Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent

by Kristy Tate

  But what if it wasn’t a dream? An alternate reality? A wormhole? A parallel universe? She needed to get a grip. Maybe at some point this would all make sense, but right now she would play along. She didn’t need to worry about Zoe. What had the Fester the fortuneteller said? Some journeys must be taken alone. She didn’t have to worry. Zoe wasn’t shy–she knew how to ask for help. Just because Petra was lost in some sort of time warp didn’t mean that Zoe hadn’t found a way home. Or a funnel cake.

  Petra squared her shoulders, sniffed, and looked inside her purse for a Kleenex. The light on her phone pulsed reassuringly. Of course, if she were really in seventeenth century England, there wouldn’t be cell service, let alone towers or satellites, but she should at least try to call home. In private.

  Hot Horse guy’s witchcraft warning rang in her ear. Did they have public restrooms in the seventeenth century? Toilet paper? Aspirin? Anti-hallucinogenic drugs? Looking around, Petra saw nowhere to hide, but no one to pry either, so she sat on the spotty grass and pulled her knees to her chest. Keeping her head tucked over her lap, she opened her purse and fingered her phone. Three new texts. The familiar tiny red envelope cheered her, reminded her of who she was and where she belonged. She pressed a button and the phone chirped.

  “Did you know him, my lady?” The voice over Petra’s shoulder startled her.

  Petra quickly closed her purse and glanced up, her heart and thoughts racing. A pretty brown haired girl close to Petra’s age looked at her with curiosity. She reminded Petra of Robyn.

  “Did you know my brother?” She sounded like Hermione. The girl’s gaze swept down from Petra’s tiara and lingered on the slippers. “Not a kinswoman…”

  “Hmm.” Petra tried to gather her scattered wits. She searched the tombstone for a clue and remembered something someone had said at her mother’s funeral. “He was kind to me once.” Everyone was kind at least once.

  “Aye, he was kind to all.” The girl’s eyes grew misty, and, although she smiled, she still looked sad. “Particularly to those fair of face.”

  Petra raised a hand to her tousled hair and looked down at her dirty dress. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She stuttered another stock sympathy phrase as she stood. “He was very young.”

  A shadow crossed over the young woman’s face and Petra followed her gaze to an ox-like man at the edge of the cemetery. He watched, fingers touching the side of his thigh and a patch of leather that concealed something, possibly a knife.

  “You are not familiar with his sad story?”

  When Petra shook her head, the girl hesitated a fraction before clasping Petra’s elbow and steering her away from the man with the leer.

  “Perhaps ‘tis best told over a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

  The invitation surprised Petra, and before she could think of an answer, the girl continued, “My name is Anne.” She guided Petra down a path, toward the noise of the village and away from the ox-like man. Anne slowed slightly and visibly relaxed when they emerged from the busy street onto a quiet lane although she didn’t relinquish Petra’s arm. She nodded at a cottage on the edge of a wood. “My home, my lady.”

  A crude wooden fence surrounded the tiny thatched-roof house and kept in three chickens and a cow.

  Petra followed Anne through the gate. All the warnings self-defense classes and all the stranger-danger instructions she’d received as a child flashed through her mind. Never talk to strangers, or go into their homes or into cars, never accept candy, or even tea. The words of a song her mother had taught her sang in her head. Go ahead and scream and shout. Yell, holler and rat the bad guys out.

  But her mother wasn’t here, hadn’t been for years. And her mother hadn’t prepared her for a delusion in the sixteen hundreds. Screaming, in this case, didn’t seem right. Her thoughts went back to Zoe. Losing Zoe was the worst part of the nightmare. Strange how losing her little sister had never been a problem in her waking life, and yet here—whereever here was—losing her sister hurt the most. Petra lingered on Anne’s doorstep, looking toward the busy marketplace, picturing Zoe wandering among the wagons and booths, looking for her, lost and frightened. Anne lived here, maybe she could help her find Zoe.

  Anne latched the gate. “My home will be humble compared to what you are used to.” The words held a question.

  “Why do you say that?” Petra stared at the cow and noticed a goat. Not nearly as creepy as the water-barrel guy or the ox-like man, but she hoped they wouldn’t get closer.

  Anne stopped at the cottage door, her hand on the iron latch. Again, her gaze swept over Petra’s dress and shoes.

  “This is by far my nicest dress,” Petra said, comprehending.

  Anne raised her chin, the same look that Robyn had when Petra returned from a shopping trip with something Robyn envied. “You have many?”

  “Dresses?” Petra thought of her closet at home bursting with clothes, skinny jeans, tank tops, t-shirts, camisoles, cardigans. She doubted that Anne had ever heard of Urban Outfitters or Anthropology. She replied truthfully, “No, not many dresses.”

  Anne pushed open the door. The cottage had few windows and was dark, cool and smelled of yeasty bread. A trestle table flanked by three stools stood in a corner, two tall wooden chairs sat near the fireplace, and a spinning wheel squatted beside a large loom. Petra had never seen a spinning wheel, except in the movie, Sleeping Beauty. Loose straw covered the wide planked wooden floor. The white-washed walls were nearly covered with large rugs that looked luxurious and out of place in the modest cottage.

  In the dim light, Petra saw enough of the bright colors to see that each tapestry told a story. She wanted to study them, and yet, she hung in the doorway, uncertain, wary and still worried that Zoe was lost.

  Anne bustled to a cupboard, pulled out a loaf of bread and a pot and placed them on the table. Then she picked up a long, sharp and gleaming knife. “Would you care for bread, my lady?” Anne raised the knife and Petra felt weak-kneed. The bread looked dark, thick and heavy. Petra’s mouth watered.

  If this is a dream, Petra wondered, how can I be hungry? Not a dream. There had to be some other explanation. When would food be offered again? Petra slowly entered the room and let the door click behind her.

  “Where you are from, are your meals as simple?”

  More questions.

  Petra thought of the Taco Bell’s drive-through, McDonald’s paper wrapped food. “In some ways, simpler.” The preparation, at least.

  Anne unhooked a kettle from a rod above a fire smoldering in the grate. “Do you keep a fire burning?”

  Anne smiled. “How else would the tea and our bodies stay warm?”

  “But it’s nearly summer.”

  “Tis summer in your country?”

  Trapped. If throwing a beet was witchy, then Petra couldn’t tell Anne her bizarre mystery. “Almost summer, late spring.” She guessed. “The same as here, of course.”

  Anne smiled as she poured the water into a cup and added a spoonful of dried herbs. Steam rose and scented the air with the thick aroma that reminded Petra of the fortuneteller’s tent. “And from where does my lady hail?”

  She thought back to her English lit class. Yorkshire, Herefordshire, Sherwood Forest, and London came to mind, but she rarely lied and the idea of remembering and keeping a story straight intimidated her, so Petra said, “Royal Oaks.”

  “Royal Oaks.” Anne sounded out the words as she pushed a cup of steaming brew at Petra and motioned her to sit on a stool at the table. “Tis near the palace?”

  “No…” her answer sounded weak, even in her own ears. She cleared her throat and promised herself she’d sound more confident in future lies. She would come up with a story, a good one. She was good at stories…although she had never had to pass them off as nonfiction before.

  “’Tis far, then?” Anne looked pointedly at Petra’s slippers. “How did you travel?” Anne’s tone had turned confrontational.

  Petra settled at the table and picke
d up the warm cup of tea. “By horse.” She drove a Mustang, horsepower and all that, so it wasn’t a complete lie. Petra swallowed a warm sip and watched Anne slather oozy butter over a slab of the brown bread. Anne dipped the knife into a brown jar. Flecks of something, perhaps pieces of honeycomb and bees, dotted the honey. Lauren would have loved this au-naturale meal, but Petra studied the bread, looking for tiny bee body parts.

  “Do you live alone?” Petra asked, wondering if a girl of Anne’s century could even own property.

  “No, I live with my father. He’s away purchasing dye.”

  Petra didn’t want to sound like she was prying. “I live with my dad too. Well, it used to be just the two of us after my mom died.” It never seemed to get easier to talk about. Feeling awkward, she took a bite of the bread and honey, despite the mystery specks. Nothing crunched. As she chewed, Petra glanced at the tapestries lining the walls. “Does your father make the tapestries?”

  “The tapestries are commissioned by families of means.” Anne poured herself tea and cradled the cup in her hands. “Do you like them?”

  “They’re amazing.” Petra loved the vibrant colors and intricate designs. Most scenes depicted lovers, but a darker one featured an angel that seemed to transfigure from panel to panel. Wings lost, halo gone, pitchfork added. “Satan?” Petra guessed.

  “An angel come from the presence of God who rebelled against the Only Begotten Son,” Anne said, following Petra’s gaze. “His name, Perdition.”

  Goosebumps rose on Petra’s arms. Who would buy such a tapestry? She couldn’t see it hanging in a church or heaven forbid someone’s home. Imagine breakfast every day with Satan looking over your cornflakes, pointing his pitch fork at your latte. It was a gorgeous tapestry; the birds and flowers painted a deceptively pretty picture, but…Satan?

  This is a nightmare, she reminded herself and her mind seemed to reply: Well, if this is a nightmare, how can the tea sting the back of my throat?

  Had she ever eaten in a dream? Not seeing a napkin, she licked honey from her fingers and tried to remember her AP psychology class.

  Dreams can be controlled. Trying to change the course of her nightmare, Petra closed her eyes on Anne and the tapestry and recalled a Robert Louis Stephenson poem her mother often read to Petra at bedtime.

  From Breakfast on through all the day

  At home among my friends I stay,

  But every night I go abroad

  Afar into the land of Nod.

  “Bath, book and bed,” her mother would say every evening. Sometimes Petra’s dad would be there, often not. But bath, book and bed came as regularly as the sunset. The bath smelled of lavender, the books were piled in the shelves of her room. The day ended with her mother’s kiss.

  All by myself I have to go,

  With none to tell me what to do --

  All alone beside the streams

  And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

  Her head felt heavy, her neck weak. Her toes and fingers tingled, and her cup wobbled as her strength eked away. Tea sloshed over the cup’s rim and would have scalded her if it had been any hotter. Petra set the tea cup down and stared at her fingers curled around the handle as if they belonged to someone else. She opened her mouth to speak, but Anne had disappeared into the foggy haze that filled the room.

  The strangest things are there for me,

  Both things to eat and things to see,

  And many frightening sights abroad

  Till morning in the land of Nod.

  Chapter Five

  How to Make a Sleeping Draught

  Valerian, a flowering plant, can be found throughout Europe. Mix valerian, honey, apple cider vinegar and hot milk. Valerian is also used as a perfume, so you can smell good while you sleep.

  —Petra’s notes

  From the doorway, Emory stared into Anne’s bedchamber, aware that this act alone breached a moral code, but he couldn’t take his gaze off the girl on the hay stuffed mattress. She was everything he remembered—pink cheeks, red, full lips, clear skin and the most amazingly straight, white teeth. Her mouth hung open and a tiny trickle of drool stained the pillow beneath her hair. It was one of the loveliest things he’d ever seen in his long lifetime. “What have you done to her?” He cleared his throat because his voice sounded strangled.

  Anne fidgeted and lowered her gaze to the floor. “I’ve done nothing. She is fine, merely sleeping.”

  “You should not have brought her here,” Emory said. He wanted to ask how Anne had met her. It seemed remarkable that fate, by way of Anne, had delivered her to him again. “How long has she slept?”

  “Since afternoon,” Anne replied.

  Rohan, standing behind Emory, softly swore, “Zounds.”

  Emory gave his old friend a cautionary look. Rohan shared Emory’s disability when it came to women, although he did not have the effect on them that Emory seemed to. Rohan, in his dark and dusty robe, had a head as round and as bald as the moon, excepting the tufts of gray hair sprouting around his ears. Plus he had fingers and toes as thick as sausages. The women that cast come hither eyes at Emory spared Rohan hardly a glance.

  “I pray she will sleep through the night. I believe she has traveled far.” Anne’s voice lilted upward, as if asking if anyone would believe her lie.

  “Tis more than fatigue that has brought her to your bed, Miss Anne,” Rohan said, his voice tinged with disapproval— and laughter.

  Anne sighed. “’Tis but a sleeping draught. T’will not harm her.”

  “Such pride in your herbs, Anne.” Rohan tisked his tongue. “’Tis a cardinal sin.”

  Another reason why women would not fawn over Rohan. No one loves a prude. Emory smiled before casting a questioning glance at Anne. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Do not preach at me,” Anne said, sounding more tired than annoyed. “I did not know ought to do. Left on her own, she would surely come to harm in the marketplace. A gentle woman wandering unattended, By faith, ‘tis a wonder she made it here unscathed.”

  “’Til you drugged her?” Emory asked.

  “When in doubt, take a nap,” Rohan quipped. “”Tis a worthy motto.”

  Anne shrugged. “Perhaps she will see more clearly when she wakes.”

  “She is of quality,” Emory said. “T’would be unwise to incur her family’s wrath.”

  After a long pause, Anne said, “They need never know.”

  Soft candlelight bathed the cottage room. The moon and stars shone through the open window from which came the smell of the cow and chickens, yet Emory thought he smelled the girl’s perfume, a scent foreign and intoxicating. He fought the urge to step closer.

  The girl was still, but her mouth, which had been opened, was now pinched shut. Her nostrils flared.

  She is awake, Emory thought, a tingle running over his arms.

  “Emory,” Anne blew out his name with a sigh, as if she read his thoughts

  Emory jumped, and tried to stop staring. “Of course her family will know. She will tell them,” Emory said, loudly, trying to communicate to the girl what she must do.

  “I’m not sure she will,” Anne said. “She seems quite daft.”

  “These things doth the Lord hate, a proud look, a lying tongue.” Rohan scolded Anne. He sounded good-natured, but his words were self-righteous.

  “’Tis true. I lie not.” Anne shook her head. “She seems to know nothing. Had all the intellectual capabilities of a turnip.”

  “Which she wouldn’t recognize even if she held one in her hand.” Emory chuckled. “This afternoon she mistook a turnip for a beet.”

  “You’ve met?”

  “Briefly. She was throwing vegetables at Lord Garret.”

  Anne smiled. “Ah, so she has more intelligence than I supposed.”

  “Perhaps,” Rohan said, “more sauce and mettle than intelligence.”

  “So, did his high and mightiness mind being targeted by vegetables?” Anne asked.

  “He never k
new. She can add poor athleticism to her list of attributes.” He grinned, watching the girl stiffen beneath their onslaught of insults. He wondered what she would say when they met again? Because, although he knew they shouldn’t, he also knew they would. He would make sure of it.

  “They must be acquainted then,” Anne continued. “It seems unlikely that even she would toss vegetables at strangers, especially royal strangers.”

  Emory watched the girl seethe in mock sleep.

  “Perchance,” Emory said. “She kept calling him Kyle.”

  “Kyle? What is a Kyle?” Rohan laughed long and deep and even Anne smiled. Emory watched the girl dig her fingernails into the palm of one hand as if to keep from slapping someone. He couldn’t help staring.

  “What is this?” The tone of Rohan’s voice caught Emory’s attention. He held a small, vibrant pink object with a little cap, made of a polished, thin, ore. Underneath the cap, a tiny red cylinder rose when Rohan twisted the tube. It smelled odd, a scent Emory didn’t recognize.

  Rohan raised it to his nose.

  “Poison?” Emory asked, tone grave.

  Rohan shook his head. He returned the cap to the cylinder, dropped it back into the purse and pulled out a small, leather book filled with glossy cards. One tag had an amazing likeness of the girl. He ran his finger over the image of her face in wonder.

  Next they found a shiny object with characters that sprang to light when they touched it. Beeps in a variety of tones rang out. Rohan held the thing at arm length. “What evil is this?” he asked.

  “A musical instrument, perhaps?” Anne guessed.

  The thing screeched and Rohan dropped it. “Satan’s tool,” he gasped.

  Outside the window a cow moaned.

  “Anne, you said you found her crying over Geoffrey’s grave?”

  “She cried black tears.” Anne gazed out the window. “I best be seeing Buttercup before she bursts.”

  Emory waited for Anne to leave and then demanded, “You know nothing of this?” Rohan grumbled in dissent. “She is but a lost child.”

  Emory put his hand on Rohan’s arm and lowered his voice. “I need to know, is this your doing? Another trick, another ploy?”