A Tinker’s Bargain-
Of all the rascals, mummers, and travelers who rolled through the village farmsteads, new moon or full, there was but one tinker’s wagon drawn by mules wearing straw hats. The right-hand mule wore a sort of sombrero with a long feather sewn to the crown. The left mule sported a chapeau crowned with flowers along the brim. The mules’ ears protruded from holes custom cut in each hat.
In this land and time, the itinerant wagons were of a type. Long and narrow with planked sidewalls bearing painted advertisements. An oversized shoe for the cobbler, a silver pot meant tinker, and a purple horse sang out harness maker. Half-round roofs shielded the wagons from the weather, thatched, shingled, or waterproofed with cedar shakes.
The wagon drawn by hat-wearing mules, unlike those of the harness man, pot mender, or cobbler, catered solely to children. For these were the Story Tinkers, who hawked but one thing. They sold stories.
Atop a high bench seat sat the driver. Leather reins threaded his calloused hands and down to the harnessed mules. Straw hats bobbed and bells tinkled as the two mules pulled the wagon. The rear of the wagon served as a vending counter.
Hidden inside the wagon, wooden racks, shelves, and rows of baskets hung from every available surface. And each rack, shelf, and basket bulged with stories, rattling against the other as the wagon creaked down the road. The stories lived in jugs, jars, and bottles of colored glass, and each stoppered with a special cork.
These tinkers were as memorable as their mules, although memory is an animal that can change its spots. A woman and a man, twas sure. Yet on a new moon, the woman might be young, with fiery red hair, and the man old and gnarled. At the full moon, the man might be young and hale, a giant snapping the reins, while the woman appeared as an apple-cheeked crone. The disguises may have fooled the adults, but the children saw past the disguises.
The adults suspected the tinkers to be magical folk, a fact obvious to all the children and a few cracked grownups. But as no girls nor boys disappeared, and no wells poisoned, nor any two-headed calves birthed, the villagers turned a blind eye (or two) to the proceedings and got on with their day-to-day business.
One fine morning following a full harvest moon, a new day pretty as could be imagined, the story wagon rattled down a rutted lane. Today, the driver was a thick old man, black-bearded like a pirate and wearing a floppy green hat. His bare arms and weathered hands were coated in hair black as his beard. A woman stood at the rear of the wagon dressed in black velvet and white lace, her hair as pale as thimbleberry and eyes sea gray.
The wagon towed a lazy cloud of dust. The woman raised her voice to the morning, hawking her wares to the songbirds and any children who might stray within hearing.
“Stories we have, two pence the tale. Special stories only half a shilling. No two alike, and every one a charm. Stories, get your stories while they last.”
The local children, needless to say, were aware of the wagon long before the trail of dust appeared. They knew it like they knew Christmas. Local lads and lasses turned out pockets, upended piggy banks, and thrust small hands under seat cushions, in hopes of securing two copper coins.
Hearing the tinker’s call, children materialized out of the green fields like mushrooms after a gentle rain. They scampered towards the road from this farm and the next, coins clutched tight. The children gathered around, a baker’s dozen in all. The driver reined the mules to a stop. His voice boomed like a cannon.
“A good morning, boys and girls.”
A boy with the face of a freckle mill shaded his eyes and pointed to the mules.
“What’re your mules called, Mister?”
The big man pointed a meaty finger.
“Why, the feathered one is Hotch, and my flowery beauty, that’s Potch.”
The knot of children shook their heads and toed the dusty road. Freckle Face voiced their collective doubt.
“But Mister, that can’t be. Last time you said it were the other way round.”
The cohort nodded, sure of their pint-sized spokesperson. This caused the bearded man to roar.
“What’s this? Mutiny! Rebellion! Jasmine, come hither, my one and only. I am in need of assistance.”
The pale woman materialized at the front of the wagon. She smiled over the big man’s shoulder.
“Hullo, children! What a beautiful batch of young faces. Now then, who’s raising such a ruckus?”
A wave of raised hands and pointed fingers, all aimed at the hulking man holding the reins. He turned to the woman, mock surprise painted across his mug.
“I might have known. Shame, Harry, bellowing like a bull on such a pretty morning.”
“But these rascals claim I don’t know my own mules.”
She smiled at the children’s upturned faces.
“The feathered mule is Potch, and my flowered beauty is Hotch, as these bright children know well.”
A round of cheers broke from the ground while a pout sprouted from Harry’s lips.
“Now that tempest is calmed, I invite you all to step around the back of the wagon. We have business to attend to.”
Laughing and jostling, the cluster of kids abandoned Harry, who promptly climbed over the seat and vanished into the wagon.
A wee porch dangled from the aft of the wagon. Three wooden steps led up to it, guarded by a railing fashioned from twisted branches.
Thirteen faces peered up at the porch, some a bit grimy—the boys, mostly, truth be told. Atop the porch, on a low stool, sat the woman named Jasmine. An empty stool stood close beside her.
“Right, now. Who shall be first?”
A jostle ran through the expectant children. A tall girl stepped forward and scaled the steps. She stepped onto the porch and found herself eye-to-eye with the beautiful Jasmine. The girl ducked her head and minded her manners.
“G’morning, Miss.”
Jasmine tapped her lips with her forefinger as if pondering a thorny philosophical question. Then her eyes lit up. She pointed at the sky and beamed a sunny smile.
“I’ve got it! It’s Daphne, isn’t it?”
The girl’s head bobbed like a sparrow.
“Yes, Miss, I’m Daphne.”
“Right, then. And what sort of story are you wanting, Daphne?”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Jasmine, but I wondered if there were any stories about girls?”
“Of course, ever so many. But wait now. You’re wanting a story about a strong, brave girl, who goes on adventures. Am I right?”
Daphne nodded so hard her head might have plunged from her neck.
“Harry, make yourself useful please!”
A clatter rose from inside the wagon and a bouncing. A hairy hand emerged from the darkness holding a stoppered clay jar. Jasmine reached for it without taking her eyes off the girl. The great hand disappeared.
“Daphne, can you think what might be inside this humble clay?”
The girl’s eyes went wide. She shook her head.
“Then I shall tell you. This is the story of a brave girl who undertakes a dangerous journey. Her village is in grave danger, and only she can save her folk. The lass travels to distant lands, learns many a lesson, and returns to save her village. All yours for the price of two pence.”
Daphne thrust out her hand, quick as a wink. Two copper coins gleamed on her palm. Jasmine waved her hand. Presto!—the coins vanished into thin air. Payment received, Jasmine held out the jar. Daphne clutched it between her hands. A smile creased her serious young face.
“Now, you ken the rules, my girl?”
“Oh, yes Miss. I’m only to open the story when I’m alone. Never when adults are about. And when the story wagon returns, I must return the empty jar, or I shan’t have another story.”
“Well remembered and well said.”
She turned to the children at the foot of the steps.
“And you lot, do you also ken the rules?”
Solemn nods ran through the throng.
“Off you go then, Daphne. Who will be next?”
Daphne clambered down. Before her foot touched the ground, a child, the smallest and grimiest of the boys, burst from the crowd. He clambered up quick as a monkey, grinning from ear to ear.
“Ah, if it isn’t Willie, come to pay me a visit.”
The boy’s eyes went wide as his grin.
“How’d you know, Miss?”
“A lucky guess. And what story shall it be today, Master William?”
“If you please, Miss, I want one about pirates, bloody pirates what has a lion on their terrible boat.”
“I think we might have just the thing.”
She shouted over her shoulder.
“Harry, you heard?”
“Aye, and I’m hunting it!”
The wagon rocked. Muttered words spilled from the darkness and a few muffled curses. The rocking ceased, and a blue bottle appeared between Harry’s thick fingers. Jasmine plucked it away and turned to the squirming boy.
“Just as you requested, Willie. Bloody pirates, a big boat, and a great, fierce lion. Have you two pence, then?”
The coins appeared in the boy’s grubby paw and just as quickly disappeared. He clutched the bottle to his chest.
“Down you get, Willie. Next aboard, please!”
The children ascended, one by one, and requested their tales. Jar, jugs, and gleaming bottles materialized from the wagon and were dispensed by Jasmine.
Soon every child but one had his or her story. Jasmine looked down at the last boy and offered him a gentle smile, but he did not see her. The boy stared down the road, one hand shading his eyes. Jasmine turned to follow his gaze. Her smile vanished.
“Harry, we’ve unwanted company on the horizon. Best see to the mules.”
Heavy footsteps clomped away to the front of the wagon. Jasmine swung back to the children.
“Off you go, now, and be quick. By ditch and shadow, field and fern, you must run now. Heed my words!”
Miss Jasmine waved her hands and the children scattered like rabbits. She turned her gray eyes to the distance and marked the approaching threat. A few quick steps and her head appeared beside Harry’s bearded jowls.
“The wee ones are safely gone.”
“Aye, and now shall we.”
He flicked his hands and leather snapped. Hotch and Potch surged. The wagon began to roll down the road, a trail of dust spinning up in its wake.
“Gi-up, mules. Pull, my beauties!”
Without taking his eyes from the team, he craned his head and planted a kiss on Jasmine’s cheek.
“I’m remembering an oak grove not far ahead. We’ll be safe there. The shadow hates the oaks.”
“You mind the mules and I’ll mind the darkness. Back in a tick.”
Jasmine vanished into the cabin. She paused at the rear of the wagon and reached up. Her fingers closed on the stock of a huge crossbow. Bracing it against the plank floor, she cocked the weapon with a strength far beyond her willowy arms. Her fingers fitted bolt to slot, and then she stepped out onto the swaying porch.
A seething shadow flew through the sky behind the wagon, a black cloud with the vague shape of a huge carrion bird. Its wings stretched wider than the lane. The dark creature overtopped the wagon’s dusty trail, drawing near and growing as it came.
Jasmine stood tall on the lurching porch. Pale hair whipped around her face as she raised the crossbow to her shoulder. Her voice cut through the air.
“If it’s stories you hungry for, try a taste of this.”
Her finger twitched the trigger. The bow twanged and a bolt sizzled through the air. The quarrel exploded in mid-flight. A billow of colored smoke swirled toward the menacing shadow.
Ghostly shapes rocketed from the smoke. Heroes waved swords. Amazons wielded spears. Dragons gnashed razored fangs. The phantoms raced toward the dark cloud, which screamed and wheeled away. The black bird raced for the far horizon with the nebulous horde in hot pursuit.
Jasmine clutched the twisted railing. The crossbow dangled at her side. The wagon slowed, turned, then bumped over rough ground. Shadows blotted out the sun. Great green boughs covered the sky. They were safe under the oaks.
The thin woman drew herself upright, stepped inside the wagon, and stowed the crossbow. Her feet wavered. In an instant, Harry stood beside her in the cramped space. She fell into his arms. He swept her up and carried her from the wagon. He sat himself down beneath the shelter of the oak boughs, held Jasmine close, and crooned.
“That’s right, rest now, my love. All’s well. You showed that beastie a trick and no mistake.”
* * *
The afternoon had gone warm and still when the wagon emerged from the oak grove. As they rocked onto the quiet lane, Harry reined the mules to a halt. Jasmine stood up and scanned the sky. Harry wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her down.
“It’ll not be back, leastwise not today. Ease your heart.”
Jasmine nodded but kept her eyes on the horizon. Harry flicked the reins. Hotch and Potch pulled against their harness.
They had not gone a slow mile when a small figure emerged from the brush that lined the lane. Harry reined in the mules. The wagon creaked to a stop. A lone boy peered up as the dust rolled past.
“Here now, if it isn’t our sharp-eyed lad, him who spotted the beastie.”
Jasmine came alive at the sight of the boy.
“Blessings on this meeting, child. Step to the back of the wagon.”
Jasmine and then Harry disappeared into the cabin and reappeared a moment later on the back porch. The boy stood at the foot of the steps.
“Don’t be shy, lad. Up you get now.”
The boy came unrooted from the soft dust of the road. Grasping the gnarled railing, he pulled himself up, one step at a time.
“Well now, Harry. Would you look at this fine sight? I believe it’s young Robin, who’s waited all day for our return.”
Harry’s voice boomed.
“Robin, is it? And I was a-wondering if we’d see him again.”
The boy gained the porch. It was a tight fit with the three of them. Jasmine laid a soft hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Was it something special you were wanting, Robin? Is that why you waited?”
Robin managed a small smile, glad for the understanding.
“No worries then. It’s all fine as frog hair. Tell me what story you’re after and we’ll see what we can do.”
“Do you have any books, then, Miss Jasmine?”
“Oh my, a book did you say? Harry, my love, did you hear young Robin? It’s a book he’s wanting.”
A long whistle filled the still air.
“A book, you say. A special case then, this. We shall have to think hard. You reckon the boy has money?”
Jasmine turned back to the lad.
“And what is your answer, Robin?”
“I’ve no money, Miss. It’s been a hard year for my folks. The harvest was lean.”
“Well, let’s set that aside for the nonce, shall we? You asked for a book. I take it you can read?”
The boy nodded eagerly.
“Oh yes, Miss. I study hard at school. I read everything there is, but that’s not much. The school is poor, and we must share what books there are. And none of the books can be taken home. The teacher fears that they might come to harm.”
“I understand, Robin. But Harry and I deal in stories. Two pence apiece and specials half a shilling. Books, now, that’s another kettle of fish. We may have something to suit, mind you, but books come dear I’m afraid. Tell me, what might you have to trade?”
Robin dug into his pockets and held out both hands. On one palm rested the tail feather of a blue jay. On the other, a shiny black rock with white speckles. Jasmine peered down at the offerings, then half-turned to Harry.
“Look here, Harry. We’ve got some serious bargaining to do.”
Harry leaned forward to look at Robin’s outstretched hands. Then his voice came in a soft rumble, like the purring of an enormous cat. He reached out a finger thick as a sausage and touched the blue feather.
“A good feather that is. Good, but not extraordinary. Now, this stone on the other hand. Jasmine, my beauty, what do you make of this?”
“I see it, Harry, and I fear our Robin is a sharp one. The feather is just a dodge to distract us. But the stone, now. Clever boy!”
Harry’s beard waggled as he nodded his great black head.
“Just as you say, Jasmine. The deal should be struck quickly before he drives a harder bargain. Right then, young Robin. You’ve bested us, and that is no easy feat. Keep your feather as a token, but we accept your payment of one stone. Jasmine?”
The woman’s pale hand flashed above the boy’s palm and the black stone disappeared.
“Harry, fetch Robin’s book if you please.”
“Aye, and pleased I am.”
The man disappeared in a twinkling and the wagon rocked under his weight. He reappeared a moment later, a thick tome balanced on his rough palm. Jasmine lifted the book with both hands and held it out to the boy.
“Robin, between these pages, you will find many treasures. Here is adventure and disaster, betrayal and triumph. Here is love lost, love found, heroes and villains, good folk and bad. Hopes raised, dreams dreamt, evil imprisoned, and a hero freed. Will you take this book and cherish it?”
Robin lifted the leather-bound volume from her pale hands. He stared at the book, an expression of awe writ large across his young face. Then he looked to Jasmine and Harry in turn.
“I will cherish it, Miss Jasmine. I swear I will, Mister Harry.”
The big man laughed.
“A bargain struck, then.”
Harry raised his right palm, spit into it, and held out the great paw. Robin clutched the book to his thin chest. The boy’s hand vanished inside the man’s huge grip as they shook on the deal.
His hand released, Robin smiled at Jasmine. She laughed and shook her head.
“Don’t be looking at me, lad. I’ll not be spitting in my hand. Come here, then.”
She took the boy by the shoulders, pulled him close, and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she spun him around and gave him a pat on the bum.
“You’re off then, while the iron is hot, and the deal done. Read well, Robin.”
The boy turned to smile one last time. A single tear threatened to overspill. Harry waved him off.
“Until the next moon, Robin. Off you get.”
Robin swiped at the tear and climbed down the wooden stairs. A moment later, he was running across the fields, the book clamped to his chest with one arm. The other waved above his head as he ran.
Jasmine watched the boy race away, then turned to Harry.
“And now, my great lump of a man.”
“And now, my lovely willow wand. Miles to go before we rest, and many stories to dispense.”
He heaved himself upright and vanished into the wagon. A heartbeat later, the wagon lurched forward. Jasmine heard the creaking of leather, the slow clomp of hooves, and the jingling of harness bells. Harry’s voice boomed over the sunny morning.
“Gee up, Hotch. Pull now, Potch.”
Jasmine smiled and watched the road roll away. She raised her voice to the sun, crying out her tinker’s bargain.
“Stories we have, two pence the tale. Special stories only half a shilling. No two alike, and every one a charm. Stories, stories, get your stories while they last.”
ABOUT THE WRITER: A TINKER’S BARGAIN
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.