Dressed in the black garb of an aged remedy woman, Esmeralde gimped up the roadside oblivious to the steady stream of fairgoers traveling in the opposite direction, south to Middlemarch. After a fitful night of little sleep, she had awakened this morning to consult the portents of her felted possibles bag and all signs had pointed north as Indigo Rose had foretold, not south to the yearly event known in all the lands as “the World's Fair” as Esmeralde had hoped. She had been unable to resist the benign lure of the Fair's frivolities these past thirteen years, festivities that included music and dance, arts and crafts, fiber and frolic and best of all, fraternizing with friends of old. A few rounds of the fermented Crystal Cordial she carried in her flask always loosened the tongue and lightened the heart and more often than not, she came away from the fair days with useful information.
Thinking of her stall mates in the great hall, she sighed with resignation. Not that she would miss the affectionate prattling of Chloe the button lady so much, but each spring found her yearning for the lore of Sierra Blue and the chance to trade anew for one of Sierra's whimsical garments. Like herself, Sierra had been one of the potluck twelve these twenty years past although they never spoke of it aloud. Talk of the twelve was nothing to reminisce over at a fair filled with folk from all the lands. So Esmeralde settled for Sierra's tales of old told and retold around the campfire at night. She never grew weary of the legends of the ancients who ruled and the folly that sent the world into the last age of ice. A born storyteller, Sierra had sat at the knee of Mamie Verde when she could still utter words enough to teach the tales, tales no one believed these days, although many would do better to heed the veiled warnings. No matter, Sierra knew her yarns.
This morning, Esmeralde had unpacked her wares: the medicinal herbs and salves she would have sold as simple remedies for childhood ailments and common colds in her stall under the main tent this day. Then she rummaged in the back room of her cottage and ended up ransacking her dark pantry—for what? What had Indigo Rose said to bring? She failed to remember and there were too many wax sealed tinctures and corked vials back there in the murky dust to gander a wild guess, so she brought them all which was why she walked so heavily on her right leg to balance out the weight of the clanking vessels.
Esmeralde was not really lame, but it helped to look that way, she had discovered. Already this morning, a farm family made space for her to ride a distance among squirming sheep dog puppies in exchange for a few copper's worth of soothing mint tea. Numerous others along the muddy track had inquired about stronger remedies hidden in the stoppered vessels, of which she masked ignorance. If they only knew, she thought craftily, her keen eyes sparkling. But it was best no one did just yet.
No matter what Indigo wanted, Esmeralde felt certain she must have it safe in her felted bag and she would see her friend soon, for the sun was already high in the sky this spring morning, although rain threatened. After she crossed the broad trestle to Bainbridge it would be but a short hike to Indigo's greenhouse garden overlooking the verdant valley and all would be made clear. Or as clear as things got these days. Both she and Indigo had waited in their separate cottages in neighboring villages last night searching the stars for a sign and found not a glimmer in the gloom. Waiting for fire in the sky was a passion that had staled these past 20 years and now Esmeralde felt certain the sign would never come. Maybe the frozen crystals had lost their fire or maybe they were just lost in general, tucked in the back room of the potluck somewhere out of Smokey Jo’s short reach. No matter, no fire had appeared at dawn this morning or any other and Esmeralde was done waiting. She and Indigo would decide this day how best to take matters of the twelve into their own hands.
