Aidan thought he heard something, faint at first. He stopped and listened intently as White stopped, too, looking questioningly up at him. Aidan hoped, prayed. Had he been hearing things?
Then it came again. He was sure this time. A squeak of wheels. Of wood. Of iron. It was a cart.
Aidan spun around, his heart skipping a beat as he squinted into the fading light. At first he saw nothing. But then slowly, surely, he saw something come into view. A cart. Several carts.
Aidan’s heart pounded in his throat, barely able to contain his excitement as he felt the rumble, heard the horses, and watched the caravan head his way. But then his excitement tempered as he wondered if they could be hostile. After all, who else would be traveling this long stretch of barren road, so far from anywhere? He could not fight and White, snarling half-heartedly, did not have much fight left in him, either. They were at the mercy of whoever was approaching. It was a scary thought.
The sound grew deafening as the carts neared, and Aidan stood boldly in the center of the road, realizing he could not hide. He had to take his chances. Aidan thought he heard music as they neared, and it deepened his curiosity. They gained speed, and for a moment he wondered if they would run him over.
Then, suddenly, the entire caravan slowed and stopped before him, as he blocked the road. They stared down at him, the dust settling all around them, a large group, perhaps fifty people, and Aidan blinked up in surprise to see they were not soldiers. They did not appear to be hostile, either, he realized with a sigh of relief. He noticed the wagons filled with all sorts of people, men and women of all different ages. One appeared to be filled with musicians, holding various musical instruments; another was filled with men who appeared to be jugglers or comedians, their faces painted in bright colors and wearing brightly colored tights and tunics; another cart seemed to be filled with actors, men holding scrolls, clearly rehearsing scripts, dressed in dramatic costumes; while another was filled with women – barely clothed, their faces painted with too much makeup.
Aidan blushed and looked away, knowing he was too young to gape at such things.
“You, boy!” a voice called out. It was a man with a very long beard, bright red, down to his waist, a peculiar-looking man, with a friendly smile.
“Is this your road?” he asked in jest.
Laughter erupted from all the carts, and Aidan blushed.
“Who are you?” Aidan asked, baffled.
“I think the better question,” he called back, “is who are you?” They looked down in fear at White as he snarled. “And what on earth are you doing with a Wood Dog? Don’t you know they’ll kill you?” they asked, fear in their voices.
“Not this one,” Aidan replied. “Are you all…entertainers?” he asked, still curious, wondering what they were all doing out here.
“A kind word for it!” someone called from a cart, to raucous laughter.
“We are actors and players and jugglers and gamblers and musicians and clowns!” another man yelled.
“And liars and scoundrels and whores!” called out a woman, and they all laughed again.
Someone strummed on a harp, as the laughter increased, and Aidan blushed. A memory came rushing back of when he had once met such people, when he was younger and living in Andros. He recalled watching all the entertainers stream into the capital, entertaining the King; he remembered their brightly colored faces; their juggling knives; a man eating fur; a woman singing songs; and a bard reciting poems from memory that seemed to last for hours. He remembered being puzzled as to why anyone would choose such a life path, and not that of a warrior.
His eyes lit up as he suddenly realized.
“Andros!” Aidan called out. “You’re going to Andros!”
A man jumped off one of the carts and came toward him. He was a large man, perhaps in his forties, with a big belly, an unkempt brown beard, shaggy hair to match, and a warm and friendly smile. He walked over to Aidan and put a fatherly arm around his shoulder.
“You’re too young to be out here,” the man said. “I’d say you’re lost – but from the wounds on you and that dog of yours, I’m guessing it’s something more. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble and found yourself in too deep – and I’d guess,” he concluded, examining White warily, “that it had something to do with your helping this beast.”
Aidan remained quiet, not knowing how much to say, while White came over and licked the man’s hand, to Aidan’s surprise.
“Motley’s what I call myself,” the man added, reaching out a hand.
Aidan looked back warily, not shaking his hand but nodding back.
“Aidan is my name,” he replied.
“You two can stay out here and starve to death,” Motley continued, “but that’s not a very fun way to die. Me personally, I’d want to at least have a good meal first, then die some other way.”
The group broke into laughter, while Motley continued holding out his hand, looking at Aidan with kindness and compassion.
“I expect you two, wounded as you are, need a hand,” he added.
Aidan stood there proudly, not wanting to show weakness, as his father had taught him.
“We were doing just fine as we were,” Aidan said.
Motley led the group in a fresh round of laughter.
“Of course you were,” he replied.
Aidan looked suspiciously at the man’s hand.
“I am going to Andros,” Aidan said.
Motley smiled.
“As are we,” he replied. “And as luck would have it, the city is big enough to hold more than just us.”
Aidan hesitated.
“You’d be doing us a favor,” Motley added. “We can use the extra weight.”
“And the extra mouth to feed!” called out a fool from another crowd, to laughter.
Aidan looked back warily, too proud to accept, but finding a way to save face.
“Well….” Aidan said. “If I’d be doing you a favor…”
Aidan took Motley’s hand, and found himself pulled into his cart. He was stronger than Aidan expected, given that, from the way he dressed, he seemed to be a court fool; his hand, beefy and warm, was twice the size of Aidan’s.
Motley then reached over, hoisted White, and placed him gently in the back of the cart, beside Aidan. White curled up beside Aidan in the hay, head in his lap, eyes half-closed in exhaustion and pain. Aidan understood the feeling too well.
Motley jumped in and the driver cracked the whip, and the caravan took off, all of them cheering as music played again. It was a jolly song, men and women plucking harps, playing flutes and cymbals, and several of the people, to Aidan’s surprise, danced in the moving carts.
Aidan had never seen such a happy group of people in his life. His whole life had been spent in the gloom and silence of a fort filled with warriors, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all this. How could anyone be so happy? His father had always taught him that life was a serious thing. Was this all not trivial?
As they proceeded down the bumpy road, White whined out in pain, while Aidan stroked his head. Motley came over and, to Aidan’s surprise, knelt by the dog’s side and applied a compress to his wounds, covered in a green salve. Slowly, White quieted, and Aidan felt grateful for his help.
“Who are you?” Aidan asked.
“Well, I’ve worn many names,” Motley replied. “The best was ‘actor.’ Then there was ‘rogue’, ‘fool,’ ‘jester’…the list goes on. Call me as you will.”
“You are no warrior, then,” Aidan realized, disappointed.
Motley leaned back and roared with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks; Aidan could not understand what was so funny.
“Warrior,” Motley repeated, shaking his head in wonder. “Now that is one thing I’ve never been called. Nor is it something I have ever wished to be called.”
Aidan furrowed his brow, not comprehending.
“I come from a line of warriors,” Aidan said proudly, sticking his chest out as he sat, despite his pain. “My father is a great warrior.”