by J. M. Cyrus
in Issue 140, September 2023
Mino was alone when he saw the fayre’s boats round the rocky stacks and arches at the north end of his island. He stood at the top of a scrubby, bouldered hill, and watched the colourful vessels round the formations, and into the wide enclosure of Murano Bay. Some of the smaller crafts wove their way between the stacks, as if playing.
It was mid-morning, and the sun warmed the salt-scented breeze. It had been an ordinary day, and yet now it most certainly was not.
Behind him down the steep slope, his village nestled in the embrace of other rough hills, its tidy harbour connecting it to the sea. To his left the ocean stretched to the horizon, other islands of the Occidental Archipelago making grey-green punctuation marks in the blue, sequinned water. To his right, the sun rose over the island’s centre, more rocky hills and a few hard-won terraces of farmland. And before him, down a precipitous rock face, was Murano Bay, into which the boats headed.
Well, Mino was not actually entirely alone. His parents’ twoscore braying goats were with him, nibbling at the brave, hardy herbs bristling between the hill’s rubble.
From his vantage point, he could usually daydream relatively undisturbed (apart from some hairy snuffles every now and then). He’d spent hours on one specific craggy rock watching the horizon with lovesick devotion, wondering what lay beyond it, yearning for inspiration on how to see the world beyond Ithkla island; perhaps to the archipelago’s furthest islands, or maybe even the mainland.
Or failing that, for something to happen; a mermaid shoal, a dragon flying between the puffy clouds, a fight between lightning nymphs, or even pirates. Anything.
And here was something.
Excitement filled his body like hot air, making him giddy. Later he may deny it, tears gathered in his eyes. He didn’t move, frozen in thrill, watching the crafts make their way into the bay.
The boats were a multifarious group, a variety of sizes, shapes, colours, apparent origins, ages and levels of decrepitude. The largest vessel led the group, proud and voluptuous, pulled by a dozen tame seal cows; each animal a few thousand kilos of muscular friendliness. Smaller crafts followed close, some attached, others powered by oars or pedals.
Mino could see the long, low houseboats of the Brumpont; the curvaceous, open forms of the eastern Scimitars; and the stack-like tugs of the Hemlechs; as well as others he could not identify. The breadth of the Long Continent was before him.
The largest boat was painted in bright turquoise and gold, as if it were a creature of the sea itself. The smaller crafts flew flags in the same colours, visually uniting the maelstrom into a community.
Mino would recognise the central boat and its colour scheme anywhere.
The Travelling Fayre of Señor Monteluz.
Mino had never seen the fayre in person, but he knew of it from reading. He hoarded the few salt-stained books that made it to his island, gorging on the world beyond his own. (For, depending on whom you speak to, the Occidental Archipelago was the edge of the world, the centre of the world, or the whole world.) He’d devoured every sketch, account and story he could find.
Once the boats were within the bay, Mino saw agile, acrobatic people clamber across the ropes connecting the boats, and others diving into the water to lead the flotilla.
The bay’s beach lay waiting, curved as an eyelash. It was a wide, flat expanse of pebbles of multicoloured sea glass. The beach was rarely used by the islanders, other than the occasional child searching for exciting-shaped glass; they preferred the village’s sandy beach and harbour. Even the turtles didn’t come often, and the beach was usually left to itself.
Ropes were thrown between the boats, connecting them into a raft-up. The seal cows were released, and promptly made for the beach where they flopped. People overflowed from the crafts. Unpacking commenced.
Crates and boxes were carried above heads through the shallows, or rowed on small crafts. The distant sounds of hammering, wordless singing and calling back and forth carried on the eddying breeze.
The hot sun layered Mino’s skin, solarising his private wishes and steaming his daydreams into insubstantial wisps of longing, desire and hope.
***
A whisper on the breeze of sound and smell, with things glimpsed beyond the silk. A hint at impossible, glorious, secret, incipient things. Standing on the precipice of potential, with the imminent and vibrant maybes, feels a burden-free honour. One can only delight in the variety of so many could-bes becoming can-bes.
***
Hours passed in Mino’s watching. He followed the fayre’s adept figures, their rhythmic industry simultaneously calming and thrilling.
He thought he could identify performers based on their behaviour. Some cartwheeled whilst carrying small items, so could be acrobats. Others must be the strongmen and women, carrying large items in showy, one-handed grips. Dancers step-ball-changed their way along the beach, and musicians sang in tones beautiful even at this distance.
The troupe seemed to know his island. They’d approached at high tide, and had moored their boats where they’d still be in water when it was low tide. From what Mino could interpret of their set up, it appeared they were constructing an avenue with the entrance end (if he’d interpreted the archway correctly) at the place one would enter the beach when approaching from the island’s village.
Mino tried to remember what could be within the fayre, what could be within each stall and tent, and what could adorn each stage.
He’d always hoped to see it, ever since he’d first read about it. But never had he thought the fayre would come to him. He’d fantasised a few times that when he was older, wealthier, an explorer or rich traveller, he’d come across it somewhere exotic on the mainland; and would be a special guest on account of his own success.
But that it would be here, on Ithkla itself, that was remarkable. It felt as if fortune beamed.
As he mused, he watched the tantalising industry below.
He was wrenched from his reverie by nudging of the goats. The routine-led creatures knew it was time to head home out of the midday sun.
***
It can sometimes appear to visitors that the fayre rises out of the ground or sea as if by magic or some autochthonous means. But that would be to deny the skill of the peoples who give their life to the fayre. With remarkable synchronicity and compassionate teamwork, they create a glorious space in very little time.
They create a place where visitors can distract themselves from the humdrum, the everyday and the earth-shattering for a little while; and they do so very close to their visitors’ homes.
***
Mino made his way downhill; his responsibilities beckoning.
He stumbled a few times in excitement. He was of typical archipelago build, adept-limbed and nimble-footed both on steep hills and in water. His was a body adapted to conquering uneven slopes, chasing goats, working hard beneath a warm sun, and swimming in clear tidal waters. But after what he’d seen, his usual competent self-possession changed to clumsiness.
He was conscious of his thumping heart as he scrambled, the goats braying beside him. Some thought it a game, and raced him.
“You’re late. Were you daydreaming again? Are the goats alright?” Mino’s father asked as Mino directed the goats into their paddock by the house.
Mino shook his head. “The goats’re fine and I wasn’t daydreaming. I was watching the fayre come into Murano Bay.”
“The what now?”
“The Fayre of Señor Monteluz. It’s come to Ithkla!”
“Is this another one of those things from your books, Mino? You making this up?”
Mino rolled his eyes and went indoors to receive instructions from his mother.
His mind continued to wander whilst he swept the terrace, fed the chickens, washed windows, descaled fish and ground meal.
His mother said nothing about his sighing silences as he worked. Mino didn’t notice her concerned looks.
She’d always known Mino to be different. His stares at the horizon were too long, his love for books too adoring, and his interests lay far beyond their island world. He seemed older than his nineteen years, all his reading giving him a worldliness if not in practice but in potential. He’d still been a child when she knew he’d one day leave the island.
“You know I love you, don’t you, Mino?” she asked him.
“Huh? What? Oh, yes. I love you too, Mam,” Mino answered, fish scales making his hands glitter.
His eyes hazed over again as his mind returned to the scene that must be unfolding on Murano Bay.
***
The Long Continent, with all its components and edge nations (such as the Occidental Archipelago or the northern protrusion of Thrandala beyond the rocky mountains) is a rich and diverse place. There are many talents and skills potential in its peoples, and the Travelling Fayre prides itself on being the land’s microcosm, the world made small. In the concentrated essence of the plethora, with many talents and abilities present, one can look upon one’s own bubble with renewed love, respect and wonder.
***
In mid-afternoon a man came to the village. He played a set of black glass pipes as he walked through the central square. The villagers exited their houses to see and listen.
He stood in the square’s centre, and played before his audience. He wore a turquoise jacket embroidered with gold boats. He had an elaborately curled moustache. His voice was strong, unaccented, and commanding, and echoed as he called.
“Greetings, kind people of the Occidental Archipelago! The Travelling Fayre of Señor Monteluz will be open for visitors for one evening and night only! Come to Murano Bay when the sun hits the horizon, and we’ll open our gates to wonders you’ve never imagined!”
With a flourish, he removed a handful of black sand from his pocket and threw it to the ground. It hit the floor with a loud, multi-tonal bang, and out of the puffing vapour erupted figures that stayed for a handful of moments before disappearing. A dancing woman in long skirts and trailing ribbons; a contortionist walking on their hands with their feet tucked beneath their armpits; a man playing a stretching, brass trombande; a person holding a juggling halfling on just their hand; a man carrying a tray of pastries and sweets, throwing twinkling sugared nuts into the assembled crowd; and smiling women dressed in turquoise blowing kisses, and scattering dissolving, golden flowers towards the audience.
The crowd gasped, watching the flowers fall like sequins, the taste of sugared almonds fading on their tongues. By the time the last flower touched the ground, the flowers and figures were gone and the man was nowhere to be seen.
Mino grinned with joy.
***
The travelling fayre does not usually forewarn its arrival, but rumours appear with amazing simultaneity to its appearance and construction. Surrounding towns, villages, and even islands, have enough time to arrive for its truly marvellous display.
Though there are many audience members, I am sure, who’d prefer the fayre was there only for them, and that they wouldn’t have to share its magnificence.
***
The afternoon stagnated. Mino shook with impatience, his hands unsteady and his throat tight. He found it difficult to finish any train of thought, even excited, anticipatory ones. Daydreams and rational thoughts blurred together into ephemera.
From his parents’ house he heard the harbour become busier, as boats from the closest few dozen islands arrived, bringing visitors ready for the fayre. The village’s only tavern filled.
But finally, the sun began a downward heading. The whole village plus its friendly invaders walked the craggy path to the bay.
Mino went with his friends, silent and half listening to their chat as they navigated their way through herb-scented rocks, accompanied by insect music.
***
The colours of turquoise and gold feel very apt given the fayre’s arrival by water. I always saw it as reminiscent of a precious gem from the waters or some exotic sea beast.
Though, of course, the fayre isn’t limited to just coastal or island destinations. There are accounts of the boats becoming carts and carriages, of the seal cows becoming horses, and the fayre setting off inland.
Whether this is a tale of metamorphosis, of skill or of merely transferable packing, that remains to be fully discovered. What’s important to take away from the tales is that no minor inconvenience such as terrain will deter the fayre from travel.
Regardless of where they are, the colour scheme remains the same, and stands out in resplendent, dreamlike beauty.
***
The bay had changed when they exited from the rocks. A wide expanse was now fenced off by a navy silk hanging curtain, embroidered in turquoise and gold like a celestial display. In the horizontal evening sunlight, and the faint lights beyond the hanging, the silk was almost translucent, what could be just beyond tantalising, insubstantial glimpses.
Mino and the rest were silently mesmerised. They watched the sun’s gradual inching towards the horizon, and tried to see through the silk.
Occasionally an evening breeze would carry the scent of more than the sea: an unknown herb, a dulcet sweetness, or the headiness of a non-native flower.
The sea glass crunched beneath their feet. Beneath the trailing curtains, Mino saw woven rugs in blues and greens, like a freshwater river.
Mino’s palms itched and the back of his neck prickled in anticipation.
“When will they open, Mummy?” a small child spoke.
“We have to watch the horizon, sweetness,” the mother whispered.
“I’m getting bored waiting!” Mino’s friend Gan muttered to him, and Mino smiled, weakly. Mino felt adrift in his personal bubble of excitement. What would he give to be the only one standing on the beach, the curtains opening for only him.
Stifled cackling sounded further away in the crowd, and Mino and Gan twisted to see. A group of youths from the next island over, known for being troublemakers, were sharing an inside joke. It involved pointing at members of the crowd.
“Ugh, why are they here?” Gan muttered. Mino didn’t answer, but wished they hadn’t come. He always gave them a wide berth when he saw them, but here there was no choice.
A child exclaimed, “Look, Papa! The sun!”
The sun nudged the sea horizon, its radiant orange-yellow beauty glowing as it kissed its reflection.
With a whispering hush the curtains were pulled aside by unseen hands. A seal was broken. Scents and sounds tumbled through the air, a delicious maelstrom of baking, perfumes, music and friendly chatter, beckoning the crowd.
Stalls packed with wares and small stages with performers were visible. The avenue curved, a sweeping corner hinting at more delights beyond. Trained fireflies crossed between the stalls at roof level, adding sparkling illumination. Quartz birds slept at the zenith of each stall, glowing as they dozed. These almost spherical birds were renowned both for being very lazy and very visible. Their unsuitability for the wild didn’t matter, as they made great pets, and were very handy for lighting.
Flags and bunting in the same turquoise and gold hung across the path and atop the stalls.
The same man from earlier appeared from the side, arms wide in welcome.
“Welcome all! How glorious of you to join us! Welcome to my Travelling Fayre! May you all find something to delight you!” His voice boomed but echoed less than before. His moustache shone in the setting sunlight. “Please proceed past my darling colleague Clarita, you can claim your tickets and tokens from her.”
The islanders were funnelled to the ticket booth, tokens of painted leather were received, and they were released into the avenue of stalls.
***
The first entry can never be repeated. The scent on the air of the fayre’s fare, the sound of carrying music and chatter, and the immense feeling of so much to discover is heady and bittersweet. Nothing can compare.
But you only have your first entry once. Thankfully the fayre’s residents understand, and the balance of nourishment, entertainment and moments to make you think are carefully balanced as you have your first wandering instances.
Before you even enter, there’s a seal interwoven with the silk. Tantalising intimations of scents merely hint at temptation, without giving anything away until it is precisely the right time to do so; when the curtains are pulled aside.
***
Mino entered with slow, awed steps, eyes wide and mouth open. He clutched his leather pieces, and he gazed around, desperate to remember it all. He both wanted to see everything and have plenty more to discover.
The first few stalls sold snacks. Towering glass canisters stood on the counter tops containing purple and pink liquids. Pastries so tiny they could fit in the hand of a child were displayed on long trays, herb-speckled savouries and sugar-powdered sweets.
In a small stage in the centre of the walkway just past the ticket booth, a halfling man played the same glass pipes that Señor Monteluz had played in the village. A creamy melody of nostalgic excitement played, welcoming everybody inside. The man’s widely spaced facial features and folded ears hinted at a Llamados heritage; he was a long way from his wet valley home.
Mino took his time. With lingering looks at the food and drink he went on. Though his stomach churned and flipped, he didn’t feel like eating. He wanted to see more.
A few dozen feet beyond was another central stage. A group of five identical Noriko women balanced atop one another, their lips and eyelids painted gold. They switched places and the design of their acrobatic towers every few seconds in a gentle undulation. Their black outfits were embroidered in turquoise in loops and swirls that seemed to leave one outfit and enter another as the women moved. Mino felt his own body tense, a muscular hunger to do what they could.
“Oh, Mino, look, Hettie’s here. Let’s go say hi,” Gan said as they watched the acrobats.
“No, you go ahead,” Mino turned and saw Gan’s crush by a food stall. “I’m not that hungry. I’m happy to look around by myself and let you two be.”
“You sure?” Gan looked hopeful.
“Definitely. Couldn’t be more sure I want to give you two time alone.”
As Gan walked away, Mino took a relieved breath. He could now explore without interruption.
He paused, the scent of pastries lay gentle on the breeze, and the sound of music and excited chatter surrounded him. The moment hung precious, and he felt anything was possible.
With a last look at the acrobats, he moved on.
***
The fayre’s food would be reason alone to visit. There are delectable sweets and savouries, with ingredients from all over the Long Continent. Soft fruits. Cream-filled pastries. Melting cheeses and warm breads. Fruit juices served so cold their metal cups sweat condensation. Candied nuts. Herbed dough. Colourful, vegetable filled, salted, oily dishes that taste even better beneath starlight.
It’s probably a good idea to recommend should you ever come to the Travelling Fayre of Señor Monteluz you should remember to bring plenty of willpower with you. It’s a test for even the most iron of wills.
One particular pastry made at the fayre is called ribbons. Using a portable oven, the bakers heat thick poles of iron over the fire to red hot. When hot enough, and this is usually measured by when flicked water droplets sizzle to steam, a long ribbon of raw dough is wrapped round the iron. The iron rods with dough are returned to the oven, and baked to a crisp.
When the coiled, flaking, golden pastry is pulled off, it’s sprinkled with gem sugar granules, syrups, spices, and dried and fresh fruits. It’s enough to make any person, child or adult, weep for seconds.
***
Mino looked at stalls and their goods. There were tusks and geodes from the distant cold north, dried grasses and hides from the far south plains, elaborate paintings from the exotic east, instruments from the central valleys, and temptingly brand new clothes from the western edge of the mainland, so close and yet so far.
He touched things he’d only read about; beautiful, impractical things. Capes made of downy feathers, white silk shirts, elaborate earrings that would hang to his shoulder and ornate rings that would weigh his hands down.
At another stage, two women played flutes and pipes in carved wood, summoning golden-tailed moths that danced in loops, glittering in the quartz bird light. Mino felt his own heart soar with the beating of their wings.
He heard his own thoughts mouthed in the words of his peers and neighbours, children sighing, and couples whispering to each other about the wondrous things they were seeing, smelling, tasting and hearing.
***
The stalls of the travelling fayre are the most abundant of its attractions. They’re equal in importance to its food, drink and performers, and they display the many talents of the Long Continent.
As well as artisan-made jewellery and clothing in precious materials, trinkets and sentimental items are available. There have been many young couples who found promise charms for each other at this fayre.
There are books, art, ornaments and objects of practical use. There are fresh flowers from all corners of the world, as if picked mere seconds ago.
There are also many items seemingly composed of hope and fantasy.
There’s a man who can sell you emotions made into solid crystal, geode-like and sparkling. When held you can see them glow with your own feeling.
A woman sells dreams: jars of mists in every colour on the spectrum, pearlescent looping wisps in unfelt breezes. With a breath of the mist before sleeping, you’re ensured lucid, transporting, delightful dreams that leave you revitalised come morning.
***
Mino met her eyes from afar, and his fayre changed.
She was one of eight living statues gathered onstage. They were dressed in grey-blue, like the sky after the sun had just set. The glow of the birds and bugs made them ethereal.
Mino couldn’t take his eyes off the tallest woman. If she’s been beside him on the floor she would’ve been at least a foot and a half taller than he. She was broad and strong, her large bones telling of a southern yellow plain heritage. She towered over her companions, but was just as still. Mino found her face hypnotic, and wished to see her move.
Beside him some islanders muttered about exotic bodies. A child shuffled closer, and the living statues moved.
As one they did a gentle sweeping rotation, switching places in smooth, fluid motion. The extension of elegant arms went all the way from shoulder to the very end of the fingertip, seeming to finish in mid-air beyond.
The child yelped, and the audience laughed. Mino smiled and thought he saw a shadow of a smile at the corner of the tall woman’s mouth.
He stayed, hoping to see another movement. The crowd shifted and morphed, people leaving, others joining.
When the living statues next moved, Mino followed their fluid actions. His eyes drifted to the tall woman.
At their penultimate motion, the statue performers produced golden flowers from nowhere and offered them to their closest audience member, bowing their heads. The woman held hers to Mino. He could see the taut muscles in her forearm, the delicacy with which she held the flower in her large hand, and he could hear her small breaths. Before she bowed her head, she met his gaze for a moment that felt both eternal and kind.
As they paused, Mino and the others took the offered flowers. Once they had, the performers immediately twirled in together, crouched, and pulled some navy silk from the floor. They draped it over themselves, and vanished. The silk fell to the floor, swooping in an airy puff to flat.
The stage was empty. The applause was loud and full of astonishment.
***
This leads me rather handily onto the performers within the fayre. Because even though it’s a fayre with stalls and goods, the performers uphold the air of mystery and awe.
There are, of course, the usual fire tamers, sword swallowers and musicians. The fire tamers with painted faces and oiled tongues, are outfitted in sequins that reflect the blown fire. The sword swallowers with broad smiles and sharpened teeth, hold long rust-free, glinting swords. The musicians play instruments from all over the Long Continent, combining it with spectacular vocal talent into songs of such sweetness and sorrow.
There are also contortionists and ribbon dancers, who dance with body, costume and trailing fabric making flexible, sinuous shapes. There are acrobats who defy gravity in their leaps and lifts, somewhere close to birds.
But there are also dream weavers, who can spin you a miniature tapestry of a treasured dream. Singers who can paint with their voices in trails of luminous colour. Magicians who can make the cards dance. And gardeners who can grow your favourite flower with a whisper. And plenty others besides.
The fayre is fortunate in being able to welcome new talent into its folds, constant reinvention ensuring it’s a place that continually defies definition. There’s always something new to be discovered, even for those who inhabit it.
***
A stall displayed glass orbs of varying sizes, ranging from an inch diameter to more than a foot. Smoothly shining from the firefly light and the still dozing quartz birds, they held mysteries. Some were clouded white, hinting at shapes beyond the vapour mist. Others were clear as a drop of water, refracted upside down images within. The coloured ones’ tones shifted in the moving light.
Before the stall stood a mage. He had an ankle-length plaited red beard, and a gold floppy hat hung over his right shoulder.
He held what appeared to be a skein of green thread, which he stretched and twisted. He smiled at Mino, and Mino paused.
“What’s your favourite animal, young man?”
Mino shrugged, “I don’t have a favourite.” He thought of animals he wanted to see, and of the grumpy goats and chickens he had met.
The mage winked. “Do you like fish?” Before Mino could answer, the mage twisted the skein and three of the glass balls glowed and morphed, as if heated like blown glass, shifting into fish shapes.
With a flick from nose to tail, they swam through the air, circling the mage’s head and swimming before Mino. With rippling fins and glittering scales they swam against a current no one could see.
A crowd gathered. The mage created dancing butterflies, swooping tropical birds, tiny prancing horses, and miniature roaring bears; eliciting sighs and gasps from the group.
Mino felt a figure beside him, and turned to see the elegant form of Señor Monteluz.
“How do you like my fayre?”
“It’s wonderful, sir.” Mino said, his tone betraying wonder and longing.
“Isn’t it just?” Señor Monteluz followed Mino’s eyes to the mage’s dancing, illuminated illusions.
Mino nodded and sighed when the glass peacock opened its sparkling tail.
“Just stunning.” Señor Monteluz said, and Mino saw him meet eyes with the mage. The mage blushed and looked away.
“It feels good to be back,” he continued.
“Back?” Mino asked, shyly.
“Why yes! I’m just a simple archipelago boy myself!”
“What, really?”
He nodded. “Though I come from an even smaller island than this, Thrandala in the south.” He took a deep breath and looked around, beyond the stalls to the towering hills and canopy of night sky. “I think you understand how you can love a home, but also wish for a place beyond it.”
Mino nodded, feeling he was being read.
They were silent whilst a trio of glass songbirds sang in chiming tones. Mino turned back to the man in turquoise, who watched him intently.
“It really is wonderful, sir. I feel very lucky to have seen your fayre. I wish I could be here everyday.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it! We go where we know we’ll be enjoyed.”
Mino felt his sense of wonder peel away to insecurity. He was being examined.
“And also,” Señor Monteluz continued, “We go where we think we may find more kindred spirits.” He paused, eyes flicking between Mino’s own. “You seem a good young man. Though we leave in the morning, if you’re serious, come back at sunrise. We can have an offer for you, if you truly mean what you say.”
Mino was stunned into silence.
He turned back to the mage. A wriggling glass snake entwined itself around the mage’s arm, glass folds shining, and glass tongue flicking, tasting the air. It coiled about his hand and stretched towards a couple at the front of the crowd. The younger man hid in the older man’s shoulder, and the older man laughed.
By the time Mino had turned back to Señor Monteluz, he was gone.
***
The Travelling Fayre of Señor Monteluz prides itself on the variety of its complement. Señor Monteluz has collected the most talented, friendly, fun, and prolific performers, craftspeople and sales people that could be hoped for from all the plethora of the Long Continent.
He’s been known to collect people who look far beyond themselves, who wish for something more than the confines of their landscape. He seeks out the perpetually curious, those who look upon each new dawn with a sense of adventure, the daydreamers, the lovesick and the willing.
People don’t usually volunteer, since it’s almost impossible to track the fayre. Instead it’s as if he hears their eagerness and motivation on the wind, and comes for them.
***
Mino passed the seal cow pen. The pen was large, extending all the way to the water, with a narrow section that allowed the friendly, curious creatures a view of the main thoroughfare through a wooden fence. A thickly sideburned man watched them as children approached and touched the animals’ paw-flippers. He gave them snacks to feed the animals, and encouraged the bestowing of scritches.
Whilst Mino contemplated what Señor Monteluz had offered him and tried to memorise everything he saw, he saw the tall woman again. There was a competitive stall, where she was the opponent. Dressed in a bodysuit of layered golden folded leaves, seven feet of oiled muscular magnificence, she lifted children in her hands with ease, held barrels on her shoulders, and completed feats with a sigh that islanders failed with reddening faces, puffed cheeks and audible groans.
Beside the barrel piles and grain bags, several large mirrors stood watch. The fruit and leaves along their edges shifted in an unseen breeze.
Mino tried not to look at her, whilst also very much looking at her. She enchanted him, and Señor Monteluz’s questions danced in his head like the prancing glass animals.
Mino paused at a book stall just across the avenue, managing to distract himself from the woman with the illuminated pages. He became engrossed in illustrations of distant places and travel and adventure stories.
He was roused from a reverie of reading by something by the animal pen.
The group of youths from the next island were giggling, passing something from hand to hand. Four animals at the fence watched them with an oddly human expression of suspicion. The keeper was nowhere to be seen.
Mino glanced at the stallholder, and they wordlessly exchanged a look of concern.
Everything happened very quickly.
The seal cows let out a sudden scream of angered annoyance. The teenagers opened the pen’s side gate, and the animals reared on their wide back feet. Four barrelled out of the pen into the fayre’s main avenue. A seal cow is eight foot tall from ground to shoulder. They’re usually gentle of nature and disposition, but something had made them absolutely furious.
The laughing of the youths followed them as they careened away. Mino didn’t know what to do. He watched as they ran in various directions.
The pen’s neighbouring stallholders had admirable self-possession, and surrounded one, catching it between them. That left three.
One of those found a gap between a stall and a stage, and ran through, knocking over a table of wide hooped metal chains as it made for the beach. Fayre staff ran after it, the sword swallower leaving his sword behind.
Another ran into the stall of hanging ribbons, confusing itself amongst the trailing colours. The woman who ran the stall persuaded it to sit. It crooned in a confused rumble as she untangled it.
The last one, however, was the most skittish, and also the largest. It ran from one direction to the other, fayre delegates pulling back whilst also creating an inadvertent pen. It was visibly nervous, and made for a gap beside Mino. Its usually entirely black eyes were wide, showing an outline of white.
Mino panicked and froze, the gigantic beast lumbering for him. He looked away, for help, guidance, or rescue; and he saw the tall woman.
She’d dropped the barrel she’d been lifting. As the animal ran for Mino, her demeanour changed to serious intent. She reached into the mirror beside her, fingers tangling in the reflective glass surface like wrinkling cloth. With a sweeping yank she pulled it, the glass behaving like fabric as she wrapped it round her like a cape.
The glass enfolded her, becoming armour within moments, covering her from neck to floor.
She ran, much faster than the animal, catching it easily. With a strong leap she jumped onto its shoulders. Mino heard the crowd whoop in amazement, but his emotions felt frozen in his panic.
The woman bent to whisper into the seal cow’s ear. It reared once, and stopped. It was only a metre away from Mino. Mino sat on the floor in shock, a book still clutched in his hand. He was impressed and felt a few other things too, whilst looking at the resplendent reflective curves of the armoured woman atop the seal cow’s high shoulders.
The animal panted and emitted a low, almost inaudible whine.
The woman dismounted, whispering gentle platitudes in the animal’s ear as she did so. She came round to its front, and the animal nuzzled her head and shoulder. They touched foreheads.
Behind the diffused chaos, Mino could see the youths being held by several members of his village and Señor Monteluz approaching with the mage, displeasure writ large.
“Are you alright?” The woman turned to Mino, who looked at her from his prone position, distracted from watching everything about them.
He nodded, unable to speak.
She approached, and offered him her hand. Her mirrored form glowed in the fayre’s lighting, and from his prone position she was backgrounded by stars.
“Th-th-thank you,” he stammered as he took her hand. He was conscious of the dust on his. Her hand was very hot, rough calluses across the palm. It enfolded his completely, large, gentle and reassuring.
As he stood, their eyes didn’t leave each other’s. Mino felt dizzy from excitement, the moving fireflies twinkling and making the edges of his vision spin. They paused for a moment, just looking. Though he had to look up to her, he felt strengthened in her gaze.
“What’s your name?” The woman smiled as she spoke, a magnetic, teasing smile.
“Mino,” he answered, swallowing, his ears roaring.
“Nice to meet you, Mino. I’m Smyrna.”
***
I’ll remember the first time I saw the fayre for the rest of my days. I’ll forever look upon that day as a turning point, a precipice, a moment from which the world didn’t look the same for me, and wouldn’t be the same for me. It was as if the very concepts of colour and texture themselves were changed. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
© September 2023, J. M. Cyrus
J. M. Cyrus is a speculative fiction writer living in London, England. She writes whenever there is a chance, and reads even when there isn’t one. She holds a master’s degree in Reception Theory and wrote her thesis on the reader’s journey. She usually writes short stories, but poetry occasionally strikes. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in anthologies from Improbable Press and Patchwork Raven, the magazines Flint and All Worlds Wayfarer, and online on AntipodeanSF, Medusa’s Kitchen, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Orion’s Beau. This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery. Say hello at jmcyrus.writer@gmail.com.