Rococoa Read online

  “But you should look, Sister. Turn your own gaze!”

  “I won’t.”

  Onada imagined leeches. She feared to see their heads and eyes, peering up at the water. The fear controlled her. And she began to think that she did not like being controlled by a fear. So, with a force born of a desire not to be controlled, she turned her head toward the creatures. And as she turned to look, she saw the little creature gasping for air and attempting to keep its head above the water. Then in the midst of its struggle, suddenly – quite suddenly – it rose above the waves of the lake…a tiny humanoid creature. Suddenly airborne and with wings!

  “Have we…?” Onada stammered, “just seen the birth of a fae?”

  “We have! We have!” her brother shouted. How delighted they were – clapping their hands in the air and shouting in joy. And at that moment, Onada cared little about the murk of the lake or the dung of mer-men and waterfolk.

  But Nohay too clapped his hands in delight. “How lovely the world can be!” he shouted.

  The fae did not respond, but the joy of that experience stayed with Nohay for many months.

  Some days later, in the early morning in the dark gray winter, in the winter morning and white winter sunlight, with white soft snow covering the hard brown ground, Prince Hark and his flying dragon took Nohay to a little village in the southern continent.

  “I will show you,” he said, “a little woman who is the bringer of dreams.”

  They came upon a little bent old woman walking through the village pulling a cart. “Is this the swatch lady, the bringer of dreams that you’ve told me of?” Nohay asked.

  “How long she has lived here not even the faes know!” the fae prince said. “And how often she creates dreams! Always, always she brings dreams.”

  On her cart, the woman carried baskets of flowers, flower bulbs, small shrubs. Other items too. Fine porcelain cups, painted and fired in white. Iron cooking pots, black as coal against the white snow. As she entered the village square, old women – brown-skinned, pink-skinned, black as night, or pale as snow – left their houses and gathered around her. To some she gave shrubs, bushes. Flower bulbs, pots, cups and kittens were given away. The cart grew emptier and emptier. Only to be refilled with cloth scraps and swatches, made from old kimonos, kente cloth, and hanboks. Cloths of green, red, gold, painted all with flowers, fruit, animals, household goods.

  “Ah, so that is it?” Nohay said. “Is this how they show her their wishes?”

  The fae nodded as the old woman placed the swatches in her cart and returned to the edge of the village to her little house in the middle of a great big yard.

  At home she climbed three steps then opened her door. Inside, she rested while milk thistle tea brewed on the stove. Then, when the tea grew boiling hot, she poured it into a porcelain cup and walked to the back of her big large yard where she sat on a wooden table, snow all around. There, she gathered the swatches from her cart, looked at each cloth scrap intently then frowned or smiled.

  As Nohay watched, he saw that the swatches were many: Blades of green or yellow grass, scenes of flowery meadows, chrysanthemums, fruit, lilies, trees. But there were other swatches as well, of man-made objects; cups and babies and houses woven expertly or exquisitely…or rudely painted on cloth. The old woman studied them all until night fell. Then the moon rose high and she chose several swatches and threw them into the air.

  And suddenly, fruits and vegetables on the cloth swatches became real. Oranges, apples, strawberries began to fall from the sky. Parsnips, beets, and radishes too, fell in a shower like ice and snow atop the snowy ground. One swatch depicted a meadow, and when thrown into the air, it scattered, split apart and suddenly seeds of many flowers fell into the cart and the woman’s yard was transformed into a meadowland. Nohay watched as the old woman gathered them all and placed them inside a clay pot, along with fruits, bulbs, and plants into baskets. But for herself, she also took one of each item. One beet, one parsnip, one radish, one strawberry, one apple, one orange, one apple tree. Then she lay on the grassy meadow smiling.

  “But, this is not the normal working of the world, is it?” Nohay asked the fae. “Have you not taught me about the workings of gardens? That human men dig and toil and plant and reap? Why have you shown me what is not true?”

  “But it is true,” the fae answered him.

  The next morning at early dark dawn the old woman traveled again to the village center.

  “This is hard work,” Nohay said.

  “But this is how the woman makes her living,” Prince Hark answered.

  Again, the old woman gave the village women the fruit of her hard labor. Again, the women gave her swatches. This time some swatches depicted farmhouses, farms, farm animals. Other wishes as well, as a young barren woman gave the old woman a swatch depicting a little baby. But all the while there were villagers who did not seek the old woman’s help.

  When the old woman returned home, the swatches were once again transformed. This time, farmhouses, and cows, goats, fell from the sky. The farmhouse fell as brick and mortar, the cows as baby calves, the goats as fluffy baaing sheep. Outside in her back yard, the old woman perused the swatches given to her. One piece had gold coins on it. She burned that. The other rejected swatches she threw into the air above her head. They disappeared into the night. As for those swatches she liked, a cat, a citre, a flute, and a little baby floated down from the sky. The woman retrieved the baby from the sky and placed him in a little basket/cradle. She put the cat in her arms and lay under the night sky.

  The next morning, she pulled her cart of bricks, mortar, calves, and goats into the village. The baby she held in her arms. The barren woman approached the old woman despairing, not seeing the child for it was visible only to the old woman, Nohay, and the fae. The swatch woman put the invisible baby inside the woman’s belly and said to the barren woman, “Believe.”

  Then she returned to her home. With his telescope, Nohay caught glimpses of the women who had received their gifts. An old woman in her home watched a kitten chase mice near her stove. The barren woman told her husband to create a baby cradle. Another woman gave her son the flute and the child joyfully retreated to the family garden to play it.

  Over and over the daily trips were repeated and Nohay watched the village as it changed, thatched roofs turned into large beautiful farms.

  “I have learned much,” Nohay said.

  “What have you learned?”

  “That the old are powerful,” he said. “But only a few can see their power. For although the village is full of people, only a few seek the old woman’s help.”

  “She will quit this place soon,” the fae said. “For she is no longer needed here. And perhaps she is no longer needed in the world.”

  The next day, a smiling beautiful young man arrived with the village women. Whether he was fae or not, Nohay could not tell. He watched in silence as the man gave the old woman a transparent cloth. Intrigued, she took it and studied the boy’s youthful face. Meanwhile, a frown appeared on the faces of one of the women who had to walk away empty-handed.

  The old woman gathered the swatches given to her, then looked back at the smiling young man with a look of bewilderment. When she returned to her home, she threw the cloth into the air. Slowly nothingness unfolded and enveloped her. Slowly she vanished into it leaving all the swatches the women had given her.

  “Was that the old woman’s dream?” the fae asked. “And what did she give to gain it?”

  “I will try to understand this,” Nohay answered.

  “Of the gifts the Gracious Lord gave you, which will you choose to perfect?”

  “The gifts? The two gifts of music and painting, do you mean?” Nohay asked.

  “Are those the only gifts he gave you?” the fae asked.

  “I think so,” Nohay answered. “But tell me, when will you teach me about our Gracious Lord? The captain, my father, has told me to ask you.”

  “Does he trust me to te
ach you?” the fae asked.

  “He has said that there are a people whose view of God is only of His majesty, His meticulous control, His Power, His sovereignty. But for us, God’s basic essence is Love.”

  “Has he told you all that?” the fae asked, laughing. “Perhaps I have already told you about this God of love.”

  “Have you?” Nohay asked.

  “I have.”

  Nohay sat inside the mechanical dragon watching the world beneath him. Strangely, he found himself loving all that his eyes saw. Human, mer, and fae. The rich and the poor. The pale-skinned and the dark. Male and female. Adults, children, the aged. Sick, healthy, or lame.

  “And what is the gift you will use most from our Lord?” Prince Hark asked.

  “I will love and honor all as I love and honor myself, and as I love and honor our Lord,” Nohay answered. “For has the Good Lord of Light not made me and all creatures to be as an excellent machine as this dragon of yours. And am I not an Instrument of God to show His love to all?”

  “Indeed,” the fae answered, “you have learned much. And will you be strong enough to commit to this love?”

  “Perhaps I would not have been strong if I had not met you, Prince Hark. But the things I have seen! The hearts I have seen!”

  FOOL’S ERRAND

  Gerald L. Coleman

  The morning heat might have been oppressive and stifling, were it not for the cool breeze blowing in off the sea. The city of Alhamara hugged the coastline like a small child clutching her mother’s leg, at the very northernmost tip of Senegal. It was actually a kind of cape, sticking out into the ocean just south of the Western Sahara. The French held sway in Senegal. The Europeans were carving up the continent like it was a loaf of bread. So, though Alhamara sat on the western coast of Africa, it was as much a French city as an African one. The city smelled of spice, molasses, and saltwater. It was early, so the sweet smell of freshly, baked bread filled his nose. His stomach growled. Nothing made him hungrier, faster, than the smell of recently, baked bread.

  While it was still early, the streets of Alhamara were not deserted. Hannibal passed merchants on their way, presumably, to the docks. Most were overweight Frenchmen dressed like peacocks. Brightly-colored silk strained at the seams while the sweaty merchants huffed and puffed down the street. Some had their hands full of rolled pieces of parchment, while others were busy fussing at bowing servants. Hannibal sucked his teeth at the sight. He despised men like that. A tall, pale, chubby fellow, with a double-chin, in a ridiculously oversized, black hat with a red plume, caught his eye. He wore a black, wool coat and tunic with a red, silk shirt. White stockings ended in black, leather shoes, with a large, silver buckle. The man looked Hannibal directly in the face as he approached. He had been berating a young woman who was carrying several packages, while, simultaneously, trying to duck her head. Hannibal must have been scowling because the man swallowed hard and, immediately, crossed to the other side of the street. The oaf walked on in silence, at least until Hannibal was out of earshot. He sucked at his teeth one more time and tried to put it out of his mind. Rounding the corner, of the cobblestoned street, Hannibal passed a bakery, cheese shop, and wine merchant before reaching his destination. With a slight smile, replacing the scowl he had been wearing on his face, he ducked into La Course de Fou. It was time for breakfast.

  Ebrima ran a nice, clean establishment. The Mandinka was of average height and several shades darker than Hannibal. There was an easy smile on his face, which showed nearly all of his bright, white teeth, as Hannibal stepped through the open doorway. The tavern Keep dressed like a Frenchman. His shirt was bright green beneath a white apron. He nodded to Hannibal from behind the dark-stained, wooden bar.

  Hannibal found an empty table in the back, where he could sit with his back against the wall. Lowering himself into the padded chair, he removed his wide-brimmed, gray, felt hat, placing it gently on the table. He turned it so the purple plume, sticking out from the wide band, pointed away from him. The hat’s buckle, decorating the front of the silk, gray band, gleamed as it caught a stray ray of light from the open windows. Without thought, he adjusted the matching set of wheel-lock pistols, stuck in the sash at his waist. Leaning back in the chair, he pulled up on the large, rectangular, buckle of his leather belt. It made the hilt of his slightly-curved saber cant forward a bit on his left hip. With a sigh, Hannibal lifted his leg, and placed a booted-foot in the chair to his left.

  It did not take long for a serving maid to appear at his table. She was an attractive, brown-eyed girl named Nyima. Nyima was also dressed in the French style. A short-sleeved, tight-fitted, white blouse, which tied up the front, was tucked into a long, brown, pleated skirt. The young woman did, however, have very non-French, shell-covered, leather bracelets around her wrists. She smelled of frankincense. After telling Hannibal her name was Nyima, she took his breakfast request. With a curtsey, fit for a European court, Nyima flashed him a smile before heading to the kitchen. It was not long before Hannibal was sipping coffee out of a small, porcelain cup. It was a strong Ethiopian brew, to which he added a bit of sugar. Soon, breakfast followed. Nyima brought him a plate with a square of sharp, yellow cheese, a thick slice of dark bread, and a small bowl of hot oats with honey. It was simple fare, but it was prepared well. The oats were not too thin, and the bread was fresh.

  The tavern was only half-full, but Hannibal glanced around the main room while he ate. The windows were open so there was plenty of light and fresh air blowing in. The tables were sturdy and spaced nicely. There were paintings on the walls. Several young women cleaning and waited on the tables. And while the mood was neither raucous or unruly, a large, brooding fellow sat near the door. It was the opposite of a lot of the places Hannibal visited. Taverns were usually darkly-lit, cramped, smelly affairs. But while Ebrima may have taken on European airs in his dress, he had not adopted the tendency to neglect his place of business in order to extract every ounce of coin from it. La Course de Fou was well-kept. Even the serving maids seemed happy.

  Nyima appeared out of nowhere to refill his cup with coffee. He returned her smile as she turned to leave. While he sipped the strong, sweet brew, he took note of the other patrons. Alhamara was a port city, so it was no surprise that the clientele was diverse. Hannibal spotted two French sailors, three Senegalese men who might have been from the countryside, and a few merchants. Everyone seemed busy with their own discussions. He noticed smoked fish, olives, and wine, bread and cheese with mead, as well as plates of soft, boiled eggs with bread and tea.

  Hannibal finished his own breakfast. He did not have to wait for more than a few moments before Nyima was there to whisk away his dirty plate and pour him more coffee. As he brought the delicate, silver-wrapped cup to his lips for a sip of the freshly-poured brew, a young couple in traditional Berber robes entered the tavern. The woman was on the small side, but she moved with an air of authority. The young man was a little bit taller. He wore a large, red kaftan, covered in gold brocade, over a blue shirt with matching, billowy pants. His soft, red shoes curled sharply at the toe. A red and gold head wrap was wound around his forehead, covering his head, down to his neck. The young woman was dressed just as colorfully. Her shirt and long skirt, were blue with gold brocade covering it in intricate designs. She wore a very short jacket with long sleeves. Gold brocade covered the sleeves, from wrist to elbow, and then picked up again at the shoulder. Her black hair hung down her back with a headdress, made of golden chain with tiny coins hanging, at equal lengths, across her forehead. Her wrists and fingers were decorated with gold bracelets and rings. Their complexion was somewhere between the very dark-brown of Ebrima, and the light-brown of Hannibal’s own.

  The new arrivals stood in the doorway while they scanned the interior of the tavern. After glancing over the tables, they found an empty one in the corner. Hannibal watched as one of the serving maids made her way to the table. The young couple looked over their coin and then spoke briefly with the maid. She s
miled and nodded before heading for the kitchen. Hannibal turned his own attention back to his cup. As he turned the cup up to empty it, he noticed a small group of rough looking men enter the tavern. They took one look around before their gaze landed on the young couple. They smiled among themselves. Hannibal already knew what was coming.

  Placing his hat on his head, Hannibal rose quietly from his chair. He moved calmly toward a spot between the young couple and oncoming group of what looked like sailors fresh off their boat. Hannibal was not sure why the young couple had gotten their attention, but they did. Maybe it was her jewelry. Maybe it was the fact that they were clearly new in town. Whatever the reason, these louts had decided to do something about it.

  They were ahalf-dozen paces from the young couple’s table when Hannibal bumped into them, spilling what was left of his coffee on the man in the lead. He threw the coffee forward as he feigned bumping into the man so that he did not get any on his own coat. Hannibal’s long coat and matching tunic were made from expensive wool and he would have hated to need a cleaner after this was over, especially since purple was a difficult color to make, according to his clothier. It would be difficult to remove coffee stains without affecting the color.

  One whiff told him the men were just off their ship. They smelled of rum and the need of a long overdue bath. He had seen the type often enough. So what came next was as predictable as the tide.

  They all stumbled to a halt. The fellow he spilled his coffee on, presumably their leader, looked down at his filthy shirt, as if he could tell the difference between the coffee stain and the other grime on it. It must have been white at some point, but that was a long time ago. The man was almost as tall as Hannibal. His dull, brown hair was matted. His teeth were rotting in his mouth. His clothes were frayed around the edges. When he spoke, it became clear that he was British.

  A hand on a British merchant ship then, Hannibal thought. Their captain was likely a small cog in a larger merchant wheel. Had their ship’s master been an independent contractor they would have been paid better.