The Tales of Tarya, Books 1-3

By Rachel Nightingale

When Mina joins a troupe of travelling actors, her aim is to find her missing brother, but her search unlocks a series of secrets that will change the world she knows forever.

Tarya, the mystical realm spoken of in tales, is real, and her gift for story telling opens a way to it. But Tarya has a shadow side, and someone in the troupe of actors is using it to harm people. Mina soon realises she may be the only one with the power to stop them.

The Tales of Tarya is a young adult fantasy trilogy about the gift of creativity and where it can take you.

This book bundle contains all books in The Tales of Tarya trilogy: Harlequin's Riddle, Columbine's Tale, and Pierrot's Song.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odyssey Books
• Release date: Apr 18, 2020

Book preview

Published by Odyssey Books in 2017

Copyright © Rachel Nightingale 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

www.odysseybooks.com.au

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN: 978-1-922200-99-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-925652-00-0 (ebook)

Cover artwork by Nadia Turner (www.waywardharper.com)

Cover design by Jamie Le Rossignol

Harlequin's Riddle is dedicated to Bob Larkins—author,

wordsmith, fantastic father and my inspiration.

I would never have become a writer without him.

The Gazini Players

are proud to present

for your Edification and Enjoyment

Tales of great Joy, and of great Woe

as told by our magnificent Madama Narratori (Mina D’Aniello)

Will our lovers, Jal Fiorillo and Isabella Modini,

the most beauteous Inamorati in all of Litonya, find True Love?

Despite the wickedness of those rapacious old men

Il Dottore (Aldo di Castelli) and his infamous

partner in plots Pantalone (Ciro Lupini)?

Will the vain Il Capitano (Dario Gazini) achieve his foolish aims,

or will he be fooled himself by those most wily of Zanni,

the servants:

capricious Harlequin (Uberto Gazini himself!!)

nefarious Scapino (Roberto Anonza)

and plain-spoken Smeraldina (Lisette de Chansons)

as they aid and abet our lovers?

Enjoy the tumbles and tricks of hilarious lazzi

Watch brilliant burle, those scenes you know and love

In both canovaccio (one act) and scenario (three act) plots

and featuring the famous concetti, the renowned speeches,

Spoken by our own Master of Rhetoric, Aldo di Castelli

Addendum: The role of Il Dottore will be performed by

Vincenzo Maritsa, late of the Archiari Players.

Also, we are proud to announce the addition of a

Pierrot (Luka Parma)

Uberto Gazini would like to express his sincere thanks

for your generous patronage that will allow us

to continue our performances. He also wishes to thank

his beautiful wife, Cristina, for her undying support.

Prologue

Tarya

Shall I speak to you of dreams?

No, not of dreams. What I speak of lies before waking, but beyond sleep.

There is a moment, just before the dreamer stirs, when the mysteries of the world offer up their meanings. There is a moment, just beyond the ordinary, when perfection can be reached playing a melody or telling a tale. This moment is born in a world that lies between reality and dream. To reach it is as precious as life, but as dangerous as a nightmare.

In these in-between moments, when inspiration and meaning are a heartbeat away, I have seen the Shadow People draw eager breath and reach with empty fingers to snatch at stray dreams. But it is worse even than that. Their long grasp penetrates souls and hearts. In that moment hope is extinguished, destinies are changed, and the future falls into shadow.

Perhaps you will understand best if I show you. If I tell you my story, you can see, and know.

Where must the story begin? Some say each story has many beginnings, but I am a story weaver, trained to find the true heart from which a story can grow. If I am to tell truly, my story should begin with events that reached their end years before my brother and I were even born. Is that so strange? All stories are woven together in webs of great beauty, strength and, do not doubt it, tragedy. The simplest tale may have at its heart the distant past, or present secrets locked in deep caves, or a future we cannot even picture. But some secrets must not be told too soon.

We paid a great price, my friends and I, to uncover what had been hidden. I cannot give away truth lightly. So my tale will begin, as my journey did, with the day the players returned to Andon, a small, isolated town in the south of Litonya, drenched in endless sunlight. My father was one of few men who did not make a living from the sea that hissed and raged at the cliffs below the town. He loved Andon and never left it during his lifetime. He did not pass this love on to my brother Paolo. Paolo always said Andon was a village with pretensions, imagining itself a town. His dreams spoke of an exciting world beyond its confines, a world he could reach if only he stretched his arms out far enough. My uncle Tonio dreamed such dreams too, once. The problem is, if you hold the dream of something better before you, it shines so brightly that it casts long shadows. You can chase the brightness and not see the shadows that chase you. And if the dream dies, the shadows do not go away. I have seen them.

Chapter 1

The Players Arrive

Harlequin blew in with a summer storm, sweeping change before him. When the rain and fury settled, the cobwebs of Mina ’ s memory cleared and she remembered long-forgotten details from when her brother Paolo ran away to make his fortune as a travelling player. Before then she had remembered only the happy years of childhood, and the lonely years after he left. Paolo ’ s departure sat like a wisp of smoke, formless and dark, in her thoughts. Until Harlequin ’ s return.

A musical tinkling broke Mina’s concentration as she sat reading at her window seat. Curious, she opened her second-storey window and tried to make out what was happening in the distant village square. A large wagon lumbered into view, spilling out people whose clothes splashed scarlet and blue against the town’s white-washed buildings. The villagers, scurrying like ants in their drab colours, surrounded the newly arrived wagon.

Artisans! Across Litonya, artisans were regarded as living treasures for their talents. Unfortunately, they came to isolated Andon rarely. It was too much trouble.

Mina leaned from the window, trying to decide what type they were. They might be cirquers, with acrobatic tricks and funny costumes, or perhaps musicians. Not a story teller, because none travelled in such a gaudy contraption. Carefully placing the precious book on her bed, Mina raced downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen doorway.

‘I’m going to see what’s going on,’ Mina gushed.

‘Be back in time for dinner. Papa will be mad if you’re late.’

‘I know.’ Mina kissed her mother on her cheek. Behind Mama, seated at the table, Uncle Tonio looked up and gave Mina a sad, lopsided grin.

‘Do you want to come, Uncle? There’s something happening in the square. Artisans of some kind.’

Uncle Tonio rose up from his seat, a grin splashed across his face, nodding. Mama quickly stepped in to block his way.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mina,’ she murmured.

Uncle Tonio looked down, his shoulders slumped. ‘Want to go!’

‘Let’s find out what it is first,’ Mama said in her most soothing voice. ‘Mina can come back and tell us what she finds, okay?’

She helped Uncle Tonio back to his chair and grabbed a shawl that was draped there. Mama followed Mina out the front door and held it closed behind her, handing Mina the shawl.

‘If it’s travelling players,’ she said in a low voice, ‘don’t tell him.’

‘Why not?’

Mama shook her head. ‘Just don’t.’

Mina tried to hand the shawl back. ‘I won’t need this. It’s perfect weather today.’

Mama turned to re-enter the house. ‘Take it. There’s a storm coming.’

Mina walked the short distance to the town centre, puzzling over her mother’s words. Her parents had always spoken disparagingly of travelling players, but she had never known why. As far as she knew they had not played any role in the family tragedy. Before Mina was born, Uncle Tonio’s wife, Ana, died in a fire in the fruit shed. Mama had been crippled trying to save her. No one ever spoke of it, but once, Mina had seen the scars on her Mama’s legs, like great rivers running through the flesh. She’d never forgotten. After Ana’s death Uncle Tonio had changed, become like a child, but no one ever spoke of that either.

Mina put those thoughts behind her. At seventeen she was entirely bored with the steady, unchanging routine of her days, longing for colour and change. Today it appeared her wish would be granted. When she reached the square it became clear the visitors were travelling players. Their wagon dominated a quarter of the town square. Mina’s breath caught as she saw how its every surface was painted with landscapes of vibrant green fields and mountains so purple they almost didn’t look real. The colours were a little too garish to her eye, the proportions not quite right. But the pictures were vivid and exciting, easily catching everyone’s attention.

Most of Andon was bustling about, pretending to go about their business as they waited for the players to begin. Gradually they moved closer to the wagon, like wasps to a sugar well, chattering with nerves and excitement. They hushed momentarily as a tall man with long brown hair appeared from behind the wagon, a player in garish tights and bright tunic. He turned his back on them and opened the side of the wagon, a huge double door. Everyone drew a collective breath of anticipation.

On the inside of each door was an elaborate painting, one showing a sumptuous room, with cushions and gold leaf, and the other a stand that held a great book. The scenic paintwork was so vivid it could have been painted the day before. Behind the open doors emerald curtains hid the secrets of the wagon. Though these shifted a little, teasing, the wagon was otherwise still and silent amidst the expectant murmurs of the townsfolk. With so little to see, the crowd let out their breath again with a disappointed sigh. Mina thought the wagon was like a jewellery box with hidden compartments, and wondered what marvellous secrets might be revealed. Above the shimmering curtains were more paintings, too small to see, perhaps dancing lads and lasses. The tall man reappeared and placed a set of steps, blue as the sky, with clouds drifting across them, in front of the curtains, leading down to the audience.

Despite the movement of the curtain, nothing seemed to be happening, until a pipe and drum began playing music to dance to, although from where, no one could tell. As one, the crowd surged toward the emerald curtain. Mina found herself caught up in the crowd, pushed toward the front without conscious choice.

A figure ran by her, creating a breeze that spun the air. He wore a tight-fitting suit of coloured diamonds and a dark, long-nosed mask. He was singing as he ran, in some strange language Mina thought she might understand if she listened hard enough. A few stragglers followed, lured by his song. When they saw the player wagon, they stopped and quieted and waited. The man ran up the three steps at the front of the wagon to stand before the curtains. He waited, fingers to his lips, breathing in the energy of the crowd.

He seemed to grow larger. Then he spoke.

‘I am Harlequin,’ he cried. ‘I may be who I am not, but I may be who I am. Who is to say? Listen to my riddles and you may hear the truth. If there is truth to be found. Some say there is not. But let me not bore you with my mystery. Shall I show you a tale?’

Eager, the crowd called out, voices overlapping each other.

‘Yes, a tale. Show us your best tale.’

Harlequin spun, pulling a cloak from nowhere and swirling it around his body. He came down one step and put his finger to his lips.

‘A tale of joy, or a tale of woe? What is it to be?’

The crowd called out contradictory desires. Harlequin played them, putting his hand to his ear and promising the tale to those who could demand the loudest. Finally he broke the cacophony with a sweep of his hand.

‘I think it best if I ask just one person, or I stand to lose my hearing! What say you, little bird? Shall it be joy, or woe?’

Strange, Mina thought. One minute his eyes are blue, the next grey, then green, then brown. They never settle on a colour. Then she realised Harlequin was looking at her and the crowd was demanding she answer.

‘I don’t understand woe,’ she replied. Why had he called her a bird? That had been Paolo’s name for her, a nickname she only remembered as he spoke it.

‘Ah, you are fortunate not to know woe!’ Harlequin’s hands swept out from his body. ‘Perhaps we will show her, so she may guard against it.’

With a sigh, the emerald curtains parted. Filtered sunlight illuminated a backdrop painted with a village square much like Andon’s, showing distant buildings and a fountain. In the centre of the stage a couple faced each other, hands clasped together. Both wore white paint that masked their features, so at first they seemed expressionless, though their gaze indicated they were deeply in love. The man had blond curls and a confident posture, while the girl was slim with cascades of ash-blond hair. Both wore colourful, elaborate garb, a doublet for him and bejewelled dress for her. Mina had an odd thought that the girl should have black hair, but she forgot it as, with a few final shuffling movements and mutters, the crowd stilled and the performance began.

‘Now,’ began Harlequin, ‘Silvia loved her Silvio, more than all the world. And Silvio loved his Silvia more than the moon. When he held her hands, and kissed her soft cheek, he knew all the world was his.’

With those words, Silvio walked to the front of the stage, and sighed. He raised his hand, and the audience leaned forward as one. The playing was about to begin! Mina looked around at their eager faces. What was happening? She almost missed the moment, but something drew her eyes back to the stage as Silvio lowered his hand again. When it passed his face, his features transformed. His jaw became squarer. His eyes were suddenly wide and blue, and his hair seemed to glow with a golden sheen. He even seemed to grow taller. The painted face had melted into the flesh and blood face of a strong, handsome man.

The audience released their breath. The man turned to the maiden, and began declaring his great love for her. He thanked her for leaving her family for him, and spoke of the wonderful life they would lead together. The girl’s face seemed to shimmer, like a river’s surface when a pebble is dropped in, and then her features too changed. Mina shook her head, trying to shake off a feeling of light-headed confusion. Neither of the players looked like they wore white paint on their faces anymore. It was as though they had become someone else. Standing in the shadows behind them, Harlequin too changed, his mask seeming to melt away until his features were completely different. Mina reminded herself it was all illusion, part of the act.

There was a familiarity to their changing faces. As Mina watched the two lovers enact their love scene on the stage, under the hawk gaze of Harlequin, another memory tugged at her thoughts. When someone bumped her from behind, it flooded into her consciousness.

A hand placed over her mouth, to stop her screaming …

Mina had been seven. She knew this because Mama had told her this was when Paolo left. She had been watching the players then too, her excitement at their performance tinged with sadness, knowing her brother was to leave with them. She had gasped to see their strange masks appear to change before her very eyes, shifting from exaggerated features to normal faces in the space of a heartbeat. Yet the performance had barely begun when someone had seized her from behind. She had struggled to bite the big hand that held her mouth closed, kicking her feet against her captor, but his grip was too firm. Terrible thoughts rushed through her head. Paolo had told her tales of children taken and sold into slavery. And surely the perfect time to take a child was while all of Andon was captivated by the players.

She was dragged away from the crowd and into one of the narrow streets beyond the square. Usually a busy thoroughfare, it was empty now. Windows gazed blindly down at their passing. The entire village was in the square, enjoying the rare entertainment. Then her captor stumbled to a stop, dropped Mina, and squatted in the gutter.

Mina’s heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her throat. She looked around at her captor, ready to run, and her heart caught. Uncle Tonio had pulled himself into a ball, arms wrapped around his legs, and was rocking back and forth. His wild eyes saw nothing. Mina reached out a little hand to touch her uncle’s face. She’d never seen him so distressed. Quicker than she could imagine, he seized her hand, squeezing so it hurt her fingers.

‘I saw. Know him. But it’s not him. Why isn’t it? But it is. Won’t let me forget. Can’t find it. Locked in faces.’

Uncle Tonio must have realised he was squeezing too hard. He let Mina’s hand drop. ‘Hurt the little one. Too much. Too much pain. Have to go back. No more dreams.’

Mina took her uncle’s hand again, and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘It’ll be fine, Uncle,’ she said, and patted his cheek.

Tonio rocked for a long time, gradually stilling his meaningless babble. Mina sat beside him, patient. She didn’t know what had upset him, but it didn’t matter really. At night the sound of an owl outside could send him pacing the house, shaking his head for hours. Tiny things nobody else even noticed could aggravate him beyond understanding. Even Mina, who noticed much that nobody else did, could not always tell what had set him pacing or ranting.

Mina reached out her little hand now and then to pat her uncle’s arm. It would have seemed strange to a passer-by, the tiny child acting the adult for the hulking man, but no one saw. For a long time, the street remained empty. By the time Uncle Tonio finally calmed down enough for them to go home, the playing had ended and villagers began walking past, returning to the everyday world. Those who passed by Mina and her uncle first had a funny, vacant sort of a look, as though they did not see what was around them. They wore great smiles, but their eyes were distant.

Fascinated, Mina remained perched on the gutter, watching. Slowly the passers-by seemed to return to themselves, and they began to notice the small child and the fool sitting in the gutter. Their response, as always with Uncle Tonio, was to stare and whisper and walk just the slightest bit faster past the big man with the wild hair and eyes.

Mina giggled.

‘Let’s be wise fools,’ she said to her uncle, who was now calm, and he grinned at her, nodding. Mina used a kerchief to wipe the spittle from the side of his mouth. Then she and her uncle began their game, one they played whenever they were sick of the villagers’ stares. Mina stuck her hands against her ears and waggled them at the passing townsfolk, bouncing her eyes up and down. Tonio copied her. It took a while for what they were doing to register. Then the matrons tutted and hurried past, and the mothers rushed their children on. Only the boys stopped to watch and laugh.

Next it was Tonio’s turn to lead. He pushed his nose up with two long fingers, widened his eyes and poked out his tongue. With a giggle, Mina copied him, and then the boys across the street did too. Villagers continued to hurry past, no longer staring and whispering, but looking away.

They played their wise fools game for a while, each face wilder and more grotesque than the one before, deterring the stares of the villagers until the passing crowd dwindled to the usual street traffic. Then Mina helped her uncle up and walked him home. As always, she wished she could make things right for him. She didn’t understand why Uncle Tonio was so different, though she loved him no less for it, but she sensed pain ran river-deep beneath the foolish façade. Even at this age she sensed Uncle Tonio’s grief would never end. Beyond the emptiness in his eyes was a pain so great his pupils were dark with it. The darkness scared her.

Frenetic applause brought Mina back to the present. She realised the air had chilled, and gathered her shawl in tight, thankful for her mother’s foresight. Onstage, Harlequin and the lovers bowed alongside three others, two dressed as wealthy older men and one in the simple garb of a servant. Somehow, absorbed in the past, Mina had missed the whole performance. The sky above had grown heavy with clouds but around her, oblivious to the change in the air, townsfolk applauded and cat-called. Turning in a circle to examine those surrounding her she saw, despite their enthusiasm, their faces held the odd, glazed look of her memory. She completed her circle to find herself face to face with Harlequin. He had stepped down from the stage and now stood so close she could smell his breath. It smelled of autumn and chocolate.

His eyes flashed more colours than she’d ever seen. She took in all the details in an instant: the diamond patches of brown, yellow, red, and green on his costume, the black cap concealing his hair. From a wide belt at his waist hung a pouch and strange black stick. His mask was of age-darkened leather, with a sharp nose and elongated almond eyes. Mina realised she had raised her hand as if to touch it. She drew back with a shudder.

‘What are you?’ she asked, the words leaving her mouth before she could stop them.

The man winked. ‘Well! You are a wise one! What do you really see, I wonder?’

He turned his head so he was looking at her through one eye. His eye flashed, the pupil filling the iris so it became entirely black, before it shrunk away again to nothing. It happened so swiftly Mina wasn’t even sure she had seen it. She took a step back, her heart beating faster. The man twirled both hands up into the air, as though brushing away cobwebs from around Mina’s head.

‘Yes, there is something,’ he mused. ‘And you are fair as the dawn. Have you ever thought of being a player?’

Mina shook her head.

‘The time is ripe, sweetling,’ he continued, his voice suddenly light. ‘Not long ago my own daughter departed from us.’

‘She … she died?’

The thin man burst into great bouts of laughter. His eyes flashed green. Mina caught another flash, bright at the edge of her vision. Mama’s storm was coming, but still distant.

‘Oh no! Died! Oh, I do not laugh at you, beautiful maiden. No, no, no. Ah, she is a fortunate one, my darling girl. The queen herself took a liking to her, and invited her to be her personal handmaiden, so she left her poor parents and found a better life in the royal palace.’ He pouted, taking on a posture of deep dejection, then transformed again to a stance of triumph as he declared, ‘Is that not a wonderful fate for a player, and the daughter of players? Handmaiden to the queen! But it has left us one player short. You would be perfect.’

He laughed again, but there had been a strange edge to his words that Mina found confusing. She smiled tentatively, unsure of the mercurial storm of emotions behind the laughter, and took a step back, overwhelmed by his strange offer.

‘I … no … I care for my uncle … I couldn’t …’

In the distance, thunder cracked. She turned and ran into the crowd, the player’s voice chasing her.

‘This offer will last until tomorrow, little bird. Think on it well. A life of adventure awaits!’

~

Mina stopped halfway down the street. Duty and curiosity warred within her. She knew she should go home and let Uncle Tonio know what was happening in the square, but her mother had said not to tell him if they were players, so she was not sure what she could say. In the end she decided to avoid the question by staying in the square. She burned to know more about the players. She had spent so many years looking after her uncle, while her father ran the family orchards and her mother kept the house. For one afternoon, she would allow herself a little freedom. But only as long as she could outrun the storm.

All the performers moved amongst the buzzing townsfolk, still in costume but without their masks, collecting coins and other gifts as thanks for the performance. Despite the crowd’s excitement, everyone still wore the strange, glazed look Mina remembered from long ago. Even Lucetta, who wore her hair loose like a young woman even though her face was like crumpled paper, and who traded in gossip as others traded in fish, was subdued. Mina spat on the ground behind Lucetta when she passed her, a secret habit grown from years of quiet anger for the way Lucetta always made fun of Tonio.

As the players slipped away with their takings, the townsfolk seemed to awaken, their conversation brightening as they dissected every aspect of what they had just seen. Yet even this passed after a while. With anxious glances at the darkening sky they began to shuffle away, falling back into the comfortable, time-worn topics of people who live decade after decade in the same place.

Mina walked to the fountain in the centre of the square, watching jets of water rise from a seven-pointed star in its centre, then arc down to create smatterings of foam. She could see the glimmer of coins and pins through the water, each one a wish long forgotten. The ancient fountain had six stone children frolicking in its basin, some holding toys, others frozen as though caught mid-leap under the dancing water. A little stone boy sat on the edge, his legs dangling in the water, a book forgotten on his lap. Fragments of worn words could still be read, vol, egra, ucin, eula. Only one looked like it might be a complete word: Calin. None were words Mina knew. Worn too were the features of the boy, but for all the wear, the fountain was kept clean and in good repair. Yet in a country where everything seemed to have a tale attached to it, Mina had heard none told about this fountain. Unperturbed, she had made up her own stories for each of the seven children who inhabited its wide basin.

She had named the seated boy Tonio after her uncle, because he had the same air of unending sadness about him, and because he too sat forever on the edge, never able to join in. His mouth was always open, as though he were calling out to the other children, perhaps asking to join their fun.

Gazing across the fountain reminded Mina of a time, long ago, when she had pretended she was a story teller, telling tales to Tonio, the only statue who sat still to listen. Back then, she had sat next to the little stone boy, her skinny legs dangling in the water. She remembered having the crazy idea that when she told a story it became real. But even story tellers, revered throughout Litonya for their skills with tale telling, could not do that. A few times a year, for the sacred festivals, a story teller would come to Andon to tell the sacred tales of the Creator and the Muses. At those times everyone gathered in the divina, a circular building at the edge of town, to listen to the traditional stories, and perhaps more mundane stories from other towns too.

Mesmerised by the water falling in front of her, Mina thought of the years she had sat by the fountain, waiting for her brother to appear, when her duties were done and Papa allowed her an hour of free time. Although she could not remember the day of his departure, she still had a small pouch her mother had made her from a shining scrap of fabric he had given her as a parting gift. She had given him something too … a bead perhaps? She had no idea where the pouch was now—at some point she had put it away, realising Paolo had broken his promise to return.

Mina’s thoughts, dancing like Harlequin, turned to the strange player’s offer. Though nothing was ever said, she knew her parents expected her to care for Uncle Tonio as long as he lived. The possibility of leaving Andon filled her with guilt. She knew too well how Paolo’s departure had worn down her mother’s spirit and her father’s pride. And Harlequin frightened her. There was something about him, uncontained, hungry. Yet she had dreamed of the opportunity to leave Andon, to see the great palace in Litonya, to travel. Would it be so wrong to see the world outside of this coastal village where the air always smelled of fish?

Another flash of lightning, still distant but harsh and bright, brought her out of thoughts that were chasing their own tails. Mina shook off an unexpected hopefulness and walked home through the growing darkness. It was not yet night, but the sky was heavy with clouds. The town square had emptied quickly once the villagers realised a storm was on its way. Thunder rolled heavily as Mina neared her house, her steps weighed down by the endless years ahead, fulfilling everyone’s needs but her own.

Outside, rain pelted down, washing the village away. At least tomorrow the air would be clear, the smell of fish gone for a brief time. Mina ate her dinner without enthusiasm. She was aware of Mama watching her throughout the meal. Papa, oblivious to the turmoil inside his daughter, spoke loudly of his day in the orchards and the troubles with the new barrow boy who sold their fruit for them. As always, nothing quelled him expressing his disapproval of whatever was in his vicinity, not even the storm that whipped against the windows. Mina might as well have been invisible. After dinner she and Mama washed the dishes together, and she whispered of the players to her mother, though she need not have been careful. In full fury now, the storm drowned their conversation.

Mina struggled to sleep that night, her thoughts in turmoil, the air heavy, thunder and lightning dancing their dangerous duet outside. When she finally drifted off, strange dreams gripped her. Autumn leaves in brown, yellow, red and green drifted down before her, changing shape until they became diamonds, falling to the ground around a man with a carved leather face that shifted and melted, sinking into seething shadows. When the shadows cleared, she saw her brother Paolo sitting with his feet in the fountain, looking sad, yet bathed in myriad rainbows from the droplets that fell around him. A young woman stood behind him, with long black hair and vivid green eyes, her hand reaching for him. When she touched him, they both broke apart, like clouds in a sudden wind, and were gone. Mina became aware of another figure facing the fountain, his back to her. He turned and faced her, and it was Uncle Tonio, but not as she had last seen him. He was tall and young, his hair not white but the glowing golden-brown of honey, like Mina’s. As the water of the fountain fell behind him, he too was bathed in a rainbow, perfect and pure. His voice was strong.

‘My little Mina. It’s time to fly, little dove. You have a rare gift that was lost but waits to be unlocked again. There is a great hurt that must be healed. It is your destiny to heal it. But don’t be tempted to dream of being other than you are, for that way lies danger. Step into the world and be your wonderful self, and it will bring light to many.’

Uncle Tonio shone with a radiance so bright Mina shut her eyes tight. When she opened them, she was lying in her own bed. Dawn light was just beginning to creep over the windowsill and into the room. Outside, the world was washed clean. It would be a beautiful day. Inside Mina, the storm continued. Today was her only chance. The players would be gone in hours.

She sat up, exhausted. Her confused dream was fading too fast for her to grasp it, but what there had been in it was important to the decision she had to make. A name lingered on her tongue … Miranda. The girl with black hair and green eyes. Who was she? The details were slipping away, trapped in the moment before Mina woke. All she remembered now was a feeling of warmth that almost quelled the rising panic within. The feeling stayed with her as she went down to the kitchen. Though it was still dark, Mama was already pulling hot rolls out of the oven. She set two in front of Mina with a soft ‘good morning’. Mina watched her mother limping between the oven and the table.

‘Was there someone called Miranda, Mama? A long time ago?’

Mama turned sharply. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I dreamed about her last night. In the dream, she took Paolo away.’

‘She was with the players, when Paolo left with them.’ Mama began scrubbing the table. Her lips were pressed together so hard they were colourless.

Mina changed the subject. ‘What was Tonio like, Mama? Before the fire?’

Mama stopped her scrubbing, turned to Mina and smiled. ‘He was a good man. Everyone looked up to him.’

‘It’s so sad he ended up how he did. Things could have been so different.’

Mama hobbled to the stove, poured a hot coffee for her daughter and herself, and sat down. ‘Your uncle has had a good life, sweetheart, and a lot of it is because of you. He loves you so much.’

Mama looked away, and was silent for a long while, sipping her coffee. Finally she put the mug down and sighed.

‘You’ve cared for your uncle so well. Now it’s time you thought about the future, Mina.’ She fell silent for what felt like an eternity, then spoke again. There was steel in her voice now. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I made a promise once. But … I was selfish. I needed your help. Mina, it’s time you left Andon.’

Mina set her cup down abruptly. Coffee spilled across the white tablecloth. ‘Promised who?’

‘Your brother.’

As it had the day before, a long forgotten memory broke open in Mina’s head. She heard her brother’s voice as he knelt in front of her, one hand on her cheek.

‘My little sister. My little dove. With your storytelling you could become a player too. I’ll come back for you, I promise. And I always keep my promises, eh? Wait here, by the fountain, when you see the blossoms on the trees. Listen for the players’ bells. It may be a few years. There are so many towns and cities to visit. But I will come back. And you’d better be ready! You heard Mama promise. You can come with me to see the world!’

Mina shook off the memory and laughed bitterly. ‘My brother! I used to think he kept his promises. But he didn’t, not when it mattered. He said he’d return.’

She reached for the butter and smeared some fiercely on her warm bread roll. She tried to dismiss her mother’s words, but inside, a spark of hope had been lit.

‘Mina,’ Mama said, her words hesitant, ‘I don’t think Paolo meant to break his promise to you. I think he would have come back if he could. The players returned a few years after Paolo left. It was when you had the scarlet fever. Your father went to see him. To try and make things up. They had such a terrible argument when Paolo left. But Paolo wasn’t with them. They wouldn’t tell us what happened to him. We should have told you.’

Mina stared at her mother. She had spent years thinking her beloved brother had abandoned her. When she was little, Paolo had never broken a promise to his little dove. Not until his last, most important one. Yet now her mother was saying he hadn’t broken it.

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ she demanded. ‘I always thought … I thought he didn’t want to come back, that he didn’t love me.’

A knot inside her untwisted, causing tears to run fast and warm down her cheeks and into her coffee. Her body shook with pain that had been held in check for years. Mama hobbled over and held her.

As she sobbed, Mina realised she still longed to see her brother, though she had locked that wish away for so many years because of her anger at his abandonment. Paolo had always made her feel special, listening to her stories. She remembered that she had loved to tell stories, but she didn’t remember why, or what that love had felt like. Sometimes she felt an ache inside her that she thought might be connected to her missing stories, but it hurt less not to remember. After Paolo left, all the stories had stopped. She wondered now if finding her brother and finding her stories might be connected.

They sat holding each other. Mina was a child again, safe in the arms of her mother, and it was enough. After a while though, a tiny voice of hope began whispering inside Mina. She told her mother about the player’s offer.

‘No. Not players.’ Mama’s response was abrupt, her voice firm. Mina looked down, defeated, and entirely missed the flash of fear that crossed her mother’s face.

‘I have family in Clusone,’ Mama continued. ‘If you travel there, you could seek an apprenticeship with a story teller. Do you remember telling stories when you were little?’

Mina looked up at her mother in surprise. ‘I’d mostly forgotten. But I’m starting to remember now.’

‘Paolo told me your stories were special. We can arrange for you to travel to Clusone with one of the villagers. Just not with the players.’

A cock crowed, covering the first faint sounds from the waking world. An instant later, in the gentle dawn hush, bells tinkled over the clopping of horses. The players were leaving. Unexpected panic grabbed Mina’s throat. She stood up, and pulled her mother up to stand beside her, clutching her hands.

‘If I travel with the players, I may find out what happened to Paolo, or at least find some clue. Then when I travel as a story teller’s apprentice, I can look for him.’

The players’ bells rang out again. Mama took a step back, stumbling on her bad leg.

‘You have always been strong, Mina. Stronger than Paolo, despite his bravado. Maybe you could find him, bring him home.’

‘I have to do this, Mama.’

As she spoke the words, Mina knew they were true. The storm of indecision and the panic inside her died away. There was no decision to be made. It was already done.

‘Okay, travel with the players. But only to begin. I’ll talk to your father,’ Mama said. ‘You go pack.’ She patted Mina’s hand. ‘I’ll convince him.’

She passed Mina a calico bag from one of the kitchen dresser drawers. Mina hurried up to her room and began bundling her few chemises and overdresses into the bag. Mama joined her a few minutes later and nodded to her daughter. Mina felt her breathing start again. She had expected Papa to refuse.

It was Mama who opened the dowry chest at the end of Mina’s bed and took out a small, faded pouch, its shimmer long gone. A few beads hung on loose threads.

‘You should take this,’ she said.

Mina took the pouch from her mother and touched the beads. This had once been so precious to her, a tangible connection to Paolo. She had carried it everywhere. Now its familiarity had become strange. As she held it, another memory came back to her. Miranda … The girl from her dream, the girl with black hair, who had smiled at Paolo and lured him away. She had given Mina this fabric. A scrap in exchange for a brother. Mina dropped the pouch into her bag.

The sound of piping music drifted through the window. Mina leaned on the windowsill, seeing the players’ wagon drawing to a halt once more in the distant square. There was a place worn smooth in the window’s wooden frame where she had sat, as a child, straining to see beyond the twisted laneways and white buildings to the town square. She had spent hours sitting here, waiting for Paolo with the unconditional adoration of a child, wondering what he was doing.

‘Do you think the players will take me, Mama?’ Mina asked, looking back into the room. Mama shrugged.

Occasionally, over the years, Mina had heard people in the town talk about players. Unlike story tellers, they weren’t regarded with reverence. Their entertainment was more mundane, although in some ways the townsfolk loved it more because all the pratfalls and crude jokes made them laugh. Mina didn’t know anything about playing. She could see Mama was still fearful, and it made her nervous. She straightened her shoulders.

‘It’s my best chance to find Paolo.’

‘I know,’ Mama replied. ‘Just … be wary. We don’t know what happened to your brother, why he left them. What … happened to him. Maybe … just be wary. And don’t stay with them if you’re not finding answers. You can write. If you need to, use that to earn coin to travel with. People need letters written, or read. But never travel alone. The roads are too dangerous.’

She held her daughter tight.

‘My other chemise is on the washing line,’ Mina remembered, and hurried from the room, leaving her mother standing alone. She looked back once. Mama stumbled backward, hand reaching, and sat heavily on Mina’s bed, rubbing her bad leg.

~

Uncle Tonio was in the yard, squatting to watch a line of ants marching away. He looked frail, his cheekbones protruding and his eyes deeply shadowed. Mina realised she would have to tell him she was leaving. She squatted down next to him.

‘Ciao, Uncle.’

‘Ciao, little one.’

‘I’m not so little anymore, Uncle.’

He nodded.

‘Do you remember how Paolo went away?’ Mina continued. ‘I … I need to go away for a little while too.’

Uncle Tonio turned his sad face to her, his jaw loose.

Words stumbled from Mina. ‘I need to live away from Andon for a while … I just … I’d like to see the world. I might be able to find Paolo. I’ll look for him, maybe bring him home. I won’t stay with the players long, it’ll be okay … I’ll find a story teller and …’

Uncle Tonio leaped to his feet and screamed. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ Spittle flew from his lips. ‘Don’t be the fool.’

He grabbed Mina and pulled her up, gripping her shoulders. Words spilled from his mouth, but she could make no sense of his babble.

‘Let it go, let it go, let it go,’ Tonio said, his voice rising almost to a scream. ‘Lost, you’ll be lost. River is too wide … can’t swim. Don’t sleep. No dreams. No dreams! Which way home? I’m lost. Damn pretty eyes, drown you. Dreams die. Stay, Columbina. Too dangerous. Dangerous roads. Dangerous, pretty river.’

Tonio continued his broken spill of words. He released Mina and slumped to the cobbles, crying and muttering. Mina knelt to comfort him. He was all skin and bones in her arms.

Behind her, Mama spoke. ‘It’s his grief speaking.’

Uncle Tonio had been like this since Aunt Ana’s death. Mina had never understood how grief could turn your mind and break your spirit.

She took both her uncle’s hands in her own. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly safe. I have to live my own life. I want to become someone. I’m sure part of you understands that.’

Tonio focused both eyes on her. It was disconcerting when Mina was used to her uncle looking in two directions at once. Usually you had to guess what he was seeing. Now there was a sharp intelligence in Tonio’s focused stare.

‘They taste it. The longing. They want it. Let it go.’

One eye slipped away and Tonio was gone again. Mina kissed her uncle on the forehead and saw a drop fall onto the cobbled ground like a stain. She wasn’t sure if it was spittle or tears. Then Tonio looked up, his gaze unfocused once more, and taking Mina’s hand, he pulled her into the house, pushing past Mama to take her up the stairs and into his bedroom. Mama shuffled back into the kitchen, hampered as always by her damaged leg.

Uncle Tonio released Mina’s hand and fell on all fours. He began thumping the skirting board, moving his hand along it with each thump.

‘Don’t … please, Uncle, you’ll hurt yourself. It will be okay. Please …’

Mina fell silent as her uncle’s efforts broke the skirting board into uneven pieces. With a dull thunk, a piece fell forward, revealing a dark gap in the wall. Tonio tried to reach his hand into the gap, but he couldn’t quite manage to coordinate himself. Mina slipped down beside him and peered into the gap. There were wrapped bundles in there, pushed back a little. She inched her hand into the gap, half expecting spiders, and drew out the items one by one. They were small, rectangular packages, all wrapped in dusty rags. She opened the first one with care, and gasped as she unveiled a miniature painting, about as long as her hand, and as wide. The surface of the painting glistened, the colours smooth and bright as gemstones. It was a painting of a woman standing between two columns, her overdress exquisitely detailed with brocade and her sleeves sewn with jewels. She held a fine paintbrush and stood at an easel with a large, half-finished painting of a landscape. A gentle smile lit up her face.

Mina laid the painting on the ground, and unwrapped another one. It had the same setting, two columns and an arch overhead, but this time the painting was of a different woman, playing a long wooden flute such as Mina had seen when musicians visited Andon. Though her mouth was masked by the instrument, her eyes were merry. Again, the colours were as vivid as if the picture had just been painted, though the amount of dust on the wrappings suggested it had been hidden away for many years.

There were five other paintings to be unwrapped, but Mina noticed another rag protruding from the hole, and reached in. She pulled out a big bundle, and the rag fell open as she dragged it toward her. Inside were some fine brushes, and the dried out remnants of paints in small clay dishes.

Mina’s mouth fell open. Someone in this house had painted these exquisite pictures. Could it possibly have been Uncle Tonio? Why else would they be in his room? And why were they hidden?

She slid her hand into the hole, hoping to find something else that might confirm her suspicions. She had to lie on the floor to slide her arm in, but it was worth braving the dust. Her hand connected with one more bundle. Slowly, she drew it out and unwrapped it. For some reason, her heart was pounding. When she drew back the last shred of rag she nearly stopped breathing.

This painting was different to the others. It was square, and though it showed another young woman, it was a close portrait from the shoulders up. Her blond hair was bundled on her head and studded with tiny flowers, but wisps escaped to curl over her long neck. What could be seen of her dress was white, with a few beads dotted around. Her eyes were brown, a startling contrast to her blondness. She had the slightest smile on her lips, and her eyes were bright with inner fire. The picture was so perfect, so alive, Mina half expected to hear the girl breathing.

A tiny curl of white on the background caught her attention and she lifted the picture to examine it. ‘Tonio’ was inscribed in letters so small they were barely there. Her uncle had painted this.

Next to her he whispered, ‘Ana.’

So this was Tonio’s wife. She had been exquisite.

Mina wasn’t sure afterwards whether it was the faint paint smell that stuck to the miniatures, but she began to feel dizzy, disconnected, the room too bright.

‘Where the Creator are you?’ her father’s voice boomed from the hallway, and Mina came back to herself with a jolt. She dropped the picture of Anastasia and was frozen in unexpected terror. Tonio began shoving the other rag-wrapped paintings back into the hole. Papa entered the room. He looked set to launch into some tirade or another, but stopped dead.

‘What’s that?’

Following her uncle’s panicked example, Mina had been trying to slide the last few paintings under her leg to hide them. Under her father’s angry glare she stood, hoping her skirt would conceal them, and passed the portrait of Anastasia to him.

‘I found it … the skirting board fell down and …’

He snatched the painting from her and examined at it. ‘This is one of Tonio’s,’ he said, his voice soft.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Mina said. ‘We should make a frame for it and …’

‘It has to be destroyed,’ Papa said, his words like a slap in the face. ‘Is there anything else in there?’

Mina thought of saying no, but Papa had the dangerous stillness that often came before an eruption. She could feel the choked emotion simmering.

‘Some paints,’ she said, and pulled them out again. ‘That’s all.’

Her father snatched the paints from her, a few pots falling from the bundle onto the floor. Though her heart was beating fast, Mina couldn’t bear the thought of the exquisite painting being destroyed.

‘Papa, you can’t destroy it, please? I didn’t even know Tonio could paint and it’s so good. She’s so beautiful.’

‘That damn girl,’ Papa snarled. He didn’t look at Tonio at all. ‘Just like your fool of an uncle, falling in love with an outsider. I told him she’d be the end of him. Stick with your own people, I told him, not an Innaroi. Always coming in and thieving, then disappearing before anyone realises. When Anastasia died, her damn family just took off.’

This was more than Mina had ever heard about her aunt. Though she had wondered about her, it had been one of those family secrets that was clouded in disapproval.

‘What was she …’ Mina began, but her father continued talking.

‘It could have been so different,’ and he glanced at the painting in his hand for a heartbeat before snapping it in two with a sudden movement. Tonio whimpered. Mina cried out, but it was too late. All the raw emotion of the day, grief and rage mixed up together, erupted then.

‘Why did you do that?’ she yelled at her father. ‘It was perfect, and Uncle Tonio painted it, and how could you? He’s right here, and you’re calling him a fool to his face. You’re worse than Lucetta!’

Her father took a sudden step toward her, raising his hand. Mina took a step backward, flinching from the oncoming blow. Papa stopped his hand at her reaction, and his face crumpled.

‘Not again,’ he said, and his voice dissolved in choked tears. ‘I swore I’d never hit my little girl again. What have I become?’

He took a step back, dropping the painting pieces on the floor. Mina hurried to him and took his hands in her own. Behind her Tonio gathered up the paintings that had been hidden under Mina’s skirt and slid them back into the skirting board, his movements furtive.

‘It’s fine, Papa. It’s fine. You’ve never hit me.’

His head down, he stilled his ragged breathing. ‘Yes, I have …’ He sighed.

Then another missing memory came back to her. Papa had caught her one day, telling a story to the stone children at the fountain. He had hit her. She’d lost a tooth, and her ears had rung for a long time after. She took a step back and looked at her father, shocked. How could she have forgotten?

‘I’m sorry,’ her father said, a single tear tracking down his cheek. He sat down heavily on Tonio’s bed. Tonio, his paintings concealed, slid the piece of skirting board back in place. With a worried glance at Papa, he shuffled from the room. Mina sat down beside her father.

‘You were such a bright little thing,’ he told her. ‘I used to tell you stories, and you’d listen and learn them all off by heart. Tales I’d heard growing up. But you were hungry for more tales than I had. Then you started spending all your time with Paolo. Paolo knew different stories because he talked to travellers in the market a lot. But you wore out all his tales too. Then you started telling all the tales you’d learned to those stupid fountain children. And you remembered every tale you’d ever heard.’

Papa fell silent.

‘Then what, Papa?’ Mina asked, though an uneasy feeling in her stomach told her she almost remembered the answer.

‘I stopped you,’ he said, and his voice was quieter than Mina had ever heard it. ‘I found you telling a story you’d made up. I made you stop. I … I hit you. I was afraid.’

‘Afraid of what?’ Mina asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Papa said.

Mina met Papa’s eyes. She knew what he was thinking. ‘So like her mother.’ He said it to her often. Papa loved her, she knew, but it was often hard for him to show her. Now she knew why her stories were gone. He had silenced her the day he’d hit her. There’d been no more stories. She felt no anger, just sadness. She had lost something, and not even remembered why.

‘They say it’s wrong,’ Papa began again. ‘Like Tonio’s paintings. He showed one to someone once, and they came and burned them all. I didn’t know he’d done more. I never understood what was so wrong. Especially with your storytelling. Story tellers are blessed by the Creator, and the Creator can bring stories into being, so why shouldn’t you?’

He stood up, and looked away, hiding his expression from Mina.

‘You should find your stories again,’ he muttered. ‘You were happier then.’

He squeezed her shoulder, still not looking at her directly, then left the room, leaving Tonio’s portrait broken on the floor.

Mina knelt and picked up the two pieces, wrapped them in their rag and, removing the skirting board once more, tucked them back inside the wall. She put the skirting board back carefully, her mind whirling. She’d locked her tales away for so long she’d come to believe what they said in the divina, that only the Creator made up new tales. Story tellers told the sacred tales of Tarya, passed down over innumerable years. The only new tales ever told were the tales of people’s lives, and they weren’t made up. Not really. Just re-told.

Yet Papa was telling her she had made up stories in her head and now she realised she still had snippets of them, like the tale she had created for little Tonio at the fountain, to explain why he always seemed so sad. He’d lost a friend, a girl called Ana, who died and went away to the heavenly realms of Tarya forever.

But there were no new stories in her head now, merely the tracings of long lost tales, and she wondered if her gift was gone forever.

~

Mina and her parents shared a solemn lunch, speaking in subdued voices of the successful harvest and Papa’s upcoming trip to the coastal city of Male to sell the season’s best apricots and figs. After lunch, when it came time to seek out the players, Mina hugged her mother, shouldered her bag, and walked with her father to the square. He stopped when he saw the player wagon. The expression on his face made Mina shiver. She might have named it as fear if she didn’t know Papa never felt such things.

She’d hoped he would stay and help her speak to the players, but he muttered an excuse, gave her a brusque hug, and hurried off, leaving her standing alone by the fountain. She moved to the edge of the square so she could see the rear of the wagon, where the players were setting up for another performance. Though she hadn’t known the memory was still there, she was transported once more back to her childhood. The sight of the players had unlocked so much. She had watched the players as a child, she realised, feeling distant and excluded, knowing Paolo was about to leave with them. She had been fearful for her brother because in the performance she had seen some players wore dark, sinister masks that disturbed her.

It was different now. As a child everything looks mysterious or strange, Mina told herself. She watched the players unpacking their masks from wooden boxes lined with fabric. Her long ago memories told her these masks had changed, with the players, into Something Else, once the playing began. She had thought she had seen something like that yesterday too. But it must have been the heat, and the strangeness of it all. They were just masks. These people were no different to anyone else who set up in the market, plying their wares. They were selling their entertainments. All this noise and fury as they set up was a trick to captivate people. No doubt they used the same techniques Mina had learned to part people from their precious coin when selling her father’s fruit. Proffered friendship, a tale for a purchase, a feeling of obligation.

Despite Harlequin’s offer, Mina felt she would have to prove her worth before they would take her in. Doubt crept up on her. She wasn’t of their kind, nor was she a gifted player, or even an experienced one. Twice Mina started to cross over to the players’ wagon, and twice she turned back, chewing the ends of her hair. Her indecision didn’t go unnoticed, however. As she looked across at the busy group, several of whom were making great show of polishing the