Rosie

Meet the family.

Chapter 1: Rosie

         Rosie woke as the wagon lurched to a stop and the donkeys complained about the reins. Her lace curtains opened with the movement and sunshine poured through. It looked to be well past midday. She tried to roll over and snuggle back into her quilt, but then she heard the door open and her mother’s tell-tale footsteps. This was followed by two knocks on her wooden bed frame by her mother’s shillelagh. 

         “Rise and shine, dearie. We’re near Delstone and we’ve stopped to make camp. I need your help getting the fire ready to make supper.” Molly, Rosie’s mother, stood tall, with soft brown hair and green eyes, and freckles decorating her sun-kissed skin. She was wearing her brown shift, the one that matched her hair, and as always, her apron with multiple pockets. Well worn boots finished the outfit. Molly was sturdy and looked like she knew how to use that shillelagh, but there were laugh lines around her eyes. Usually there was also a smile on her lips; however, at the moment she looked harried and tired. Her tone brokered no argument about getting out of bed.

         “Yes, Mama,” Rosie replied. “I’ll be out in a minute to help.” Her mother left, taking a scone out of her pocket and leaving it on the ledge. Rosie sat up in her bunk, head not quite touching the ceiling, and lowered the mirror attached above. She reached over to the nearby shelf, on level with her bunk, and grabbed her toiletries and the bowl of water left out the night before. Rosie splashed some water on her face and gave her teeth a rinse, not minding sprinkling her bedsheets. It’ll be many hours before she sees her bed again; they’ll dry by then. 

She glanced at her face in the mirror, noticing her own freckles. Rosie looked a good deal like her mother, and took after her in many ways. She had her father’s blue eyes though, as well as his crooked nose and easy laugh. She managed to tame her strawberry blonde hair, from neither father nor mother, into a high ponytail and scrambled down the ladder. The two bunks below were her sisters’ and the made beds indicated they had been up for a while. Clean clothes were found in a drawer under the bed and she changed quickly. Rosie favored soft beige leggings generally, and today she chose an old gray tunic and pulled on her own well worn boots to finish dressing. 

Rosie took a moment to notice the rest of the wagon, seeing if anything had fallen out of place during the trip. Soft, colorful rugs lined the floor. Her parent’s bed, separated from the rest of the wagon by a wall, was towards the front. That wall was brightly decorated with painted vines and flowers, adding life to the room. Next came a small table and bench on the right, with flowers in a tiny vase; tools and materials were neatly organized on the left. Rosie picked up a hammer that had fallen to the floor and placed it back on the pinboard. After on both sides came bookshelves -- cooking and tinkering books on one, “fun” books on the other. The bookshelves were also decorated, this time with carvings of intricate knots. Next came the bunks and all of the children’s belongings -- the three girls in a line on the left, the three boys in a line on the right. Noah’s teddy bear had fallen and was trapped between the bed and the wall; it was rescued. Because space was so tight, everyone got one shelf and one drawer. That was it. Though she loved her family, Rosie was itching for a little more room to herself. She sighed; she could delay helping no more.

Grabbing her staff, Rosie headed out of the wagon.

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Rosie took a bite of the scone as she watched the familiar scene before her. The four wagons in the caravan were in a semicircle around the beginnings of a fire. An outsider might have seen chaos, but someone who looked closer would see an intricate dance, with each person knowing their role. As if on cue, Rosie’s younger sister Clara came by with a bundle of sticks under her arms. 

“Here. This should be enough now. You should be able to start the fire. I’m off. I’ve…”

“Been minding the animals and the babes all day while I lay around not contributing anything. Not like I’m up all night guarding the caravan or anything.”

“Guarding from what, owls?”

“You know better than that. Don’t make sleepiness make a liar out of you. Come, give us a kiss, and then spend some time relaxing. You’re not wrong that your shift is over and mines’ begun.” Rosie grabbed the sticks from Clara’s arms and planted a sloppy wet kiss on her cheek. 

“Someone thinks they are so wise now that they’re of age. You have one more year ‘til you’ve your own wagon to manage.” 

Rosie stood in front of the pile of firewood and steadied herself. With any luck, she won’t be managing a tinkering wagon ever, she thought surly. She had different plans than that, as much as she valued and honored the work her family did. As she thought that, and pictured a fire burning in front of her, a now familiar itching began in her palm, as little shocks ran through her fingers. When she pointed her hand, fire jumped from her fingers to the dry wood.

“Nicely done. Good control. But don’t get too cocky.” Molly had come to stand next to her daughter. She lifted her own hand and rearranged the burning wood into a more efficient shape. Not a single ember went somewhere she didn’t want it to in the moving. A few of the embers Rosie had let slip were smoldering on the wet leaves nearby. “Control is everything with powers like ours. Others learn their magic, or make deals with gods for it. Ours comes naturally…”

“And like nature, magic must be tamed to be useful, or else it will run amok.” Rosie said laughingly, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I know Mama.” Planting another sloppy wet kiss, as she appeared to be in an affectionate mood, Rosie left to help her Aunt Maura carry the pot of stew to the fire. 

Molly spoke softly as she sensed her own mother approach. “She’s more powerful than me. She doesn’t realize it, because I have more experience, more patience, more control. But she’s got more umpf. I couldn’t produce that strong a flame at her age.”

“And I said the same thing about you. The ability is getting stronger with each generation,” Dorothy walked with a cane, and had eyes clouded over with cataracts, but her voice rang clear and her mind was as sharp as ever. “This is a good thing for our people.”

“She will surpass what I can teach her.”

“She will have other teachers. They will come, in time. For now, tell her everything you know. About magic, but also about family, kindness, generosity, hope, perseverance, and business.”

“Business?” 

“A girl has got to eat.” Dorothy replied. “Though I am head of the family, I concede that you have been the head of the business for several years, and we have done well. Whatever Rosie decides to do, a good head for money, for negotiation, for people, will always benefit her.”

“Thank you Mama,”

“Of course dear, now go get your dinner, you’ve been working all day.”

Molly wandered to the fire and took a healthy portion of the stew, eating with Noah, the baby, on her lap. Dorothy watched as her family came together, with those getting up and those heading to bed all interacting for this one meal. Her husband, Sean, came over to join her. Overcome with sentiment, an unusual feeling for her, she gave him a kiss and leaned on him. Knowing better than to say anything and ruin the moment, he wrapped his arms around her and held her. 

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The sun had set beyond the hills and night had fallen upon the tiny clearing. The fire was down to a smolder, and Rosie gave it a slight boost to ward off the chill.  Most of the family was asleep, or at least in bed in the case of fussing babies, but a favorite person stood on top of the center wagon. Frank, her father, was slightly shorter than her mother, which Molly liked to point out to tease him, and he insisted was inconsequential. He had a ruddy, broad face, and dark hair that was starting to grey at the edges. Not that anyone can tell that as he was never without his cap. Frank was dressed for warmth and movement, in brown leggings, a green tunic, and a wool cape. Rosie drew her own cape around more tightly and silently generated a breeze to lift her up to him.

“Your mother wouldn’t like you showing off like that. You can climb the ladder as well as I. Better, as you are younger”

“But ma’s asleep and you like me showing off,” she laughed. 

He tried to fight his smile, but was losing. “I do. It was a shock to me, I admit, when your mother told me about her magic, but I’ve grown to appreciate it. And seeing you grow with it has been a marvel.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Have I ever told you about the first time I met GiGi?” he said laughing, knowing full well he had.

Her father had in fact told her many, many times about when he met her 3x great grandmother, the origin of the magic in the family, but Rosie enjoyed the story and so nodded encouragingly. 

“Your mother and I were betrothed, and she said she needed permission from one more family member, and that I deserved to know the truth as well before we wed. She refused to tell me what that truth was until we were well on our way, so I’d be more reluctant to run I think. I figured she was overreacting and simply had a human in the family tree or something. It explained her being taller than me.Then, after a few days of traveling, near a cliff by the coast, she sat me down and started the campfire with her fingers. There was some sputtering and disbelief on my part, I can tell you.”

“But magic isn’t a secret. Lots of people have it,” Rosie countered.

“I knew magic existed, but it was abstract, and exotic. No one in my clan had magic, and when we needed some we paid a high and mighty magician to spell something for us. It seemed important, and foreign. And here was the girl I’d been wooing for months, from a normal, tinkering clan, levitating a few inches off the ground in front of me. After my shock had died down, I could see the fear in her eyes, and my heart melted. I told her I loved her and told her that clearly she would be in charge of lighting the fires from now on, rather than me fighting with flint and steel….She laughed then, but still seemed hesitant.” 

“I was asking her if there was something else, when your GiGi walked towards us. A tiny woman, even by our standards, walking with a cane. But she had fine ruby gems in her ears and an ornate bronze bracelet around her wrist. My innate manners took over, and after your mother introduced us, we had a lovely lunch. It was while we were lounging that I began to ask where she lived, and I had the thought that we had passed no nearby towns. I was speaking out loud and my confusion was evident on my face. GiGi laughed and said she would show me. Then she got up, walked to the edge of the cliff, and leaped off!”

Knowing her part, Rosie gasped with shock and surprise, despite having advanced warning of the twist. 

“Then,” Frank continued on, “a giant dragon rose, with her pale cream belly towards the cliff, her wings spread wide. After doing a somersault in midair, she landed gently near our wagon. I can tell you I damned near fainted, ‘cuse the language.”

Rosie giggled at the image and at her father’s consideration of her ears. 

“Molly and GiGi then explained that GiGi had taken various humanoid shapes and was living among the people as part of her exploration as a youth. It was while she was experimenting with the halfing shape that she met and fell in love with your great-something grandfather, Jebidiah. And as a result, her oldest daughter had powers, and then that daughter’s oldest daughter, and then your grandmother, mother, and you.” 

Rosie twirled her fingers and created a small windspout as emphasis. “It's almost time to visit her. We are coming up on the two year mark since the last journey to the coast.” Rosie smiled, as a visit to GiGi meant expanding her powers. If Molly was all about control, GiGi was all about exploration. 

“Yeah, your mother and I discussed it last night. After Myrefall we will start heading that way. We’ve written to the other sections of the clan and they are on the same page. I will say I’m looking forward to a summer by the coast. And GiGi’s fish stew.” He smacked his lips at the thought.

“I’m looking forward to a ride from dragon back.” Rosie closed her mind, remembering being nestled between GiGi’s wings. In dragon form, GiGi was a rich wine red color, with bronze coloring outlining her wings and staining her long claws. She was the length of about four halfing wagons, donkeys included, and weighed just as much. Yet she was agile and graceful, and could soar through the clouds with ease, even with a rider. Others might look at her and be afraid, but to Rosie, the dragon form meant safety. And dragon rides meant freedom. 

“Hmf.” muttered Frank. “Never much did like that part. Don’t like it for myself and certainly didn’t like placing my 3 year old in the saddle. But I was outvoted. And you were a natural.”

Rosie placed her head on her father’s shoulder and the two sat quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of the forest at night. 

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Daybreak normally meant going back to bed, but today was a town day, so instead Rosie again got the fire going. Molly came and offered her a warm drink. Rosie took a sip and perked up; bless Awaken.

“Thanks Mama. What’s my role today? The usual?”

“Well luckily today is Delstone’s market day, so your grandparents will go negotiate a table. Me and your father will set up the table with the premade items and the prices for custom work. Your aunt and uncle will go around and try to drum up work. Clara and Bernadette are minding the children. You’ll watch the wagons and keep an eye on things. If we need you at the stall for security or for mending I’ll send a message through the pendant.” 

Rosie rubbed the bronze pendant she wore on a leather cord around her neck. A dragon holding a hammer etched on one side, the symbols of her clan, and a rose with a lightning bolt through it, her symbol, etched on the other. It was really convenient for communicating. And really inconvenient for slipping away, as it told her mother her location. 

“And what is Aunt Brigid doing?”

“Whatever Brigid feels like doing, as always.”

Rosie loved her Aunt Brigid, but did sympathize with her mother’s tone. Aunt Brigid did not care for tinkering, but had never really committed to anything else either. Brigid was a naturally talented fighter, but couldn’t be bothered to hone her skills or take watch (unless forced). She would sometimes go into town and sing for tips, but only if she felt like it. Other times, she would weave stories for the locals about the worth of her family’s trade, winning them business. However, sometimes she wouldn’t leave her wagon at all. And still worse, sometimes she would go into the taverns not to sing but to drink and play cards, often losing money. Rosie understood feeling unsatisfied. She didn’t understand not doing anything about it. 

But, ironically, Brigid was her secret weapon in her own plan to grow out of the tinkering life. Rosie felt a little twinge at the thought. She knew her family’s work was important. She knew people broke things and that mending was more efficient and environmentally friendly than buying new. She knew that many of their clients couldn’t afford new things anyway. People needed pots to cook, tools to work, knives to cut, and her family made things that were strong and beautiful. People looked forward to the coming of the Murray group of the Tinker clan, and they were always welcomed with open arms, no matter the predominant species of the town. She felt proud to be a part of this narrative.

And yet, there was a part of her that wanted to fly far and further away, to learn more, to do more. To be not just welcomed, but honored and needed. To have people not just appreciate a finely made set of plates, but be in awe of her calming a raging inferno, or saving the town from an ogre attack. In short, Rosie wanted to be a hero. 

Rosie was not stupid. There were very few halfing heroes. She knew that in order to become a hero, she needed to expand her magic. Her mother was her official teacher, but a very cautious person. Gigi would teach her more in a few weeks when they visited; in her most recent letters she hinted at lightning magic, to Rosie’s delight. She was eager to learn the magic that felt most natural to her. But it was good to learn from different teachers. And there is where Aunt Brigid came in. 

After Rosie’s family went to set up the stall and her sister and cousin brought the young ones to a puppet show, Brigid came out of her wagon.

“Are we doing it again?”

“You don’t have to, you know. It was your idea the first time.”

Brigid paused, looking at her niece. “You know, I thought of all my nieces and nephews, I’d be closest to Clara. Second born, no magic. I can identify with that. But Clara loves this life. She is the model tinker. You want more. And I can identify even more strongly with that. This is why I help. Plus, I like defying my sister.”

“Then why do you act all surly and inconvenienced each time?”

“Teach you humility. Plus if we get caught, this is all on you. My sister hasn’t had the opportunity to scold me in a long time. I am not interested in giving her one.”

“We won’t get caught. Just like the last few times.”

Rosie and Brigid switched pendants. “Now, if Mama calls for me, you just need to hold the pendant and think Brigid. Then I’ll come to you and we’ll switch back. In the meantime, you’ll stay here. We’ve never been attacked this close to a town, so that shouldn’t be a concern.”

Brigid huffed. “I learned staff fighting before you were even a thought. Do your watching and hurry back. While I am willing to help you, I also want to make it into town at some point. I’m feeling lucky.”

Rosie rolled her eyes at the comment but started to jog away from the camp. Part of her draconian heritage meant she could smell magic. She followed her nose, passed fireproofed kitchens, belucked houses, and various protection charms. What she was looking for was more pungent, more powerful...There it was, the smell of a blown out candle, mixed with mint and orange peel. A maker of magic.

Rosie found the tall man sitting outside. He was nondescript in the way many wizards tried to make themselves seem, but Rosie could tell he would be tall and thin once he stood. And young it seemed. Most wizards had beards; this one was clean shaven. Rosie had not had enough interactions with wizards to know what that meant, if anything. The man paid her no mind as he read aloud from a book, the Oolish words causing the air to shimmer. Rosie took notes in shorthand in a book she kept in an inner shirt pocket. While she did not need to use the ancient language to perform magic, she often found inspiration in wizards’ work. And she could, in a pinch, use their spells as is, though it felt less natural. When the man finished speaking, the briar patch in front of him grew threefold in size, its thorns becoming longer and sharper. That was one Rosie would have to consider.

She sat another hour watching him and listening, thankful that her size kept her hidden from prying eyes. Suddenly, her pendant began to glow and she hurried back to camp. 

“Mama called?”

“Yes, don’t know what for. Get a move on. And I am heading out myself.”

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Rosie walked briskly to the stall. Her father, aunt and uncle were doing traditional work at the table. When they finished a piece, it was handed to her mother, who placed the requested magic on the item that the family was known for. Spells to detect poison, spells to prevent burning, even more frivolous spells like making a goblet glow without heat. Anything that was in her mother’s substantial power, for the right price. And in front, her grandparents, charming, brokering, and selling. And minding the money. Her grandmother, who’s power had not diminished with age, checking the coins for counterfeits subtly, and sending away potential troublemakers with a glance. 

“Why are you out of breath girl, you certainly took your time getting here,” her uncle commented. 

“Doing some practicing,” Rosie lied easily.

Molly handed the plate she had been working on back to her sister. “Rosie, we’ve been asked to do a big job at the Alderman’s house. His fence is rusted through in parts and the protection spells need updating, otherwise the blacksmith would be doing the job. Your grandfather and you are going to stay and mind the stall. The four of us are going to do the work. Should mean a big payday. Will definitely mean spending the night here. Clara and Bernadette are taking the children back to camp and will mind it.” There was a reason those two cared for the young ones. Clara was second only to Rosie herself in speed with the staff, and no one could best Bernadette with a bow. 

Rosie sighed with the idea of an afternoon enchanting household items.  But she enjoyed her grandfather, and maybe she can tinker (snrk) with how to adjust the wizard’s spell for her own abilities while she did the routine jobs. Plus, she didn’t really have a choice.

“Sounds good, Mama.” Most of her family left and Rosie plopped down next to her grandfather. “Hey Pops.”

“Hello love. Here, hold this.” He handed her the end of a  piece of pewter wire, and straightened it out with his gnarled, expert fingers. He then took a hammer and began wrapping the wire around the handle, creating a pattern that both strengthened grip and looked lovely. “Useful things can be pretty too,” he said with a smile.

“Practically the family motto.”

“No, the family motto is Ignis Draconis acrior ictu.”

Rosie rolled her eyes“I know Pops, I was making...nevermind.” Sean finished up the intricate pattern and passed the tool to Rosie. “What’s the request?” 

“Accuracy. From a man who has hit his thumb one too many times.”

“Fair enough.” Rosie felt the familiar gathering of her power in her fingers, a warm, tingling sensation. She pictured arrows in bullseyes, horseshoes on rods, balls knocking pins, staffs connecting during practice, and hammers hitting nails. The hammer glowed briefly and then dulled, a sign the spell had taken. She placed it aside and picked up the item on deck and spent the next hour this way. In the back of her mind she thought of ways to translate the briar spell to her own type of magic. Without accessing the bolt of her magic in the gut, she generated images that correlated with expansion, growth, sharpness, piercing strength. She had the briar in mind obviously, but her magic didn’t always respond well to being literal. Once she accidently turned herself into a sheep, instead of calling one over.

An especially tall human stopped in front of the stand, towering over her grandfather, and looked at the ready made pieces in front of him. Rosie began to ignore him, and then noticed the wizard she had been watching before standing behind him, carrying an assortment of goods and looking bedraggled. The taller of the two glanced at Rosie, and like her began to look away when he turned his head back and looked puzzled.

“You girl. You have traces of my magic on you. Why?”

Rosie swallowed and hoped he couldn’t read minds. “I have no idea sir. All day I’ve either been at my camp or here at the stall.”

“I am not mistaken. You interacted with some visages of my magic.”

Rosie looked up sheepishly and hoped her actual guilt would enhance her lie. “I did cut through some yards to get here quickly, after I had been distracted and left late. Perhaps I cut through yours?”

The tall one stroked his long beard thoughtfully, but eventually seemed satisfied with her answer, nodded curtly, and began to leave. Two steps away he turned back.

“I sense something else besides my magic.”

“Yes sir, I have my own natural magic. It's in my maternal line.”

“Sorcery. Hm.” His face twisted, like he had touched something slightly moist. “Well I assume you have been trained or this place would be on fire. But I can sense it brimming within you. Tamed, but bursting. You have potential and should be trained further. I don’t know how sorcerers train... Wizards go to school and then an apprenticeship. This is my apprentice, Sebanar.” The slightly shorter man attempted to both nod and not drop anything, quite a feat. “My advice to you, girl: Find a sorcerer, one you are not related to, and get trained.”

“Thank you for your advice, sir…?”

“Alwreth.”

“Sir Alwreth. But my duty is to my family for now. And my mother and grandmother are accomplished sorcerers. I will be trained properly.” Rosie felt conflicted, for while she agreed with him, she didn’t like the insinuation that her family members were inadequate teachers.

The wizard looked at her another moment, and seemed to soften. “I’m sure they are. But sometimes getting an outside perspective is helpful. And sometimes it takes someone who doesn’t love us so much to push us harder.” He turned to leave, and then murmured softly over his shoulder “Consider needles, and the bite of a lemon.”

Rosie was struck by the comment, his ability to read her mind (or at least sense what spell she had witnessed), and his change from haughty to kind. Well, humans were known for being more fickle than others, with sudden changes in mood and desires. She glanced nervously at her grandfather, to see if he heard the last bit, but he seemed focused on the tea kettle he was mending. Rosie relaxed and resumed her task.

“If the man was going to block the stall for that long, he could have at least bought something,” Sean grumbled. “I’m glad you set him straight about you needing to be with your family. Imagine, one of us leaving the safety of the clan, of the way, for an unknown chance at something. What nonsense. Here, you are loved, you are safe, and your talent has purpose and meaning. What more could you want?” He began to hammer in earnest, and Rosie suspected it was the wizard’s face he was imagining in the dent.

“Yeah” Rosie sighed. And it occurred to her, not for the first time, that leaving would hurt her loved ones deeply. And staying would drive her crazy. She felt a pang of understanding for Aunt Brigid. 

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The sun had almost set completely before the rest of the adults returned to camp. Rosie had done her share with the preparation of dinner but was now practically asleep in her stew, the effects of the Awaken potion having long since worn off. Molly shooed her off to bed, along with Frank, who was in a similar state.

“But someone needs to watch, and we were all awake all day,” Rosie protested while yawning. 

“The Alderman was so pleased with our work he said his guards on the wall will keep a lookout. And I’ll raise a barrier just in case.”

“Do you need help with that?”

“Grandma and I can handle it just fine. Frankly, if I wasn’t so beat, I could do it myself. Don’t forget who you are speaking to miss,” Molly said jokingly. 

Rosie nodded sleepily, waved good night at her family, and went off to bed, streaks of sunlight still in the sky. Her schedule was always wrecked by town days. She barely managed to change into a sleep shirt and climb to her bunk before being sound asleep.

After seeing Frank off to bed as well, Molly supervised the rest of her family eat dinner and clean up. Despite the fact that no one else had been awake for twenty four hours, everyone was exhausted. Even the young ones were worn out by the excitement of the town’s fair and the freedom to run around all afternoon. One by one everyone went to bed. Finally, the last two standing were Molly and Dorothy. They looked at each other, nodded,  and walked to be across the camp from each other. If Rosie’s magic was a lightning bolt, hot, new, unpredictable, Molly’s was a banked cooking fire, tested, consistent, useful, and Dorothy’s was sunlight, expansive, warm, comforting. The two women reached for their magic and imagined foxes snug in their dens, jewels locked in a safe, horses in a stable, a mother’s hand holding her child’s. A dome of light cascaded over the camp. The barrier wouldn’t stop an outright attack, which is what the guards were for, but would deter any opportunistic animals or curious strangers from walking through. It also made a very loud noise if someone attempted to break it, which would alert the camp. After it was in place, the two women joined their partners in bed for a well earned rest. 

The next morning, Rosie’s parents and grandparents made their way to the Alderman while she and the rest began to pack up camp.

Molly placed the last layer of protection on the Alderman’s fence. Frank demonstrated its effectiveness by attempting to climb it. His hand became stuck to the metal and a loud chime was heard. The blacksmith, inspecting the work nearby, startled at the noise.

“Does it hurt the person? I don’t want my children escaping at night, but I don’t want them hurt either,” the Alderman, an older, portly fellow, asked.

“Doesn’t hurt at all,” Frank said. “I just can’t leave,” He emphasized this by pulling on his arm. “Which is important in case it is someone with ill intent...or your daughter sneaking out.” He said with a look that only fathers with daughters understand.

“And how are they freed?”

“You, or your wife, simply need to touch their hand, and the fence will let them go. If you are going away and need to transfer the responsibility to a steward, it can be done with this incantation.” Molly handed him a piece of paper with the instructions.

“I thought tinkers weren’t trained in iron. And, usually, iron and magicks don’t mix.” The blacksmith, Amahrea, a small woman with jet black hair, almond shaped eyes, and bulging muscles, asked.

“We’re not blacksmiths, we don’t have a forge. We usually create with tin and its alloys: bronze and pewter. But we can mend all sorts of metals, even iron. And, due to my wife’s and daughter’s abilities, our group can expand our services more than most. Not all tinkers could do this work. Just the Murray group,” Sean explained.

“You don’t need a forge when you can do this,” Molly created a flame in her hand and touched a discard piece of iron. It glowed red hot and became bendable. “This is how we fixed the gate. As for the magic, well, what dragon is bothered by iron?”

The blacksmith seemed satisfied that her general knowledge was correct and that this was an exception; as well as that she wouldn’t be put out of business by wandering tinkers. She gave a curt nod. “It is gorgeous work.”

The Alderman was entranced by Molly’s show. “Well done! Most ingenious. You sorcerers have so much more flexibility with your magic than wizards or priests.”

“Our magics have different strengths and purposes, my lord. We are more into investigating. If you ever are cursed, call a wizard,” Alwreth had been passing by and seen both demonstrations. “This is very impressive.” He tugged on Frank’s fingers to no avail.

“You honor me, sir,” Molly replied. 

“You honor yourself. The halfing girl with the reddish blonde hair, is she yours?”

“If you mean Rosie sir, then yes. Did you meet yesterday?” Molly said, wondering what Rosie had gotten up to.

“At your stall.” Molly breathed a sigh of relief and Alwreth decided to keep Rosie’s prior wanderings to himself. “I could sense her magic immediately. She is very strong. It is clearly a family trait,” he said with a bow. 

Molly blushed with the praise. While age had brought her confidence and ease in her magics, there was always a part of her that regretted the lack of formal magical training. Even though her natural abilities might dwarf some wizards’, and she was certainly more creative than the priests who could only work the gods’ intentions, she didn’t know how to talk to other magic makers, or break down a spell, or why sometimes a new spell had an unexpected result. Having a wizard impressed with her meant a great deal.

“Come along now, Sebnar, there is more to study!” Sebnar appeared from Alwreth’s shadow and hurried after him asking excitedly about Molly’s spell. Alwreth made a mental note to follow Rosie’s career. Rosie..of the Murray group of the Tinker clan. For now. “If she gets just half of her mother’s ability, combined with her raw power, she won’t be a tinker for long.

After freeing Frank, the Alderman paid handsomely for the work, spurred by Amahrea’s and Alwreth’s comments to give more than had been agreed upon initially. Dorothy made a show of protesting, not wanting to be seen as overcharging, or reneging on a deal, but after two pushes back, relented, and the bag of gold disappeared into her skirts. They made it back to the camp, and the caravan began its journey to the next town, a successful stop elevating spirits. 

Author's Note

New to this. Looking for general feedback, not specific edits.

Reviews

[JayG]

• Looking for general feedback, not specific edits.

You can’t have feedback that doesn’t reference the problem. And since we’re expected to be brilliant, all that’s worth mentioning is what needs work to become so.

But before I say anything on that, a disclaimer: What I’m about to say has nothing to do with the story, with your talent, or how well you write. In fact, you write far better than most hopeful writers. It has to do with what I call, The Great Misunderstanding—the reason that only 3 out of 100 submissions are seen as written professionally.

True to your training you’re reporting and explaining. You’re telling the reader about the sequence of events, with commentary from the narrator on the significance of them, as necessary. It’s a methodology and approach we spent many years in school perfecting. And were this graded by one of your English teachers it would get an A. Were it graded by an acquiring editor they wouldn’t be so kind, because the methodology and the goals of fiction are very nearly diametrically opposed to the nonfiction skills we were given in school. The writing style we were given, there, has as its goal informing the reader clearly and concisely. It’s author-centric, fact-based, and is of a style best described as outside-in: A dispassionate outside observer presents events, primarily in overview. So we learn about the scene, and what happens, but we’re not on the scene living it, we’re with the narrator, hearing it second-hand.

But… fiction’s goal, as E. L. Doctorow defines it is to “evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” That requires an inside-out approach that our teachers never mentioned as existing, because we’re taught skills useful to most adults on the job. And all those reports and essays we were assigned made us proficient in writing essays and reports. Professions, like Fiction-Writing, asa acquired IN ADDITION to those general skills collectively known as, The Three R's.

For you the story, as it is now, works perfectly. But you cheat. You already know the story, the characters, and the scene before you read a word. You know the protagonist’s mood, backstory, and desires. And…you, and only you, can hear the emotion that fills the narrator’s words. Verbal storytelling is a performance art, where how you tell the story matters as much as what you say. Remove the performance and what do you have? A storyteller’s script minus the stage directions.

Look at the opening, not as the well informed author, who will fill in any needed detail. Instead be a reader, who knows only what the words suggest TO THEM, based on THEIR background, NOT your intent.

To the reader, that, "This happened...then that happened...and let me explain why it matters," approach is distant. Someone we can neither hear nor see is talking about things for which we lack context. We don’t know what’s going through Rosie’s mind, for example, only what you say happens next. So when you open with “Rosie woke as the wagon lurched to a stop and the donkeys complained about the reins,” it works….for you.

But for the reader? Rosie could be ten or ninety. She could be married or single, rich or poor. And without context the reader knows none of that. So can they build a mental picture or build an empathetic bond with the character? No. And though that will later become clear, who cares? You cannot retroactively remove confusion, or generate a second-first impression. Confuse a reader for one line and they leave. So it's critical to make them WANT to turn the page or they stop. And you worked too hard for that to happen, right?

The entire reason for reading fiction is to build a relationship with the protagonist that’s so close that we care for him/her, worry about them, and share in solving their problems. But that requires an emotion-based, inside-out approach, one that's emotion-based, character-centric, and seems to be happening to us as we read.

That outside-in approach causes more problems. You next say, “Her lace curtains opened with the movement and sunshine poured through.” As the author you get to say that, and it‘s true because you do…even if it makes no sense. But, if you place yourself into her persona so deeply that it’s real, you’re forced to take into account her real-world environment. And in that environment, the wagon is heavy, and has been rolling at a mule’s walking pace. Plus, it would have coasted to a stop, not jerked to one, because inertia has its way. Add in that, lace curtains are very light, and wouldn’t swing from such a gentle stop. Go further and factor in that glass is expensive and so windows are small. The curtain would be on a rod, or a string. So how far could it swing? And would it stay there? Would you tolerate curtains that were apt to open by themselves due to wagon movement? She would know of the problem, and tell you if you asked. And you must, because it’s her story. And to her nothing is in overview.

In her world she'll never look in the mirror and notice her freckles without a reason, so you can't talk about them or you interject yourself into the story. And if you do, she''ll notice you. She’s focused on getting up and dressed, and she sees her face often. Will Farrell did a film about that a few years ago, called Stranger Than Fiction. It shows what happens if the author steps too far into the story. The trailer is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iqZD-oTE7U

Now, had she Rosie had reason to wonder why she wasn’t attracting men, she would have reason to focus on her features. If not, and if her freckles matter to the story, or her in the moment, have someone call her “freckle-face. Her reaction will tell us about her as a person. You only inform us she has them—a visual detail irrelevant to the scene in progress.

I also have to comment that I could find damn few Irish caravans pulled by a team, and none that appeared to have mules.

But that aside, how do you fix the problem's I mentioned? Simplicity itself. Just add the skills the pros take for granted to the ones you now have. And while it might seem to make sense that we absorb those skills by reading fiction, do we learn to cook be eating? No.

All your life you’ve been choosing fiction written with those specialized skills, though. So you expect to see the result of using them in what you read. And just as you know in a bite if the meal you're eating was created by a chef, so you know, in a paragraph, if the story was written by a pro. More to the point, your reader will know.

So how to fix the problem has a simple answer. But unfortunately, not an easy one, because it’s a lot more than a list of, “Do this instead of that.” But that’s true of any profession, so it’s no big deal. And in this case, since you enjoy writing the learning will be fun. And the practice? Writing stories. So what’s not to like? The library’s fiction-writing section is loaded with the views of pros in writing, publishing, and teaching.

To help, I have two suggestions. First, is to get a better feel for the differences between your present approach and that of the working fiction writer. I’m vain enough to suggest the writing articles in my WordPress writing blog, linked to at the bottom.

Then, if it seems to make sense, the best book I’ve found on the nuts-and-bolts issues of creating scenes that sing to the reader, and linking them into an exciting whole, is available free in a variety of formats at the address below this paragraph.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

So…I know this wasn’t what you were expecting when you posted the story. But you write well, so I thought you’d want to know.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/