“Awwww, pwetty!” The little girl bounced up and down, stretching out her hand toward the glimmering blue butterfly, her blond curls shaking.
The stranger’s mouth quirked upward into a smile and he opened his palm wider, watching as the little girl grasped at the butterfly and found that her fingers went right through. At her wide eyes and o-shaped mouth, he chuckled softly. “It isn’t real, little one.”
Too young to understand him, she clawed for the butterfly again, her chubby fingers passing through its sparkling, ethereal wings. Beside her, a toddler boy fingered the leather scabbard which lay on the ground beside the crate where the stranger sat. His eyes round with wonder, the lad came to the sword and traced his fingers along the twisted, smooth, finely-wrought steel of the crossguards. Stuck in the boy’s belt was a little wooden sword, a toy now forgotten in the rush of awe at experiencing the real thing.
“Careful, lad,” the stranger warned as the boy tried to tug the sword free. “Leave it be, it’s sharp. Come, play with the magic.” He lifted his other arm from where he had propped it against his knee and held his hand out to the boy. In the reflection of the boy’s dark eyes, a soft blue glow blossomed and took flight, forming into another butterfly.
“Maaagic,” bawled a fat child that groped at the stranger’s travel-stained, tall boots.
“That’s right,” the stranger murmured, another butterfly coming to life over his fingers. He turned and smiled at another wee lass that had mounted the crate behind him and was now fingering his blue cloak and tugging at his long, silver-white hair. Beyond the child, the stranger could see the main street, choked with horses and carts and people. Near the street, a man lounged against the wall, smoking a pipe, but the stranger had this small corner of the alley to himself and the children — children that otherwise might have been running wild in that busy thoroughfare, in danger of being run over or struck.
“Do any of you have parents?” he asked, already expecting the sad answer. Few here probably did, and for those who actually did have guardians, they were likely left unsupervised here on the streets while those guardians fought and scraped at some difficult task all day to earn enough money to eat. There was no time for raising children, and these young innocents would soon grow up to be as callous and scarred as the rest, never to enjoy wonder again in their life, fated to live in desperation hidden beneath a mask of indifference. But right now, right now they were too young to understand, too young to despair. The stranger smiled softly at them all, at their open, obvious expressions of wonder, at their simple delight. He and his little followers went unnoticed by all that passed along the street, those who were caught up in drudgeries and cares, greed and grief, their eyes looking ever inward and never out at the great wide wonderful world.
Wind snapped the sheets dangling from a clothesline, and the stranger felt a small, warm presence clambering around him and sitting down in his lap. He smiled down just as the child threw back her head and grinned up.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Just like that, the peace was shattered. The stranger’s lips parted, but no words came out. His name? How could he speak that word, voice that sound that brought all of his past surging back in? All the joy fled from his eyes, leaving them empty and sad and hollow. His gaze fell upon the sword that sat sheathed upon the ground, ringed by a throng of curious waifs.
“What’s your name?” the girl repeated. “I’m Ryla.”
“You have a name, don’t you?” asked a slightly older boy of perhaps seven or eight years, who was sitting against a nearby wall, thin and gangly.
“I… I do.” The stranger closed his eyes, as if he could hide himself from the candid questions of the children by this simple action. The youngsters who had been eagerly watching his hands gasped as the butterflies suddenly twisted and morphed, with a spray of glittering magic, into bizarre, ever-shifting shapes. They rose like a tide of swords, swept across the space over the stranger’s palm like a wave of horses, crashed in upon themselves like the collapse of a mighty structure. The stranger, stricken by the sudden onset of grief and remembrance, did not notice as the children backed away, frightened by the increasing swirls of magic, by the intensity of its motion and color.
It was only when Ryla whimpered and clutched his sleeve that the stranger remembered himself and where he was. His eyes snapped open; the magic vanished. He was only a man again, a man who’d wandered many roads and crossed many continents, a man who’d seen much and traveled far. A man who had suffered, yet still fought to see the beauty in life. The innocence.
“Are you alright, mister?” the little girl asked.
The stranger took a deep breath and nodded, then smiled. “Yes, yes I am.” He tousled her hair, then smiled invitingly at the little crowd that had retreated away. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you? It’s alright.” At his entreaties, the children crept back, daring to come close once again. When no haunting figures from the stranger’s memories showed themselves over his hands, they reached out again.
“Pretty,” cooed a child, reaching for the butterflies that flitted again carefree over the stranger’s fingers.
The stranger’s lips curved, and once more that small smile was back.
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