The Talisman of Minton Square
"HALT! YOU MUST STOP!" The screams were getting louder. They were getting closer.
"MISS ROSETHORN! YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND! WE NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU! STOP RUNNING NOW!"
The commands were so close now, maybe fifteen feet. I willed my legs to power through, to keep running, but I knew it would be too late. They were too close now. I needed a way out.
Soon enough, I found it. There was a tear on the side of one of the gypsy buggies. They would never cross gypsy territory in broad daylight, no matter what they claimed was at stake.
I must go unnoticed. No matter how much the thought of crossing gypsy territory would terrify them, they would still follow. They would stake out until sunrise when the gypsies held their morning ritual, then they would come for me. They would never stop. Not for something so valuable.
The only way to ensure my escape was successful and they were completely off my trail was to create a commotion far louder than the one we were making.
For Minton Square was never one to disappoint. A commotion was always bound to happen. Any and everyday. It was all too simple. The vendor stands were out on display. It was daylight. Consumers were everywhere, no one would notice. I grabbed the nearest item my hand could obtain. A melon. How fitting.
The perfect oppurtunity arose before me with the sight of an ameteur horse tied to a post off to my left. Usually where they keep the horses that have not been properly trained, the area was completely bare except for three handlers who were attempting to soothe the obdurate beast.
In one swift motion, I threw the ball- like fruit from my possession directly at the untangible animal. The noxious horse cried out in aggravation whilst kicking its hind legs knocking over the post and freeing itself from its restraint. It continued to plow and kick around, propelling the townspeople to cower and attempt to run away.
My pursuiters became lost in the midst of the commotion and lost sight of my direction. I hastened my pace and veered to my right onto gypsy property. As quickly as I possibly could, I snuck through the slit and retreated into the far corner of the buggy. I curled into myself, attempting to make myself as small as I possibly could, in hopes that I would remain covert until sunrise and make my escape. By then all the commotion would have eased and no one the wiser of my location. Thankfully the gypsies were busy in their gaeity, celebrating the dismay of the townspeople -adding fuel to the fire that is their fued- and had not noticed my illegal tresspassing, which was sure to get me hanged.
Within the confines of my hiding spot, I could not see nor hear the whereabouts of my attackers, but I could sense that they were farther away, most likely having gone in the oppisite direction. While waiting for sunrise to arrive, a certain placid aura overtook me and I soon fell into unconsciousness, something I had not planned on at all. Another situation I had not planned on, was catching the eye of a certain blue-eyed gypsy who still held a grudge over a lost talisman from over fifty years ago.
Two weeks ago
"Miss Rosethorn, a pleasure to see you out and about on such a lovely day. And may I ask, how is Sir Rosethorn today?", the bakery-shop owner asks me with false sympathy. As if he truly cares about the well-being of my father. They all thought he had gone mad. That he was bovine.
"He is fine, thank you for asking. He sends his regards Mr. Wilford."
"Oh my how lovely, he still holds the ability to speak?"
"Of course he is still able to speak you imbecile, he is still the same Sir Wilbur Amekin Rosethorn the Third that he was since you last saw him ten years ago", I snap at the pudgy older gentleman before me. As rude as it is of me to talk back to an elder, a gentleman at that, it is frustrating to witness the idiocy of the townspeople. They believe that my father is no more than a sack of potatoes. The abasement that is felt for a man with the status and renown that he beheld not so long ago to be degraded to a peice of lump by the very people who worshipped him is terribly frustrating and kindles a deep desire to defend him with all that I am worth.
The engender of why this came about is as clear to me as mud. What I can remember at my young tender age of only eight years, is my father departing at dawn to discover the whereabouts of a lost talisman that had sent the gypsies into a frenzy. The gypsies were suspicious of the claimed that the only ones with motive to hurt them, the only ones who had any reason whatsoever to steal their precious talisman were the townspeople.
Of course, it would seem the reason was blatant. The bigot people of Minton Square absolutely abhored the gypsies and all that had to with them. They believed that using the talisman as a bargaining tool between the gypsies and themselves, they could drive the colorful gypsies out of the further regions of Minton Square and claim the land as theirs once again.
At least, that is what the gypsies believed. They grew livid with their accusations towards the townsfolk, even going as far as burning some of the business cottages downtown. They believed with all that they had that the townsfolk were to blame and seeked revenge.
The townsfolk, pleading innocent, were shaken with rage at such absurd accusations. They argued that they had no reason to take the gypsies' 'stupid' talisman and had nothing to prove to a group of 'crazy satan-worshippers'.
My father, as cheif and second-in-command of Minton Square, took it upon himself to seek the truth and prove the innocence of his townspeople. He left Wyning Manor, our home, before the sun had even set, and when he returned in the evening he was not himself. He was different, unhuman. Any and all human life that remained in his eyes was completely gone. What was left was a hollow of a human being, a hollow of the man that he can never be again.
What he discovered no one will ever know. Perhaps it was too traumatic for him to have witnessed. Perhaps it was nothing at all, and it was God's will for him to end up the way that he has on that specific day. Ten years later to this day he is still that hollow, lifeless creature. They say that he has gone mad. That his wife's horrifying death -my mother's- has finally caught up to him. No one truly knows what changed Wilbur Amekin Rosethorn. Even I, his only daughter, do not know why such a drastic, appalling change has betook my father but I do know that I will do everything within my power and more to discover the truth.
It is obvious that the talisman was never found nor was its current possessor. After my father's tragic incident the gypsies were frightened enough to give up the search for their beloved talisman. They believed that whoever had stolen it had placed it in the hands of evil. For who ever set off to look for it would be forever cursed. Much like my father. They no longer blamed the townsfolk, or rather found it useless. It was gone. There was nothing more they could do.
After leaving the bakery shop, I decide to make my way back to Wyning Manor. It would be sundown soon and father would need supper. Carefully making my way across the backways of Minton Square, I come to a pause as I reach Delany Bridge. It probably was best for me to have taken the normal route through town. I had forgotten that the only way to reach home in this direction was through the bridge.
Delany Bridge has been a part of Minton Square as far back as to God knows when. It isn't a recent attachment of Minton Sqaure, rather Minton Square is a recent attachment of Delany Bridge. The first people to ever set foot in this region discovered the bridge and decided to build a town around it, rightfully calling it Minton Square. Along with other reasons, one of the main reasons for the never-ending feuds between the townsfolk and the gypsies is Delany Bridge.
The gypsies believe that the terrifying bridge is theirs and theirs alone. That it beholds the secrets of their kind and their customs. Some even claim that back when the gypsies still sacrificed cattle and whatnot, the bridge was their scared place for such rituals. Others claim that the bridge is cursed. Those who set foot uppon it, will never see another day of sanity. Some even swear that the founder of Minton Square was forcefully dragged and killed right here on the bridge by forces of evil that possess bitter feelings due to the disturbance of their bridge.
But of course, it is only folklore. Something to keep the townfolk entertained. To scare their children to not wonder across the bridge and into the Hanging Forest. Why such a name was given to the forest is beyond me, but it makes for a good bed-time story.
The bridge was the only way to get across the river. Plenty of people have crossed and nothing was dealt with them.