Music and Magic

Chapter 1

Chapter 1People filled the common room. Markle felt like a sardine crammed into a canning jar. He nudged his table companion to lift the mug of pale ale to his mouth. The smell of the place was worse, of men and sweat adding to the salt and fish on the ocean breeze. A rather nauseating combination. To top it all off, the noise of so many people made Markle’s ears ring. He was used to the quiet lapping of the water’s waves, or the gentle hum of his mother’s voice.

For the fifth time since entering the room, he thought of retiring for the night. A grumble from his stomach stayed his exit; he still needed to eat dinner. With another day of walking tomorrow keeping his strength was most important.

“Here you are, dear,” said the barmaid, setting a plate of food on the table in front of him. “Enjoy.”

He forced a smile and passed along two copper coins for the meal. She accepted and vanished into the crowd.

Markle looked down at the plate, strips of red snapper and peppers seasoned with spices. Its smell reached his nose over the odor of the masses. It was pleasant. He lifted a bite to his mouth and was surprised. Since leaving home three days ago, he hadn’t come across good food. This, at least, was passable. Nowhere near as delicious as Mother’s cooking, or his own for that matter, but edible.

“So, where you from, lad?”

Markle looked to the old sailor who sat beside him. The man’s weathered face became more wrinkled as he smiled.

“North Venna,” Markle answered, then took another bite of his meal.

“North Venna?” asked a woman opposite. She was just as aged as the sailor, probably a laundress who washed clothes in the streams. “I’ve got cousins up that way. Do you know the Pickarts?”

“I do,” Markle answered. Half the town had married into the Pickart name, and the other half had married out of it. In fact, the reason he was here instead of home with his family was because of one Pickart. He didn’t want to think about it now.

“And where are you off to?” the old man inquired.

“I’m heading to Grincewood. Another week to the south.”

“Grincewood,” the woman said. “Whatever for?”

“I’m going to a cousin’s farm.”

The old man scoffed. “Farming.” He said it like a curse. “No, lad. You’re born on the water and it’s in your veins. Farming’s not for you.”

The woman nodded along.

Markle didn’t expect them to understand, and he didn’t feel like explaining. So, he went back to eating his food.

Over the loud din of voices, Markle heard the inn’s front door open on squeaky hinges. Eager for a distraction, he craned his neck to look at the newcomer. It was a man, his dark skin barely visible under a thick, crimson cloak. The stranger made his way to the innkeeper, a stately woman who used her wooden spoon to command her workers like an admiral taking charge of an armada. When the man approached, she had to bend slightly to hear him. He was nearly a head shorter than her. Though Markle couldn’t hear what was said, he could see the man ask a question and gesture to the crowded room. The innkeeper responded with a laugh, but nodded.

“What was the name of your boat?”

Markle jumped at the old man’s voice. He’d almost forgotten about his nosey dinner companions.

“My father’s boat was named Windvale,” Markle answered, skirting the whole truth.

“A fine name,” said the sailor. “Sure to earn Farlain’s blessing.”

Markle suppressed a wince. He was far from blessed by the god of water.

Suddenly, the dark-skinned stranger was in Markle’s line of sight again. The man walked to the center of the room and clapped his hands, calling for silence. The room quieted, but the noise didn’t cut off completely.

“My friends,” the man called, his voice carrying over the room easily. His tone was melodious, as if he would sing when his mouth opened again. “I wish the gods’ blessings on you this evening.”

Markle groaned. If this fellow was here to preach about the gods, Markle would get up and leave no matter how rude it looked. He had no more patience for that nonsense.

The stranger continued. “I come from the mountains where the cold of winter brings blizzards that make your ocean’s chill seem a summer day. And in those harsh and dreadful storms, we pray to the goddess Magana and perform dances in her name.”

The room was completely silent now, every person staring at the stranger in shock or open disgust. He didn’t seem to notice the frosty glares.

“I wish to share with you a dance to honor the goddess. Please watch me.”

The crowd seemed too stunned by his pronouncement to even comment on how scandalous it was. Markle felt his own cheeks flush in embarrassment for the dancer. Markle was no stranger to being the oddity in the community, but he never forced it onto anyone else. He kept his eccentric qualities to himself as much as possible.

The dancer removed his cloak and set it to the side. It revealed his somewhat plain face, dark eyes, and a completely hairless head. But not from age. He was youthful, likely no older than Markle. The man’s clothes were simple cotton, and the shirt clung tightly to his chest and the pants gathered at his ankles.

The stranger closed his eyes and steepled his palms together in front of his chest. Slowly, the man lifted his left leg, toe pointed, and stepped forward. He repeated with his right. Though no music played, Markle could almost hear the strum of strings, the chirp of flutes, the beat of drums. The stranger’s body projected the tune with his simple movements.

Next, the dancer added in a swivel of his hips. Markle’s mouth dropped at its suggestive nature. Unbidden images entered his mind, carnal and passionate. The man’s bronze skin naked but flushed with desire, his lips red and raw from sucking, eyelids half closed from sated pleasure.

Markle shivered.

The dancer kicked and twirled, twisting his arms around, fingers almost caressing his own face. A look of ecstasy lit up his dark eyes. He moved with so much grace, like a fish darting through clear water. His motions almost defied gravity as his jumps soared higher. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, adding a glisten to the top of his head. Even though he obviously grew tired, he did not slow down.

Faster and faster he spun until the tension of the room was palpable, the crescendo peaking in tandem. The dancer leaped, his leg kicking up and out, arms spread wide. A dolphin jumping free of the water looked clumsy and uncoordinated in comparison. When he landed, he fell to his knees, his head bowed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

There was silence for a heartbeat then the audience roared with applause and praise. They surged to their feet, those closest patting the man’s shoulders or grasping his hands. The dancer stood, his smile wide and beautiful.

Markle wanted to be closer, to touch the man himself. He nearly pushed the old sailor out of his way to get to the dancer’s side. I have to feel him. I have to…

Blinking, Markle realized he’d been hoodwinked, just like the rest of these fools. The man had been skillful, sure, but so much that Markle was ready to push down the elderly just for a chance to touch his dark skin? Such stupidity.

Fuming, at himself and the dancer, Markle realized he’d had enough. He wanted to get far from this man, and the other drooling idiots in the room.

He grabbed his travel sack and pushed his way past the sailor with a muttered apology. The old man didn’t even notice, he was so intent on the dancer.

Markle made his way to the innkeeper. He had to pull on her elbow twice before she tore her gaze away.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to be shown to my room,” he said.

“Of course, of course. It’s a silver coin for the night, lad.”

Markle nodded and reached into his pouch for the money. His fingers found only air. He looked down, opening the pouch wide, looking for his coins. It was completely empty.

“Lad?” the innkeeper asked, her tone a hair less friendly.

“My money’s gone.”

“If you don’t have enough—” she began.

“I did. After paying for dinner, I had plenty left. A gold coin and about ten silver. Where did it go?”

“Loose stitches on your pouch?”

Markle’s fingers ran around the edge. The stitches were secure, as he knew they would be. He’d sewn this leather pouch himself. “No, it’s fine.”

“Was anyone sitting close enough to take it?”

“Not without me noticing.” He glanced back at the table, trying to spy a sparkle of coins along the floor. There were none.

“Well money just doesn’t disappear. And if you’ve got no coins, not even for a drink, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“But—”

She held up her wooden spoon as if she meant to smack him with it.

“Fine,” he said and went to the door.

Just as he closed it behind him, he heard the dancer say, “Now, if you will kindly watch my next dance.”

Markle scowled into the night. A three-quarter moon gave ample light, but not enough for him to seek assistance from strangers. People were wary of letting in an unknown traveler during the day. It’d be near impossible to find someone willing now. He’d find no help tonight.

It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced to sleep under the stars, but he’d been looking forward to a soft, warm bed. Besides, with no money how was he supposed to finish up his trip to Grincewood? Forage off the land?

Just my luck, he thought as he made his way south, out of town. My curse is following me even here.