Looking at these makes me really happy. These women have been my friends for many, many years and I love them. (The dogs not as long, though.) These pictures were taken at Claudine's house, which--interesting side note--used to be my house. We moved when my twins were 4 days old, but many of the trees in her yard were planted by me.
Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent is one of my favorites and it's free. Here's a teaser:
Chapter One
The Royal Oaks
Renaissance Faire is the brain baby of Mrs. Brighton, part-time English teacher
and full-time witch. Glass blowers, potters, and herbalists mingle with
students, teachers, and parents on sawdust strewn paths lined with wooden
stalls. Axe throwing is not only allowed but encouraged. Games include
Drench-a-Wench (Mrs. Brighton) and Soak-a-Bloke (Principal Olsen). Wizards,
elves, beer and barely covered booties are all welcome as long as they help
raise thousands of dollars for the high school drama department.
—Petra’s notes
Petra stared at the fortuneteller’s tent -- silky curtains,
beaded strings, the faint aroma of vanilla, a gaudy riot of color. She’d been
waiting forever, but now that she was here, she took a breath and then another.
Robyn squeezed her hand. “It’s so romantic,” she whispered.
“This is the perfect place for him to ask you.”
“It’s so him, right?” Petra returned Robyn’s squeeze, but
her gaze never left the tent. She thought it ugly, garish in a more-is-less
way. She sighed and wished that Kyle had asked without hoopla. Maybe she should
have asked him. Maybe they shouldn’t go. Prom was so yesterday, dated like a
debutante ball… Or a jousting competition,
she thought, her gaze going to the nearby stadium.
The frustration of denial settled between her shoulder blades
like an unreachable itch. Why did she even care about prom? She’d been with
Kyle for months; a silly dance didn’t define their relationship.
Or did it? Some of her friends already had their dresses.
Petra hadn’t bought one, that would have been presumptuous but she knew which
one she wanted. She’d found the perfect shoes. She hoped Kyle would be okay
with the coral-colored vest she’d picked out for him.
“It’s so who?” Zoe demanded.
Petra put her hand on top of Zoe’s orange curls. Zoe was the
pooper at the party, the stepsister that never should have come to the fair.
Petra could understand why her stepmother, Laurel, didn’t
want to take Zoe to a hospital to visit her Aunt Ida. No one sane would ever
want to take Zoe anywhere, especially a place where people needed quiet and
rest.
Robyn rolled her eyes at Petra. Robyn and Petra called
themselves tele-friends, because they could read each other like open books.
Now Robyn nodded at the tent, just go.
“Do you think he’s in there?” Petra whispered.
Robyn widened her eyes. “He said he would be, didn’t he?”
“Who’s he?” Zoe demanded. “Are you talking about Kyle?”
Petra swallowed and tried to forget Zoe’s existence. “He
didn’t say anything, but his note
said to meet at the fortuneteller’s tent. What if he didn’t send the note? What
if this is a joke?”
“Then it’s not a funny one.” Robyn shook her head and her
curls bounced around her shoulders. “It was Kyle.” She sounded way more
confident than Petra felt. Robyn cut her a sideways glance, and another flicker
of doubt tickled Petra’s thoughts. Why did she suspect the fortuneteller’s tent
was more Robyn’s idea than Kyle’s? Petra squelched the thought. Kyle was her
fortune. Nothing else mattered.
“Kyle has hotitude
that sadly so often accompanies physical beauty,” Zoe sighed, parroting her
mom.
Petra groaned. Did her parents dislike Kyle because he was
rock-star gorgeous? She shook away the other more legitimate reasons why her
parents might not like Kyle.
“Ignore her,” Robyn mouthed over Zoe’s head. “And just go
already.” She gave Petra a push toward the tent.
Petra dug in her silky flats. “Wait. How do I look?”
“As always, you’re beautiful.” Robyn straightened Petra’s
tiara, gave her a small hug, and then turned Petra tent-ward.
“Pretty as a Petra poopy picture,” Zoe muttered.
Petra frowned at Zoe and then glanced at her dress, last
year’s prom gown. She and Robyn were the only two at the fair dressed as
princesses. All around her she saw women in laced-up bodices, men in tights and
knee-high boots, horses draped in flashy bright cloths, and even a snowy white
owl on a perch. Zoe in her pink flip-flops, cut-up pillowcase and drapery
tassel looked more in place than Petra and Robyn. Petra sniffed. She loved the
silky fabric, the seed pearls, and poufy skirt and didn’t care that she was
overdressed. She put a finger on the tiara; maybe the faux diamonds were too
much. Too late now.
Straightening her shoulders, clutching her beaded purse, she
headed to the tent. Her steps faltered, and she turned back. “Come with me,” she
said to Robyn, taking and tugging her friend’s hand.
Zoe’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t leave me alone!”
Robyn motioned to the fair-goers: teachers, fellow students,
neighbors. “Alone?”
Zoe’s eyes, for a moment, looked almost as crazy as her
hair. “There are witches, people with swords, wild animals!”
Petra saw several people she knew, but Zoe had only just
moved to Royal Oaks. Petra knelt so she could look in Zoe’s crazy eyes. “And not one of them will hurt
you, I promise. It’s a petting zoo—no wild animals! But if anyone bugs you, which they won’t, call a yellow jacket,”
Petra said, referring to the Royal Oaks security guards who patrolled the
school grounds and used blow horns to keep peace. “Please, just sit.”
Petra stood and pointed at a convenient stump, wishing for
the zillionth time that Zoe would take lessons from their dog, Frosty, who
greeted all instructions with lolling tongue and wagging tail. Zoe didn’t
receive instructions; she counterattacked them. Poodles and stepsisters had
very little in common, except for in Zoe’s case, the hair-do.
“If you leave me here—” Zoe began.
Petra silenced her by holding up a finger. “If you can be
quiet, sit and not say a word, I’ll buy you a funnel cake.” She raised her
eyebrows to see if Zoe would take the bribe, or if she needed to toss in a
caramel apple. Health-foodie Laurel wouldn’t pony up for brand-name peanut
butter, let alone treats fried in oil and covered with sugary powder.
Zoe harrumphed, then sat and picked at the hem of her
pillowcase tunic. Petra followed her gaze to the corral across the path. Zoe’s
expression lit up. “I want a funnel cake and to ride that horse.”
Petra and Robyn both turned to watch a guy lead a stallion
through a wooden gate.
“Giddy-up,” Robyn said, staring.
The guy had brown, shoulder length hair tied back with a
leather thong and wore soft, fawn-colored breeches and matching knee-high
boots. His white shirt billowed around a wide leather belt that hung about his
hips. Three simultaneous thoughts struck Petra. First: Everyone else, including
herself, wore costumes, but this guy looked at ease in his breeches and boots,
as if they were his everyday clothes. Second: His eyes and the small smile
curving his lips sent a jolt of recognition up her spine although she knew
they’d never met. She would have remembered. Third: This guy would never wear a
coral colored vest.
“Isn’t he awesome?” Zoe breathed, her eyes large and round.
“He’s so huge.”
Robyn gave Zoe a look, and Petra laughed. “You can’t ride
him,” she said, watching the Arabian toss his mane and pull at the reins held
by the guy. The stallion fought the bit, rose up on his hind legs and scissored
the air with his hooves. “He’s not one of the ponies they lead through the
rink.”
Zoe frowned, sending her freckles south. “I’m sure he’d
rather be with me on the trail than in that horrible jousting place.” Earlier,
they had tried watching the knights’ competitions. Zoe, unconcerned for the men
being thwacked about by lances, had wailed for the sweat-dripping horses.
“I’m sure you’re right, Zoe, but I’m pretty sure I’m right
too,” Petra said. “They’d never let you take him out of their sight. Besides,
he looks fast and barely tamed.”
“I like them fast and barely tamed,” Robyn said under her
breath, smoothing her pink chiffon skirt.
From the jousting arena came cheering and huzzahs. Petra
heard the horses’ hooves thundering and the clanging of lances hitting shields
and armor. She smelled roasted turkey legs, the fires from the pottery kilns
and dung. Her senses careened on overload, and when the guy with the horse
caught her eye and winked, dizziness and a skin-pricking sensation of déjà vu
washed over her.
Zoe looked up at Petra, smiled and said in a voice as sweet
as funnel cake, “If you let me ride that horse I won’t tell about you
face-sucking Kyle.”
“There’s been no face-sucking!” At least not in front of
Zoe.
Zoe put her fists on her hips and jutted out her chin. “Who
says?”
Petra blew at a loose strand of hair in front of her eyes.
“You can’t ride that horse!”
Zoe’s gaze cut to the corral and lingered on the stallion.
“But you can ask if I can.”
Robyn nodded, a flirty smile on her lips. “We can ask.”
Petra shot her a look that said, Traitor.
“Hot Horse Guy,” Robyn murmured, flipping her brown curls
over her shoulder.
“And offer him money,” Zoe put in.
“How much money?” Petra nearly growled. Since her dad’s
marriage she’d been given an allowance ‘to help you find your own financial feet in the real world,’ Laurel’s words. Petra’s feet wanted a pair of
coral-colored heels for prom.
“I saw him wink at you.” Zoe’s tone turned calculating.
“Maybe you wouldn’t need to pay him.”
Petra frowned at Zoe; eight years old seemed too young to
know the art of female bartering.
“We’ll ask him right after we visit the fortuneteller,”
Robyn promised Zoe, sending a let’s-get-together-soon smile at Horse Guy.
He smiled back and ducked his head.
Zoe scowled, folded her arms and watched the horses parading
in the corral.
Petra turned to the fortuneteller’s tent and forced herself
to not look at hot Horse Guy, although she imagined she felt his gaze on her
back. She towed Robyn by one wrist.
Held up by large wooden poles, the tent had brightly woven
damask walls. A barrel-chested man wearing nothing but gold chains, large
rings, and red bloomerish pants guarded a money jar. A hand-printed sign
propped by the jar read Fester Foretells your Fate.
“Fester?” Petra stopped short of the tent. “He sounds like
he needs a squirt of Neosporin.”
“You’re stalling,” Robyn pulled on Petra’s hand.
“What if he’s not in there?” Petra flashed the guy in
bloomers a nervous glance but he remained motionless and expressionless, as if
she and Robyn didn’t even exist. What would happen if she poked him? Would he
do more than flinch? Would he do even that?
“Then we’ll have our fortunes read.” Robyn gave the bloomer
guy a sideways look, but he stared straight ahead not even looking at Robyn,
which Petra found impressive. Most guys couldn’t resist looking at Robyn.
“I’m telling Daddy that you ditched me,” Zoe kicked her
flip-flops heels against the stump.
Petra scowled at Zoe. Her parents had only been married a
few months, and it stung to hear Zoe call her dad ‘Daddy.’
“We’re not ditching you. It’s more like we’re parking you in a five-minute
loading zone.” Petra made a lever pulling motion. “There, I put on the
emergency brake. You’re stuck.”
Petra turned her back on Zoe and faced Robyn. “What if Kyle
doesn’t think to come inside? He could stand out here forever while some hag
predicts that I don’t get into a good school and will end up selling shoes for
the rest of my life.”
“You love shoes,” Robyn said. “Besides, I’m sure he’s
already inside.”
“And, just like me, listening to every word you say!” Zoe
added.
Petra gave Zoe another be-quiet-or-be-dead look but then
realized Zoe could be right. What if Kyle was on the other side of the curtain,
waiting and listening? Fighting the flush creeping up her neck, Petra dropped
money into Fester’s jar and pushed back the curtain of crystal beads.
When the curtain fell back into place behind them, it
carried the sound of breaking glass. Heavy incense hung in the air. Petra
blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She scanned the tiny
space, searching for Kyle. A crystal ball on a table draped in silks glowed and
sent a shivery light that didn’t reach the corners of the tent. Large pillows
dotted tapestry rugs covering the ground.
Petra wondered if she should sit and wait. Could Kyle be
hiding behind a curtain? No. He probably wasn’t here yet, meaning that he
hadn’t heard her and Zoe. That was good. Wasn’t it?
“Petra, welcome,” a voice in the semi-darkness cackled.
Behind Petra, Robyn jumped. It took Petra a moment to find
the owner of the voice, a hunched man on a pillow in a dark corner. Before him
lay a pair of tarot cards, face up: a fool dancing, tossing stars into a purple
sky and a magician holding a wand, scattering glitter.
“I’m afraid you must come alone,” Fester said, leaving his
gaze on Petra’s face as his twisted hands gathered the cards, and tapped them
into a deck.
Robyn’s eyes flashed a question at Petra. Petra squeezed
Robyn’s hand.
“I’ll wait with your sister,” Robyn said.
Still expecting Kyle to show, Petra didn’t watch her friend
leave, but she knew when Robyn had gone by the flash of daylight that came and
then left with the rise and fall of the curtain and the tinkle of the beads.
“There are journeys some must undertake on their own,”
Fester the fortuneteller said, staring up at Petra.
Chapter Two
“No prosecution should
thereafter be made on a charge of witchcraft and that all persons professing to
occult skill or undertaking to tell fortunes might be sentenced to imprisonment
for one year, made to stand pillory, and pledge future good behavior.” George
II
"Every person
pretending or professing to tell fortunes or using any subtle craft, means, or
device, by palmistry or otherwise to deceive, and impose on any of His
Majesty's Subjects will be deemed a vagabond and rogue and be punished
accordingly.” George IV
So, why did they have
a fortuneteller at the Royal Oaks Renaissance Faire and not a pillory?
—Petra’s notes
Fester had riotous curls the same color as his silver hooped
earrings. Lined and crisscrossed, his skin looked like aged leather. Struck by
his dark eyes, Petra stepped closer. The iris, so dark, swallowed the pupil and
appeared bottomless. Endless.
Petra shook herself. Eyes weren’t endless. She’d learned
about eyes in biology, had even studied a cow’s eye trapped in a jar of formaldehyde.
Large, yellowish and with a brown iris, the cow’s eyeball had given her a sick
feeling. Her lab partner, Lloyd of the big glasses, had laughed and refused to
take it from her so she’d quickly passed it to the girl behind her. Petra felt
that same queasiness now, staring into the fortuneteller’s eyes, but she found
herself unable to look away. She cleared her throat. “I’m expecting someone. He
asked me to meet him here.”
Fester laughed, and the sound surprised Petra. Not an old
person hoot or an evil cackle, but a laugh that sounded like church bells, the
type that ring at funerals. A Dickinson poem sprang to Petra’s memory: oppresses like the heft of Cathedral tunes. Shivers
shot up her arms and she took a step back, nearly tripping on a pillow. “If Kyle
isn’t here, I’ll just go…”
The laughter stopped. “You paid the price, did you not?”
“Well, yes, but so did Robyn.” Petra reached behind her for
the curtain. Her hand bumped against the beads which rattled but suddenly
hushed as the man spoke.
“Then you must listen.” Fester drew the fool card from the
deck with a knobby finger, laid it on the rug and tapped it with a pointy
fingernail. “Carrying all his possessions wrapped in a scarf, the Fool travels
to destinations unknown. So filled with visions and daydreams he cannot see the
dangers lying in wait. In his path, a small dog harries him, sending a
warning.”
Fester lifted his finger at Petra. The nail seemed almost as
long as the finger, curling under as if it bent beneath its own weight. The
finger and nail were both gray, the color of dead flesh. “You, my dear, are the
fool. I am your warning.”
Kyle’s the fool, Petra
thought, fighting a hot flash of anger,
if he thought I’d find this freak show even remotely entertaining. She bit
back a rude remark and instead asked, “Of what?”
Fester, who had been sitting in the corner, somehow suddenly
flashed to Petra’s side. She flinched from the strong, garlicky smell and the
warmth of his body. Petra held her breath and took a step closer to the
curtains that led outside.
He followed. “If you think your life is here and now, you
are mistaken. Indeed, there is no time or space.”
“My only mistake was putting twenty dollars in your jar.” Petra’s
voice sounded screechy in her ears.
“Harbingers of ill will do not always mean you harm.” Fester
laid his fingers on Petra’s arm and sent a jolt of electricity that lifted her
off her feet.
Petra watched the crystal ball sail through the air and the
strings of hanging beads swayed, sounding like a rush of wind chimes. Potion
jars spun in the air, tarot cards floated around her like large,
one-dimensional snowflakes. The ball connected with a flying jar and shattered
into thousands of pieces, crystal and potion glinting midair as the poles
supporting the draped damask groaned and teetered.
Earthquake, the
rational part of Petra’s mind told her, but Petra was listening to another
voice, one that said, run. Amidst the
fluttering curtains Petra flew, whirling her arms and feet, a mid-air mime
pantomiming running.
When the earth settled, Petra found herself buried beneath a
pile of fabric and pillows. She sat up, dazed. Other than the drapes of cloth
and the swaying crystal beads, the tent looked about the same, give or take the
tarot cards scattered about. She pushed them away so she wouldn’t step on them.
Looking around, she didn’t see the fortuneteller. She
wondered where he was and if he was hurt. Dazed, she tried looking for him, but
the incense stung the back of her throat and filled her head. Needing air, she
pushed through the curtains, brushed off her dress and straightened her tiara.
Taking a few faltering steps, she stopped.
The only other earthquake Petra remembered had been on
Easter Sunday, less than a month earlier. She had been with her family at the
dining room table and had watched the chandelier swing above the ham and
creamed potatoes. That quake had rolled rather than shook and had lasted less
than a minute but Zoe had wailed in terror. Zoe had to be frightened now.
Where was Zoe?
Too bad this town square didn’t have stocks and pillory.
They would have come in handy about five minutes ago. Then she would have known
exactly where to find Zoe.
A three-legged, dog of indeterminate breed charged and took
Petra off her feet. She landed hard on her butt in the dirt, legs splayed in
front, dress around her thighs. She stared after the animal and watched the
crowd filling the dusty street to see how they’d react to a dog breaking leash
laws. No one seemed to notice.
Petra wanted to ask someone about the earthquake, but she
didn’t see anyone she knew. Where were the yellow jackets? Principal
Soak-a-Bloke? Mrs. Brighton in her witch’s hat? Petra stood, dusted off her
dress and sat down on Zoe’s abandoned stump.
Petra remembered the advice she’d been given on a Girl’s
Scout hike, when lost stay where you are.
She didn’t know if Zoe had ever received similar advice, but it made sense
that Zoe would eventually return, if only for the funnel cake. Petra closed her
eyes, trying not to picture the trouble she’d be in when Zoe blabbed. Maybe
Robyn was with Zoe. The thought made her feel a little better, but when she
opened her eyes, the fair looked as strange as it had before.
Petra drew in the dirt with the toe of her slipper. The blue
shoes had a smattering of faux diamonds across the top. She’d been annoyed
about not being able to wear heels to the prom until her dad pointed out to her
that last year’s date, Micky Lund, had yet to hit a growth spurt. Slippers were
a kinder choice. Petra hadn’t cared that much about the shoes or Micky, but she
was glad now to be in slippers.
Except none of that mattered anymore because she was ready
to go home. Not spotting Zoe’s familiar tangerine hair, Petra climbed onto the
stump for a better view. Standing with her hands on her hips, she glanced back
at the fortuneteller’s tent and then twisted around completely. Somehow the
tent had been replaced with a blacksmith’s shop. A giant fire blazed in a
forge, and a thick armed man wearing a leather apron and wielding a hammer
stood where only moments ago she’d visited Fester. Right? Petra climbed off the stump with weak knees.
The blacksmith swung his hammer onto a flaming red piece of
metal and sparks flew. Again and again, the hammer struck; the pounding rang in
Petra’s ears.
Where is Zoe?
Petra’s anger melted into confusion. She must have hit her head during the
earthquake. That’s why she thought she was flying mid-air. She must have had a
concussion. Knowing that a head injury would soften her parents, Petra sat,
waiting. Zoe and Robyn would turn up any minute…and maybe even Kyle.
But waiting didn’t calm Petra. It reminded her of the very
first time her mother hadn’t met her after school. She’d stood at the corner
near the crossing guard, surrounded by other second graders waiting for their
moms, just as her mother had instructed. Eventually, all the other kids
disappeared into cars and she’d been left alone with the guard, who’d marched
her to the office, where she had to sit on a hard plastic chair, while the gum
chewing secretary called her mom.
And then her dad.
During the second phone call, the secretary’s voice had
changed from cranky to hushed, and her gaze slid to Petra with a look of pity
that Petra would later know too well. When her dad showed up, he seemed
worried, harassed, and withdrawn. No one, not her mother or her father, had
apologized for making Petra wait.
A donkey-pulled wagon rumbled by and brought Petra out of
the memory. A trio of dirty-faced kids in brown cloth tunics gazed at her with
wide eyes from their perch in the wagon. Their rags made Zoe’s pillowcase look
good.
Petra tried again to orient herself. She saw the jousting
arena but not the funnel cake booth. She rubbed her head and decided that she
must have left the tent from a different side. From this new angle the
fortuneteller’s tent looked different.
Perception can alter reality. In AP psychology they’d
learned about mental maps and paradigm shifts. Thinking about Doctor Burns and
the class bolstered Petra. She wasn’t stupid, ditzy, or dizzy. Blonde jokes, in
her case, didn’t apply. Still, as she stood on the stump, she felt increasingly
lost. Silly even.
She tried to recall Doctor Burn’s words. If you had an
incorrect map of a city and were looking for a specific location, you would be
both lost and frustrated. Experience determines perception.
Right now she needed a map not of her psyche but of the
fair. She’d gotten lost. The three-legged dog, the blacksmith shop spouting
flames and sparks (something she couldn’t believe the fire marshal would
allow), the three story-buildings and thatched roofed cottages, well, those
were all things she hadn’t noticed before when she’d been preoccupied with Kyle
and his supposed prom invite.
She was on the wrong tree stump! Abandoning the stump, she
wandered around looking for the fortuneteller’s tent, but she couldn’t find any
bright colored fabrics or strings of crystal beads. Refusing to believe that
she would have noticed a blacksmith
shop spouting sparks, she squared her shoulders and set out to find the
information booth where Mrs. Jordan handed out maps.
Ten minutes later when she couldn’t find the booth or Mrs.
Jordan, she turned toward what she hoped was the direction of the stables. She
hoped to find Zoe with hot Horse Guy and thought about what she’d say to Zoe.
The angry, why did you leave the stump? And, why didn’t you stay where I put you?
Quickly turned to, I’m sorry I lost you.
“Zoe!” Petra called out, her voice mingling with the calls
of the vendors. “Robyn?” No one was paying any attention to her. “Zoe? Robyn?
Anyone?”
You can get your free copy of Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent here
No comments:
Post a Comment