We have no need for dreams from others. Sometimes bad thoughts, bad ideas, get caught in them. You and I, we clear them. Clean, good cards.” She tossed the burned herbs to a blackened spot on the floor and snuffed the embers with a boot heel. She patted his head and the boy and the animal inside him smiled.
She taught him how to bind his hair, giving him one of her silks, a beautiful cloth covered with complex purple and gold patterns. She first twisted his hair into a coil, then folded the silk around it and wound it about his head.
“Good for appearance.”
His scalp ached, but in time the pain eased, and the effect was dramatic. He was transformed from a nut-brown boy easily mistaken for a savage into an elegant, foreign young man. Ryzhkova clapped in praise of her efforts. “Now you look a proper young man of fate and destiny.” Under her watchful crinkling eyes he felt himself changing. Inexplicably he began to think of the little house and the brown-haired woman who had smelled so familiar.
* * *
Amos was a solitary creature. Too many eyes on him at once made him itch, and meals with the troupe were like being trapped in a game with unknown rules. He liked to while away rainy mornings paging through Peabody’s book, tracing his fingers over sketches. When Ryzhkova was too tired to teach and shooed him from her wagon he spent his evenings with the small horse, a lovely animal called Sugar Nip, who was ruddy brown, but for a white blaze down her muzzle. She was perfect, except in that she was one eighth the size of what she should be and did not seem to know it. She snorted and stamped as well as any of the cart horses, but was quiet when Amos sat with her. When he hunkered in the straw and pressed his forehead to hers, he felt a warm calm. He enjoyed the quiet that came from combing her forelock, and snatched carrots and apples for her, tucking them deep into the pockets of his britches.
Three days after Ryzhkova bound his hair, she waved him off after a complex lesson on reversed cards. “To bed, boy. You make me weary.”
Amos made his way to the wagon Sugar Nip shared with the animal known as llama . He dug through his pocket, searching for a radish he’d kept for her. He was running his hand around it when he walked into Benno. Startled, he gasped.
Benno laughed. “Did I surprise you, Amos? I’d thought that difficult to do.” He leaned against the wagon, stretching so that inside his striped pantaloons his knees appeared to bend backward.
Amos shrugged then nodded. From time to time he’d sat beside Benno at meals and watched him perform, but he knew little about him other than that he was friendly, and seemed well liked among the women.
“Melina spied you leaving Madame Ryzhkova’s wagon,” he continued. Benno said the juggler’s name with an approximation of a smile, as his scar held half his mouth fixed.
Amos warmed at the mention of Melina. He’d watched her too, from across a campfire and through the curtains of the Wild Boy cage as she kept spoons and knives, eggs and pins spinning in flight. She had curling red hair, a sweet face, and a supple way of moving.
“She claimed Madame had worked a change upon you. I quite agree.” Benno tugged at his own brown hair, tied neatly with a piece of black ribbon. “Perhaps if I pull my hair up rather than down, Melina will look at me, too. Do you think?”
Amos’s brows drew together and Benno chuckled. “Worry not. I laugh at myself, not you, my friend. Madame Ryzhkova has afforded you the opportunity to show you are fine of face, whereas I…” He shrugged and touched his scar.
Amos looked at the corded skin, how it made a perpetual grimace, then took Benno by the arm and led him into Sugar Nip’s wagon. He gave Benno the radish to feed her and shared with him the simple peace that came from stroking the little horse’s nose.
They passed an hour in silence, after which Benno said, “I had thought you merely interesting.
She taught him how to bind his hair, giving him one of her silks, a beautiful cloth covered with complex purple and gold patterns. She first twisted his hair into a coil, then folded the silk around it and wound it about his head.
“Good for appearance.”
His scalp ached, but in time the pain eased, and the effect was dramatic. He was transformed from a nut-brown boy easily mistaken for a savage into an elegant, foreign young man. Ryzhkova clapped in praise of her efforts. “Now you look a proper young man of fate and destiny.” Under her watchful crinkling eyes he felt himself changing. Inexplicably he began to think of the little house and the brown-haired woman who had smelled so familiar.
* * *
Amos was a solitary creature. Too many eyes on him at once made him itch, and meals with the troupe were like being trapped in a game with unknown rules. He liked to while away rainy mornings paging through Peabody’s book, tracing his fingers over sketches. When Ryzhkova was too tired to teach and shooed him from her wagon he spent his evenings with the small horse, a lovely animal called Sugar Nip, who was ruddy brown, but for a white blaze down her muzzle. She was perfect, except in that she was one eighth the size of what she should be and did not seem to know it. She snorted and stamped as well as any of the cart horses, but was quiet when Amos sat with her. When he hunkered in the straw and pressed his forehead to hers, he felt a warm calm. He enjoyed the quiet that came from combing her forelock, and snatched carrots and apples for her, tucking them deep into the pockets of his britches.
Three days after Ryzhkova bound his hair, she waved him off after a complex lesson on reversed cards. “To bed, boy. You make me weary.”
Amos made his way to the wagon Sugar Nip shared with the animal known as llama . He dug through his pocket, searching for a radish he’d kept for her. He was running his hand around it when he walked into Benno. Startled, he gasped.
Benno laughed. “Did I surprise you, Amos? I’d thought that difficult to do.” He leaned against the wagon, stretching so that inside his striped pantaloons his knees appeared to bend backward.
Amos shrugged then nodded. From time to time he’d sat beside Benno at meals and watched him perform, but he knew little about him other than that he was friendly, and seemed well liked among the women.
“Melina spied you leaving Madame Ryzhkova’s wagon,” he continued. Benno said the juggler’s name with an approximation of a smile, as his scar held half his mouth fixed.
Amos warmed at the mention of Melina. He’d watched her too, from across a campfire and through the curtains of the Wild Boy cage as she kept spoons and knives, eggs and pins spinning in flight. She had curling red hair, a sweet face, and a supple way of moving.
“She claimed Madame had worked a change upon you. I quite agree.” Benno tugged at his own brown hair, tied neatly with a piece of black ribbon. “Perhaps if I pull my hair up rather than down, Melina will look at me, too. Do you think?”
Amos’s brows drew together and Benno chuckled. “Worry not. I laugh at myself, not you, my friend. Madame Ryzhkova has afforded you the opportunity to show you are fine of face, whereas I…” He shrugged and touched his scar.
Amos looked at the corded skin, how it made a perpetual grimace, then took Benno by the arm and led him into Sugar Nip’s wagon. He gave Benno the radish to feed her and shared with him the simple peace that came from stroking the little horse’s nose.
They passed an hour in silence, after which Benno said, “I had thought you merely interesting.
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