Excerpt...
A few minutes later, she emerged into a large open square, surrounded by stone arcades at the ground floor of its framing buildings. The music grew louder, the aromas of delicious foods stronger. Her stomach growled as she anticipated choosing her evening meal from the wonderful choices laid out. Past the throng, in the centre of the square, stood a large roofed and pillared shelter. She’d seen one or two like it before, in other Plus Beaux Village, all of which they’d designated heritage resources, and popular tourist destinations. It was easy to see why. They were very picturesque.
She cast her gaze around the perimeter. This one though, had achieved a particular harmony in the balance of two and three-story buildings, in the elegant shapes of the arcades around the square. Painted wooden shutters, overflowing window boxes, and banners accented plainer buildings in just the right places.
Spilling out from under the open-sided roof, folding wooden chairs flanked rows of paper-covered folding tables. People young and old, costumed and not, sat at the tables eating, drinking and talking. It was difficult to navigate through the dense crowd with her bike, so she looked around for a place to tuck it safely away. Under the arcade, she found a railing surrounding a small ice cream shop with tables nestled under the stone vaults. She leaned her bike against it and locked it. Then she exchanged her stiff clip-on cycling shoes for the pair of pliable Parkour sneakers she kept in her saddlebag.
Free to move, she plunged into the throng, smiling at the onslaught of stimuli. She still hadn’t located the source of the music she heard, but she passed jugglers, a fire-eater with a crowd around him, and a marching procession of Knights Templar in bright white and red tunics, carrying spears. It was a spectacle, spread out through the village.
More booths and tables ringed the square, selling food that people could buy and eat right there. Her nose filled with the scents of roasting meat and spices. She stopped to admire a gigantic forty inch diameter pan of paella, filled with chicken and seafood, the rice glowing vermillion with saffron, and salivated. Soon, she told her twisting belly, soon. There were local wine vendors, too, and people selling gorgeous glazed pastries and breads, soap, textiles, candles and sweets. She walked on, admiring the craftsmanship of wood carvers and silversmiths. The merchants were friendly, to tourists and locals alike.
Admiring a colourful display of melons, tomatoes, strawberries, grapes and other local produce, a gnarled hand darted out and tightly gripped her arm. A tiny old woman, a printed kerchief tied over her grey hair, her face wrinkled and brown like old cowhide, had a hold on her and was pressing an orange toward her face.
“Orange?” she croaked in a heavy accent and gravelly voice.
“Ouch!” Niki backed away, trying to escape the gnarled hand that pinched her. “Non, merci.” What was it with the oranges today? Her arm slipped out but was grabbed again by the insistent old woman, who peered intently at Niki with black eyes clouded by cataracts.
“Prenez!” She insisted. “Prenez!”
“No, thank you, Madam. I don’t like oranges.”
The old woman curled her lips and swayed her head sadly. She set the orange back on its pile and pulled from her dirty apron pocket a bound bundle of twigs and pressed it against Niki’s stomach. “Vous devet vous preparer au changement.”
Prepare for change? What?
“C’est l’heure.” It’s time.
Reluctantly, Niki accepted the herb charm and smiled tightly, backing away from the annoying crone as she repeated her cryptic warning, which meant absolutely nothing that Niki could decipher.
Slipping into the crowd, she sniffed the twig bundle suspiciously, thinking it was likely infested with bugs. It’s smelled nice though, of lavender and sage, so she tucked it into her pack. Who knew? Hopefully, the old Gypsy had given her a good luck charm and not a curse.
Under another of the stone vaults, a small group bent industriously over low benches. She moved closer to discover that people were learning how to carve designs into blocks of buttery limestone from a man with a canvas apron and white beard. The ground was dusted white, as were their skin and hair, making the entire tableau appear carved of stone.
A sudden burst of applause drew her attention, and another song started. Interested in the music, she followed the sound until she came to another small square off of a narrow passageway. People sat under patio umbrellas on a raised platform, overlooking a lower level where five musicians played.
Stone stairs led up to the cafe where people dined, and Niki sat on a stair, leaning against the stone wall, warm from the afternoon sun, to watch and listen.
A woman in a long, green dress with flared sleeves sang a sweet melancholy song. An elegant twist of velvet and satin cloth wrapped her head. Four men in tunics and tights played various instruments, a lute, pipes and percussive things she couldn’t name. One guy, short and sturdy, with a couple days’ beard and a conical suede cap, played a long oboe, and stamped his feet to the rhythm, the bells tied to his leather, curl-toed boots jingling with every step.
He began to sing with the woman, but appeared as much Shakespearian clown and court jester as he pranced around, bouncing in front of the audience, drawing them into his performance. His band mates jiggled and weaved as they played their instruments. They took turns harmonizing. He continued to tap his bell-trimmed feet, adding complex rhythms to their voices.
She gazed at the musicians and watched them play their instruments. It was uncanny, how authentic their costumes were, and more than that, their manners. The fantasy absorbed them as they smiled and danced, and they clearly loved what they were doing. She tried to imagine a group of twenty-first century friends getting together to practice this early music in someone’s living room or garage but just couldn’t picture it. They were so much a part of the illusion.
Niki closed her eyes for a moment and luxuriated in the exotic atmosphere. It was music unlike any she’d heard. She caught a hint of cinnamon and bitter orange rind on the warm air, as though flavoured with melancholy. She felt transported back in time to the year 1415. It would have been interesting, although harder, without modern technology and medicine. But in some ways society had evolved little in six hundred years. An image of Sam rose unbidden in her mind, and she wondered what life would have been like for him back then. People would have branded him the village idiot, no doubt, but would they have been kind, or cruel?