Brrrinnng!
The door swung open with such force that it
slammed into the wall. Everyone inside
the Prickly Thistle Inn’s small
common room started and turned to stare at the newcomer. He was a slight lad of no older than fourteen
with straight brown hair, strikingly green eyes, and a ruddy complexion. His clothes were sleazy and mix-matched: the
uniform of a runaway. The strange boy
fit right in at the disreputable inn.
Spending
a single glance on the people gathered around the few tables scattered about
the room, the young boy shuffled forward, lugging along a battered old leather
trunk. He walked up to the front desk,
his movements jerky and dramatic.
“A
room here. Can I get one?” He inquired.
“What’s
yur name, boy?” the innkeeper, old Mr. Frizzle, asked.
“Brianskin,”
the lad replied promptly and with a large smile, as though he was proud to have
remembered that slight detail. Mr.
Frizzle studied the boy intently with beady brown eyes, a slight smile upon his
thin lips as he considered this potential customer. Brianskin shuffled uncomfortably under
Frizzle’s rude, unsettling stare. The
innkeeper grinned, the gaps in his yellow teeth shockingly apparent.
“And
what can I be doin’ fer yu, Skinny?” Frizzle asked.
“One
room and dinner. How much would that
be?” Brianskin questioned, continuing the conversation of inquiries and
ignoring Frizzle’s insult.
“Er,
only ‘bout fif’ten zinks.” Frizzle drawled.
Brianskin abruptly slammed his leather case onto the counter and opened
it. Frizzle attempted to peer over the
lifted lid, but he was too short to obtain a satisfactory glimpse of the lad’s
belongings without making it glaringly apparent that he was trying to do
so. The innkeeper settled back on his
heels with an unhappy sigh as he glared at Brianskin.
Brianskin
pawed through his clothes and knickknacks, spilling half of the trunk’s
contents in the process. He mumbled and
muttered to himself constantly as he searched.
The customers at the table nearest the counter glanced at Brianskin in
annoyance. The only well-dressed people
in the inn, an observer wondered why on Yendys such well-to-do persons would
choose the Prickly Thistle Inn for a
rest stop. The man leaned over and whispered into the ear of an old—very
old—woman sitting next to him. The
grandmotherly person’s attention brought to Brianskin, she merely stared at him
curiously with large glazed eyes. Then
she leaned over and loudly whispered in the direction of her son and
daughter-in-law, “He looks familiar. I
know him from somewhere, I know I do.”
“Yes,
mother,” the son said absentmindedly, the unruly-looking lad forgotten as he
conversed with his wife of other matters.
The old woman continued to stare.
Eventually,
Brianskin snapped the lid of his case shut quickly, slid it off the counter
nearly as fast, and retreated to a corner, his face drawn in thought. Frizzle snorted, knowing that look all too
well; the boy didn’t have the money. Oh,
well. That wasn’t Frizzle’s
problem. No money, no service.
“Fifteen
zink. Fifteen zink! Where am I going to get that? Three.
I only have three!” Brianskin whispered inaudibly. He idly reached into his pocket and pulled
out a bright yellow yo-yo. He began to
roll it up and down its string as he pondered his dilemma. He started in surprise as the old lady at the
table by the counter jumped up from her seat with more energy than any woman
her age had a right to possess.
“I
know you!” she cried loudly, and everyone in the inn’s common stopped whatever
it was that they were doing and looked in her direction. The old woman was undisturbed by this fact,
and went on unperturbed.
“You’re
Brian! Brian Skinnely, the son of Duke
Skinnely!” the elderly lady shouted; nearly stone deaf as she was, she was in
no position to gauge the volume of her own voice, and Brianskin, who was,
unfortunately, standing only a few feet from her, winced.
“Mother,
please be seated,” her son tugged on her arm in a vain attempt to make her calm
down.
“I
know who you are!” the woman continued to cry, “You’re…. a yo-yo!”
More
than a few of the inn’s customers snickered.
The son put more effort into restraining his mother’s outburst. Brianskin, however, saw nothing unduly
outrageous in the accusation.
“I’m
sorry,” Brianskin said calmly and politely, “You must be confusing me with
someone else. I’m not a yo-yo. I’m a human.”
“No! No!” the elderly woman said impatiently. “Is that a yo-yo?” She gestured to the bright toy in Brianskin’s
hand. Brianskin glanced at his precious
treasure, which he had forgotten all about at the beginning of the absurd
conversation.
“Yes,”
he replied hesitantly, not liking something in the woman’s eager
expression. “A yo-yo. Yes, it is.”
“And
it’s of Brambolini make, is it not?” the woman stated her inflectionless
query. Brianskin, not particularly
knowing what a Brambolini was, and not really certain how to reply, merely
shook his head in a gesture which the woman took to mean “yes”.
“Do you know how much that yo-yo is worth?!” the woman shouted
hysterically. Brainskin shook his head
in the negative, clearly confused. He
knew the yo-yo was special. But how was
this woman aware of its magical powers?
“IT’S
AN ANTIQUE! Why, it must be worth at
least thirty zink” the woman said, pulling the number straight from her
over-active, befuddled imagination. She
yanked on her son’s arm and whispered harshly, “Buy that Brambolini from the
lad, my boy. It’s an investment!”
The
agitated son merely sighed dramatically and, pulling his wallet from his
pocket, offered Brainskin thirty shiny golden zink. “Is this enough for the yo-yo?”
Brianskin
looked from his precious treasure, to the man, to the elderly woman, and back
at his precious treasure. He thought of
the room which he didn’t have the money for, and of the storm raging outside of
the inn’s walls. He considered the old
lady’s big mouth and the secret he had to keep.
His green eyes filling with tears, Brianskin hastily made his decision
and roughly shoved the bright yellow yo-yo into the strange man’s hand. He practically threw some of the coins, which
he guessed to be about fifteen of the thirty, at Mr. Frizzle and raced
upstairs, not even asking which room was his.
Mr.
Frizzle smiled gleefully at the twenty golden coins in his hand as he and
everyone else in the common room watched the teenager flee upstairs.
“It’s
an antique! Do you know how much this is
worth?” the old woman continued to say loudly, though not quite as loudly as
before.
“Thirty
zink,” the son growled in aggravation.
“Why! It’s worth at least three times that amount!”
the woman went on, ignoring her son’s anger.
Everyone
in the inn was listening to the old woman now.
The gamblers and the homeless began to eye the woman’s nice, expensive,
and fashionable clothes. They stared at
the yo-yo she held aloft.
“She
just might know what she’s talkin’ ‘bout, that one.” one disreputable customer
hissed, pointing his grimy finger at the rich family, “She’d be a knowin’ what
nice things’ll be costin’.”
A
hesitant expectancy settled upon the common room, Brianskin’s yo-yo the center
of attention as all the inn’s customers considered its value. After a while, one man made up his mind. Rising from his chair, he offered to invest
his spending money (seventy-five zink) in the yo-yo. The son watched the man with a bemused
expression as he made his offer. The old
woman stared at her prospective buyer suspiciously before agreeing to the
sale.
*****
The man’s purchase of the yo-yo immediately
set off an avalanche of offers, and the yo-yo changed hands many times that
night, its worth rising with every sale.
The last buyer— a middle-aged, over-weight man with red-tinted eyes, who
went by the name of Carlisle— purchased it for nearly two-hundred and fifty zink. He pocketed the yo-yo, refusing to sell it to
anyone in the inn, and, whistling, made his way home, making plans for the
morrow. It was an excellent night for
him, full of high hopes.
Brianskin,
however, had a harder time of it. He
mourned the loss of his beloved— not to mention magical— yo-yo. It had been his greatest treasure. That night, after he had finally managed to
cry himself to sleep, he was subject to disturbing dreams of his yo-yo getting
farther and farther away from him until it was a mere yellow speck in the
distance.
*****
“And how might I be
of service to you today, Mister Carlisle?”
“I
have it on the best authority that this is an original, genuine Brambolini
yo-yo,” Carlisle announced proudly, tapping the counter by the colorful
toy.
The
antique dealer leaned forward and examined the magnificent yo-yo as Carlisle continued to show off its wonderful résumé.
“Look
at that smooth surface. Just look at
that beautiful paint, of the best quality.
Do you know that this wood is pure Catalpa?” Carlisle
asked, continuing in this manner for several minutes.
The
antique dealer, who had bent over to examine the yo-yo at eye level, stood
up. He wore a look of pure disgust upon
his face.
“First
of all,” he said, holding up a single finger, “There is no such thing as a
Brambolini yo-yo. A Brambolini is a type
of harp.
“Secondly,
this…. thing….. is not an antique; it is so smooth because it is quite new.
“Thirdly,
this is not a coat of fine paint; it’s a nice crust of mustard.
“Fourthly,
it is not made of Catalpa wood. It’s
from a pop-corn tree!”
“It
isn’t worth my dog’s dinner!!” the
antique dealer cried.
*****
There was a roar followed by a loud
crash. A large display window shattered.
“OUCH!!”
Brianskin yelped as something small and round whizzed through the giant pane
and hit him in the head. The force of
the blow sent the boy sprawling. Shaking
his abused head to clear it, Brianskin sat and began looking around for what
had hit him. There, lying in the mud
beside him, was his yo-yo. Brianskin was
speechless. After a few minutes of
complete silence, he jumped up and grabbed his yo-yo, yelling wildly, “Oh! Oh!
OH! I knew you would come back! I knew
it!”
After
reuniting with his beloved—not to mention magical—yo-yo, Brianskin gathered his
trunk and began to make his way down the main street of Ninya, whistling
happily as he made his way. It was a
beautiful day, if a bit cloudy, he had his yo-yo, the open road was before him,
his secret was still safe… Ah, yes! It
was a wonderful day. Brianskin ignored
the stares and chatter of the townsfolk as he left.
“Momma!
Momma! How did that boy teach
that squirrel to follow him like that?!”
THE END
…OR IS IT JUST THE
BEGINNING?
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