Protecting Emma

by ML Michaels

  By Bess Hart

  Darby Bunker heard voices. The forest floor crunched beneath his feet as he stopped in his tracks. He pulled back a curtain of dark blonde dreadlocks behind his ear as he closed his eyes and listened for the voices again, discerning the direction from which they came. Not too far off to the north. The source of the two female voices became obvious as a melody of sweet giggles sailed through the trees. Placing one foot in front of the other, Darby tiptoed twenty paces forward. He crouched behind a large tree and peered out around it, hidden behind the leaves. Darby smiled; he had found her.

  The two women sat in a field of wild flowers, the tall grass tickling their shoulders. Winifred sat with her back to him, her curly red hair glistening like red gold in the afternoon sun. Her companion was a young woman with blond hair that swooped about her neck, and hung down her right side in a long braid. She had honey-colored skin and a beautiful, bursting smile. They looked so lovely sitting there, laughing in the sun. It took all the strength Darby possessed not to run to them right now, and finally look Winifred in the eye. Tired, sore and dirty, he’d been tracking them for weeks, but his boots were still sturdy, and his mind remained alert. It wasn’t the time for mistakes now that he was so close. He noticed the two girls had ceased their talking and were staring towards the opposite side of the field where a line of trees marked the continuation of the forest. A young man emerged from the foliage. He was extraordinarily tall, well over six feet, and wearing the ordinary clothes of village folk—an off-white tunic and dark britches.

  “Hello,” he called across the field.

  “Hello!” The sound of Winifred’s voice made Darby’s spine tremble.

  “I was just walking through the forest when I heard your voices. May I join you for a moment?”

  Darby scowled at the young man, so forward and entitled in his request, but the women accepted and allowed him to join them. He walked across the field and sat down with them, grinning like a fool.

  “I’m Ronan Bagley,” he volunteered. “I live in the small village on the north side of the forest. Have you been there? It’s called Lancaster.”

  “I am Winifred Russell, and this is Jana Rigsby. We came to perform in Lancaster,” Winifred said.

  “Perform?”

  “Yes,” Jana confirmed as she began unweaving her long braid. Her fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own, dexterously freeing locks of dark hair that fell around her shoulders in silky tendrils. “We are part of Homer Battle’s Theatrical Circus Troupe.” The troupe had looked forward to visiting this small and remote town in the English countryside where the crowds were regular hard, working people rather than the snobbish lords and ladies in the bigger cities.

  “So that is what the caravan I saw entering the forest earlier was.”

  “You are correct.”

  “Incredible.” Ronan leaned in and asked, “What do you perform?”

  “We are both contortionists,” Winifred revealed, lifting her arms gracefully above her head and posing for a moment. The necklace she always wore, a silver chain with a blue stone, glittered in the sunlight.

  “Wow! Could you ladies show me something from your act?”

  “You will have to come to our show for that. We are performing tomorrow evening in the town square,” Jana informed him.

  “Alright, I’ll be there,” said Ronan, smiling wildly.

  Jana picked a light blue flower and secured it behind her ear, and Ronan’s expression changed instantly.

  “You best be careful,” he advised.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not from here, of course you don’t know. You see these dark purple flowers, the ones with six leaves and red centers? They are called ‘purple ladies.’ As legend has it, if you pick one of these, you will die that same night. The duke’s own daughter fell victim to the curse, and now no one from town will come close to them.”

  “What silliness!” Winifred exclaimed. “If we believed superstitious nonsense like that every time we heard it, we wouldn’t have the courage to leave the caravan!” She leaned forward and picked a dark lady right out of the ground and put it behind her ear to match Jana.

  Ronan gawked at her. “It is said that the last woman to pick one of these flowers was found strung up by her feet, hanging from a tree, dead.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happened to me,” she said and picked another.

  “If you say so, but do be careful tonight. Just in case,” Ronan requested as he stood up and brushed the grass off his trousers. “I’ll be seeing you ladies tomorrow. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you as well Ronan,” Jana said cheerfully.

  Winifred waved as he walked off. As soon as his figure disappeared into the forest, the women erupted in a fit of giggles. The sound made Darby melt. He sat down and leaned back against the tree, allowing his legs to straighten out and relax after hiking the entire morning. His eyes closed, as he listened to the women’s giddy voices and slipped into a warm, unaware slumber.

  A single, terrible scream pierced through the forest, waking the entire circus troupe. The fabric of her tent brushed against her forehead as she sat up quickly. She could only think of one thing. Winifred.

  Her leggings were scrunched up at the bottom of her sleeping bag. She fished for them blindly until her fingers touched the soft fabric, and she pulled them on as fast as she could. People were running towards the edge of camp, past the outdoor kitchen, as she emerged from her tent. She joined the current of the crowd, which pooled beneath a large oak tree. Jana observed the faces surrounding her. Their expressions ranged from disgusted to utterly petrified. They were all looking up. Hesitantly, Jana did too.

  Immediately, she lost her balance and staggered onto her knees. She clutched at her chest, and tears seared out of her eyes. Winifred. Her best friend hung upside down from the big tree, her belly stabbed and gruesome, her face grey and purple, her hair matted with blood, and her eyes open, staring blankly at the ground. Jana covered her face but could not prevent the deafening wail that emanated from deep inside her belly. She looked up one last time. Her friend swung in the breeze.

  Homer Battle, the leader of the circus troupe—hence the reason it was named Homer Battle’s Theatrical Circus Troupe—stood up on a tree stump, making him two heads taller than the rest of the crowd.

  “My dear people,” he began, “It is a terrible shame and a devastating horror to find one of our own so brutally murdered. Winifred Russell was one of our beautiful contortionists, and now here she is so…” Homer put a pudgy hand over his eyes for a moment—whether the gesture was out of candid despair or theatrical intention was difficult to discern—and his shoulders quivered as he took a deep breath before continuing. “We all knew Winifred well. We all knew to smile when we saw red curls bobbing towards us, for she always had something wonderful or funny to say. To bury such a lovely girl on this day is one of the most awful things our troupe has ever had to go through. And I am sorry that I must invite you all to join us in the hills above the village where we will find a spot overlooking the land to lay dear Winifred down to rest.”

  Jana felt as though she would vomit, but it was early still and there was nothing in her stomach. Homer stepped down from the tree stump, and the crowd began to disperse. Ragul, the snake charmer, climbed the tree to cut the rope Winifred was strung up by. As he put the knife to the rope, Ragul’s catlike eyes glanced down and made contact with Jana’s. Her breath caught in her throat and without knowing why, she mouthed the word “No,” but it was too late. Two men stood beneath her as Ragul cut her loose. They laid Winifred’s stiff body on the ground, and Ragul climbed down the tree, swift as a lizard. He ran off, nimbly hopping past the tents, and came back carrying a tapestry with bright green snakes coiling in different directions across a black background. Jana recognized it as the tapestry he used in his performances. It was a respect he offered Winifred by using something so dear to him. Before he laid it on top
of her, Jana looked down at her friend, and noticed that the necklace she usually wore was absent from around her neck. She made a mental note to look for it as she watched Ragul tuck the ends under Winifred with precision, wrapping her like a mummy. He knelt in front of her, and began to chant in his native tongue. A number of other people joined him. Jana watched from afar.

  A flicker of movement in the trees behind Ragul caught her attention. She peered into the dark trees, and her eyes fell upon a face. Ronan. What was he doing here? As soon as he noticed her looking towards him, he shrunk backwards into the trees and was gone. Had he really been there? Jana couldn’t be sure. Her eyes were blurry from tears, and her mind was full of fog.

  Within a couple of hours, a gravesite had been chosen and a procession of people were slowly making their way past the small village of Lancaster and up into the hills. Jana was among them; a shawl wrapped around her, bare feet stepping slowly, one in front of the other. It was a misty morning, wet and cold. The villagers were all locked away in their homes with the windows shut, smoke billowing out of their chimneys. There was an eerie taste in the air as Jana remembered the legend of the dark lady flowers, the one that Ronan had told them yesterday, how she had avoided picking one, not so much out of fear as simply not wanting to draw attention to herself, and how Winifred had gone ahead and fearlessly picked two. Jana wasn’t superstitious, but the memory spooked her. Chills crawled up her spine. She rounded a bend in the path, and found herself among a crowd of people. She weaved her way to the front where a grave had been dug, overlooking the village and the gloomy land.

  Homer stood at the front of the crowd and once again addressed them. “It is on this horrible day that we must say goodbye to one of our dearest companions. I just have one more thing to say, and then I will step away and let silence fall as we all pay our respects. The sweet Winifred Russell didn’t just die—she was murdered. If anyone knows anything about her death, I beg that they come forward and tell me. I will not rest until the culprit has been found and justice has been served.”

  He stepped aside, and four men carrying Winifred’s body, wrapped in Ragul’s tapestry on a stretcher, came forward and lowered her into the earth.

  The townspeople of Lancaster watched the thirty or so members of Homer Battle’s Theatrical Circus troupe drift down from the hills somberly from the safety and warmth of their little houses. Word of a murder had circulated. An old man sat by his window muttering to himself about this and that. He was always uneasy when the circus came to town; their colorful clothing, alternative means of income, and flamboyant styles easily perturbed him. He was averse to seeing them perform in the square with their feathers and instruments and tricks. He was a pious man, and considered himself an elder in the village. A terrible accident fifteen years ago had taken his daughter and son-in-law from him and left him to raise their five-year-old son, Ronan. The old man had never been able to figure out why God would throw such an awful curve ball at him, but he imagined it was God’s way of testing him. He refused to fail.

  The old man struggled to find the armholes of his jacket, and by the time he had reached his frail arms through and was buttoning himself up, he was nearly out of breath. He was getting old. At nearly seventy years old, he was set in his ways and tired of anything that threatened or contradicted him. He went to church everyday and prayed for an hour, he read his books, and when he felt up to it, he went for a nice long walk. Popping the last button through the hole, he then secured his hat on his head. There was something to be said for having a daily routine, he always said; and he was not only disoriented, but upset by his grandson’s inability to understand such a simple concept. Ronan never came to church either, and when he did, it was with apprehension and doubt. The old man couldn’t stand to sit next to the boy, fidgeting and looking about as if prayer and communion with God were found externally, rather than deep within. He’d given up on getting Ronan to come with him, but he never failed to mention what he thought of the younger man’s irresponsible and whimsical behavior.

  The old man looked out the window, and seeing how grey and misty it was, grabbed a scarf. He coiled it around his neck, and although it was already early evening, walked out his front door for the first time that day. There wasn’t a soul on the street, which he felt was more of a blessing than an oddity. He glanced once more to the hills where circus members continued to trickle down the hill towards the forest. He shook his head and prayed for the day Homer Battle’s Theatrical Circus Troupe would pack up and roll their caravan off to the next unfortunate town.

  Half way to the church, the old man was nearly knocked off his feet as someone racing wildly down the path barreled him into.

  “Watch where you’re—Ronan?”

  “Oh grandfather, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

  “What are you doing running down the path like that? How could you have not seen me?”

  “I was lost in my thoughts…” he panted, beads of sweat painted on his forehead and his mouth open wide, gulping in breaths of fresh air.

  “What on God’s green earth was so consuming that you couldn’t see another person walking down the path?”

  “I was running back from the forest—”

  “—The forest? What were you doing there? Don’t tell me you were fraternizing with that awful circus troupe.”

  “Grandfather, I was—”

  “Don’t give me any excuses. I don’t want you mingling with those people. What will the other villagers think? I’ll tell you what they’ll think. They’ll think I raised a heathen!”

  “Grandfather!”

  “Now go on and get home. You’ll catch cold without a jacket.”

  Ronan wasn’t particularly cold, he was actually quite warm from running, but he was tired of being scolded by his grandfather, so he turned on his heel and made his way home. Ronan was nearly twenty years old, a man in his own right. He was tired of having his grandfather treat him like a child, but he had no family and no friends. Since he was a child, he’d dreamt of joining the circus. He had always loved the day he saw the caravans trucking down the path and hoped that someday they would take him away with them. This time—although he didn’t have any particularly stunning skills or tricks—he would leave with them, he would make sure of it.

  Jana put one foot blindly in front of the other. The tears that had flooded her eyes were beginning to dry, leaving them red and sandy feeling. She rubbed them with the backs of her hands and took a deep breath. A small, but sharp stone found its way in between her toes and made her yelp. She stopped, wiggled them, and the pebble fell to the ground. Half way back to camp, she looked up and saw Ronan racing out of the forest towards the village. It was a curious sight to see him running so fast while everything else was paralyzed by the misty evening. The path led her around a bend, and Ronan was suddenly out of view.

  It had been a long day up on the hill. Winifred’s burial had lasted the entire afternoon. Jana was asked to say a few words, but she had quietly and humbly declined. She wasn’t one for speaking in front of crowds, nor did she have it in her desolate heart to stand up and talk about her best friend after so recently losing her. Jana had been apart of the circus since she was eight years old. Winifred had already been performing for a year. She took young Jana under her wing, and taught her how to turn her ungraceful contortions into beautiful sequences that mesmerized people. Winifred had not only been her best friend, but an older sister as well. Without her, Jana felt empty, distraught and lost. How could she do her contortionist act with just one person? Who would she talk to at the end of a long day? Who would she go to for advice? As questions raced through her mind, she realized she was crying again. She stopped and took a deep breath.

  “Jana!” She would recognize that voice anywhere. “How are you, my dear girl?” Homer Battle caught up to her on the path, his large belly swaying from side to side as he walked, his crimson colored shirt barely concealing it. He put a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed
it. Jana stared straight ahead, not responding. “My, my. You must be in shock.”

  He led her towards camp, where a huge bonfire was burning, casting little dancing swirls of shadow and light on the pine needles of the trees, breathing an eerie, yet warm atmosphere about the camp. Ragul was singing one of his songs with his eyes closed, a song of mourning. His voice was low, but sweet, and the others around the fire seemed to move with the melody of his song. He stopped as Jana approached. Jana wondered how he knew she was there.

  Homer reached for the bottle that was being passed around, and Jana took a seat on a tree stump. There were about ten or twelve of them sitting, staying warm around the fire. Jana kept her head down and listened to the conversation that gushed in the absence of the singing.

  “It truly is a shame,” Celeste said. “Winifred was one of our best performers, and so beautiful.”

  Homer nodded ardently. “That she was. That she was, indeed.” After taking a large and messy swill, he handed the bottle back to Josef, the camp’s cook. “Take this back. I’ve had enough for tonight. I’ll see you all in the morning. Don’t stay up too late. We are back to work tomorrow.”

  There were sounds of protest as he hobbled off to his tent, but he didn’t once turn around to meet them.

  “Already back to work tomorrow?” Celeste demurred. “That seems a little soon don’t you think?”

  “Better to work than to wallow,” her eldest son put in.

  “My question is, who did it?” Josef puzzled. “It couldn’t have been one of us. We all loved Winifred.”

  “You’re right, it must have been one of the villagers,” Tomas, one of the fire jugglers, agreed.

  “But who?” Josef persisted. “Whoever it was must have had some kind of motivation.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Celeste snapped. “Winifred never would have done anything to deserve what she got.”