"The Day the Caravan Passed By" by Jon Midget

While the rest of the village waited for the caravan to pass through, Jim was miles away, surrounded by the golden, grassy hills of the plains, leading goats to a spring, with Rachel lagging behind with the stragglers. She had already unbuttoned the high neck of her blouse, now open to just below her neck. It ruffled in the breeze. The goats ignored her. Jim wasn't sure why he didn't as well, but, just as always, he stopped when she stopped, and he started walking again when she did.

She had stopped walking now, and she squinted toward the sun. After a moment, she sat down and watched the grass on the hills bend back and forth with the wind. The goats, familiar with the routine, bunched together just off the path and began grazing — almost before Jim had even put the thought into their minds. He watched the goats, the grass, the path, but it was all too familiar to keep his attention for long. He glanced back — for an instant to Rachel, and then to the horizon.

Somewhere past the distant hills, he knew, they were all waiting for the caravan. His friends would do shoddy work until their masters, the craftsmen of the village, finally threw them out for the day. Then they would gather along the road — all of them, for somehow they had known that all the apprentices would dismissed for the day — and there they would discuss who was in love with who, where the best spot for a midnight rendezvous was, and which master craftsman was most unreasonable and strict. Nearby, the younger children would chase one another, clash sticks together, and wrestle in the grass.

A cloud of dust would emerge in the distance, and they would stop everything to watch the approaching caravan. They would shout "It's coming! It's coming!" and the adults from the village, from farmhand to master craftsman, would set their work aside in dusty corners and come to the road beside their children and apprentices. Rachel's parents, the Lord and Lady of the village, would walk out in their finest suit and gown and move to the front of the crowd.

And then, after an hour of watching the speck on the horizon travel approach, the caravan would arrive. A dozen knights would lead the travelers and salute the Lord and Lady of the village. Four or five carriages would pass by, and the nobles inside would wave to the people of the village. The final carriage would stop, and the Princess would step out to receive her subjects. She would greet Rachel's parents, extend her arm to the villagers and brush her fingers against their outstretched hands, step back, turn for a final wave, and disappear back into her carriage amid the villagers' cheers. The knights would salute again, and the caravan would continue down the road, past the village, and disappear beyond the far horizon, never to return again.

"The clouds," Rachel said, "are not that interesting."

She stood right in front of Jim, with the sunlight glistening off her eyes.

"They come," she said, "move past, and then they're gone. They might as well have not come at all."

"I ... I wasn't looking at the clouds."

Rachel's mouth perked into a smile, and she winked. "I wasn't talking about clouds, either."

She walked past, brushing against his hand, and continued along the path. The wind pulled her clothes against her back, just for a moment, before ruffling them out again.

The goats were wandering off. Jim closed his eyes, reached out with his mind, and pressed a thought into their brains. The goats were back on the path and following Rachel. Jim followed.

He followed Rachel and the goats into a thick vale, where the sun was blocked from the path. Rachel slowed, the goats slowed, and Jim was soon beside them. The shadows along the path became darker, and nothing could be seen behind the first row of trees. Jim closed his eyes again, probed his mind through the shadows and bramble. Nothing. His mind retreated back to himself, and he opened his eyes. Rachel was still next to him. The only sound was the rustle of her skirt against his boots.

"I'm glad you came along, today." Jim broke the silence.

Rachel looked straight at him.

"The goats," Jim said. "They like routine. They would have missed you."

"Is that what they've been thinking?"

"More or less."

"Well, can you tell them that I'm happy to keep their routine?"

"I'll let them know," Jim said.

"I wasn't interested in seeing Her, anyway."

"No," Jim agreed. "Me neither."

The sound of running water blended with the wind and goats rustling through the brush.

"A minstrel stopped by a few months ago," Rachel said.

"I remember," said Jim.

"But you didn't get to hear him play," Rachel said.

"No."

"It was so funny. He told all these stories about the nobles from the big cities, and how hard they struggle to find decent suitors, and how the women swoon over bad love poetry."

"Like what?"

"There was one song about the Princess and her mouth, which was 'as supple as a newborn daisy.' I nearly died when he sang it."

"Yeah. A daisy," Jim tried to laugh even though he didn't understand what was so appaling about the phrase. "That's ... pretty bad."

"Oh, I know. In the first place, daisies aren't born — they sprout. In the second place, I seriously doubt a poet has ever kissed the Princess, so how would he even know what her mouth feels like. And honestly, does anyone really want to be known for their supple lips?"

A brief ray of sunlight broke through the trees and sparkled off Rachel's eyes, and she looked at him as if she expected a response.

"I ... I think I'm going to let the goats stop for a drink."

Rachel turned away and looked down the path, where the trees ended and the open plains began again. A brook trickled along the edge of the vale.

"Do you want to wait with for us?" Jim asked.

"No. I ... I'd rather just keep going."

The goats finished drinking quickly, but Jim didn't move on. He sat a rock and watched Rachel until she disappeared around a bend in the path. The sun was high overhead, now, and he splashed water from the brook on his arms and face. The goats started wandering off. Finally, before they had gone too far, Jim touched their minds and stirred an impulse to gather and continue along the trail. As they did, Jim stood up and walked behind them.

The morning after the minstrel had arrived, several months before, Jim had been sitting on a bench near the gardens surrounding the Lord's manor. He had been waiting for Rachel, who was late again, and was whittling a coarse flower from an elm knot. The petals were not quite right, and Jim compared them to the roses and tulips in the garden. He scowled at the wooden flower and tried to visualize how to make the curves appear less rigid.

"Not a bad bit of carving, lad."

Jim dropped the wooden flower. An unfamiliar man, with a lute strapped to his back, reached down and picked the carving up.

"This spot needs to be smoothed out a bit more, though." The minstrel handed the flower back.

"I just do it for fun," Jim said.

"I don't remember your face," the minstrel said. "Were you at my performance last night?"

Jim had been sweeping up the goats' corral that night and had only heard occasional bits of music coming from the manor.

"No." He said. "I was ... busy."

"Too bad, too bad. I don't expect anyone will be stopping by to do another performance any time soon. It's a lonely village you live in and kind of out of the way. I just happened to be on my way to Pinedale — their Valisian Festival is coming up, you know — and I just felt like a little detour, this time. Not much here, though, except miles and miles of grassy hills. 'You've seen one acre of the plains, and you've seen them all,' they say."

"That's what they say, huh,?" Jim said.

"Not like the mountains around Pinedale."

"I guess not. I've never been there."

"You're kidding, lad. That last stretch before you get there — you pass through a deep ravine, and the river comes by the top and falls a thousand feet into a pool so deep it looks black. I've been all over the world, lad, and there's nothing like that waterfall anywhere else.

"And then, after you pass through the ravine, you reach Black Gardie's Inn, and it doesn't matter what time of day you get there, you'll be staying the night, because they bake bread for dinner. I don't know what they put in it, but I've never had anything like it. Lad, you'll be missing out on some damn good bread if you never get out of this village. Damn good bread. There's more to life than a bunch of grassy hills."

The trail to the spring wound through the hills, and often the path ahead was hidden by a sudden turn. As Jim approached the bends, he slowed, until, after a final hesitation, he passed through and could see the trail ahead, again. Each time, Rachel remained out of sight.

At times, he would close his eyes and send his mind sweeping through the land. She was always somewhere far ahead — too far for Jim to feel anything except a vague sense of her presence. Then he would sweep through the land again, as far as he could sense, and search for any feeling of danger. There was none. His mind would withdraw from the land, he would open his eyes again and continue leading the goats along the trail.

Shortly after midday, the Jim and the goats made their final turn, and the path descended into a grassy meadow and the springs. Several willow trees stood near the banks, and Rachel lay beneath them. The goats trotted down the trail and then mulled about the meadow to graze and drink. Jim found a patch of grass near Rachel, dipped his hand into a spring, and cupped the water to his mouth.

"Are you asleep?"

Rachel shook her head.

"Just resting," she said.

"Did you have a drink?"

"It tasted good."

The caravan had probably already passed through the village. Nobody in the village would be able to get back to work. They would be too busy wondering at all the places the travelers may have visited before — the Northern Kingdoms, the lands across the Eastern Sea, or the provinces below the Southern Mountains. For one moment their village, their lonely home on the empty prairie, had been connected to the rest of the world — had burst into unfathomable possiblity — until the had moment passed, and the world again became the prairie and the lonely village.

Jim wondered what his parents would tell him — what he had missed — when he returned.

"I'm glad we didn't stay for everything, today," Rachel said. "Can you believe that my mother kept me up all night while she tried on every dress in her wardrobe? You'd have thought one of the gods was stopping by for roast dinner. I doubt she even got out of her carriage to look at anyone."

Rachel leaned over the spring and stroked her hand through the water. Jim watched the rings echo across the surface until they disappeared at the banks.

"There's a story," Jim said, "that water nymphs dance here every night. One night, a long time ago, they say a man lost his way and stumbled here while they danced. He watched them until they all finally cried and collapsed to the ground. One of them lay right next to him, and he watched the moonlight shimmer in her skin. He couldn't stand it any longer. He reached out and touched her face.

"When he did, the nymph shrieked and thrashed her body back and forth. The other nymphs arose, and the man thought he was about to be destroyed.

"But the nymphs were not cruel or savage — their dance was over; they were gentle and wise.

" 'She is too young,' they told the man. 'a mortal touch is poison to her.'

" 'I am sorry,' the man whispered as he watched the nymphs carry their injured sister back into the spring.

"Then the injured nymph looked at the man. 'Help me,' she said. 'Help my body heal.'

" 'How?' the man asked.

"Give yourself to the moon. Bind your soul to its light, and come to me each night and touch the water. I will reach out, and your light will heal me. And one day, when I am ready, I will rise out of the water again, and we will dance together at last."

" 'I will,' the man said, and as the injured nymph was lowered into the pool, the man disappeared. But every night his soul returns with the moonlight and touches the water, where the nymph lay and waits until she is healed enough to dance with him forever."

The breeze, which had stirred though the hills all day, had stopped. Jim reached out and let his fingers dance on the surface of the spring.

"Do you believe that story?" Rachel asked. "Do you believe things like that really happen?"

"I don't think it matters whether they really happen or not," Jim said. "I wasn't here to see whether this one did or not. Sometimes, if you let them, stories are true whether they really happened or not."

Rachel looked straight at Jim.

"I guess folklore makes as much sense to a rich girl as poetry does to a goat herd."

Rachel laughed. "And yet, if we had stayed at the village today, I'm not sure anyone in the caravan would see any difference between the two of us."

"Except that you have nicer shoes," Jim said. "That makes a difference."

"And that I'm in a dress," Rachel said. "That makes a difference, too."

She laid her hand on his.

Jim's mouth felt dry.

"It's probably time to go," he whispered.

She pulled her hand away. "Yes," she said. "We want to get home before nightfall."

Jim closed his eyes and called the goats together again, but before he withdrew his mind from the land, he hesitated near Rachel. What would she feel? But long before he even tried approaching her, his mind withdrew back into himself. He opened his eyes. Rachel was watching him. He arose, and she did to. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Rachel had turned and started walking back up the trail. The goats followed her, and, after a long pause, Jim started walking behind them all.

While the minstrel had been talking about the ravine, the waterfall, and the bread, Jim had glanced several times at Rachel's balcony. There had been no sign of her, but as more time had passed, Jim felt his heart beat a little faster.

"Do you know the lass in that house?" the minstrel asked. "Strange girl. She left the hall last night before I had finished my performance."

"She doesn't like ... being around people very much," Jim said.

"You know who I'm talking about, then?"

"There's only one ... uh, lass ... living there."

He looked at the balcony again. Rachel had spent her the previous evening leaning against the rail and watching the sky turn from day to night — just as she did nearly every night. The balcony was only a few hundred paces from the goat corral, though Jim doubted she had ever realized that.

"You know that they say things about her — the villagers do, anyway." the minstrel said.

"I think everyone knows the things said about her."

"About her and the goatherd?"

"Trust me, no matter what people may say, there's nothing going on between her and the goatherd."

"That's not what I heard. I heard she runs off with him and the goats just about every day — all day long. If there's nothing going on there, then she's a really funny lass. Either that or he's ... ah ... well ... she is a pretty girl, and I guess we don't need to talk about his problems if he doesn't know what to do with a pretty girl."

Jim took a deep breath and studied his wooden flower.

"She likes to wander around the prairie and be by herself," Jim said. "Her father told the goatherd to let her tag along — he figures she's safer with him than by herself."

The minstrel laughed. "You're a nice lad — defending her honor and all — but I've heard the stories people are telling about her, and I know enough about this world to fill in the blanks."

"Sometimes stories are just stories."

"I guess you still have a few things to learn," the minstrel said. He took a deep breath and looked down the road leading out of the village. "Well, I had better head off — it's a long way to Pinedale, and I want to get there before the festival starts." He took several steps before turning around one last time. "Keep working on your little wooden flower," he said. "It's not a masterpiece, but I kind of liked it anyway."

Neither Jim nor Rachel had spoken since they left the springs. As he walked behind her, and the goats, Jim watched the setting sun set the western sky on fire and listened to the goats' coats brushing against the grass. Ahead, Rachel had stopped at the crest of a hill. When Jim reached her, he looked down and saw village, already glowing with lanterns lit to guard against the coming night.

"Both of us are probably going to be hearing about the caravan all night," Rachel said.

"Well, you will," Jim said.

Rachel looked at him.

"The corral needs cleaning." Jim said. "I don't get home 'til long after everyone else is asleep on nights I do cleaning. Don't worry, though. I'll suffer through stories about it tomorrow — probably just as much as you will tonight."

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"Do you do anything ... besides watch my father's goats, I mean?"

Jim laughed. "Sometimes I cook potatoes."

"Sorry." Rachel looked away. "It's just ... I've been thinking about it ever since the story at the spring. My father once said that watching you with animals was like watching a magician. And I've heard other people in the village talk about you and magic and animals and I've seen you with the goats just about everyday for the past five years and ..."

Jim pulled a small wooden rose blossom from his pocket. As he held it up for Rachel to see, his hand started shaking.

"Did you make this?"

"It's not done, yet," Jim said. "I've been carving things for a long time. Once, somebody told me he liked a little flower I had made, and I've been doing it a lot more since. Whatever I'm working on, I keep it with me in case I have a few extra minutes to carve. I've been working on this one for the past week or so."

"It's nice."

"Well, it's not done yet. And ... that's ... it's not really what I wanted to show you. Well, it is, but not ..."

"Can I hold it" Rachel asked.

"Yes. If you want to ..."

"Are you okay?"

"I just ... don't know what you're going to think about this," Jim said.

"I told you. I think it's nice."

"No, not the flower," Jim said. "Here." He placed the flower into Rachel's hand. "Close your eyes," he said.

They closed their eyes together, and Jim's mind extended out into the land. He felt Rachel's presence and slowly approached her. As he did, his mind leaped from the land to the wooden flower in her hand. His mind seeped through the wood, and he felt it soften. Gently, he extended his mind toward hers.

Open your eyes.

Rachel gasped at the sound of his voice in her mind, and and when Jim opened his own eyes, he saw her staring at her shaking hands, which now held a living flower, red with streaks of white. She looked up and stared at Jim with wide eyes.

"I had no idea," she whispered.

Jim looked at the ground.

"Most people don't," he said.

Rachel reached out with one hand and touched his face. Jim looked up at her. They stood there, at the top of the hill, facing each other in silence, barely aware of the wind, the goats, the hills, or the village below. Music rose from the village, and its faint cadences stirred their minds back to the present. Rachel smiled, turned to the village and music below, and started walking down the path.

"We should get back before it's too late," she said.

"Are you keeping the flower?" Jim asked.

She turned back to him and smiled.

"Yes," she said.

"What if somebody asks where you found it?"

"I won't say anything."