The Storyteller's Tale.
The day was marked by the setting sun in the west; bold colours and vivid shades of red and orange spilled over the canvas known as 'sky'. Not two kilometers outside the sleepy walls of Paris, a circle of brightly clothed caravans still buzzed with activity. Small children ran and screamed between the fires and laundry lines, women washed dirty clothes or cooked small meals for families who had not yet been fed. Men sat by the fires, drinking or smoking thin pipes, telling tales, gambling or working. One pounded nails into a rundown stall, another repainted small wooden figurines, and yet another, very much younger than the rest, wove a needle through thick, brightly coloured cloth.
Clopin, with a bit of thread hanging between his teeth, was no more than 19 years, or at least he suspected as much. He sat on an old wooden crate somewhat farther away from the other Romani people, too concentrated on his sewing to care for their scorns and jests. Clopin had been working on this little project for days, and it was almost finished, just in time for his parent's anniversary. He smiled as he imagined the look on their faces when . . .
A large, thick hand clamped down on his thin shoulder. Clopin jumped and turned swiftly. He stared up into the smoldering eyes of a familiar figure.
"Now, son, what are you doing over here?" His father asked, smiling as Clopin hid the project out of sight.
"It's a bit too late for that, and I've already seen it." His father laughed, a slight blush settling on Clopin's face. Defeated, he held out the bundle of sewn cloth for his father's inspection.
"I-It's your gift for your anniversary, it's not done yet, though . . ." Clopin stammered, ears burning. He started as his father bellowed a short laugh, spreading out the puppet in his hand.
"Look at this! It's me! He's wearing my costume too!" His father laughed once more as he admired the puppet from all angles, the tiny bells tinkling. "I love it! Where did you learn to sew like this? Certainly not from your mother."
"It's a secret," Clopin teased, "But now you've seen my present! The surprise is ruined."
" Don't be silly, boy," He said as he handed the jester puppet back to Clopin, "You finish it, and I will be doubly surprised when I get it again."
His father turned and began to walk back towards the centre of the camp, but stopped and turned, almost whispering, "Is there a match?"
Clopin smiled as his fingers tightened around a smaller box, hidden from view, that held the finished puppet of his mother.
" I'll never tell," he winked, a small grin creeping up his face.
"Bah," His father huffed, turning back to the camp.
Clopin looked back down at the puppet. It truly was a spitting image of his father: Shoulder length dark hair, large rosy cheeks, and a smile that grinned ear to ear. A large nose protruded for between two wide eyes. The body consisted of alternating blue and purple half-sewn segments. Small brass bells hung delicately from the golden jagged poncho.
The Trouillefou family had worked as storytellers, jesters and acrobats for as long as history and the minds of drunk men had known. Though their costumes changed every generation or so, the colours had remained blue, purple and gold. Clopin, the only boy of the two Trouillefou children, was destined to one day take up the colours and continue the 'family business'. But that was still a while away.
Sighing, Clopin carefully placed his puppet-father into the small box with its mate. Enough work for today, he decided, perhaps he would take a break and join the nightly festivities in the centre of the gypsy caravan. Striding quickly back to his own cramped wagon, the box tucked under his arm, he entered and hid the vessel under his sheets.
Just as he was leaving the wagon, his mother spotted him, curse her eagle eyes, and trudged over to him, his little sister, no more than three years, in tow. His mother was a stocky woman, clothed in mahogany, coined skirts, and her dark hair pulled back in a shaggy bun, covered mostly with a purple bandana. Her brown skin sagged slightly and was creased with age. She looked too old to have a toddler to take care of.
His sister, Lucille, jogged on shot legs to keep up with her mother. He smooth, brown skin was soft with youth, and her dark curled hair hidden in a bonnet. She was barefoot in an ankle length dress, which was dirty at the hems.
"Clopin," his mother huffed, "where have you been! I've been looking for you!"
"What do you need?" Clopin asked, smiling nervously.
" Please, watch Lucille for a while. I need to finish the washing."
Without a second thought, she scooped up little Lucille and dumped her into Clopins thin arms, walking away briskly.
He looked down at his sister, squirming in his arms. "Ma chère, you wriggle like a worm in a pinch of salt." Clopin puffed as he set her down.
As soon as her tiny feet were on the ground, she took of running, stout legs moving swiftly through the tents, Clopin scrambling after her. So much for his break. He sighted the tail of her skirt disappear behind a wagon. Moving quickly to the other end, he intercepted Lucille, who let out a short scream as he scooped her up into his arms. The wriggling ensued.
"Lucille, listen to me," Clopin said sternly, " I won't put you down until you promise you won't run away." Lucille stopped struggling, paused, and nodded her head slowly. Clopin gently put her back down.
And she was off! Clopin slid a palm down his face. Like he expected any better from a three year old.
To be continued.
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Authors Note: I have no idea how this story came to mind, but I've been contemplating writing it for a while now. It will definitely be multi chaptered I can assure you. This is the first time writing for this character, and I don't believe he's too out of character, so that's a good start.
Comments, Criticism and such are appreciated!