“Careful with that,” the wooly old dwarf grumbles at the youths who are maneuvering one of his precious but unwieldy gaslights onto its tripod. Around them, the encampment is a bustling, larval thing, a butterfly stretching its wings.
The first trucks arrived this morning, bearing many able hands, rumbling to a stop along the coal road in what was then a modest, wooded hollow. The pits were opened and lined, lode-pole gathered for the rails, hardwoods for the fires. By the time the vardos started pulling in, corrals stood ready by the creek to hold their teams, the first tarps were going up, and there was a kettle on. That was several hours ago.
Each as painstakingly carved and garishly painted as the next, the vardos were parked meticulously side-by-side so that they formed a rough semi-circle around the largest hearth. Then they were linked by lines and tarps and tapestries that created extra rooms out of thin air, turning the valley into a writhing, organic mansion as pied as it is uneven. The stage carts, easily the oldest of the wagons, were drawn together near the center and then unfolded and linked elaborately to one another by native scaffolding and ancient velvet to form a grand platform.
Stagehands are testing the curtain and adjusting the footlights. The clank of cast iron and the aromatic gurgle of Roma stew are rising from behind the silk veils. You hear a woodsman’s axe and the chatter of elders; somewhere, just out of sight, somebody is tuning a lute. The sun is setting over the foothills, casting long shadows in the little valley. Soon, the townies will begin to arrive and the revelry will begin.
Satisfied with the progress you are seeing, you join the ever growing crowd following their noses to the kitchen fire. Threading quickly through the fabric labyrinth, you accept your share from the pot and then try to find a comfortable seat on one of the log benches. The throng is tightly packed and buzzing with conversation. You scan the faces around you, looking for a cough or shiver that might betray the deadly flu, but the group seems healthy and vibrant.
Old Man Mrenica is one of the exceptions. He’s not sick, but he is
very
old, a withered wisp of wrinkles, almost a ghost. He sits huddled within his shawls, staring intently into his teacup, swishing its dregs and whispering prophetically. You watch the Kris for a moment, wondering about mortality and his apparent lack of it, but your lingering gaze has moved on by the time he sits bolt upright and gasps so deeply that it rattles his bones.
“By Kali,” he exclaims. “An ill portent.” A mixture of concerned banter and insistent shushes spreads outward through the crowd. He waits patiently until all lips are silent and all spoons still.
“I have seen the owl,” he brays. “Our foes, the Servika, are among us and, even now, plot our demise.”
An ill portent, indeed.