Short Story / The Showman
Don’t wander near the roads, her father had warned her. The roads were rampant with vagrants and highwaymen, but Alma had a poor sense of direction and a lack of awareness for her surroundings, so it was only natural that she found herself wandering far from the safety of the troupe again. She was a child and often lost herself in silly fantasies, but now Alma imagined herself to be in a fix, and a bad one at that, when she heard the beat of hooves and a whinny at her back. She let her hand stray to the knife she kept hidden, strapped to her thigh. It was not unheard of for robbers and rapists to be on the rise during these times after all, and though she may be frivolous, she was no fool.
The horse was by her side before she had time to register, blowing in her face and snorting at the dirt. Dust patterned the horse’s legs from a long day’s travel and its tail swished wearily. It didn’t appear to be of much value, just a simpleton’s beast, but it didn’t look fatigued or poorly bred either. The same could be said of its rider, a tall fellow with caterpillar-like brows and a thick moustache. He regarded her with lidded eyes and fiddled with his moustache.
“You don’t mean to be on these roads alone do you?” he asked her in a gruff voice, Alma straightened in surprise.
He was no traveller either judging by how light he had packed. She hadn’t missed the sword he had bundled and strapped to the saddle either, but he didn’t dress in the leathers of a guard. He didn’t have a soldier’s colours either, but a stranger was a stranger no less. Alma thought carefully before answering.
“I am only gathering wood. For my troupe, sir, we are but a troupe of actors. But I think it wise to mention that my brothers will worry if I don’t return to them soon.”
The fellow nodded absent-mindedly, “I have a child, not quite of your age, but you remind me of her nevertheless. I know I would not be keen to let her stray. It would be a tragedy if something were to happen. There are too many men with ill-intentions on the roads these days.”
Alma shifted from one foot to the other, disliking the change in subject, “True, life has become unjust since the revolution.”
He nodded again, “Too right. The war has changed life in ways worse than good. Nothing pleasant ever comes from spilled blood.”
This spiked her curiosity.
“You’ve been at war, sir?”
“Aye.”
If that sword was really authentic.
“Which one, sir?”
“Dreadmoor”
Alma whistled. Her grandfather had been in that war almost twenty years ago, so she had been told, and yet the man didn’t look a day over thirty. When she told him just that, he chuckled. She eyed him conspicuously.
“Did you kill anyone?”
“Such a bloody-minded question for a youth. Aye.”
“Then you must have stories, sir.”
His thin lips curved into a smile and he chuckled again. Alma noticed how the smile didn’t reflect in his eyes.
“Stories? Little girls needn’t hear war-stories.”
His eyes widened, as if in mock surprise, but the emotion didn’t quite reach them either.
“I’ve never heard a war-story before though, sir.”
“All the more reason for me to hold my tongue. What would your brothers say if they found out? From a stranger no less!”
Alma shrugged in response and tugged at her sleeves.
He let out a puff of air and patted the horse’s neck, peering down at her with a scrutinizing glance. His eyes were dark and his brows were permanently furrowed, making him look displeased, but there was a peculiar glimmer to them. The sort that one would find in a fiendish child who enjoyed playing pranks on others.
“Perhaps one story won’t be too damaging,” he eventually decided, shifting the reins to one gloved hand and leaning forward to Alma’s level as he begun, “A sword is a man’s best friend in battle. One can never ask for a more trusted companion. That and his steed of course.”
Alma leaned forward, anticipation lighting up her face.
“This?” she gestured towards the bundled sword, “May I see it?”
“Of course,” and he shifted forwards on the horse, patting the bundle with another empty smile, “That’s a pretty jewel. Very befitting for a girl of your charm.”
He meant the necklace, the one she always wore. Alma smiled in response. It was a pretty piece of jewellery after all, an amethyst set of deep lilac and rose hanging from a silver chain.
“Gift from a young gentleman?”
She shook her head, “An heirloom, from my mother’s mother.”
“Your grandmother, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his saddle for the moment, watching her again with those dark, scrutinising eyes. The look in his eyes had Alma on guard and she rested a hand atop the blade of her hidden knife.
“Sir?”
Before she had the chance to protest, he had kicked his horse forward in a flurry of hooves. As he reached out to grasp the jewel, Alma took an instinctual step backwards, and in one clean movement, the clasp snapped free and the chain was left dangling in his fist.
Alma hit the ground with a thud, looking up in time to see him disappear over the moor, the priceless heirloom twinkling, as if mocking her for her foolishness, before it vanished from sight completely.
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Wow you are very talented for your age, if I was writing like this when I was 14 I would be up there like many of the best writers now. You did well creating a protagonist that readers will feel sympathetic for, and a dirty villian that would take advantage of a child.
My recommendations to make this even better: I would have liked to known Alma’s age. Of course there are many ways to add that in.
The only other thing is in the last paragraph the order of things seem to be off a bit. she stepped back, he grabbed the charm, alma hit the ground “first”? Just make the events more visual in the reader’s mind. Great work!
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