Chapter 13: Neville – In the Tent of the Performers
‘Did you hear what Henrique said?’ asked Robert at the bakery door. ‘We are brothers. Neville and I are kings.’
‘A king’s brother is not a king,’ said Thaila.
‘What is he, then?’
‘A prince, I think,’ she said.
Robert’s ears perked up, like a cat’s.
‘Henrique is a good king,’ he said. ‘The best in all of Franária. Baynard is the safest place to live in.’
‘We can’t be sure,’ said Maëlle. She had joined them inside the Eslarian’s bakery.
‘Of course it is,’ said Robert. ‘Deran has the northern raids, Patire has Fulbert. We are lucky to live in Baynard.’
‘Nobody knows what it is like to live in the Frontier,’ said Maëlle.
Robert leaned on Thaila’s arm, so weak his legs became.
‘Don’t mention it here. You may attract a mystery.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Neville. ‘Mother is talking about the Frontier, not the Land of the Banished.’
‘It’s all the same,’ said Robert.
Rimbaud’s Caravan had already taken over the city. Voices from the market leaked into the bakery, interlaced in accents, merged together in an incomprehensible rumble. The Eslarian served them bread, fresh tomatoes, goat’s cheese, olives. At the end of the meal, he gave his daughter three tickets.
‘For the Tent of the Performers,’ he said. ‘Today is the last day of your childhood. Enjoy it.’
The three friends joined the crowd and went inside a large, round tent with three high poles of wood and metal. Outside, the tent was white with foreign, yellow symbols. Inside, it was blue with silver stars and snow-white clouds. Men and women dressed in light green guided the people to their seats. In a few minutes, Neville was sitting beside an old man, with Thaila to his left, followed by Robert.
A tall man covered in blue paint walked to the middle of the arena, raised a sword, put its tip inside his mouth, and pushed the blade slowly down his throat. When the man pulled the sword back, Robert covered his face with his hands and leaned against Thaila. The man raised the sword and bowed to the audience.
There were somersaulting dogs that also rode horses; philosophising parrots; dancers and singers; jugglers and cats; and there was also Lecoeurge. Today he wore a red wig, but the hat was always the same purple hat, handmade in Tinsa, with a daisy in its brim. Lecoeurge insisted on having a real daisy, never one made of paper. The Tent of Performers almost burst with the excitement of the audience when the clown made an entrance with his green dragon.
Every year clown and dragon staged a different tale. This year’s began with the dragon pirouetting with all the grace of an overgrown caterpillar. Lecoeurge chased him. Why? What for? Neville never found out.
‘The color is wrong,’ said the old man to his right. His voice wasn’t strong nor deep, in fact it wasn’t impressive at all, except for the fact that, when he spoke, Lecoeurge’s green dragon turned red like fire.
The clown stumbled, the audience gasped, but Lecoeurge quickly recovered, backflipped, and pretended it was all part of the show. The audience calmed down, but nobody laughed anymore. Magic had just taken place.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said the old man. He had more wrinkles than face and a white, chaotic mane that made his head look like an albino sun. It was impossible to make out eyebrow from hair and beard.
‘Who are you?’ asked Neville.
The old man raised dejected hands. ‘I hoped you would know me.’
‘Do you know me?’
‘No, but this isn’t the first time I dream of you.’
Neville wanted to get away from the old man, but there was a barrier between them and the rest of the world, like they were inside a glass bottle, which distorted the audience and the show.
‘I dreamt that I was Franária,’ said the wrinkled man. ‘My death was reaching me. My eagle wings were clipped, I couldn’t fly. Alone, I couldn’t save myself or my people. I asked for help. More than that, I summoned a story. So now I’m searching, but I’m not sure what will make this story happen. A hero, perhaps?
‘I saw you in that dream,’ the old man said. ‘You were taller and had a bow. I have the feeling you are not quite what the eagle is looking for.’
In the arena, Lecoeurge jumped and threw his legs up. The red dragon followed him in the air, but Neville saw everything blurred; the colors took longer to move than their owners, leaving a trail in the air like a brush stroke.
‘You and I were at the edge of something,’ said the old man. ‘I think the eagle is there with us.’
‘At the edge of what?’
‘Of everything, in my case. You might be at a different edge.’ He buried his fingers in the chaos of his hair. ‘If only I could remember, but I can only be myself in dreams, and dreams are but fragments, spasms of a shattered memory. I feel like the remains of a ship that has sunk to the bottom of the ocean, vaguely aware of something stirring the surface. You’re one of the waves, but not the storm.’
‘What storm?’
‘I don’t know. It hasn’t reached us yet, but you, me, the eagle, the prince and the dragon, we’re all waiting for it.’
The old man straightened up and listened.
‘I hear Yukari bringing me tea. It is time to wake up. Until we meet again, young man. Who knows, maybe you will know who I am next time we meet.’
The tent was silent, empty. Thaila and Robert watched Neville, full of worry.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Thaila.
‘I think so.’
‘You were suddenly quiet. You didn’t answer when we talked to you.’
‘What’s this?’ Robert pointed to a long, black rod in Neville’s hand.
Neville stood up. The yew rod was taller than him, resistant but flexible. In his other hand, Neville found string.
‘It’s a bow,’ said Thaila.
‘This big?’ asked Robert.
‘It’s a Satironese bow. My father showed me illustrations when I was small. Yukari Nakamura always had archers in her armies. You need to put the string on.’
The three of them had to work together to bend the black yew and assemble the bow. Neville then tried to pull the string, but it didn’t budge.
‘My father said it takes years for someone to learn how to use one of those,’ said Thaila.
‘Take it to the Emerald tomorrow,’ said Robert. ‘King Henrique is strong, he will pull the string easily.’
