City of IF

[dinranwen]

((I went looking for my story writing Mojo and found this. I know I can't afford start yet another story I know I won't finish, don't have for, and know will end in the sorry state that is everything I write, but I have a good reason. The reason, I can't seem to write anything lately, and since this is the only thing that is letting me write it, I thought why not?))

There are some stories that are ment to be told. Some stories that if we attempted to contain them by selling our lips and burning our pens would spill out of the ink wells, go beyond the feeble page, and burst into being. A story of such passion, inspiration, and vitality that you wish with the fierceness of childhood and the foolishness of adulthood that it could be true, that you could have lived it, and been the hero. Stories that if not told we would be the less for the lack.

This is not one of those stories.

No, this is a story which having told once you hear its echo a million times in all the other stories you hear at such times when the weather is cold and the ice winds rule the world.

So why tell it all? A good question. Which is what we old ones say when we do not know the answer or wish not answer it at all least we look more the dotty grandmother then the sage one of wrinkles although I'm too young as yet to have any wrinkles, and I'm still a daugther rather then a mother therefore a grandmother I cannot be. For not being a grandmother, and being young in years logic will not allow me to be wise, so perhaps this is why I tell this tale.

Perhaps I tell it because I am the only one that can.

Mostly I tell it because it has the those things I remember foundly from the childhood that I have not yet left.

What things does this story contain? That I can answer and gladly.

Love. Hate. Revenge. Battles. Heros. Villians. The Sea. Oceans. Ships. Adventure. A girl. A boy. Growing up. Men. Women. Poision. Lessons learned. Lessons forgotten. Death. Miracles. A wedding or two perhaps. A ending, happy or not.

But mostly this is the story of Pirates that hate the navy, the Navy that hunts the pirates, and a girl who would become the women hunted by both.

This is the story of a Ship that would be called the Red Wheel.

This is the story of the dangerous lure of the Sea.

Do wish to hear it? Then listen. Do wish to have me silenced? Then leave, for save the sewing of my lips I will tell this story.

The Begginning of this story must wait for I'm parched, quickly serving lass fetch me my cup bring it brimming with my favorite brew to slack the thirst of my throat. When my cup weights my hand, I will begin. Till then wait, and listen to the crackle of the fire.

[Lilith]

Okay you have my attention, Dinranwen, dear... I'm waiting...

[dinranwen]

((As you can probably tell I’m trying out a new style…tell me what you think. And be honest))

Thank you for the tea then, lass. Mmm, the pleasing aroma of mint, but not my favorite brew you know. They did have it? What a shame. Make the next cup a good strong English tea with two sugars and plenty of milk, there’s a dear. Put the pot on the fire next to me, lassie, it will save the trouble of running for a foolish woman who likes to float on tea.

What?

Promised you a story? Humph, impatient things aren’t you. Good sign, good sign means that you weren’t gone before the story even began.

Look behind you.

Go on. Look behind you.

Don’t look at me like that. Do as your told. Mind your betters, that was what was taught in the good days or so my betters tell me. Not your better? Well then, humor a lass why don’t you?

Are you looking? Good. If not, a suggestion that you stop listening to this tale right now would be effective. A participating audience is what is required not a lump of mush setting on whatever as if the lump possessed no more intelligence then a certain root vegetable assigned to living on couches. So, look behind and see whatever is there. Unless you possess an imagination that borders on hallucination at best what you’ll see is a blank wall. Imagination is the second requirement around here. If you don’t have some, go purchase some at your local toy store it usually found somewhere on the bottom shelf of the row where you find all the people between the ages of 2 years and upwards.

Let me tell you what you would see if circumstances allowed you to be here in this place rather in whatever dismal room your setting in reading what the scribes recorded of my telling.

There’s a painting there behind you, figuritivally and imagitivaly speaking, of one Marguerite “Maggs” Yemeni Joyner, Captain and Commander of the somewhat legendary skiff The Red Wheel. The portrarit was taken in her later years, against her will, upon Maggs being captured along with her ship and crew by the navy. The portrarit was done by a navy artist of some talent, so we can guess that the image is fairly accurate and the likeness can be trusted to be reliable enough. The scrowl on Maggs face sure looks authentic enough considering the woman had just been captured by a sailing force who advertised over one thousand solid gold pieces for the man or woman who could capture her. Not to mention the navy advertised over two thousand solid gold pieces to the man or woman who could bring back her head detached from the rest of her fine self as proof of her being dead. I think I would have done more then scrowl myself, but considering her hands were probably tied behind her back, and her feet were probably chained I think she did rather well with putting her feelings into a single expression.

The artist mainly considers the somewhat famous Maggs face, her expression, the set of her chin, but over her shoulder you can see the Red Wheel at anchor with her colors still flying high on the standard poll and the flashing sea rushing against the piers of the military port make an excellent background to Maggs aged face.

Magg’s hair is won in a tight to non sense bun, but stubborn and as wild as their master the locks spill in rebellious colors from the bun framing her aged face that on one a little younger would have been fetching. Her hair is a steely shade of grey although intermingled in the shade won by years and battles one catches glimsps of the dark brown Maggs her hair might have been her youth. Her sailors face is deep lined with many things amoung them the lines clearly write of sorrow, happiness, love, and determination. Her face although wrinkled has a sharp profile, giving her the look of being craved from stone by the very winds that fill the sails of ships passing by. Her nose is sharp and long, her chin has a determined and stubborn set, but the ovalness of her face will not allow these features to be called ugly or unattractive instead her features add an allure all their own. But one draws one eye the most is Maggs eyes, for they give the portrait the illusion of reality with their feircness. Almost flashing, Maggs steeling grey-blue yet greenish eyes look a thunderous sea intent on throwing ships and sailors to murky depths of Davy Jones’ Locker. Yet for all their flashing there is no anger in Maggs eyes, rather they appear to be laughing at the reviewer in the same way Mona Lisa smiles. But its not a harsh laughter, or cruel laughter, or laughter that is laughed in the face of ones enemy, but a gentle laughter of amusment with only the hint of grandmotherly annoyment. Overall her portrarit gives Maggs the appearance of a grandmother scrowling at a child who has done something very displeasing all the while trying hard not to laugh at the foolish child.

That portrait which commerates the victorious capture of Maggs Joyner by their majesties navy is also her strongest memorial of her character. Strange isn’t.

What happened to her? I told you, she was captured by a navy who very well near said they wanted her dead.

Did they kill her?

Oh no, you’ve not tricking me. That would be telling the ending, and I’ve haven’t even started at the beginning yet.

The beginning will have to wait a little longer friend for my stomach announces its protest very loudly now. A bowl of stew lad, and be quick about it. The rest will hold.

[dinranwen]

Chapter 2

There now, the stomach being satisfied and the throat primed, perhaps we can get on with this tale of mine.

Now where was I, oh yes, Magg’s portrait. Maggs Joyner was nigh unto 60 years old as far as the navy could tell when the royal fleet finally managed to get their fingers on the slippery vessel the Red Wheel. Although there is no record of her actual age, the only thing the papers from Magg’s capture tell us is the captain’s answer when asked her age. You know what she said, the records state and I quote, “A lady never reveals her age. Old enough to be shown respect, at any rate laddie.”

Sassy little thing wasn’t she?

Of course, Maggs wasn’t always so old or so sassy. There was even a time when Maggs knew not of the Sea’s charm, and a time when she was simply Maggs Yemeni not Maggs Joyner. It is hard to imagine one’s elders younger, but oh, there was a time….

I digress. Why don’t we start at the beginning, eh?

~ ~ ~

Gypsies are a misunderstood folk. Wanders, vagrants, thieves, horse traders, porters of all wares, child snatchers, fortunetellers, all these things the gypsy folk have been called and more beside. In books, many a character have been born from out of the gypsy folk. In these books, the gypsies have their reason for traveling. Some mysterious grand purpose misunderstood by townsfolk and ruler alike. In the books, a gypsy character is mysterious, grand, and magnificent because of their gypsy heritage and they too have an undisclosed reason for traveling rootless like all the others. In the books, gypsies are not simply thieves, wanders, vagrants, thieves, horse traders, child snatchers or fortunetellers, and the characters that are among the gypsy people are more then just gypsies themselves.

This story comes from no book. Whether the story is true or imagined, I will not tell, but true or false in this story gypsies are simply that, gypsies.

I suppose each gypsy has their reason for traveling the way they do, and each reason is a different as the last, that much I grant you.

For Vikcard Yemeni and his family, his reason was simple and was the same reason many others traveled in the days this story took place.

Vickard Yemeni was once a farmer, a tiller of soil, and a good one too. He grew wheat, had a pasture full of milk cows, and his father in-law being a horse breeder Vickard breed and pastured horses as well. Vickard was a good man, and having spent his early years learning all he could from any man who would answer a curious lad’s questions had learned a little from many trades. Yet above all, Vickard was simply a farmer, and more settled man you would never meet. In a small measure, compared to others at the same time, Vickard was successful and his family was better off then most if only in a small way. Vickard and his wife never once felt what was known as wanderlust, and would have spent their entire life on that farm with what children God gave them well contended. In short, Vickard would have never become a gypsy if had not been for one thing.

Bad times came, a drought, locust, and then a fire in a field set by others jealous of the Yemeni family’s success found Vickard, his wife, and their three children they had at the time on the side of the road during bad times. His riches having been lost in the fire, his herd being ruined by the drought, his crops being ruined by locust, Vickard settled his family in the small room his father-in-law could ill afford to spare. Seeing his family cared for, Vickard began looking for a job, but in a region that had suffered just as much as he had, there was none to be found. When word came of a job for a Lord’s Field Overseer in the north, Vickard packed his family and all their worldly possessions into a red-boarded wagon with red wheels bought cheap because it had once belonged to a gypsy man who died of age in that very wagon.

Therefore, the Yemeni family traveled north to the Lord’s house only to find the job filled. Disappointed but not giving up, Vickard reasoned that the wagon furnished with beds, seats, storage, a small wood stove was good enough for his family to live in until he found a job. The wagon was crowded for sure, especially with his wife expecting yet another child, but it would do. Reasoning thus, Vickard began traveling from town to town looking for work and a permanent job. When work couldn’t be found, Vickard lent his strength to whatever work could be found accepting whatever payment the people could give him before moving to a new place when the word of work came to his ear.

Roads were dangerous in those times, and it was more then once that the Yemeni family barely escaped with their lives if not their hard earned wealth. It was not long in traveling this way that the Yemeni family met other families who had suffered similar losses in the hard year of the drought. As they met, the families would decide to travel together for safety. More and more wagons joined the train, sharing the companionship of the road for safety, and sharing each other’s wealth when times were harsh. Soon, the little group of families in wagons became a little gypsy band.

A gypsy band not formed by the desire to travel, but rather a band formed because of hard times for mutual survival.

As Vickard told his wife at the birth of their third child a son, “Whatever they call us, love, we are not gypsies. We are merely friends sharing the road. Moreover, one day, I promise rose of my heart, we will be settled again, we will have a home. We have roots still; they are just severed for a little while, my love.”

Several families and a larger wagon later, the Yemeni family found themselves increased. Having started on the road with two children and the promise of one, the Yemeni’s know found themselves with the seven children. So large was their family that Yemeni family now traveled in two wagons, Vickard driving one and the Yemeni eldest son Walter driving the other. Vickard, known as Yemeni to the group of travelers, found himself blessed with three sons and four daughters.

In order they were: Walter and Heather named after deceased relatives who had known the years before traveling. Faran named after the man who died to give them their first wagon who had been in the womb when traveling began. Bierce a boy named after a town the band had stayed in that year. Followed by Marguerite named after a kind lady stranger; and Myrtle named after the tear she was born under.

Marguerite, who was from her beginning Maggs having been dubbed so by Faran, had never known anything but the road. Perhaps it was a good thing that Maggs was born in the years her family searched and walked the road, for she was an adventures thing whose feet never stood still.

As soon as she had begun walking, Marguerite proved she was her father’s child for she had inherited with Faran their father’s curious nature and their father’s desire to learn everything he could.

Her first words, after the usual nonsense stuff baby’s sprout, were “Teach me” and “Show me”.

Faran, her elder brother by five years, was the same way, and in between them, they never gave anyone who joined the band any rest.

Myrtle too, the youngest, was off a curious nature, but she was quieter about it. Myrtle was content to watch and learn. Faran was even content to ask questions until he understood. But little Maggs, she was not satisfied with merely watch, or merely asking until she understood, no she had touch things, feel things, and do things herself. Her toddler years were spent watching someone do something for hours, followed by with some disaster Maggs doing it herself. She settled down some when she entered into childhood at seven having learned not to try certain things herself, but still she asked and learned from everyone she met. Learning was Maggs greatest joy in life, and in between Faran, Myrtle and herself there was not a bit of knowledge they hadn’t managed to learn.

Faran eventually settled himself in several different crafts that he thought would benefit his life, and his younger sisters being his own personal fan club followed suit. Yet still, if something new came into those curious little lives you could bet your last penny that the Curious Three, as they were called, would be there asking and learning all they could.

Years would pass, and would find the family prospering, and in some extent settling into their nomadic life. Vickard went back to the trading and breeding of horses with his sons Bierce and Faran. Walter would marry have three children of his own and would eventually settle in a town that paid well for his excellent talents as a wood carver. Heather caught a townsman’s eye when they passed through the city of Crossroads, and married to a settled life she desired. Bierce married into the wagons, and would have his own wagon with his small family of two sons while he continued in business with his father. The Yemeni family wagons would decrease from two to one large one, which still carried the red wheels of their first wagon.

When it came to the time when Bierce’s wife turned round with their third child, and Faran would come into his nineteenth year, the Yemeni family would come to the city of Miram, the capital of their country. There at the summer fare a Lord of some wealth admired the work of Vickard with his wild horses, and the Lord would offer him a job as his own horse trainer. Vickard all too happy to settle finally from the road agreed. Therefore, it was that the family wagon would make it last journey to the country town of Carvel, where the Lord of the House of Bear Duke Gerald lived.

Settling into the more then sufficient lodgings by the stables, the Yemeni family would finally return to their roots while the rest of the band would leave without them. It was a teary goodbye, but a welcome one.

So it was that Faran 19, Maggs 14, and Myrtle at the tender age of 12 would begin to learn what was like to be settled.

And that was when the trouble began.

[Lilith]

*smiles* Loved every minute of it Din... keep it up... I can't wait to see what kind of trouble the young three curious ones are going to stir up in a settled area..

[dinranwen]

Chapter 3 is already in the works.

However, I'm open to suggestions as too what kind of trouble these youngesters might get into.

[scissorkitty]

I really like this story! It's such a different take on the traditional gypsy beginning that you mentioned, I can't wait to read more!

[dinranwen]

Chapter 3 is being edited and should be up by next week at the latest.

In the meantime, let's see if we can get this thing permentally named. I'm open to suggestions, but the one's I've thought of are listed in the poll so vote or suggest away.

Till next time then, I lurk......

Giant Teacups,

Dinranwen