Will Sparrow's Road

by Karen Cushman

  Will twisted out of the young man's grasp and ran off. He now had two pursuers to avoid. Where to go? And how to get there? He stripped off the telltale jerkin, tucked it under his arm, and ducked behind an ale stall to rest and to think. He sat for long minutes, catching his breath, although the odor of spoiled ale and stale wine made his belly tumble.

  "A mug, if you please, Rob,” a friendly voice said. "I am about thirsty work.” Will peeked from his hiding place. It was the bald-headed man with the walking stick.

  The man emptied the mug and reached it out to be filled again. "Know you of a likely fellow for hire? I seek someone to drive my wagon and assist me in sundry duties. Since my accident, I am useless and helpless.” Will now observed wrappings around the man's right arm and ankle.

  He bethought himself a moment. It could be the man was not a villain but merely in need of assistance, just as he said. Will peered at him. He was a respectable-looking man, with a good-humored face and an easy smile. Will had learned well to be wary—but just then the red-haired young man passed by, scanning the crowd and mumbling about bailiffs and jerkins, and Will made a decision.

  As soon as the young man was gone from sight, Will stood. "Sir,” he said to the man with the walking stick, "the conjurer could not leave me to you, for I do not belong to him or anyone. But I wish to go from this fair, and if you be traveling on, belike I would go with you and be of service.”

  The man emptied his mug and wiped his mouth before he looked at Will. "A wagon accident ended with this fractured arm and twisted ankle. I seek someone to carry, to lift, to drive the wagon. Froggenhall said you were thieving, disrespectful, and cunning but would likely do.”

  He did? The conjurer, his partner, said that? It were true, Will knew, but it was downright unmannerly of Master Froggenhall to say so.

  "I will give you tuppence a day and dinner,” the man continued.

  Dinner. And two pennies. Will nodded. "Done,” he said.

  The man examined Will. "But mayhap ... I require ... you may be too small to...”

  Will's belly clenched at the thought of losing the pence and the dinner. "I can do it, sir. I am bigger than I look.”

  The man snorted in laughter. "Done,” he said.

  With memories of the tooth puller and the lost beef ribs haunting him, Will said, "I would, sir, have the first two pennies now, lest—”

  "Do not trouble yourself, my boy. You shall ever have a day's wage for a day's work, but here is a penny now, on account.”

  Will searched the man's clear blue eyes and friendly face for signs of guile. Finding none, the boy took the penny and nodded. "Go we to London?”

  "Nay. We are not ready for Bartlemas, but someday...” His face lit like a lantern. "Someday we will see Bartlemas Fair and it will see us. For now a small fair at Stamford not two days hence.” The man leaned on his walking stick and touched his hat in salute. "I be Thomas Tidball.” Tidball? Where had Will heard that name before? "We leave when the booth and its contents are packed in the wagon. Follow me.”

  Will peeked out from behind the ale stall and, not seeing the red-haired youth, followed Thomas Tidball as he hobbled away. Why had the man sought him? Will wondered. There were likely plenty of fellows stronger and more able who would be eager for tuppence a day and dinner. Fellows who were not called thieving and disrespectful. Why had Tidball engaged him?

  The man stopped in front of a familiar painted canvas booth. The prodigies and oddities! This Tidball was the monstermonger! Belike that was why he had to settle for the assistance of a puny boy. The man traveled with monsters! Well, not monsters, but a very strange and hairy creature, an evil-tempered little man, a oneeyed pig, and a three-legged chicken. And pots, bottles, and baskets of ghastly things. Will shivered. Did he truly wish to be a part of this? He weighed his reluctance against his appetite and, thinking of the tuppence and dinner each day, followed the man into the booth.

  The little man was inside, emptying the shelves of bottles and crocks and packing them into barrels and baskets. "This,” said Thomas Tidball, "is Lancelot Fitzgeoffrey. 'Tis odd, is it not, an ill-tempered, ugly little man, a tavern brawler, with a name of such dainty elegance? Some call him Fitz, but I do not, preferring a more respectful form of address. Is that not true, Lancelot?” The man some called Fitz scowled, but Master Tidball smiled, and his good humor made Will feel easy.

  Master Tidball's eyes searched the booth. "And somewhere is Greymalkin, wild cat and wild girl. Hiding, no doubt. She be somewhat shy and skittish.” Will thought for his part the strange girl could remain hidden forever, if she wished. She was no monster, he knew, but her oddity made him uncomfortable, like a rash in a place he could not reach to scratch.

  Tidball sat to rest his injured leg and directed Will to join Fitz in the packing of antlers, bones, and turtle shells. Before long the canvas booth had been emptied, dismantled, rolled, and fastened to the top of a roofed wagon. The baskets and barrels were stacked in the crowded interior, and the three-legged chicken tossed in.

  "Fitzgeoffrey,” Master Tidball said, "go seek the wild girl. We leave at once.” And Will's heart thumped with apprehension.

  NINE

  ACCOMPANYING THE ODDITIES

  WILL CLIMBED to the driver's seat and clucked to the horse, who was called Solomon, Master Tidball said with a smile, for his wise ways: "He eats anything, says nothing, and has never married.” The wagon inched through the crowd of merchants and tinkers, jugglers and archers and alewives, on the move from this fair to the next.

  Will was relieved to see that Tidball sat next to him on the wagon seat, and the oddities—including Fitz and the girl—traveled inside. They rode in silence through neat little villages with trees all around, their hillsides freckled with sheep. Fields stood empty, waiting to be sown with winter wheat. Golden leaves crunched under the horse's hooves, and Will could smell the coming autumn.

  After a bit there came a furious knocking from inside the wagon, and Will pulled Solomon to a stop. Fitz jumped out. "I will walk a bit,” he said. "I have a fancy to stretch my legs.”

  Will snorted.

  "Did you hear something that amused you, stripling?” Fitz asked, raising one bushy eyebrow.

  "'Tis but the thought of you stretching your legs. Belike you wish you truly could.” He snorted again. "Stretch them.”

  Fitz frowned. "Fine words indeed from a wee, runtish fellow like yourself,” he said, and he marched on ahead, pumping his arms and legs and muttering, "A flea, he is, a gnat, may beetles and bats swallow him!” Will jumped to his feet, but Master Tidball pulled him down. "Pay him no mind,” he told the boy. "He and Greymalkin are ever evil tempered, at odds with their peculiar gifts. If only they might accept that they are part of God's plan.”

  Master Tidball's reasonable words eased Will. He clucked to the horse, and the wagon started moving again. "God's plan?”

  "Aye. God made them as they are for a purpose. To amuse folk, belike, to liven their dull lives, to soothe their hunger for spectacle, to shock and frighten them so that they say, 'I may be but a poor farmer, but at least I am not a dwarf or a ... a ... whatever the girl is.'”

  Will shrugged. God's plan, he thought. A mighty thing to know God's plan. How had Master Tidball come upon God's plan? Mayhap it was but Master Tidball's plan. Still, there must be some reason for their oddity. Were their monstrous outsides a warning to others that they were also monstrous inside? Will could believe it of the foul-featured, ill-natured Fitz.

  As they rounded a curve, the air was filled with singing—merry and off-key and likely the result of too much ale at breakfast.

  In Scarlet Town, where I was born,

  There was a fair maid dwellin',

  Made every youth cry well-a-day!

  Her name was Barbra Allen.

  Master Tidball, who had been nodding sleepily, woke with a start. "What is that caterwauling?”

  "I believe 'tis singing,” said Will, "and I believe I know the singer.” A few more m
inutes of travel proved him right. "Good day, pig trainer,” Will said, drawing up alongside the man pulling a handcart up the road, the Duchess scrabbling at his side. "I bid you and the Duchess farewell. We are headed to Stamford fair.”

  "No need for fare-thee-wells, boy,” Samuel Knobby said, "for we be moving on also. Fair to fair. We will see you in Stamford anon.” He touched his cap and resumed his song:

  All in the merry month of May,

  When green buds they were swellin',

  Young Jemmy Grove on his deathbed lay

  For love o' Barbra Allen.

  The singing grew fainter and fainter as Will drove the wagon onward.

  Master Tidball began muttering to himself. "The Stamford fair be small. Could we draw twenty visitors each day? If we are credible and clever?” He shook his head and began muttering again. "Twenty-five. Nay, thirty. If we can but draw thirty visitors each day...”

  Will computed silently: Thirty visitors means thirty pennies. Two shillings sixpence. Tuppence for myself, the same for Fitz and the monster, leaves two shillings for Tidball. If he spends three pennies each on dinners for the three of us, that means fifteen pennies’ profit. Oh, and hay for the horse—three pennies. That leaves twelve pence. A shilling. A whole shilling. A day. Every day.

  It seemed to Will that Master Tidball made a good living for someone who did nothing but watch others work. Will himself could do that, he thought. He could earn and keep that shilling a day, have a place in the world and plenty to eat. "How was it you first became master of oddities and prodigies?” Will asked the man when he ceased muttering.

  "'Twas the infant mermaid,” Master Tidball said. "I came upon her near Blackpool. Such a beauty, is she not? Folks paid a farthing to see her. Admire her fishy tail.” Remembering, Tidball smiled. "I added more wonders and found that folks would pay more. So here I am, traveling the world with my odd little family, bringing joy to everyone in the world, or leastwise those with a penny to spare.”

  Early in the evening they came upon a stream with tall trees on either side. A soft breeze ruffled Will's hair and stirred the stream. "Here is where we stop,” said Master Tidball, "here in this Eden.”

  They drank their fill from the stream and then sat back on the grassy bank. The creature was not there. Was she not thirsty? Will wondered. Did cats not drink?

  Fitz carried a basket of apples, bread, and strongsmelling cheese from the wagon. "The girl Greymalkin,” he said, "will eat inside.” He gestured toward Will. "She be not fond of rude and saucy strangers.”

  "You, boy, come sit by me,” Master Tidball said to Will, who did so. "The girl is lately testy and impossible to please,” he went on. "Lancelot Fitzgeoffrey, you know I am right. Her acting the beast would make our fortunes. Half human and half cat! Imagine the crowds who would pay their pennies to see that!” Tidball passed an apple to Will, who took a large and noisy bite. "But of late,” the man went on, "she will not pace nor growl nor roar, but only sits upon the stage and scowls. Talk to her, Lancelot, make her see reason.”

  "Not I,” said Fitz. "'Tis you who wish her to play the beast. You talk to her.” He dropped to the ground and glowered in silence, first at Tidball and then at Will.

  I believe he is jealous to see me so friendly with the master, thought Will. He took another bite of the apple and spat the seeds near—but not too near—Fitz's small feet.

  The night was clear and cool. Will pulled his—he thought it must now be considered his—jerkin on and curled to sleep near where Solomon was grazing, soothed by the familiar sound and smell of horse.

  The morning dawned gray and shimmery with dew. Soon they were on the road once more. The company climbed gentle hills and passed great estates of gleaming stone manors and new grass, enclosures with puffs of sheep and specks of cattle, and vineyards heavy with grapes. The air grew heavy and damp, promising rain, and the wind blustered as they climbed toward a grove of limestone towers marking the city.

  Stamford proved a town of shining white stone. The market square was crowded with stalls covered in thatch or canopies that fluttered and flapped in the wind. Will drove the wagon to a space between a seller of saddles and a church, and he and Fitz set up the booth and began to unload. The stuffed animals and turtle shells were hung inside, and the baskets of various oddities arranged. Will dusted off the unicorn skull and carefully placed the young sea monster. He and Fitz then carried the baby mermaid's flask into the booth.

  By afternoon it was drizzling. People passed by quickly, their boots and the hems of their cloaks already bespotted with mud. Few stopped before the oddities booth, and none revealed a desire to enter.

  "Faugh, but this is a poor fair,” said Master Tidball, who sat on the low stone wall that surrounded the churchyard. He pulled his cloak closer around him and spat in the general direction of the ground. "Lancelot, ensnare me a visitor or two.”

  Fitz began: "Come and see! Oddities and prodigies of all sorts here are seen. A one-eyed pig and a threelegged chicken. Behold true wonders and marvels for only—”

  "The girl,” Tidball growled. "Tell them of the wild girl.”

  Fitz frowned but began to call, "For the satisfaction of the curious we offer here a girl of unusual qualities who discourses most eloquently—”

  "No! Tell them of her wildness, her fearsomeness, her monstrosity!”

  Fitz crossed his arms and said nothing.

  "You miserable minnow! You may be small, but your ingratitude is immense. Go from my sight.” He turned to Will. "You, boy, you do it.”

  Fitz backed up against the oddities booth and scowled as the boy tried to remember what he had done for the conjurer and how it might serve for the oddities. "Uhh,” he began, his voice cracking and creaking as it had begun to do of late. He cleared his throat and began again. "Here to me, here to me, see astounding spectacles and unusual chickens and a monster, a sea monster, and a strange creature who might, uhh...”

  Master Tidball groaned and muttered, "Useless, useless, useless,” wobbled to his feet, and limped off.

  "God's mercy, Hugh!” Will heard someone shout. "Look at that ugly boy.” The speaker, a young ruffian, was pointing at Fitz.

  "Nay, Alf,” said his companion, a spindly boy with a face speckled with scars, "'tis a dwarf, a black-hearted elf with mischief in his mind!” And both boys began to laugh.

  Will barked a laugh of his own—Fitz was a blackhearted elf indeed—and the boys turned to look at him. "This be a sight I ne'er thought to see,” Alf said, pointing at Will. "Another one! Two dwarfs, one uglier than the other!” Their laughter overtook them, and they stumbled about, pushing and shoving each other.

  Me, a dwarf! Will stood as tall as he could, his face flaming. A rough, freckled hand came from behind him to rest gently on his shoulder. Samuel Knobby's voice said, "You, boys, do ye like riddles? For I have some fine new ones.”

  The boys stopped laughing and studied the gorbellied Samuel. "Hearken to me, Hugh,” said Alf, "I too have a riddle.” He gestured toward Samuel. "It is large and fleshy. Be it a man or a gourd?”

  "I believe 'tis a melon,” Hugh said, and, with a punch to Alf's arm, added, "Now, quiet. I wish to hear the riddles.”

  Samuel smiled, and Fitz moved closer. "Then tell me: If you bite me,” he said, "I bite back. What am I?”

  "A mad dog,” said Hugh, and Samuel shook his head.

  "A horse,” said Alf. Samuel shook his head again and slapped his leg in merriment.

  "A weasel?” Will guessed, his curiosity stronger than his anger.

  "Nay,” Samuel snorted through his laughter, "I know no one who would bite a weasel. 'Tis an onion,” he said. "Now, here is a riddle boys do like: What is it that rich men wrap up and keep in their pockets but beggars throw away?”

  The boys narrowed their eyes and chewed their lips in thought but had no guesses. Fitz was silent.

  "Think on it, boys. Make use of your heads.” No one answered. So, "'Tis the snot from their noses,” Samuel said. His lis
teners snickered and sneered, and Will wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Duchess came then, snorting and grunting, from behind the oddities booth. "Ugly pig!” Alf cried, and "Stupid pig!” and Hugh repeated "Ugly stupid pig!” and threw a clod of mud at her.

  "Hold your tongues, churlish pups,” said Samuel Knobby. "Pigs be glorious creatures, smarter than people, more honest, more loyal, and a good deal more mannerly.”

  The boys laughed. "Nay, 'tis not true,” Alf said. "Pigs is stupid.”

  "'Tis true indeed. Why, I have riddles the Duchess can answer faster than you.”

  "Nay,” said Alf again.

  "Aye,” said Samuel. "Duchess, what is it that stands straight as a soldier and offers its head so we may eat?”

  Alf shrugged, Will frowned, Hugh scratched his head, and Fitz looked down at the ground, but none had an answer. Samuel poked the pig in her rear, whereupon she squeaked, "Whee.”

  "True, indeed,” said Samuel. "The answer is wheat.”

  "'Tis a trick, scurvy knave, a trick,” Alf and Hugh cried, but Fitz and Will laughed.

  "Nay, no trick, but to prove her wits, she shall do it again,” said Samuel. "Duchess, how does a man make a river of salt?”

  This time Fitz shrugged, Alf frowned, Will scratched his head, and Hugh looked down at the ground, but still none had an answer. The pig was poked again, and again she squealed, "Whee.”

  "Certes, 'tis true. Weep. To make a river of salt, a man does weep. You see, pigs do be smarter than people.” He scratched the Duchess behind her ears. "Also clean, curious, and sensitive to scorn, so I pray you ne'er again speak of stupid pigs, pigheadedness, dirty pigs, fat as a pig, or any such.” He drew a leather bottle from beneath his doublet and took a deep pull. "Pigs do take a bit of care, need to be kept cool and wet and their bellies full, but I ne'er saw a pig who teased and taunted another pig.” Samuel winked at Will.