By Any Other Name Part 2
She sold two more bead spindles ("Hair sticks!") before the fanfare signaled the end of the day. At one point, she had a crowd of three people watching her spin, but not a single one of them purchased anything. While watching the buskers, she wondered if it would help if she put her hat out and sprinkled some coins in it. Maybe that way she'd make back the cost of the booth money.
It took her a little while to pack up her wares; the permanent booth owners could lock up their stock and sleep in the tiny lofts at the top of each fanciful building, but the newer vendors--those with tents--had to tear down each night and set up again the next morning. By the time she'd loaded everything up into her car, the sun had set and most of the faire folk who were staying behind had gathered around the nightly bonfire.
She wasn't quite sure how they managed to keep going all day and still have strength to play music and dance around bonfires at night, but the music was a nice accompaniment as she walked across the quiet grounds to the parking lot.
Okay, maybe she'd made a hundred dollars, which barely covered the day's cost of setting up. So far, the RenFaire was an expensive failure of an experiment.
Abby walked past the campground on her way to the car, but it was fairly empty; only a couple of people--still in garb--were involved in various tasks. She saw a pirate--not the same one--whittling a stick while waiting for a kettle to boil where it hung over a campfire--he threw the shavings into the fire as he carved, but she couldn't tell what he was making.
She was tired, dejected, and half-tempted not to come back the next day. And she probably never would have turned around to glance behind her if something hadn't clattered--clanged, really--in the direction of the campground.
Someone shouted. Someone else replied, and then she saw the figure lying in front of the bushes at the edge of the parking lot, a dark blot on the grass, nothing more.
Her friend Meg, who had set up at this particular RenFaire before, had told her that the pirates liked to get drunk on Saturday nights. Evidently this one had started a bit early.
The shouting continued--the voices sounded both angry and worried. She saw another pirate standing by the gate now, obviously looking for someone, but the drunk pirate wasn't in full view unless he walked closer to her car, and he didn't look like he intended to do that. He was wearing a frock coat, but she couldn't tell if it was the same pirate.
For a moment, Abby hesitated between leaving right then and there and not checking on the figure in front of the bushes, but then two other pirates spotted the one standing by the gates and gave chase--and they were carrying swords. The pirate in the frock coat retreated quickly and Abby heard a car start up a moment later and speed away.
The two others appeared at the gate again, still carrying their swords. One of them sheathed his sword, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Colin!"
They hadn't spotted her yet. Or else they'd dismissed her; there were others around, after all, someone walking a small dog on the other side of the parking lot and two musicians practicing bagpipes on the other side of a small copse of trees.
By the time Abby reached the figure in front of the bushes, the pirates with the swords had been joined by a girl dressed like a gypsy--one of the belly dancers, by the way she walked. They seemed to be having an argument, pointing this way and that, but they were too far away for Abby to hear their words.
The pirate lying in front of the bushes might not have been a pirate, truthfully. He wore mundane clothes for the most part--jeans and leather boots, but his shirt was pure RenFaire; a linen--perhaps cotton--poet's shirt that seemed to be stained by something dark across his chest. What she could see of his face was stained with the same dark stuff.
It didn't smell like rum, or whatever pirates drank. It smelled like blood.
Abby started to turn away from him to shout to the pirates and the bellydancer standing beside the gate. They were still arguing, but surely this had to be Colin; who else would they be looking for? She cupped her hands around her mouth, drew in a breath, and a hand closed over her ankle.
She almost shrieked.
He pulled her off balance with surprising strength and she stumbled backwards, almost falling over top of him. But by the time she landed beside him on the ground, he'd pushed himself back against the bushes and used them to lever himself upright.
"Not a word," he whispered. "Please."
Abby scrambled up and away from him. "What are you--"
He snatched at her again. Even though she didn't see him move, he'd grabbed her arm and pulled her back against him, and she smelled the blood stronger now--real blood.
His hand covered her mouth before she could scream. "I'm asking nicely. You won't be harmed if you do what I say. Don't ask any questions. Just answer what I ask and I'll let you go."
Abby nodded, and he slowly removed his hand.
For a moment, she thought about screaming, but then she remember how quickly he'd moved, blood or no blood.
"There was a pirate. Where did he go?"
"There are lots of pirates here," Abby said stiffly. "Which pirate?"
"He was wearing a frock coat," her captor said, then laughed. "As they tend to do, especially here. You were going to yell to someone; who was it? Are you a Hunter too?"
"A what?" Abby asked. "There are three people standing by the gate. Two of them are dressed like pirates, and one looks like a bellydancer. I thought maybe they were looking for you. Is your name Colin?"
"It is. I'm sorry." His grasp loosened; she waited a moment, then pulled away. Scrambled to her feet and moved away from him. Went to dust off her clothes, and realized that her shirt--her next-to-last garb shirt--was covered in blood.
"Is this some sort of joke?" Abby asked, but Colin's eyes were closed now, his head slightly tilted. As if he'd used up all his strength to grab her, before.
The blood on his shirt had spread. One of his hands was pressed across the worst of it now, as if trying to hold something in.
For the first time, Abby's stomach lurched.
"Matt," Colin murmured. "Call Matt. Please."
"Call him?" Abby asked, then realized he meant to call the three standing by the gate. Or she hoped he meant that, because Matt could have been the pirate in the frock coat, after all.
She decided that instead of shouting, she'd walk towards them. If they were friends, then she'd show them where Colin lay. If they weren't his friends--she wasn't sure what she'd do about that.
"I'll be right back," she said, but he didn't respond.
She walked across the parking lot to where they stood, and only when she said Matt's name did they bother to look around.
"Who are you?" the pirate who'd shouted Colin's name asked sharply.
"I heard you yelling for someone," Abby said. "What happened?"
"Who are you?" the pirate asked again.
"My name is Abby," Abby said. "I'm one of the vendors here. I sell spindles. To spin yarn."
The bellydancer folded her arms. "Why would you want to spin yarn? Can't you buy it?"
Abby's temper cracked. "Look. I'm not involved in this and I don't want to be involved in this. I had a terrible day; I just wanted to help--"
"She has blood on her shirt," the other pirate stated quietly. "Colin's blood."
The first pirate drew his sword. "Where is he?"
"Are you his friends?" Abby asked. "Because I'm not going to tell you if you're not his friends. I think the blood is real--"
The bellydancer smiled, almost pityingly. "We could be lying if we say we're his friends," she said. "But we are, truly. Where is he?"
"Is he alive?" the first pirate asked.
"Is your name Matt?" Abby asked, and hesitantly, the first pirate nodded. "He asked me to call for you. He's over there, by the bushes."
"Why didn't he come with you?" Matt asked.
Abby hesitated. "I don't think he could," she said, and the two pirates left her, then, at a run.
The bellydancer glanced towards the place where the pirate in the frock coat had vanished. "I'm Carmen. The other pirate in our group is Seth. We'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. Did you call 9-1-1?"
"My cell phone's in my car," Abby said.
Carmen nodded. "Good." She started to walk away.
"Good?" Abby followed her. "But if he's hurt--if someone attacked him--shouldn't we call the police?"
"No," Carmen said, and turned around. "Look. Thank you for finding him and coming to find us. But we can handle it from here. You'd better go home. And just--please--don't mention this to anyone. No one else needs to get involved." And then she ran across the parking lot, leaving Abby standing there, bewildered, in her wake.
It took her a little while to pack up her wares; the permanent booth owners could lock up their stock and sleep in the tiny lofts at the top of each fanciful building, but the newer vendors--those with tents--had to tear down each night and set up again the next morning. By the time she'd loaded everything up into her car, the sun had set and most of the faire folk who were staying behind had gathered around the nightly bonfire.
She wasn't quite sure how they managed to keep going all day and still have strength to play music and dance around bonfires at night, but the music was a nice accompaniment as she walked across the quiet grounds to the parking lot.
Okay, maybe she'd made a hundred dollars, which barely covered the day's cost of setting up. So far, the RenFaire was an expensive failure of an experiment.
Abby walked past the campground on her way to the car, but it was fairly empty; only a couple of people--still in garb--were involved in various tasks. She saw a pirate--not the same one--whittling a stick while waiting for a kettle to boil where it hung over a campfire--he threw the shavings into the fire as he carved, but she couldn't tell what he was making.
She was tired, dejected, and half-tempted not to come back the next day. And she probably never would have turned around to glance behind her if something hadn't clattered--clanged, really--in the direction of the campground.
Someone shouted. Someone else replied, and then she saw the figure lying in front of the bushes at the edge of the parking lot, a dark blot on the grass, nothing more.
Her friend Meg, who had set up at this particular RenFaire before, had told her that the pirates liked to get drunk on Saturday nights. Evidently this one had started a bit early.
The shouting continued--the voices sounded both angry and worried. She saw another pirate standing by the gate now, obviously looking for someone, but the drunk pirate wasn't in full view unless he walked closer to her car, and he didn't look like he intended to do that. He was wearing a frock coat, but she couldn't tell if it was the same pirate.
For a moment, Abby hesitated between leaving right then and there and not checking on the figure in front of the bushes, but then two other pirates spotted the one standing by the gates and gave chase--and they were carrying swords. The pirate in the frock coat retreated quickly and Abby heard a car start up a moment later and speed away.
The two others appeared at the gate again, still carrying their swords. One of them sheathed his sword, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Colin!"
They hadn't spotted her yet. Or else they'd dismissed her; there were others around, after all, someone walking a small dog on the other side of the parking lot and two musicians practicing bagpipes on the other side of a small copse of trees.
By the time Abby reached the figure in front of the bushes, the pirates with the swords had been joined by a girl dressed like a gypsy--one of the belly dancers, by the way she walked. They seemed to be having an argument, pointing this way and that, but they were too far away for Abby to hear their words.
The pirate lying in front of the bushes might not have been a pirate, truthfully. He wore mundane clothes for the most part--jeans and leather boots, but his shirt was pure RenFaire; a linen--perhaps cotton--poet's shirt that seemed to be stained by something dark across his chest. What she could see of his face was stained with the same dark stuff.
It didn't smell like rum, or whatever pirates drank. It smelled like blood.
Abby started to turn away from him to shout to the pirates and the bellydancer standing beside the gate. They were still arguing, but surely this had to be Colin; who else would they be looking for? She cupped her hands around her mouth, drew in a breath, and a hand closed over her ankle.
She almost shrieked.
He pulled her off balance with surprising strength and she stumbled backwards, almost falling over top of him. But by the time she landed beside him on the ground, he'd pushed himself back against the bushes and used them to lever himself upright.
"Not a word," he whispered. "Please."
Abby scrambled up and away from him. "What are you--"
He snatched at her again. Even though she didn't see him move, he'd grabbed her arm and pulled her back against him, and she smelled the blood stronger now--real blood.
His hand covered her mouth before she could scream. "I'm asking nicely. You won't be harmed if you do what I say. Don't ask any questions. Just answer what I ask and I'll let you go."
Abby nodded, and he slowly removed his hand.
For a moment, she thought about screaming, but then she remember how quickly he'd moved, blood or no blood.
"There was a pirate. Where did he go?"
"There are lots of pirates here," Abby said stiffly. "Which pirate?"
"He was wearing a frock coat," her captor said, then laughed. "As they tend to do, especially here. You were going to yell to someone; who was it? Are you a Hunter too?"
"A what?" Abby asked. "There are three people standing by the gate. Two of them are dressed like pirates, and one looks like a bellydancer. I thought maybe they were looking for you. Is your name Colin?"
"It is. I'm sorry." His grasp loosened; she waited a moment, then pulled away. Scrambled to her feet and moved away from him. Went to dust off her clothes, and realized that her shirt--her next-to-last garb shirt--was covered in blood.
"Is this some sort of joke?" Abby asked, but Colin's eyes were closed now, his head slightly tilted. As if he'd used up all his strength to grab her, before.
The blood on his shirt had spread. One of his hands was pressed across the worst of it now, as if trying to hold something in.
For the first time, Abby's stomach lurched.
"Matt," Colin murmured. "Call Matt. Please."
"Call him?" Abby asked, then realized he meant to call the three standing by the gate. Or she hoped he meant that, because Matt could have been the pirate in the frock coat, after all.
She decided that instead of shouting, she'd walk towards them. If they were friends, then she'd show them where Colin lay. If they weren't his friends--she wasn't sure what she'd do about that.
"I'll be right back," she said, but he didn't respond.
She walked across the parking lot to where they stood, and only when she said Matt's name did they bother to look around.
"Who are you?" the pirate who'd shouted Colin's name asked sharply.
"I heard you yelling for someone," Abby said. "What happened?"
"Who are you?" the pirate asked again.
"My name is Abby," Abby said. "I'm one of the vendors here. I sell spindles. To spin yarn."
The bellydancer folded her arms. "Why would you want to spin yarn? Can't you buy it?"
Abby's temper cracked. "Look. I'm not involved in this and I don't want to be involved in this. I had a terrible day; I just wanted to help--"
"She has blood on her shirt," the other pirate stated quietly. "Colin's blood."
The first pirate drew his sword. "Where is he?"
"Are you his friends?" Abby asked. "Because I'm not going to tell you if you're not his friends. I think the blood is real--"
The bellydancer smiled, almost pityingly. "We could be lying if we say we're his friends," she said. "But we are, truly. Where is he?"
"Is he alive?" the first pirate asked.
"Is your name Matt?" Abby asked, and hesitantly, the first pirate nodded. "He asked me to call for you. He's over there, by the bushes."
"Why didn't he come with you?" Matt asked.
Abby hesitated. "I don't think he could," she said, and the two pirates left her, then, at a run.
The bellydancer glanced towards the place where the pirate in the frock coat had vanished. "I'm Carmen. The other pirate in our group is Seth. We'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. Did you call 9-1-1?"
"My cell phone's in my car," Abby said.
Carmen nodded. "Good." She started to walk away.
"Good?" Abby followed her. "But if he's hurt--if someone attacked him--shouldn't we call the police?"
"No," Carmen said, and turned around. "Look. Thank you for finding him and coming to find us. But we can handle it from here. You'd better go home. And just--please--don't mention this to anyone. No one else needs to get involved." And then she ran across the parking lot, leaving Abby standing there, bewildered, in her wake.