Marek - Chapter 2

 

Marek stood, on the spot he had been standing on all day, behind the dusty old wooden counter, in the dusty old cluttered bookshop, watching the old man leave with his mouth agape.

“A wizard.” He murmured. “A wizard?”

He gazed around the small shop, searching the cluttered shelves as if searching for an answer. His eyes flicked to a few familiar titles and he tried hard to remember every detail he could about wizards. Marek had never met a wizard before, never even seen one and no wizards, nor even a witch lived around these parts any more. Plus the festival did not happen here every year and he had always missed them before, or been too young to remember.

“I suppose.” He muttered. “Could have been.” Then his eyes opened with a flash. “A wizard!” He exclaimed, a smile cracking over his face. “Here in my shop.”

He knew, instantly, what he would do. He would leave the shop and go and see the festival. He had to after that; it was like a sign or something. He had the keys, so he could lock the door, and he could put up their new closed sign, the one he and Harold had carved from that old piece of chestnut they found behind the Undertakers. He could head down the side alley, next to their shop and then along by the little stream that ran behind their row of shops, then behind the Inn and emerge at the east side of the common, where it was quiet and he wouldn’t be seen. And if his father found out, Marek thought hard, he could say that he had to get some change. There had been a customer who had paid with a whole gold piece and that had cleaned out the shops change, so he went to get change. That was it. And he’d take the gold piece along to prove it.

All things set and decided; Marek took off. He went out of the shop door and turned left, then left again down the thin side alley in between the Bookshop and the Undertakers next door and out by the little stream.

It was a funny little stream this one, not like some of the others around town. It was straight, and ran along the backs of the shops on their side of the street, from where it left the river Blacian to a small, boggy pond behind the Undertakers. His father had told him that some of the old guys had dug it, years ago, when all the trade goods and supplies were bought to each shop by a long thin boat, before horses became so aplenty. Marek and Harold had often splashed around in it, as many kids had before. Marek had even saved up all his earnings one winter to buy a large glass jar from the big lady in town who sold the glass her husband made, and gathered some frogspawn in it to watch them grow into frogs. That was until his father has thrown them all back, hearing, as he did, from one of Uncle Tom’s friends that it was almost wizard like.

Marek kept close to the water until the small stream joined the river behind the Wild Boar inn at the bottom of the small paddock out back of the inn, where guests could cobble up their horses. None grazed there today; they’d all be up at the festival, with their owners. He then wadded the shallow river Blacian and cut through the orchard, then through a bit of meadow, already rich in colour and busy with life, despite still being early in spring, until he saw ahead the line of tall ash trees that surrounded the common.

He could see lots of colour and movement through the thick trunks and branches and the noise of crowds of people was unmistakable. There were drums, flutes, singing, cheering, dogs barking, the jingle of bells and the buzz of conversation and laughter

Marek crept quietly through the last of the meadow, into the line of ash trees, as if the slightest sound would disrupt the intoxicating balance of noise and give away his position. He crouched behind one of the largest ash trees, in about the middle of the eastern side of the common.

From where Marek hid he could see everything. The rectangular field stretching away from him into the distance. The south edge, to Marek’s left mainly consisted of the kitchens, with puffs and clouds of smoke billowing upwards and cues of people jostling about. The kitchens were sandwiched in between a line of different types of stalls, some dozen or so, consisting of a dizzying array of colours and people. Along the north edge there were more stalls in multicolour, only here some of them were replaced with small tents, some open on all sides and some all secretive and closed up. But in the middle was where the real action was; two large tents had been erected the day before. Marek had seen the poles and canvas go up and watched them doing it from the town square. Until his father had shouted him at. One of the tents was bright red and the other was bright blue. Both of them were round, with one central high point sticking up from the central pole and a flag on top. Long, colourful, triangular and flapping in the breeze.

People were piling in and out of the each of the large tents. Marek saw people go from one to the other and then back again, whilst those on the stalls called and beckoned to them to entice them away. Every here and there, either stuck in between two stalls or dotted in small spaces, with small crowds of people around, there were the circus people; jugglers, sword swallowers, fire eaters, card tricksters and other simple magicks going on.

Marek watched in awe.

Suddenly a sharp, soft sound caught his attention, close by, on his right, further up the line of ash trees.

He turned and looked and eventually saw two familiar smiling faces. They both approached Marek.

“Hey Marek, alright?”

“Hello mate, enjoying the show?”

They both grinned and chirped happily.

“Alright guys.” Marek replied, returning their smiles. They were two of the local kids, Frig and Bex, a few years younger then Marek and, so it seemed, had also been banned from the festival.

They both crouched around Marek’s tree and, still watching the comings of the festival, began to fill Marek in on what they had already seen.

“I swear to you Marek, there was this one guy who kept on changing the colour of his hair, by drinking some’fing.”

“Yeah, and this guy had these two birds, that had this strange song. It put this one bloke to sleep, didn’t it Frig?”

“Yeah, yeah, and… oh! This old woman, I mean really old yeah.” Frig grinned. “Could make herself look really young again, couldn’t she?” He turned to Bex. “I mean, the weird thing is, though, you couldn’t really see it happening. It’s like, you would watch her and she was old and then she would just get younger; that was it. Bizarre mate, bizarre.” Frig finished, looking sincere.

The conversation continued, furtive whisperings behind the large ash, eyes either dashing between the different people in the midst of the festival or swapping eager grins and smiles with one another. They explained how their father had caught them yesterday, preparing for the festival, and had confiscated their stash of tools, as they called them, and then had banned them both from coming at all.

“Yeah, Marek, he took our catapults, pea shooters, the lot!” Bex protested, wide eyed.

“Then seemed to think we couldn’t be trusted to come here at all.” Added Frig.

Marek smiled and nodded to their protests, secretly thinking that their father probably knew what he was doing, but then he remembered how his father had banned him and frowned deeply, adding his sincere support to their cause.

Not long after, however, Frig and Bex decided to move. Marek stayed put as he wished to be able to make a quick break back to the shop if need be; but he wished Frig and Bex good luck as they were heading round to the south side to try and get some food from the kitchens.

Marek’s attention turned back to the festival and he settled himself down once more. He saw an old woman sat at a table nearby, covered with a thick length of purple fabric and puffing away sporadically on a long, dark wooden pipe. She was muttering something to a young woman sat in front of the table and with her hands held to her mouth, while the old woman turned over a few cards, from a selection she had laid out on the table.

There came a series of loud bangs from the large blue inner tent and a group of girls, not much older than Marek, came running out, a few looking embarrassed, some scared and some were suppressing giggles. A delicate band of smoke seemed to be trailing out and around some of them.

A shriek caught marks attention. The stall next to the kitchens, but one, was the source. A woman, a bit older than Marek by her looks, but not as old as his mother, was being held back by a small cluster of rather nervous looking folk, whilst screaming insults back at the woman stallholder. The look of the woman stallholder, tall, rich red hair, standing proud and, even to Marek’s young eyes, well proportioned in every way, sent shivers down his spine. She stood in front of a red curtain, with a collection of strange instruments dangling from it in various places, most looking like needles, small phials or other surgical tools. There was no sign as to the cause of the commotion, particularly as the red haired stallholder, standing stock still in all her perfection, seemed to show no sign of recognition what so ever. Eventually the screaming woman was pulled away from the red haired stallholder by her small entourage and her screams began to fade.

Unable to tear his gaze away, Marek watched, enthralled, as another woman approached and stood before the red haired woman. From the occasional wince and flash of silver it looked like the red haired woman took some blood from her new customer then turned her back and, ignoring her, began busying herself with some of the complicated tools. Marek kept his eyes glued to her fluid, well-practised movements. The red haired woman then turned back to her customer and appeared to be satisfied as they talked for a few moments. Then the customer left and the red haired woman stood as she had with the screaming woman; perfectly and stock still. One hand on her hip, one hand hanging at ease, her smile imposing, red hair gleaming dull in the sun and remaining still in the breeze. Her figure curved a perfect silhouette against the red behind her. Her gaze scanning all those around her, as if she knew better, as if challenging.

Marek gasped.

For a moment, one brief moment, she had looked straight at him. Not glanced over him, but turned her head and gleaming eyes straight into his. He ducked back behind the tree trunk and closed his eyes; as if that might help.

When Marek dared look back, her eyes were once more scanning through those around her, not looking in his direction, however, she seemed to be smiling a little more knowingly, as if she knew he was watching her, but then a lot of people were. Marek noticed now. Not just those walking past with a quick glance, or those standing watching nearby, careful not to get too close; but others also, further away and dotted throughout Marek’s vision. She seemed to inspire awe in many people; and she seemed to know it.

Then Marek caught a glimpse of his father. He was pacing around the entrance way to the festival, in the south east corner, scowling. This puzzled Marek for a moment and worried him somewhat, which was enough to draw his attention away from the red haired woman.

And then Marek got his answer.

He saw his grandmother walking along from the back of the kitchens, behind the line of stalls that included the red haired woman, the two figures of Frig and Bex scampering behind her, both being held by a firm hand to their ears. A firm hand Marek knew only too well.

Author's Note

This is a novel I'm currently working through. I'm most of the way through writing it but have only really edited these few chapters.
I really need as much constructive criticism as possible, so if you're able please give some feedback. Things in particular are the overall story, the plot so far and what you think of the characters. Does it feel right?
Any feedback much appreciated.
Thanks:-)