sound,
I thought. Though why a wagon such as this should have arrived at our front door, I could not possibly imagine.

“If you're looking for the town, you're on the wrong road,” I said, then bit down hard on the tip of my tongue. There's a reason you're not supposed to say the very first thing that comes into your head. If you don't take the time to think through your words, you end up being rude just as often as not.

But the man in the wagon simply pushed the hat
back on his head and looked me up and down. He had a round face with a pleasant expression, for all that it was deeply lined by the sun. A set of ginger whiskers just beginning to go gray sprouted from his chin. Hair the same color peeked out from under the brim of his hat. Beneath ginger eyebrows were eyes as black and lustrous as mine.

At the moment they were blinking, rapidly, the way you do when you are trying not to cry, or you step outside on a summer's day, then step right back again because the light out there was brighter than you thought.

“I am not looking for the town,” the stranger finally replied, and I found that I liked the sound of his voice. It was low and warm, a good voice for storytelling, or so I suddenly thought. “But if I were, I would know where to find it,” he went on. “I am good at knowing how to get where I am going. You could say its a necessary part of my job.”

“And what is that, exactly?” I inquired.

At this, the expression on his face, which had seemed highly changeable at first, settled down and became one I recognized: surprise.

“Have you never seen a tinker before?”

“Why would I be asking if I had?” I said, then flushed, for that was twice in a row I had been rude now. But the tinker did not seem to take offense. Instead he simply tilted his head to one side, as if he were a bird and I a worm he was trying to figure out the best way to tug from the ground.

“What is your name, young one?” he inquired.

“Rapunzel,” I replied. “And I'm thirteen, just so you know.” And it was only as I felt my name in my own mouth that I realized that I had never had to answer this question before, for no one had ever inquired of me who I was.

To my surprise, the tinker's face changed once again, this time growing as flushed as mine. His hands tightened upon the reins still resting in his lap, so that the horse that pulled the wagon whinnied and tried to back up into the wagon itself. At this, the tinker dropped the reins, got down from his place, and moved to the horse's side. He soothed her with gentle voice and hands and produced a carrot from deep within some hidden pocket.

“You are skilled in plant lore, then?” he asked at last. His face had resumed its former color, though he did not look at me again. Instead, his eyes intent upon his task, he offered the carrot to the horse on one flat palm.

I gave a snort.

“Far from it. As a matter of fact, I'm completely hopeless. I've just spent the morning yanking up every single carrot in the garden. Not on purpose, though,” I added quickly.

At this, the tinker's face began a war with itself. I realized what the battle was about when he lost it and began to smile.

“Perhaps I might interest you in a packet of seeds, then,” he suggested, as the horse finished up its treat
and began to nuzzle at the tinker's legs for more. “To help you recover from your losses of this morning. To have no carrots is a terrible thing. What will you do for stew in the wintertime?”

“That's a very good question,” I said. “And one I'm sure Melisande has been pondering.”

“Melisande,” the tinker echoed. “That is your mother?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “But I love her as if she were, which makes her much the same thing, I suppose. If you will step around the back of the house, I will take you to her, and draw you a dipper of water from our well. You must be thirsty, and your horse as well. If you come down our road, you have come a long way, even if you weren't trying to end up in the town.”

“Well said,” Melisande's voice suddenly floated across the yard. “I'm pleased to see you finally remembered your manners.”

At the sound of her voice, the tinker looked up and found the place where Melisande stood with his eyes. I held my breath. The tinker held the sorceress's eyes. And it seemed to me, in the moments that followed, that I caught my second glimpse of sorcery.

The very air around us seemed to change, solidifying and becoming thick and glossy. It reminded me of the pieces of glass that Melisande and I had swept up last winter, when a limb from one of the apple trees had come loose and been blown all the way across the orchard, only to come crashing down
against the windowpanes of our greenhouse. The broken pieces were just the way the air was now. Thick and clear enough to see right through, but also sharp enough to cut you.

“Good day to you, sorceress,” the tinker said finally.

“And to you, traveler,” Melisande responded. “You have come a long way, I think.”

“I have,” the tinker acknowledged. “But I do not mind the miles, for I think that, in this place, they will now be well rewarded.”

The air began to waver, then. Rippling like water.

“As to that, I cannot say,” Melisande answered softly. “But I will say this: I hope it may be so. In the meantime, however, I can say this much more: Wherever we dwell, you will be welcome.”

And, just like that, the air returned to normal. It was, in fact, so completely like itself that I found myself wondering if I had imagined the entire episode. The air does not change its substance, as a general rule. Unless you count things like rain or snow.

“Your words are both kind and honest,” the tinker said. “A difficult combination to manage, I think. I thank you for them.”

You didn't imagine anything, Rapunzel,
I thought. For, even though my young ears were young, they could still detect that there was much more being said here than what was being spoken.

“I will see to your horse, if you like,” I offered.

“Thank you,” the tinker said with a nod.

But as I went to free the horse from its tracings, a commotion occurred within the wagon, a great caterwauling of sound. A moment later, a small orange kitten burst out the front, as if fired from a gun. It took two great leaps, landing first upon the horse's back, and then upon my shoulder.

Once there, it turned swiftly, hissing and spitting, just in time to face a long-nosed terrier that thrust its head out from between the fabric at the wagons entrance and began to bark in its best imitation of a larger, more ferocious dog.

“I don't suppose you'd care to have a cat?” the tinker inquired over the sound.

As the kitten's claws dug into my neck, I winced and met Melisande's eyes. Our old mouser, Timothy, had died over the winter, and I missed him sorely, though the mice did not.

“Rapunzel,” Melisande said.

“Thank you,” I said, on a great rush of delight. “We'd love one.” Precisely as if the kitten had understood my words, it removed its claws from my neck, turned around twice more, then sat down upon my shoulder, as if ending up right there had been its intention all along, and began to lick one ginger paw.

“Excellent. That's settled, then,” the tinker replied. He moved to silence the terrier, who was well on its way to yapping itself hoarse.

“Rapunzel,” Melisande said. “Perhaps you should introduce the cat to the barn.”

“What will you name him?” the tinker called after me. The terrier, feeling it had won the day, retired back inside the wagon and order was restored.

I turned and regarded the tinker's ginger whiskers for a moment. I had never been offered the opportunity to name a living thing before. It was a big responsibility, and I wanted to make the right choice.

“How are you called?” I finally asked, as an idea took shape in my mind.

“Mr. Jones.”

“Then that's what I'll call him, too,” I said. “So that I may always remember you for this gift. Also, your hair is the same color.”

At this the tinker gave a laugh, Melisande smiled, and I knew I had done well. And that is how I acquired two new friends in the very same day, and both of them named Mr. Jones.

Late that night I came suddenly awake, my body sitting straight up in the darkness before my mind had the chance to understand why. I stayed still for a moment, listening hard with both my ears. I had not been prone to nightmares, even when I was small. So it never once occurred to me that I might have been roused by some phantom. If I had awakened, it was for a good cause.

I listened to Melisande's quiet breathing, coming from across the room. The tinker, Mr. Jones, had shared our supper and was now asleep in his own wagon, which still stood in our front yard. I heard the
wind moving through the trees in the orchard, the faint clank it raised from the items on the tinker's wagon.
Not these,
I thought. For these had helped lull me to sleep in the first place. And that was when I heard it: the stamp and blow of the horses in the barn.

In a flash I had thrown back the covers and leaped out of bed, causing the kitten, Mr. Jones, to send up a protesting meow. I snatched up the clogs that always sat by the side of my bed when my feet weren't in them, and moved swiftly to the front door. There I slipped the clogs on, pulled my shawl from its peg, and tossed it over my head and shoulders. Then I opened the door as quietly as I could and eased out into the yard.

The tinker's wagon was a great lumpen shape in the moonlight. I could hear the horses more clearly now. I had put the tinker's horse in with our own, so that they might be company for one another. I might be a total loss when it came to the garden, but I was good with animals of all kinds. And so I knew the cause of the sounds as clearly as if the horses had spoken and told me what was happening themselves.

There was an intruder in the barn.

You will wonder, I suppose, why I didn't take the time to summon Melisande or Mr. Jones. But the simple truth is that, in the heat of the moment, it never even occurred to me. I was the one who had heard the horses. It was up to me to settle the situation on my own. If I had been older, I might have recognized my
own danger and taken an indirect approach. But I was young, and the shortest distance between two points was still a straight line. And so I marched straight over to the barn and slid its great door open as far as I could. For if there is one thing upon which a thief relies, it is stealth.

“You'd better get away from those horses,” I said in a loud, strong voice. “Or I'll make you. I can do that, you know. I'm a powerful sorceress.”

“You are not.”

I'm not sure which one of us jumped the higher, me or the boy. For that's who it was inside the barn. A lad, a year or so older than I was by the look I got of him in the moonlight. Chin lifted in defiance, though I noticed he was not quite as close to the horses as I thought he'd been when I first opened the barn door. Even the threat of sorcery will do that to a person.

“Am too,” I said. “I'll prove it if you don't watch out.”

“You're not the sorceress,” he insisted. “The other one is. Be quiet, will you? Just come in and close the door. I'm not stealing anything, I promise.”

“Only because I caught you before you could,” I said right back. But I did step in and slid the door partly closed behind me. To this day, I can't quite say why. There was something in his expression that I recognized, I think. Some sort of longing, mixed in with all that defiance.

“Well?” I said. “I'm waiting for an explanation.”

He put his hands on hips at this. “And you can
keep on waiting. Just who do you think you are?”

“I could ask you the same question,” I remarked. “In fact, I think I have the right. You're the one standing in my barn.”

“I'm Harry,” he said, after a moments consideration. “And I'm running away.”

“In that case, I'm Rapunzel,” I said. “And not with our horse, you're not.”

“I'll take the tinker's horse, then,” the lad named Harry offered. “He'll never miss it. He has lots of other things.”

“He most certainly will miss her,” I said, for the horse was a mare, and in the course of the afternoon I had grown fond of her. “Particularly when he has to pull the cart himself.” I took a step closer, studying Harry's features. “Why should you wish to steal from the tinker? He seems nice enough.”

“He took me away from my parents,” he said, after a slight hesitation.

“What?”

“It's true. He did,” Harry blustered.

“No,” I said. “That can't be right. Or even if it is, there must be more. If he was as evil as that, Melisande would have seen it in his heart. She never would have let him into our house or fed him our food.”

And I remembered, suddenly, the way Mr. Jones had made Melisande smile by patting his belly at the end of the meal and remarking mournfully that the food was so good he hated to leave any behind. She'd
fixed him a plate to take out to the wagon. I had a feeling I knew now who it had really been for. But to think of the tinker keeping this lad a prisoner inside the wagon just didn't make sense.

“Tell me the whole truth right now,” I demanded. “Or I'll scream very loudly. Then you'll have even more explaining to do.”