BRENHYA
By HECK


Here is the third chapter. Brenhya is travelling to find the 
Sisters of Themyra, and we hear of her adventures along the way. 
We discover the source of some of her strength, and see evidence 
of her mental, as well as her physical, strength. For those who 
found the preceding chapter a bit depressing, this one is a bit 
lighter.
Comments to heck@euphony.net

CHAPTER THREE.

  North. Always north.
  She had been six days on the road, now, although "road" was 
something of an exaggeration. In reality, it was nothing but a 
dirt track, deeply rutted from years of passage by horse-drawn 
vehicles. She had long ago left her familiar woodlands behind, 
and the idyllic countryside through which she now travelled 
consisted mainly of fields of green corn interspersed with 
pastures where contented cattle and sheep quietly grazed.
  Wild flowers grew in profusion, dotting the green with 
splashes of colour. High in the blue, blue sky, a skylark hung 
as if on a hook, proclaiming his territory with burbling song, 
while in the hedgerows, small creatures bustled about their 
busy, secret lives. All the beauty and peace of nature was there 
to be enjoyed.
  Brenhya was in no state to appreciate it. 
  For six days, she had steadfastly travelled north, 
automatically putting one foot in front of another. She had not 
slept or eaten since setting out, and the only water she had 
taken was from a brief shower of rain, the drops of which had, 
perforce, found their way to the corners of her mouth and wet 
her lips. Her previously glossy hair was dirty and unkempt, and 
hung in rat's tails, and her face had turned pale under the dirt 
and tan. The soles of her naked feet, made leathery through 
years of running barefoot, were shredded and bleeding.  She was 
beginning to look gaunt and, although her belly rumbled and 
complained almost continuously, she was past feeling the pangs 
of hunger or thirst.
  The only thing on her otherwise empty mind was her promise to 
her father.
  Had she been able to make the effort, the last thing she would 
have remembered would have been passing through Gyre's End on 
the first day after the tragedy that robbed her of her parents. 
Images, branded on her eyeballs, spoke of burnt and ruined 
buildings, not one left intact, and everyone and everything 
dead, the corpses crisped and mutilated.
  In the village square, Brenhya had found one woman, whom she 
recognised as the baker's wife, still barely alive, lying naked 
in a pool of her own blood and vomit. The woman had purple 
bruising around her face and belly, and bloodstains on her inner 
thighs, slowly bleeding out from massive internal injuries.
  Brenhya knelt by her unconscious form and cradled her ruined 
head in her lap, stroking her filthy hair. The woman's eyes 
fluttered open, and she pushed weakly at Brenhya's arms. Seeing 
a face above her, unrecognisable through her blur of pain, panic 
showed in her eyes as she whispered a plea.
  'No! No! Not again!'
  Mercifully, her anguish was relieved as she relaxed in death.
  Brenhya had seen so much death, so much destruction, in such a 
short space of time, that she was numbed to it. So the mere fact 
of this one more death left her totally unmoved. She could not 
help but feel a twinge in the pit of her stomach, though, as the 
manner of the death reminded her of the way in which her own 
mother had died, less than a day ago.
  Her mother, Galliane, had died fighting desperately to save 
her home and family. In the end, held down and pinned by seven 
men, she had been brutally tortured and raped. She had exacted a 
measure of revenge on her rapist, however, by crushing and 
destroying his manhood between her muscular thighs. The only way 
in which he had been able to release the vice-like clamp of 
those thighs had been by ordering his men to kill her. Later, 
they bore their lieutenant away on a makeshift stretcher, 
crippled and ruined for ever.
  And as she watched the baker's wife die, Brenhya felt her 
resolve deepen.
  Now, her resolve was the only thing that kept her going, 
mindlessly taking step after increasingly unsteady step, 
beginning to stagger as weakness overwhelmed her. A meagre, 
clapboard hut stood a little way off the track, and blind 
instinct drew her toward it.

  Inside the hut, Shandri gathered up the homemade mats from the 
floor. She was a round, red faced old woman, dressed in shabby 
but clean and colourful  homespun, with iron-grey hair and 
large, work-hardened hands. Although she had always lived alone, 
she kept her hut spotlessly clean and tidy, and subsisted by 
selling milk from her flock of goats that browsed peacefully on 
the hedges.
  Taking her few mats in her chubby arms, Shandri went to the 
door to shake the dust from them. Placing them down by the 
threshold, she noticed a scarecrow figure coming unsteadily 
toward her. She could not make out the features clearly, but it 
was obvious that the walker was a young woman or an older girl-
child; not one she recognised, and she knew most of the 
youngsters hereabouts.
  Shandri made to call out to the girl. As she did so, she saw 
the figure stumble, regain it's balance for a moment, and 
stumble again before collapsing face down in the dust.
  The old woman rushed to the girl's side and turned the inert 
body over. Her eyes took in the gaunt face, the cracked, dry 
lips, filthy hair, torn clothing, and bleeding feet; yet she 
could see beyond all that to the extraordinary beauty of the 
child beneath. She gathered her up in her arms and carried her 
into the hut, where she laid her on a pallet and began to 
minister to her needs.
  Shandri was not a witch. But she was what was known around 
those parts as "fey", so she knew something of warding, potions, 
the healing arts. She crushed a few selected herbs with a mortar 
and pestle, added some water, and ground them into a paste. Then 
she turned her attention to the unconscious girl.
  It was obvious to Shandri that the girl was not going to die. 
Not if she could get some nourishment and, more importantly, 
fluids inside her. However, she was still in a bad way, Shandri 
thought as she forced a few drops of water between the chapped 
lips.
  The next thing to do was to get her cleaned up. And get those 
filthy rags off her. Shandri took a sharp kitchen knife and cut 
away the torn, stained shift and the brief undergarments. She 
then set to clean her patient up.
  As she bathed the battered torso, Shandri marvelled at the 
advanced musculature of the young girl [for now, seeing her in 
her hairless nakedness, it was obvious that she was a young 
girl; about twelve, Shandri thought]. Many of the farmgirls in 
the area developed muscles, it was a natural by-product of hard 
work, but not at such a young age. And not so fully, either. The 
woman could see that this was an exceptional girl, the result of 
excellent genetics [although Shandri would not have put it like 
that] and great conditioning.
  But now, those muscles lay flaccid as the young patient lay 
comatose, occasionally moaning softly. Shandri set to work, 
making poultices from the herb paste and applying dressings to 
the wounded feet. She made a nourishing broth of herbs and 
vegetables infused in a rich meat stock, and patiently spooned 
tiny drops between the teeth, massaging the girl's throat until 
she swallowed.
  Over the next two days the regime continued, with Shandri 
gently feeding drops of broth, keeping her charge clean and 
turning her regularly to prevent pressure sores. On the third 
day, the girl's eyelids suddenly snapped open, and she looked 
about her with wild, staring eyes. Shandri was instantly by her 
side.
  'So. Back with us, then?', she said, her rosy cheeks crinkling 
as she smiled. 'Oho! Not so fast young lady! Wait 'til you get 
your breath back, and I'll help'.
  The girl had tried to sit up. In her weakened state, Shandri 
was easily able to restrain her. She fell back, exhausted. 
Subconsciously, she knew she was in no danger. She waited until 
her breathing normalised.
  'Where am I? Who are you? What happened?'
  'This is my place. I call it Rose Haven. On the North Road. 
You can call me Shandri. And you ... collapsed from exhaustion. 
Now, in return, who are you?'
  'Brenhya. I'm Brenhya. The Raiders! They ...'
  'Shh. Enough, for now. Get well first. You're safe, here. Tell 
me later. Try to sit up'.
  With Shandri's help, Brenhya managed to sit up and swing her 
legs off the pallet. That in itself was enough to leave her 
breathless again, and she had to rest a while before attempting 
to stand. When she did, leaning heavily on the old woman for 
support, her legs felt like jelly, her knees like water.
  Shandri wrapped Brenhya in an old robe, and helped her to 
totter unsteadily to a chair by a plain, scrubbed table, where 
she brought her more of the goodness-filled broth and some fresh 
white bread. Brenhya was able to eat a little, and drink a full 
cup of hot herbal tea. She felt much better, although still as 
weak as a kitten.
  'That's enough for the first day', said Shandri. She had a 
brusque but kindly manner. 'Sleep, now. Come on. Back to bed 
with you'.
  As she was helped back to the pallet, Brenhya protested that 
she did not feel tired. But the instant her head touched the 
downy pillow, she fell immediately into a deep, restful sleep.
  
  While Brenhya slept, Shandri was busy. She gathered various 
articles of a strange and arcane nature, the skull of a bird, 
the thigh bone of a rat, the horn of a goat, a white candle, and 
a black-handled dagger, and arranged them about her as she sat 
cross-legged on the floor. She raised her hands, palm up, and 
sat in completely silent meditation for many long minutes before 
she began to murmur an incantation under her breath. She was not 
a proper witch, but her mother had been, and she had seen this 
ritual performed at the bedside of many sick or injured folk in 
the past.  
 She called upon the healing powers of the ancients. She called 
for the knowledge to help this child get well. She asked for the 
child to be given the strength of body and mind to complete 
whatever it was she needed to do, and she asked for her to be 
given the wisdom to do it with compassion.
  She continued her ritual long into the night.
                                
  A shaft of the morning sun streamed through the open window of 
the hut, illuminating Brenhya's sleeping countenance, her curly 
hair cascading over the pillow like a chestnut waterfall. As the 
sunlight fell on her face, she stirred, rubbing her eyes with 
her fists. The smell of frying bacon brought her fully awake.
  'Morning!', came Shandri's cheerful voice. 'Just in time for 
breakfast'. 
  Brenhya did not notice the tired look on the woman's face; the 
slightest hint of strain in her voice. Getting up from her 
pallet and making her way, less unsteadily, to the table, she 
found she was ravenous. In rapid time, she packed away a hearty 
breakfast of bacon and bread, washed down with three cups of 
delicious herbal tea, while Shandri watched with delight. Having 
eaten, she felt much better as she leaned back from the table.
  'Thank you', she said. 'That was delicious".
  'Glad to hear it. How are you feeling today?'
  'Much better', she replied. 'Almost back to normal'. The old 
woman smiled knowingly.
  'Almost', she said. 'Almost. Now, do you feel up to telling me 
your story?'
  Hesitantly, reluctantly at first, Brenhya explained everything 
in a flat monotone. She told how the Raiders had come to the 
village, burning and killing everything and everybody. She told 
how they had come to her parents' cottage, how her mother had 
hidden Brenhya in the loft; how her parents, and Ardwy, had 
fought with the invaders, and how her mother was raped and 
killed. She described the fire, and how she had found her father 
nailed to a tree the next morning. She told of the promise she 
had made to him, and how she buried him after his agonised 
death.
  She made no mention of the darker promise she had made to 
herself.
  Throughout the tale, Shandri sat in almost total, shocked 
silence, a look of acute concern on her face, occasionally 
muttering, "poor child", under her breath. When it was finished, 
she came to Brenhya and enfolded her in her arms, clasping her 
to her ample bosom. There was no need for her to say anything.
  For a long time, Shandri just held her like that, keeping her 
close in a loving hug. Eventually, Brenhya herself broke the 
embrace, and when she looked at Shandri the old woman thought a 
tremendous weight had been lifted from the young shoulders. The 
girl smiled for the first time.
  'You've been very kind', she said. 'I'm ever so grateful. But 
you know my story. You know I must go'.
  'Yes, you must', the woman agreed. 'But not yet a while'.
  'I have to'.
  'No. Not yet. I know it's important, but you have to get 
properly better, first. Get your strength back. A few days won't 
hurt. It's a long way to go, and you don't want to end up the 
same way again. Might not find anyone like me, next time'.
  Brenhya protested, but Shandri would hear none of it and, 
truth be known, Brenhya knew she was right and was not averse to 
spending a few more days in this warm, safe haven.

  Brenhya's heritage had blessed her with almost amazing 
recuperative powers and, unbeknownst to her, the ritual 
performed by Shandri had helped more than a little. So, by the 
end of the day, she was well enough to be able to get about on 
her own. Shandri found some old clothes of her own, and was 
making alterations.
  'Not really the style, for you youngsters', she joked. But at 
least they'll fit and keep you warm'.
  By the next day, Brenhya was able to help with a few simple 
chores, and by the next, she was almost back to full strength 
and vigour. She spent the afternoon chopping and carrying wood, 
and had a whole cord stacked by the end of the day. She was 
pleased to find that her muscles felt good, that they moved and 
flexed with much of their old power as she swung the heavy axe.
  Shandri watched, and was frankly amazed to find such strength 
in what she now knew was a nine-year-old. She said so.
  'That lot'll see me through the winter', she commented. 'By 
gods, girl, you're really strong. Don't think I've ever seen 
such strength in one so young. You're much stronger than me'. 
Brenhya shrugged noncommittally.
  'I don't think so', she said, modestly. 'I'm still a bit weak 
from being ill'. Shandri snorted a laugh.
  'Ha! If this is you "weak", I shudder to think about how 
strong you are at full par!'
  A couple more days passed, filled with work, good food, and 
good company, and at the end of the time Brenhya was fully 
recovered. Without further mention of the Raiders, she and 
Shandri had talked late into the evenings. The woman had found 
her to be a bright and intelligent girl, with quite a wide range 
of knowledge for her age, especially concerning horses. During 
their conversations, Brenhya had smiled often and even laughed 
once or twice. But the humour never reached her piercing grey 
eyes.
  Shandri was saddened by this.
  At last, the time came when Brenhya felt she must continue on 
her journey and Shandri agreed she was fit enough to do so. She 
put together a few weeks provisions and a couple of changes of 
clothing, and placed them in a canvas backpack, which she handed 
to Brenhya without ceremony.
  'Now, you listen to me', she said, and proceeded to tell 
Brenhya about the route she must travel, the kind of people to 
avoid, and the Sisters of Themyra.
  'Don't know much about them, myself', she explained. 'Never 
run across 'em. Keep themselves very much to themselves, by all 
accounts. But I do know this, if reputation is anything to go 
by. If they take you in, they'll look after you and stand by 
you, no matter what.
  'Now then. Keep going north. Stay on this road, 'til you come 
to a town, name of Brandwick. That's the nearest place to them. 
Then ask. They'll tell you where they are. All I know is, 
they're near there. Now come here. Give us a hug'.
  The two embraced fiercely. Finally, Shandri patted the girl on 
the back and stepped away, dashing a tear from her eye as she 
did so.
  'Now, go on. Get on with you'.
  Brenhya, dry-eyed, smiled at the old woman. 
  'I don't know how I can ever thank you', she said. 'You've 
done so much for me. How can I ever repay you?'
  'Just call in to see me, next time you're passing. That'll be 
repayment enough'.
  Hoisting the heavy backpack easily into place, Brenhya took 
her leave of her friend with a cheery wave, and set off. She 
felt invigorated. There was a new, vibrant spring in her step as 
she took to the road.
  Shandri watched her out of sight. As Brenhya passed over the 
horizon. She left out a long sigh. She could see much turmoil in 
the future of this girl. She turned and went back inside her 
hut, now quiet and lonely once more.

  Brenhya walked on. She missed her new friend, but the prospect 
of the future, of new roads to travel, new people to meet, new 
adventures, more than compensated.
  She did not lose sight of her target. She remained determined 
to fulfill her promises both to Harroc and herself. But the 
circumstances surrounding her meeting with Shandri, the fact 
that she had almost unwittingly killed herself through allowing 
her goals to be all that drove her, had been an epiphany to her, 
and on a conscious level she realised that, although she could 
not, would not let anything stand in her eventual way, life was 
for living in the meanwhile.
  She kept hale through careful rationing of her provisions, 
showing insight of one well beyond her tender years, 
supplemented with roots and berries she found along the way, and 
drinking only water from clear, fast-flowing streams. At night, 
she slept under hedges or in hay ricks. Long days of constant 
exercise, walking and carrying the weighty backpack, 
strengthened her even more, and added great stamina and 
endurance.
  When she wanted company, or a change of diet, she would call 
at the scattered farms, cottages, and huts she found along the 
way. She would offer two hours work in exchange for a hot meal, 
or half a day for a hot meal and a bed. 
  Without exception, the countryfolk she met in this way were 
amazed at the sheer strength in her young body. She found this 
amusing, if somewhat strange. To Brenhya, her strength was a 
natural thing, always fully accepted by her parents and those 
she had grown up with. So, while she knew she was stronger than 
most, she did not think it anything unusual. 
  After six weeks, the road began to change in character. It 
became more even; the ruts gave way to cobbles. In the distance, 
she could see a town.
  Brenhya had never seen a town before. From afar, it seemed to 
her that several villages had been piled together and surrounded 
by a wall, but as she grew closer she could see some kind of 
order among the apparent chaos.
  As she came near, Brenhya saw that the walls of the town were 
actually a thick, impenetrable thorn hedge, broken by a tall 
wooden gate. The gate stood open, and two men in some kind of 
uniform and armed with long pikes stood at either side. Another, 
smaller man, in a gaudy costume bedecked with bells, and a 
ridiculous three-pointed hat, was handing sheets of paper to 
folk passing in and out the gate. She approached.
  'Excuse me, sir'. She addressed one of the guards, ever 
respectful of her elders. 'Is this Brandwick?'
  All three men looked at her in amazement. The man she had 
spoken to guffawed aloud.
  'Brandwick!', he laughed. 'Brandwick! Here, Pranz, the girlie 
thinks this is Brandwick!' The other guard, Pranz, snorted 
derisively.
  'Is it not, then?', asked Brenhya, who was getting confused. 
She could not understand why a simple question had produced such 
hilarity. 
  'No, it is not', Pranz snapped back. Brandwick is hundreds of 
leagues north of here. This is Kelstion'. Brenhya's face fell.
  'Hundreds?'
  'Yes, hundreds. And there's nothing here for the likes of you. 
Be off!'
  'Come on, Pranz', said the first guard, soothingly. 'She's 
only a youngster. Leave her be'. Pranz grunted something 
unintelligible and turned his back.
  'Well,' Brenhya continued, 'is there anywhere here I can get a 
night's lodgings and a meal? For a day's work, of course.'
  'You can try', said the guard. 'But with this bloody Show on, 
the whole town's packed to the gun'ls. You'll be lucky if you 
can find a crumb. And as for work, I don't think anyone would be 
interested. They want money. Workers are ten a penny'.
  'I haven't got any money'. Brenhya was just about to ask what 
a "Bloody Show" was, when the strangely dressed fellow spoke up.
  'Marry, nuncle', he piped. ''Tis passing strange, her turning 
up here. Prithee, let me take her to mine own Master. Thou 
may'st find he can find work for her. Nonny, nonny.' And he 
tapped the guard on the head with an inflated pig's bladder on a 
stick.
  'Leave it out!', snapped the guard.
  'Why does he talk funny?' Brenhya wanted to know.
  'It's just his bloody silly patter. Take no notice'.
  'Nay, and thrice nay. Bloody silly it may be, nuncle, that's 
what I am paid for. But I spake true'. He clasped his hands to 
his chest imploringly. 'I pray thee, allow me to take her to my 
Master. He can e'er find work for willing hands'.
  'Oh, for gods' sake', sighed the guard. 'Take her, if she 
wants to go, and get out of my sight'. The thin, gaudy man 
capered with delight.
  'Come!' He exclaimed. 'Let us hie us hither ... or thither, or 
something. My master awaits!' He took Brenhya by the hand and 
began to lead her away.
  And was stopped dead in his tracks. Brenhya wasn't sure she 
wanted to go with him. And when Brenhya didn't want to go, it 
would take more than this capering clown to shift her. Her 
strong hand held him back without difficulty.
  'Hold on', she said. 'Where are you taking me? And who is your 
Master?' The brightly clad fellow regarded her with new respect.
  'My, my. Thou seem'st to have more going for thee than I at 
first thought', he said. 'My master will be pleased indeed to 
see thee'.
  'I'm not going anywhere until you tell me'.
  'Ah, marry, I am caught up by mine own enthusiasm. Hey, nonny, 
no. I am taking thee to the Travelling Show, of course. The 
greatest Show in all the Kingdoms! And my master, the 
Magnificent Zendros, will, mayhap, give thee the work and 
shelter for which thou seeketh ... est. Yes. So, come! Prithee? 
Pretty prithee?'
  Brenhya almost laughed aloud at the buffoon's antics. Nodding, 
she let herself be led away. Behind her, she could hear the 
guard muttering to himself.
  '... bloody idiot. Poncing about here all day. Glad to see the 
back of 'im ...'
  Brenhya found herself being led around the outside of the 
thorn barricade. Once out of sight of the gate, her guide took 
off his silly hat revealing bright ginger hair, and undid the 
top button of his jerkin.
  'Whew! Glad to be rid of that bugger for a while. Bloody hot. 
So, girl, what's your name?'
  'Brenhya. And why have you stopped talking funny? And why are 
you dressed like that?'
  'I'm a fool'.
  'I could have told you that'.
  'Eh? Oh. No. I am a Fool. A Professional Joker. A Japester, if 
you will. I get paid to make people laugh.'
  'That guard wasn't laughing'.
  'No. But he was laughing on the inside'.
  'No, he wasn't'.
  'No?' The Fool looked at her askance, his lean face on one 
side. 'Well, perhaps not. But he wanted to. I can tell. I'm a 
professional'.
  'And the outfit?'
  'This?' He stopped and looked at her with pride. 'This is The 
Motley'. He actually pronounced the capitals. 'The official 
uniform of the Fool, handed down from father to son for 
generation upon generation'. Brenhya was genuinely laughing now.
  'But why do you need to wear that just to make people laugh?'
  'Why? Why? My dear! If I didn't wear The Motley, how would 
people know I was being funny? The very idea!' And he hit heron 
the head with his bladder.
  Brenhya was now laughing so hard, she had to stop to catch her 
breath.
  'And your name?', she gasped. 'What do I call you?'
  'The Fool', he replied. 'Or just Fool. It doesn't matter'.
  'You must have a name'.
  'Probably. Once. But, for as long as I can remember, I've just 
been "The Fool". So, Fool will do. Now, we're nearly there'.
  The Fool had led her nearly half way around the town, to a 
green meadow. Brenhya could hear the sound of happy music and 
raised voices. In the centre of the meadow stood a huge tent, 
fashioned from great triangles of canvas stitched together. 
Around it, in a seemingly haphazard way, wagons stood in groups. 
  As they approached, Brenhya could see that the wagons had been 
arranged in such a manner that they formed a wide corridor that 
led to the main entrance to the giant tent. Upon entering the 
corridor, Brenhya saw that it was lined with sideshows, and 
townspeople milled about in a carnival atmosphere. Games of 
chance [or no chance, depending on your viewpoint], freaks, a 
bearded lady. What Brenhya first took to be a giant, but later 
turned out to be an ordinary-sized man striding out skillfully 
on a very tall pair of stilts, was handing down leaflets to 
passers-by. Barkers in multicoloured coats yelled their 
attractions to the crowds, tempting them to come and see Sheena 
the snake lady, or Tarkus the tattooed man.
  Once among the public, The Fool replaced his hat, fastened up 
his jerkin, and donned his fool persona as if putting on a 
comfortable old jacket. Still holding Brenhya's hand, he capered 
and danced at her side, pulling faces at people and cracking 
jokes at their expense, to the accompaniment of gales of 
laughter.
  'This, sweet Brenhya' he said, pulling her to a central 
position, 'is The Midway'. Again with the capitals, she thought. 
'Prithee, tarry here. I shall return in but a trice'.
  With that, he disappeared into the crowd, and Brenhya was left 
alone. Not for long, though.
  'Is you Brenhya?, asked a gruff voice. She spun around, but 
could see no-one.
  'I says, is you Brenhya?' Still she saw no-one. Then she felt 
a sharp tug at her waist.
  'Oi! Down 'ere'.
  She looked down and, from just above the height of her navel, 
saw a fierce face, framed by thick, black , tightly curled hair 
and beard, scowling up at her.
  'For the last bleedin' time, is you Brenhya?'
  'I might be. Who wants to know?'
  'Looks, is yer or aincher? I ain't gots all bleedin' day.' 
Brenhya agreed that she was, and asked who was enquiring.
  'I is, yer daft bleedin' tart. Fool says I's to looks after 
yer, 'til 'e comes back, like. I's Brannagh Ironheart, by the 
way. 'Ere, olds these'. The dwarf handed Brenhya a large bunch 
of gaily coloured balloons. She took them.
  'Pleased to meet you, Brannagh', she said.
  'That's Mister Ironheart to you, young lady. Bleedin' kids'. 
Brenhya did her best to suppress a grin.
  'Begging your pardon, Mr Ironheart', she said with a mock 
curtsey. She thought she had never met such a rude person in all 
her life. The dwarf just glared at up her.
  'Hmph! Just you stands there an' 'olds them balloons, while I 
counts me takin's'. He removed a sizeable purse from the broad 
leather belt about his stout middle, and began to count the 
money with his stubby fingers. Satisfied, he dropped the coins 
back in the purse and went to tuck it back into his belt.
  A burly youth darted out from the crowd. One-handed, he pushed 
the dwarf to the ground and grabbed the purse as it fell.
  'Oi!'
  Brenhya shucked her backpack and threw it to the Dwarf before 
taking off in pursuit. The balloons, now forgotten, drifted away 
overhead. 
  Years of running, and winning, friendly races against older 
children had given Brenhya a fleetness of foot that was almost 
unparalleled. Like a nimble gazelle, she dodged through the 
crowds, her eyes fixed upon the youth's  fleeing back. Down the 
midway, between the wagons, and back onto the thoroughfare, they 
ran. Past startled townsfolk, under the guy ropes and into the 
huge tent, behind the tiered rows of seats, and out into the 
ring. The youth had an eye on the exit at the opposite side, but 
Brenhya was not having that. 
  An aerialist's climbing rope hung down in the centre of the 
ring. As she sprinted toward it, Brenhya leapt up, and grabbed 
the rope with one hand, her fingers closing about it like a 
steel trap. With a yell of triumph, she swung forward and caught 
the collar of the youth's coat with her free hand, lifting him 
clean off the ground. He cried out in surprise.
  Keeping a tight grip on his collar, Brenhya and her burden 
swung forward, and then back. When the rope reached the apogee 
of it's return swing, she let go with both hands. The youth hit 
the sawdust covered floor like a sack of sand, with Brenhya atop 
him, driving the breath from his body audibly. Quickly, she 
turned him onto his belly, twisting both arms behind his back. 
She held him there with one hand, while with the other she began 
to rummage through his pockets, searching for the stolen purse.
  Winded, the youth nonetheless bucked and struggled to be free, 
but was powerless against the firm grip that held him. Finally, 
Brenhya found the purse and held it aloft, just as Ironheart 
came puffing up on his short legs, dragging her backpack behind 
him. She flung the purse to the dwarf, and hauled the youth to 
his feet, keeping his arms twisted up behind his back; a trick 
she had learned from play-wrestling.
  The dwarf was leaning forward, hands on knees, puffing to get 
his breath back.
  'Thanks you, Miss', he wheezed.
  'My pleasure, Mr Ironheart', she smiled back.
  'No, no. No more Mr Ironhearts. Just Brannagh. Please'.
  Brenhya's attention was drawn by the sound of a single person 
clapping, In the momentary distraction, her grip loosened 
slightly. The youth seized his opportunity and twisted away from 
her, making his escape through the rear exit. Brenhya made as if 
to give chase, but Brannagh restrained her with a hand on her 
arm.
  'Leaves it', he said. 'He's been 'umiliated enough, an' I's 
gots me money back. No 'arm done'.
  'Bravo!',  clapped the Fool as he walked into the ring, 
'Didn't I tell you she was something special, Brannagh?' The 
dwarf laughed and nodded his agreement.
  'Yer certainly did. Yer didn't says 'ow special, though'. He 
returned her backpack.
  'Because I didn't know, myself. But now I do ... And all I can 
say is, Wow!'
  Brenhya smiled shyly and looked at her feet.
  'Brenhya, do you want a job?' Fool asked.
  'You know I do. That's why we came here'.
  'No, I mean a proper job. Not just a few hours for bed and 
board, but a real job with the Show, until the end of the 
season.'
  'No. I can't. I have to keep going north. I have to get to 
Brandwick'.
  'We is goin' north', said Brannagh. 'An' Brandwick just 
'appens to be where our winter quarters is at'.
  'Oh, happy day!', carolled the Fool, slipping for just a 
moment into his professional role. 'Marry, 'tis a falumptious 
happenstance!'
  'OK', said Brenhya. 'In that case, I'd love a job. Thank you'.
  'Don't thank me just yet. We still have to talk to the Boss. 
Ah, there's the rub. But, when he hears all about you, I'm sure 
he'll agree. Come on'.