Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves (Part 2)

[BrokenDreamer]

They come.

Rumbling and rolling down the main road that leads right through the heart of Myrken herself. They come with wagons that ride low on their axles, heavy with the burden of the worldly belongings for entire families.

There is the low sound of beasts of burden. Horses, to be sure. Beautiful creatures built for strength -- barrel chested and strong in the legs. Stranger creatures that Myrken has only once before seen when last the nomads pulled their wagons through down. Tall on spindle legs with their long necks and lumpy backs - awkward and graceful all at once.

The people them selves -- all dark skinned and dark hair and dark eyes but oh, their clothing. Colorful robes of striking weave -- the women adorned with baubles and trinkets. Children that run and scream and laugh ... and when one child spots a familiar face among the crowd of Myrken citizens that have stopped their daily lives to gawk and stare? Well ... it is all over with.

"DALI!"

The boy is running through the crowd despite the protest of a watchful mother, running into the waiting arms of the copper haired gypsy woman who is now a familiar sight in the town. He is laughing and shouting her name over and over as she smiles brightly -- the two tossing the words of the desert nomads swiftly back and forth between one another.

With child on hip, she will fall into step along with the rest of the exotic parade that will worm through the town at slow pace to the edge of Silver Lake. Burnie had promised that this time ... this time they would not be chased from it's shores.

By nightfall it is as if a small city has sprung to life there. Large covered wagons and tents, beautifully colored tents and banners lifted high. During the day there are trades that can be made for exotic trinkets, cloth, and other goods. At night? At night the lights of many fires dot the shores of the lake and the sound of music can be heard floating away on the wind.

[catch]

In this, Catch was no different from any other Myrkenite that stood gawping at the heavy-laden sleds, the streams of color and sound and smell. They weren't even afraid of him, not in all the excitement, and Catch had to strong-arm and push his way out of the press of humanity, his skin slick with sweat and a copper taste on his tongue. But he still couldn't leave, not even with all the Bells jangling in his ears. There were so many of them, Bells, both instrument and brightly-clad romani, and as he followed them on swift, quiet, bare feet, he wondered if Bells would not cry anymore.

Not even the rotting of Silver Lake and her plants could drive him away, and his time - morning and night, any time he could flit from the Constable Brother's dwelling - would be spent skirting the noise, the color, the grand, vibrant stream of life that was so similar, and yet so different, from the Town Proper. A silver-glowing, furtive thing, as big as a stag, hiding behind what foliage could hold him and the carts, and tents, themselves.