Will Sparrow's Road (12 page)

Master Tidball barked, "What does that swine here!”

Will explained, and Tidball said, "Keep the dirty thing away from me,” and he kicked at her with his good foot while standing on his bad foot, which caused him to twist the ankle anew. "A pox on you all!” he cried. "I am plagued like Job!” He turned to the wagon, unbarred the door, pulled the girl out, and climbed in himself, remaining out of the way the rest of the day.

Between the creature's—Grace's, he amended—stubbornness and Fitz's brawling and ill humor, it was no wonder the man's temper flared at times, Will thought.
I am the only one who does not torment him.

Will and the Duchess sat in the sunshine and shared an apple Will had nicked from a fruitmonger's stall. Grace, watching, said, "I hate pigs.”

"Know you many pigs?” Will asked.

Grace did not answer but said only, "I hate everyone.”

"Nay, you do not.”

"I do.”

"Do you hate Benjamin?”

"Nay, I be most fond of Benjamin. He says that being blind, he can see me more clearly than others do. And I do not hate you. Does that please you?”

Will felt a sudden warmth but said, "Nay, I care not what you think of me.”

"You are a stupid boy.”

The Duchess rolled over and snorted with happiness.
Indeed I am, sometimes,
Will thought,
for now I am charged with the tending of a pig.
He frowned and spat apple seeds into the dirt.

For days following, Fitz trumpeted the marvels in the wonder room and collected pennies from the curious. Inside the booth, Grace Wyse sat on the chair on the platform, her arms crossed.

Will walked the fair, calling folk to the booth as he had heard Fitz call. He tended Solomon the horse, dusted the oddities, polished the wagon, and watched the comings and goings in the booth. He was surprised by the number of folks who would pay to see a dead sea monster and an odd chicken. People in fine doublets and ruffs, padded silks and satin capes, russet homespun and frayed linen, lined up for entry. The usual swarms of children in rags crowded about, thrusting out their empty hands, crying, "Good sir, a crust of bread, an it please you” and "Gentles, my mam be sick and the little ones burnin' with fever. I beg help.” No one heeded them. A man in velvet doublet and polished sword kicked a small girl out of his way, which made her cry and his raspberry-silked companion giggle.

'Twas his good fortune, Will thought once again, to be fed and employed, even if it were but as hireling of the monstermonger and there looked to be no more wages coming his way. He realized he had stopped asking about wages. His belly was full and his days occupied, but what about when the weather turned foul? Were there still fairs in the winter? If not, what then would he do? What would happen to him? But as long as the sun shone, he was able to push the worries away.

When he could absent himself from Master Tidball and his duties, Will attended to the Duchess. He found a bit of scrubby woodland amidst the marshes and the mires outside the town, where he took her to hunt for acorns and pignuts, mushrooms and worms. Dragging his feet and muttering, he told her over and over that he did not choose to be caring for her but it was necessary until Samuel came back. She listened with her ears erect and her tail spinning in circles, and she would not be dismissed or ignored. Instead she often sat at his side and looked at him so intelligently, Will swore the pig was waiting for him to say something of importance, something she would understand and remember.

One day as the pig and the boy lay in companionable silence, Will, knowing she would not argue or scold, opened his heart to her. "Fie, Duchess, I be liar and thief, unloved and unlovable, and I have no Samuel to look out for me as you do, so I must care for myself and you as well.”

He felt a bit silly at first, talking so to a pig, but soon grew more easy. He told her of where he had been, how he came to be here with her, and how strange he felt traveling with oddities. "I do not belong with them, yet I had no choice but to join them for a time. Master Tobias left me for London, for Bartlemas Fair. 'Tis a wonder, Bartlemas Fair, so Master Tidball says.”

And the Duchess, having been there once with Samuel, grunted in agreement.

With light heart Will watched her roll in the green herbs and splash in the water he poured to cool her. "We must have a song,” he said, and so they did, one he had learned at the inn.

Tomorrow the Fox will come to town,
Keep, keep, keep, keep, keep:
Tomorrow the Fox will come to town,
O keep you all well there.

I must desire you neighbors all
To halloo the fox out of the hall,
And cry as loud as you can call,
O keep you all well there.

"Nay, Duchess,” Will said, "we should have a pig song. I will make a pig song.” He stood and danced around her, singing:

Tomorrow the pig will come to town,
Whee, whee, whee, whee, whee,
Tomorrow the pig will come to town
And visit the Ely fair.

Fairgoers come, come one, come all,
To watch the pig play with cards and ball
And call as loud as you can call,
Whee, whee, whee, whee, whee,
When you visit the Ely fair.

The song pleased him so much that he shouted the next verse to the winds:

Her snout is long, her eye is round,
She's the biggest porker pound for pound,
And she makes the most unlovely sound,
Whee, whee, whee, whee, whee,
Here at the Ely fair.

Will swore that the Duchess smiled in pleasure.

The singing and the making of the song tired him, and he lay down with his head on the pig's surprisingly firm, warm, bristly side, which smelled of dust and powder and woolly thyme. He could hear her heart beat. Strange, he thought; he had no mother, no father, no friend, but for the moment he had the Duchess. It was enough.

The next morn dawned rainy and cool. Few people ventured through the damp to the fair, and even fewer found the oddities booth. "I have business elsewhere,” Tidball said, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "Do not think you can grow lax whilst I be gone. I be counting the pennies when I return.”

As soon as Tidball turned a corner, Fitz said to Will, "I must be off. See to the girl. Do not leave her alone.” And he, too, left.

Will grumbled. He was not only pig keeper but also keeper of the wild girl. Or Grace Wyse, as she now insisted. Must he do everything? He would not stay and be the only one to work. He huffed in irritation as he fetched Grace from the wagon. "Come with me.”

"Where?”

"Somewhere else, somewhere not here. Come.”

Grace followed Will and the Duchess to a quiet spot away from the fair. They found shelter beneath a tree, breathing deeply of the damp, green, mossy smell of the woods. The Duchess poked and prodded the strange creature in the blue cloak, but once she determined there were no apples about the person, she curled up next to the blue cloak, snorted once, and fell asleep.

Grace, frowning, looked down at the pig but did not move away.

"Samuel thinks pigs are smarter and more well-mannered than people,” Will told her.

"Mayhap he is right,” Grace said. "A pig has ne'er laughed at me or called me names.” She reached out carefully and, with one finger, touched the Duchess on her snout. "I thought 'twould be bristly, but 'tis soft,” she said, "like fine cloth.” She watched the pig sleep for a moment and then said, "I believe I do not hate this pig. She does not think me odd or ugly or indeed any different from you.”

"What, Grace, what ... I mean, what...” Will stumbled around the words. "What is it like having ... being, you know, a cat-faced girl, a—”

"Creature? Oddity? Monster?” Will could see Grace frown, and he feared he had once again insulted her. But she said, "'Tis at times pitiable, and ever burdensome.” She sighed. "Now and again I pretend my face is a mask and not really me at all, just a mask, and I am behind it, apple-cheeked and ordinary. But 'tis all I know. Can you say what 'tis like being Will Sparrow?”

Will Sparrow, liar and thief, knobby kneed and undersized, unloved and unlovable? 'Twas what he was. To say what it was like? He shrugged. There was no saying.

At last the clouds moved by, the rain stopped, and birds and squirrels began to bustle. "We must haste back to the fair afore Master Tidball returns,” Will said, and he, Grace, and the Duchess began the walk back.

"Where be you headed?” Grace asked.

He looked at her quizzically. "Back to the booth, am I not?”

"Nay, I mean after all this. How did you come to be here? And where be you going to?”

"Nowhere. I'm going
from,”
he said, as he had said to Nell Liftpurse before. And he told Grace of his mother leaving, of his father and the inn, of the prospect of being a chimney sweep. He was at ease in the telling—belike talking to the Duchess had loosened his tongue.

"Be they still after you?”

Will considered this. "Nay, likely not.”

"Then you are not going
from
anymore. Where be you going
to?
Even a sparrow sometime alights.”

Sparrow? He frowned but then bethought himself. Grace likely did not mean to insult him, and it was a good question. He had been on the run and on the road nigh on three weeks now, going where the road went. He did not choose but was like a twig caught in the current and propelled downstream: from his father to the inn to Hieronymous Munster and the conjurer and Tidball. Where
was
he going to?

"Will Sparrow, look!” Grace cried. She held aloft a tiny twig on which perched a beetle with wide stripes of green and gold.

"'Tis indeed most colorful,” Will said. "Mayhap Master Tidball would display—”

"Nay!” Grace shouted, flinging the twig and the beetle away. "No displays. This beetle should live free, not caged like me, like the mermaid baby.” She stood looking into the distance as if she could see where the beetle had flown. "I grieve for the mermaid baby, Will Sparrow. She has grown tousled and worn. Her hair is tattered and her tail coming loose.”

"No doubt Master Tidball will see her put right.”

"She is a person, fish tail or no, and should not be floating in a bottle from fair to fair. I know what 'tis like to be displayed all unwilling.”

"The mermaid baby is not alive.”

"Still, she should not spend forever in a bottle on a shelf. I would bury her myself, but the flask is too heavy.” She looked at Will, her eyes wide and expectant.

Annoyed by her unspoken request, he ran ahead, spinning and jumping, while Grace and the Duchess trailed along behind. No more was said.
Let the mermaid baby sleep in her flask in the booth,
Will thought. Master Tidball was his employer and his ally. Will would not choose to cross the man as Grace did.

The nights were growing cooler. Grace stayed in the wagon, and Master Tidball took to sleeping each night at a nearby inn. Fitz built a fire before he headed for his place in the booth, and Will and the Duchess curled up next to it. Many a night he had reminded himself that he cared for no one and nothing, but one night, listening to the Duchess snore a small, porcine snore, he decided it was no longer true.
Mayhap,
he thought,
I shall say I care for no one but myself and nothing but my belly, and the Duchess a bit, and maybe even Grace a little.
The notion made him either pleased or irritated, he was not certain which.

On an especially cold night Will huddled close to the pig for warmth. He woke to the appetizing aroma of ham. Or bacon. He sniffed deeply. What fortunate person was eating ham in the middle of the night? Will's mouth watered. He sniffed again. It was the Duchess, lying as close as she could to the fire, her warm body giving off the aroma of, well, ham. Of course, he thought, the Duchess
was
ham. And bacon. Roast pork and pigs' trotters. Chops and sausages. Could he ever eat such foods again? He sighed. Fie upon it, this tending of a thing brought unforeseen consequences. He would be certain never to tend a herring or a goose or an apple tart, else he might find himself with naught to eat.

REGARDING GRACE'S TROUBLE AND
WILL'S RELUCTANCE

T
HE NEXT
morning brought more damp and bluster. The fair would be late in starting. Will missed the activity of the road. His legs and his mind were restless. He craved something to do, something adventurous.

Will tied the Duchess to the wheel of the wagon—he could do with some time alone—and started off. But there was Grace, peeping from the wagon door. She had spoken little to him since he had ignored the plight of the mermaid baby. Mayhap he could appease her with an invitation. "Hist, Grace Wyse. Come with me. Let this fair sleep today while we see what the town has to offer.”

"And let the town see me?” Grace shook her head
no
and
nay
and
ne'er.
"Not with this face of mine. 'Tis but inviting trouble.”

Will watched the large green eyes in her cat's face grow sad. "I have grown somewhat fond of your face, for it be gentle and friendly,” he told her. "Mayhap others would feel the same if you gave them the chance.” He lifted one eyebrow in query.

"Foolish boy. You see me every day. 'Tis different for those who encounter this face for the first time.” Yet she agreed to go with him. She wrapped herself in her blue cloak, pulled the hood down to hide her face, and followed Will through the deserted fair and farther into the town.

Dominating the town was the great central tower of the cathedral, and Will, remembering his wonder when first they had arrived, bade Grace look up and up and up. "Belike angels perch there and watch over us,” Grace said.

"Belike,” said Will, though he misdoubted it.

They peeked into the windows of a tailor's shop and admired the bolts of cloth and what Grace said were crimping irons for ruffs. Will rubbed grime from the window of a lawyer's chambers and they peered in, but they could see nothing beyond a desk and chair and wooden chests. An apothecary's shop held shelves of glass vessels filled with mysterious things brightly colored or brown, liquid or solid, in large pieces or powdered. The apothecary! Did Samuel lie above? Will looked through the open door but saw no one inside to ask.