James Silke - Prisoner of the Horned helmet

She floated on her back letting it carry her out into the middle of the pond, then rolled over on her flat tummy so that only her head and round firm bottom protruded from the rippling blue water. She arched up, dove, vanished under the water. A long moment later she surfaced some way down river. She turned and swam back with strong strokes, climbed out.

She shook herself like a frisky colt, and beads of water shot with sunlight flew in all directions, like a riot of wet jewels. Kneeling on her tunic, she uncorked a vial and poured its contents on her hair. She scrubbed until a thick lather formed, spread the lather over her body, rubbing vigorously, then plunged back into the water.

The lizards stayed and watched, and a shadow crossed over them. They promptly bolted in all directions and disappeared.

Brown John, who had been concealed behind the scrub oak, had edged forward. The look on his face was bawdy, flushed, and profound. He also liked the view.

Robin floated back downriver, playfully flopping about and diving, then swam back to her rock and climbed out. This time she wore not only a slick coat of water, but a handful of soap bubbles.

It was the kind of wardrobe Brown John admired.

Robin shook and wiped herself dry, then kneeled on her tunic. Using a rose ointment, she economically anointed her face and body, then rubbed her lips with rose vermilion. She selected a bright yellow ribbon, set it aside, put everything but her comb back in her satchel, then sat down cross-legged on her tunic. With her hair to the sun and her back to the scrub oak, she began to comb her hair.

Brown John’s fingertips drummed the air in time with the stroke of Robin’s brush. His head bobbed to the same tune.

When Robin finished with her comb, she picked up the ribbon and, laying it flat across the top of her head and joining the ends at the base of her neck, bent her head forward and tied her hair back. As she did, Brown John moved down and across the rock to stand behind her.

Suddenly, seeing his shadow, she gasped and rolled upright in one movement, drawing her knife. She waved the blade at the stranger using one hand while the other tried to cover her nudity. It was a beautiful and energetic effort, but futile.

Brown John smiled and said, “Robin Lakehair.” It sounded like a title rather than a name.

Robin hardly heard him. She was gasping and tugging at her tunic with her free hand.

Brown John said politely, “Perhaps, child, if you lifted your foot.”

She looked down, groaned, and jumped aside, snapping up her clothing. Turning her back, she slipped into her tunic with three wiggles and a yank, while watching him over a shoulder. Then she turned back, deliberately smoothing her tunic with one hand, while the other held her knife aimed at Brown John’s belly. Her straight brow was lowering over angry eyes. She seemed to be frowning but it was difficult to tell. Her firm smooth forehead was barely cooperating, and her cheeks were too busy blushing. But her tone helped.

“You snake! Were you watching?”

Brown John sat down on a flat rock, said, “To my great good fortune, yes.”

Groaning, she glanced away, then looked back at him sharply. Her eyes were large beautiful wet wounds. “That was awful of you. Mean.”

“Not mean, child, simply lucky. Extraordinarily lucky to have chanced to pass this way. The sun, the lizards and I will not only carry your lovely image to our graves, but far, far beyond.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Do I know you?”

“I believe so,” he said with a slight tone of mystery. “I, at least, have seen you many times.”

“Really? Where?”

“Well, once I saw you standing on top of a barrel and laughing in the village of Coin. And last summer you were watching the performers on the stage in Rag Camp.”

Robin, unconsciously lowering her knife, gasped, “But… but no one knew I was there!”

“I thought as much,” he said. “Then, of course, you are always in the front row when we perform in your village.”

“Oh!” Robin blurted. “You’re the bukko ! The wizard-master!”

He bowed extravagantly. “I am called Brown John.”

“I know! Everyone knows!” Robin exclaimed. She picked up her belt, sat down cross-legged on the rock facing him, and buckled it on. “But you remember me? You know my name?”

Brown John studied her smile as it performed about her face, as varied as the song of the robin after which she was named. He said quietly, “Indeed I do.”

She stiffened slightly, and suspicion returned to her eyes.

“You… you came here to find me… didn’t you?”

“Yes. And you are right to be angry with me. When confronted by a scene more dazzling than any that could be created on a stage, the manners of performers are inevitably rude and inadequate.”

“Oh.”

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “my spying on you was not intentional. The fact that you selected this extraordinarily beautiful pond, and were bathing in a wardrobe made of sunshine and bubbles, was all quite by chance. But to look away would have denied my nature, and I would be lying if I said I regretted it.”

She blushed, and shook her hair vigorously to hide it. Beads of water flew about sparkling. She eyed him warily. “You’re too clever. You make me forget what I’m saying.” She hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “Why did you come to see me?”

He considered her thoughtfully. “Because your virtues are well-known, and because I have seen in you a brave heart. And an appetite for chance, adventure.”

Her big feathery eyes scolded him more gently now. “You’re trying to confuse me again… not really answering my question.”

He chuckled. “You are right, Robin Lakehair. Let me put it this way. I have a role which I believe you, and only you, can play.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“But I… I’m not an actress.”

“Indeed not. In fact it is well known that you are incapable of anything false or artificial… and can hear all that is false in others.”

“But then why…”

“Because the role is real,” Brown John said interrupting her.

She cocked her head boyishly, her eyes glistening with sudden curiosity.

“If I am right, the spirit of the open road already makes your feet itch.” He leaned forward, lifted her chin slightly with a finger. “In fact you remind me of a former traveling companion, a girl who joined us when she was just about your age. I can’t recall her real name. We called her Ansaria, after the wild root which enchants children. She was the embodiment of beauty and adventure. They loved her everywhere we went. Even named their children after her.” He sighed nostalgically. “Oh, we were respected then. Invited to carnivals and castles to perform for kings and queens.”

She looked at him from under her straight brows. “You’re playing with me.”

He shook his head. “I do not play, it only sounds that way because you are not accustomed to hearing someone speak seriously of dancing girls. And because the nature of your, and Ansaria’s, attraction is difficult to explain. Elusive. Like trying to cage a shooting star. But then, it is not required that you understand.” He looked directly into her eyes intently. “Tell me, which of our acts do you like the best?”-“Oh, I loved them all,” she said enthusiastically.

“Of course.” His eyes twinkled. “But think now. I am certain you have a favorite!”

“Well, last summer, there was a dancing bear and a clown… and a beautiful dancing girl. She was small and dark, and wore red scarves and all kinds of baubles and beads. They were wonderful.”

“Ahhh,” murmured Brown John. “Nose, the rubber man, and Lale.”

“That’s it! But what was the bear’s name?”