Trail Guard

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Maypole

The fairground, set up in an open meadow west of town, was a riot of color and the babble of human voices. Knots of family groups, women busy laying out a fabulous array of foods on picnic tables with flapping cloths, a different color for each table.

For Nicholas, the buzz of activity and the mingled aromas of food and the flowering spring meadow melted away the last of winter’s weariness. This was a major high point of the season. A day that seemed, in many ways, especially for him. He enjoyed only a few precious moments of anonymity between the time he stepped off the truck and the commencement of his walk amidst the tables and the citizens who anticipated his arrival.

He was a highly recognizable and respected man to these people, but Nicholas cut neither a dashing nor imposing figure among them. Long hours spent in the sun had etched permanent squint lines into a face not easily given to humor. He spoke in a soft murmuring tone suitable for the calming of nervous animals. Attired in understated work clothes, like the farm men amongst whom he walked, he would hardly have topped five-nine, but he moved with a confident, unhurried gait and stood in the ramrod posture of one in authority.

Although politically unnecessary, he was invariably treated as a visiting dignitary. He was received with generous smiles and continuous offers of food and drink, along with subtle encouragements to cast a favorable eye upon the younger women in each family group – like a wealthy suitor in search of a bride.

Unaccustomed to social engagement, Nicholas was sometimes embarrassed by the outpouring of attention, but he had come to look forward to the annual ritual. It was a rare chance to visit with the citizens of the community, talk about crops, weather, livestock, and savor the appreciation they felt for him.

Seated with the elders of the township over a leisurely lunch, he was also able to subtly gauge the unwitting responses of the young women who surreptitiously drifted past the table in order to get the measure of him. None were permitted to speak with him directly but they all communicated, rightly enough. To them he would have preferred to remain invisible, which, after so many seasons at this, he realized was impossible.

The socializing was a welcome break from the arduous routine of his daily life, but once the dance began, his concentration was devoted only to the performers encircling the maypole, the centerpiece of the gathering. Even before the music began, he closely observed the poses of the starting dancers.

In the starting pose, six pairs of girls stood side on to the pole, facing each other. The ribbons were held aloft in the right hand, looping up to the top of the twelve foot pole where they attached to a revolving wheel, crowned by a garland of multicolored flowers. Left hands were fisted at the hip. Right legs bent, toes perfectly pointed into the powdery turf. Backs arched.

Four beats of the drum. Two solo bars of a bright Gaelic reel from the flute. Then, the first note stroked by raised fiddle bows and the entire ensemble burst into movement.

Over the course of the afternoon every girl would pass him many times and Nicholas would have adequate time to formulate a detailed assessment of each one. Yet, as always, there were one or two that stood out from the start. In this case, the first to catch his eye was a tall, dark haired beauty in a skirt of forest green, with an impudent smile and taunting, sultry eyes. A young woman accustomed to the feel of male eyes on her.

The second that bore special notice was a short, compact girl with a very pretty figure and lovely ash blonde hair. She stood out from the others primarily due to the short, pageboy cut of her hair and the color of her skirt. It was white, the only color not represented by a corresponding tablecloth at the fairground. There had never been a white skirt before and it seemed to denote the last minute inclusion of an unforeseen participant.

The others averaged out pretty much as usual. There were a couple of really pretty ones: a honey blonde in lavender and a light brunette in orange, fairly strong dancers with a reasonable measure of grace. Another buxom little brunette in yellow with a radiant smile. In red, a raven haired girl with striking teal blue eyes who found it nearly impossible to smile. There was better development to her dancing skills but it was more a result of training than inherent talent. She had difficulty maintaining concentration and constantly measured herself against the others for placement.

Almost invisible in the swirl of fluid movement, was a thin redhead in sky blue Nicholas had already subconsciously labeled “the struggler”. This girl had battled long hours to master the steps but her sheer determination was the key to her value. And one other unlikely to be passed over was the shortest of the lot. A stout, plain, powerhouse of a girl in royal blue, obviously farm stock. Like the redhead, it was her unsmiling brute determination that demanded Nicholas’s careful attention. She, too, had a difficult time memorizing the intricate footwork which she performed in a plodding, graceless manner.

But Nicholas not only evaluated the performance of every dancer around the maypole, he kept a mental tally of the breaks they took away from it. It was possible to make quick assessments of grace and agility, but endurance was a key component in the final analysis.

With nineteen competitors and twelve spots around the pole, each girl would have ample opportunity to display her qualities to the fullest. The music would not stop, and everyone present would be focused on the performance until the last beat of the drum.

Nicholas was not distracted by any girl during her first absence from the pole, but during later recesses, he allowed his eyes to subtly follow. It was the fourth time the tall brunette left the pole but that was alright. She was putting in a good showing. She wasn’t as strong as some of the others, but she danced very well and she had a proud bearing.

This time she did not sit down. She accepted a glass of lemonade, her eyes narrowed, tracking every move of the ash blonde with intense, ill concealed anger. This one was a competitor. With little doubt, she’d rejoin the dance before the passing of ten minutes. She’d grip her ribbon and pound the dust until the bitter end, while others were compelled to leave the pole once or twice more, at the ever increasing risk of losing the chance to regain their position for the finale.

Nicholas had studied and judged the flight of the May dancers for seven seasons and he could afford to be proud of the success he’d reaped as a result of the judgments he’d made in the past. But never before had he been faced with a choice such as the one that presented itself today. The reasons for allowing his interest to skip over the girl in white were obvious from the first moment he saw her. The differences between her and the others would be apparent to everyone present.

Yet, as he cast his trained, impartial eye from one glowing face to another, one pair of stomping, nubile legs to the next, he couldn’t resist coming back to the ash blonde. Although it was apparent she couldn’t have known the dance for long, her feet skipped through the routines as though she’d been born to the step.

Her face and neck glistened in the sunlight but she didn’t seem to be winded. She held the ribbon lightly, as the graceful element it was, never subconsciously tightening her grip, even during the passes, yet never once did it slip from her grasp.

And on her face was an ethereal, open joy that was unforced, unflinching. She performed as though she’d been dancing toward this moment: the most – no, the only important moment of her life. She seemed unaware of the fever of competition around her, not seeking to steal the spotlight from the others, but striving for harmonious integration among them. She danced the dance as it should be danced. She could not possibly be ignored – especially if she danced, as it appeared she would, to the end without pause. Nicholas realized with discomfort and excitement that such an outcome would require from him not decision, but conviction.

The dust rose in a golden haze around the circle of swirling colors as the sun inched its way toward the horizon – red, Red, green, turquoise, pink. Yellow, orange, fuchsia, blue and then white. White, the combination of all colors.

The dance was nearly at its end for another year and Nicholas had made his choices. Soon enough he would have to assume the control everyone present would relinquish to him. As the ribbons dropped and mothers and daughters embraced, the cards in his pocket would change the fates of those around him before the dust had settled. The contestants would know when they got back to their tables whether they sat down to a dinner of celebration or commiseration.

The struggler proved to be Nance Taylor’s daughter. As they came together, Nance glanced over her daughter’s shoulder and it was she who waved the girl in white over, welcoming her into the embrace. Nicholas turned to commence his rounds.

It was nearly full dark by the time he reached the Taylor table. As Nicholas dropped a single white card with the emblem of three interlocking D’s on the sky blue tablecloth, he understood the doubt in three sets of eyes that flicked up from the card to his face.

He held a second card aloft between his index and middle fingers. “The one in white is on the list.”

“Yes,” Nance confirmed, a spoonful of potato salad poised between serving bowl and paper plate.

Nicholas nodded. He dropped the second card beside the first and moved on as relief replaced anxiety on the Taylor’s faces, although Meris was not present to share the moment.

With the placement of the markers and the coming of nightfall, Nicholas’s role underwent a curious transition from hero to that of villain and, at this point, he dropped out of sight completely. The dinner hour was for the trading of confidences between mothers and daughters, and the loosening of bonds by over protective fathers who were proud, fulfilled and unprepared for the outcome of their daughters’ success.

Nicholas remained at the periphery of the fairground, beyond the lights, where the trucks were parked. Here he sat in wait until it was time for the gathering.

This final phase of the celebration was always characterized by excitement and a certain amount of disorder. It was a process of careful selection but, even among eager volunteers, there was a degree of confusion and reluctance. Each girl Nicholas had chosen needed to be located and extricated from the comforting bosom of her family.

To the young men acting as spotters, it was like a game of cowboys and Indians in which the skittish young maids were captured, rounded up and led by bound wrists back to the trucks. The elimination process was less pleasant. For the few who were excluded from the gathering there were tears and disappointment, pleading and anger.

As the gathering neared completion, the head count began, and Nicholas was aware he had not caught sight of her since the dance ended. The one real prize in the bunch. He moved off into the shadows, leaving the other men to deal with loading the excitable women.

Beginning in a small circle around the trucks, he gradually extended the range of his search, until at last he spotted her, half crouched behind a stack of hay bales, observing the loading. He widened his berth and came up behind her.

“I can’t afford to leave you out,” he said.

She swung around, startled. “Leave me out of what?” she asked, which didn’t surprise him.

He quickly grasped her arm and she struggled mightily as he marched her toward the trucks. Those already assembled grew quiet, turning in response to her angry shouts.

“Got a live one, Nicholas?” one of the loaders called.

“She’s not tired yet,” Nicholas called back.

The man approached, causing Meris to recoil under the light he shone in her eyes. “Nicholas, she’s not one of our own.”

“I’m not leaving her,” Nicholas said.

“But if she’s going to make a problem...”

“Bind her.”

“No!” Meris jerked back frantically but Nicholas’s grip was unyielding.

“Hand and foot,” he ordered over Meris’s protests. “And gag her.”

A murmuring set up amongst those still awaiting loading as the men forced Meris to her knees. They bound her wrists behind her back and wrapped her ankles with rope.

“Quiet!” one of the men commanded and a deathly hush fell as Meris’s mouth was jammed full with a thick cloth gag.

The last of the women were herded quickly into the back of the truck. Meris was lifted in last and laid over on her side.

“No talking,” was the last command before the gate slammed shut.

Nicholas climbed into one of the cabs as the engines roared to life and they rolled away from the beautiful village of Cherish.