One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) (8 page)

Garin poked my side a little too roughly. I glared at him. He said, “See those coats? I sense they’re coming back. A lot of Festooning there.” I poked his chest.

A group in full Civil War gear followed. First the Confederate States Army and then the Northern Union Army as if the North still chased the Southerners across Georgia, but in a gentlemanly way.

“Look at that.” I bumped Garin. “Every so often the front line of the Northerners and the back line of the Southerners break out and fight.”

Garin said, “They’ve been practicing a lot. That’s a completely choreographed brawl of sabers and bayonets with a lot of show. That’s new this year.”

“Amazing. Look at the guy on the end! He’s funny.”

Real veterans of recent wars followed the progression. The surviving World War Two soldiers now well into their eighties. They rode and waved from the back of a vintage pickup restored by the local produce store. Behind them followed the subsequent major confrontations. The audience stood and clapped and cheered for them. Local hopeful politicians ran behind with their wives and kids and friends handing out buttons and candy and fliers.

“This is the part I always liked,” I pointed behind the hardware store float that crept passed us. “The Parasol Ladies Dance Corps. Several dance companies get together and do this.”

Late high school, college, and younger women danced with parasols. An outer ring of the older women who wanted to participate but avoided the serious dancing wrapped around the real action of the group. About half the women dressed in shades of white lace while the rest wore dark colors reminiscent of Victorian peacock feathers with green, mauve, ebony, and chocolate brown.

They made a twirling dance of good and evil played out with parasols and sweeping skirts. Sometimes the hero and villain battled with folded parasols like swords. No words said amid the artful motions and marching feet. The story told in dramatic gestures of weeping and wailing when the hero was wounded and vigorous dancing when the villain stumbled and fell before the hero’s triumph. A swirl of parasols causing confusion like a moving herd of zebras enabled the characters to reset their little play.

The Parasol Ladies went out of sight and I said, “Every year they do a different skit.” I played with the straw in my drink.

“Maybe you should get involved with them next year? It looks like fun.” Garin said.

A flier appeared thrust in front of my face, bright green with splotches of camouflage and block lettering. “You should read this,” said the man. I took the paper carefully. His sharply creased dress pants made from camouflage material. He wore a long tailed tuxedo in the same brownish-black dark splotch markings as his pants. His head topped with a Revolutionary War type of trifold hat trailing long pheasant feathers. His shaggy beard and large mirrored sunglasses continued scanning my face. Like trying to frighten me or memorize my features. Creepy. He moved along to urge others in the crowd to take the slips of paper. The block of similarly dressed marchers stamped by, their eyes glanced hard at Garin and I as they passed. Military-like marching. A lot of camouflage carefully transformed into Victorian garb. I could have marveled at their costumes if less troubled.

A pair of banner signs followed the group, “Get prepared. Join your local militia. The Enemy will be here.” While the second said, “Do you want to risk guessing when? Do you know how to protect your Family?”

I said to Garin, “That looks like Brett from the coffee shop carrying a flag but I can’t tell without his flannel.”

Garin said, “Probably not him.” Then he leaned in whispering, “Not all but some of the militia know.”

I looked at the paper and then after the receding troop. The flier matched the message on the banners but also included phone numbers and a website to learn more. A list of projects like teaching your kids self-defense and gun safety, how to modify slingshots to shoot hunting arrows, free home security consulting and other topics filled a corner of the page followed by “Survival gear sources available”. I folded the paper into a small bent plug. I thought I’d find a place to discard it later. Maybe it would be good to hang onto it? I couldn’t exactly slip it quietly into my purse. I dithered.

“Here, let me put that in my pocket,” Garin offered. “We can throw it away after the parade when we get in the Art Fair.”

The clown parade approached next and took my mind from the flier. A happy face appeared and pulled a long series of handkerchiefs from my ear. The audience laughed hard. I laughed too but blushed. Garin scrambled for his phone and took several pictures of me. Everyone chortled as the clowns in their big feet tried catching their place in line. One danced about shaking his foot pretending to have stepped in horse manure. The audience laughed loudly.

We knew the parade ended when the police cruisers floated by with their lights flashing closely followed by the fire department trucks winding out the air-raid siren. Everyone flooded into the Art and Food Fair.

“I’m really hungry.”

“Me too,” Garin winked and squeezed my hand.

“Cut it out,” I bumped my hip into him in the crowd as we moved forward. I could smell thick greasy barbecue pork and roasted turkey ahead.

“I don’t know how many times I had a turkey drumstick at the fair,” he said casually by my ear. “They always looked so good and seemed like fun walking around as a happy-go-lucky Henry the Eighth eating them. But they never tasted quite as good as the story they promised.”

“Yeah, me too.” But I already spied the pulled pork wraps, “Not too Victorian?”

“Barbecue goes way back.” The guy running the barbecue flailed two spatulas and a pair of forks in his hands while beads of sweat from the hot sun and scorching grill dotted his temples, “I’m the chef at Napoleon’s Cat and you won’t worry about what century they are from after you taste these.”

“What are you calling them?”

“Tennessee Hillbilly Pulled Pork and Peppers,” He tossed a couple of wraps on a big waxed paper sheaf and flung pork, peppers, and onions on top. He shuffled around more ingredients on his grill before flipping the wraps around with the forks and spatulas. A showman.

“You’re pretty amazing with the utensils!” said Garin.

“Hey, thanks,” he wiped his forehead on the side of his thick bicep. “I make these for the appetizers at Napoleon’s except cut up on pita wedges – but those are hard to eat at a festival.”

His assistant collected some money from Garin and we took the pair of wraps.

Garin waved to the chef as the walked away.

I bit into the end of the wrap. Walking in a skirt and heeled boots I almost never wore, eating food, and jostled in a festival seemed unwise. My first bite of the wrap amazed me, “Wow. He was right!” I turned to face Garin.

“Hold still,” he took one of his napkins and blotted my chin. “Smells great.” Then I saw he didn’t eat his. He watched my eyes drop to his hand holding his wrap still fully packaged in the wax paper. “Oh … yes.” I returned to watching ahead of us.

“I’m saving this for you for later. When I run out of poetry.” I put my hand on his and caught his eyes in mine. Then the crowd jostled us out of the moment. We went passed other stalls with more art and less food, “That’s a huge dragonfly!”

“Hi.” A tall intense dark haired guy with a vintage concert shirt rocked forward out of his fold-up canvas directors chair. Black wood side tables ran the length of the booth and a lot of wooden sculptures scattered the tent. The largest a dragonfly that looked more like a dragon than a regular insect. I see a “sold” tag on it. “That’s really cool.”

“I have some other pieces that are still for sale. That one, I’m delivering later tonight after the festival closes,” he spun around a book of pictures, “these are other ones I’ve done that are currently in happy homes.”

He showed us a few other pieces, “And rather than regular spray paint I’m putting powder enamel on them so these can last a lifetime above a fireplace, on an executive desk, or over a bar.” He pointed to the dragon, “That’s where the dragon is going. The buyer opened a new restaurant at the edge of Livix and wants it over his bar.”

“I really like this train engine,” I said, touching the almost iridescent metal paint covering the detailed model. I think it’s light but it’s not, “This is surprisingly heavy.”

“Yes. That’s from reclaimed railroad ties. Swamp oak timber rescued from a lost shipment in the Florida Everglades. The wood lay submerged in the water for a hundred and fifty years, originally cut from five hundred year old trees. So this piece of wood sprouted around the middle of the thirteen hundreds.” He picked the engine up and flipped it around with a practiced hand, “You can see how I cut these details by hand to give the look of old leaves with a Victorian embellishment.”

“That’s great,” said Garin, interested in the fabrication. “Are you milling those? Or hand fitting a lot of it? You’ve got tight gaps between these wheels and the guides and these rails. It’s nice.”

“All hand cut from a pattern. If I mass produced them I’d go with milling machines. But I’m doing unique art pieces for high-end judged art shows that frown on industrialized processes. So far it keeps me pretty busy.”

Garin asked, “The tree root lighting your wall and the night photographs are nice.”

“Yes, that piece looks ok during the day but in subdued evening light on a wall or over a fireplace it’s better. Hard to show that other than with a picture.”

Garin said, “Anna, you look like you might like the train?”

“Yes. It’s nice.”

Garin glanced at the tag and pulled some cash out of his wallet, “Here … for the train and the tree light.”

“Great! I’ll box them up,” The artist took the pieces and carefully but quickly wrapped them up in butcher block paper. He placed them in a box tied with stiff cord. “I made a handle out of the cord as that train can get heavy after carrying it for a while.”

Garin said, “Oh, that will be ok.”

I turned and gave a short wave to the artist, “Bye! Thanks.”

“Oh, here, I forgot to wrap this in the box. It’s my card if you’re looking for more pieces. I get most of my business through referrals.”

“Thanks!” I took the card and we melded into the crowd.

I caught Garin watching some of the girls go by. Face painted high school girls and young mothers that he’s too intense about. I elbowed him.

“Ouch!”

I leaned in close, “I’m not sure if it’s normal guy ogling or your affliction.”

“Oh, some of both,” he smiled but the smile dropped as he snapped his attention further ahead on the street.

I followed his sight line.

Leaning against the side of Maggie's Ice Cream store stood a figure in an old cowboy hat and a long western style coat as if actually pulled out of the 1850’s. A pair of modern sunglasses sat on his sharp nose incongruously. The ice cream in his hand dribbled uneaten and melted into the large number of napkins wrapping it like a mushy tulip. At seeing our sharp gaze he shifted his eyes across other parts of the crowd like he hadn’t been watching us. The cowboy crushed up a flier that I recognized from the militia. He dropped it on the sidewalk before cutting across the street through the throng of people. When he emerged on the far side he dropped the cone into a trash bin.

“Who is that?” I asked Garin quickly.

“I don’t know. Vampire though,” he whispered. Garin pressed his hand into the small of my back and guided me in a gentle arc like a formal dance so we came into the stream of people going the other way.

“You two look great together. A nice hat –” said one of the little old ladies in the local church stall as we flowed down the street passed her booth. Her head poked out of the tent.

Garin let up on my back and we navigated upstream.

“Thanks,” I said, adjusting my hat brim. “The pies smell amazing.”

“The batch on the back shelves came out of the ovens less than ten minutes ago,” the little old lady said, wearing a crisp long flowing white dress with a small apron. “These are pretty popular keeping the girls busy in the church kitchen. I’m sure your handsome beau can spring ten dollars on a whole pie. Take it back and share it with the family.” She twittered, “Get you some points with the girl’s mother, it will.”

I chose cherry. Garin paid for the pie and she quickly bagged it up so it would stay flat.

“Now, I hear, mind you it’s idle gossip,” the little lady looked both ways down the street, and slid a couple of forks and some napkins in on top of the covered pie, “but some folks sit under the old oak tree in the square and eat the whole pie. I don’t believe such foolishness. But I’ll be here until the festival closes and I won’t tell no one if you come back for that second pie for the girl’s mother.” She twittered again, “Now have a good day. And you youngster's keep your energy up.”

We laughed leaving her stall.

Garin said, “That’s quite a church lady.”

“I think she’s cute.”

Garin navigated us around the stalls so we didn’t backtrack and saw the artists’ wares. I hadn’t been paying attention but we neatly ended up at the oak tree. We had been wandering long enough that sitting on the grass, the benches, or the chairs scattered around seemed attractive. A tinge of darkness crept in on the evening too.

“You might want some dinner before having that dessert.” Garin handed me the second wrap.

“I didn’t realize the day stretched out so much.” I quickly unwrapped the barbecue. Delicious scents wafted up. Whispering to me. Engaging.

“You must be having a good time?” Garin asked me.

“Yes. I’m having a good time at the Festival. And with you.” I had a couple of bites of the barbecue, still amazingly good.

Garin watched the crowd. In another moment he said, “Look, the band is setting up. We’ll have a good seat here.”

“Uh, Hmmn.” I managed.

“You ate that barbecue fast.”

I froze, swallowed, and said, “Habit from studying.” Crinkling up the paper I said, “Sorry, I revealed a wart too soon.”

But Garin already had the pie out and handed me a fork, “I waited for this.”