Goldie

"What is a carnival caravan?" That was, of course, the next logical question. I had asked it after I awoke from a refreshing nap that I am sure was due to the tea I had been served. Goldie explained that they were a large band of merchants, but entertainers, singers and musicians had joined them as well. They had just about anything one could want.

I remember the merchant caravans. I remember running alongside the cart as Yama directed the bosk. We would come back with sugar and flour, tapestries and baking tins. Laces and threads and fine pointed needles filled trunks. Metal and leather work filled the open wagon. Sometimes breeding animals trailed behind. When I was young, there was a toy, usually clutched in the small clasp of my hands. Sometimes a doll, though once I remember begging for the finely carved wooden game board and pieces. As I outgrew the childish things, I held silken ribbons or pretty clips for my hair.

This caravan had all of that. The pungent spice of sausages permeated the air, to mingle with delicate blossomed perfumes. Metal clanged and horns moaned, livestock spoke in their native tongues. And the colors everywhere was almost an assault to the senses.

I looked around Goldie's wagon, marveling once more at all the trinkets and charms, the squat vase in the corner, the dishes on the shelf with tender delicate blue swirls. Even her clothing was an eclectic mix of patchwork colors, gaily hued scarves that wrapped around her shoulders and hips, strands of golden chains and bangles on her arms. Several dolls perched on the top of a painted trunk, though clearly these were not toys for children. One wore flowing turquoise and held a ruby in her hand. Another was garbed in pristine white. Her face was porcelain, capturing opalescent rainbows on her cheeks, almost covering the hand drawn tears that fell from the corners of almost closed eyes. The third wore brown, cinched at the stuffed waist with a red and green braid. It's hair was a mass of ebony curls and a red symbol marked one sleeve.

I asked what Goldie did here, in the carnival caravan, when she handed me a package of white cloth. Trinket maker? doll crafter? Treasure trader? Those were my guesses and it brought a rich soft laughter from the woman I queried. She spoke only after sending me to get dressed.
"I am a weaver of tales, a believer of dreams, a dissector of portent, and above all... a listener."
I heard her, but couldn't quite answer. I held the white cloth in my hand and turned it over and over, running the pads of my fingers over the soft eyelet design, the delicate dots that iced the alabaster, the darts and seams that gave flatness shape and movement. I had never worn anything so feminine in my life. Nothing so soft had touched my skin. It fit me as if little tailors had worked while I slept to get every measurement perfect. I felt so blessed, and I could tell by the look in Goldie's eyes that the dress looked as magical on as I imagined. I couldn't thank her enough, but she told me to always smile and that would be her pleasure.

She explained then that a good amount of the collection that littered her wagon was payment for her services. And while I didn't fully understand, I came to believe that she was an advisor of sorts. She said there was plenty I could help with around her small encampment, and most likely more things I could find to help with among the others. I hugged her, expressing all the gratefulness in my heart with the squeeze of arms. She had given me hope, and a chance to be productive. To do more than just survive. I was lost for words. Goldie then gathered up my fur coat, cleaned and fresh smelling, and sent me out to discover carnival.