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Gypsy Sparkling Song
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> Have you asked him about his family?
“Les’ do a gear check. You gawt your sword?” Sullivan asks. He didn’t even so much as glance my way! I think he’s nervous. Maybe if I get him talking about himself…
“Right here, dear. Say, why don’t you tell me about your family?”
“Well, I gawt my Ma and Da. Make sure is’ secure when is’ on your belt. Gawt your toolkit?”
“But what’re deir names, sweetie? I might be friends wit’ dem. And I gawt it right here,” I say as I drop my whetstone and bowstring oil into a satchel which I toss into the backpack.
“I doubt. Never heard Ma ’n Da talk about a Ms. Miriam—” “Miri!” “R-right, Miri. Gawt your emergency rations?” I don’t think he wants to talk about his parents…
“I gawt dem. You know how much a penguin weighs?” I try to surprise him with a silly question, figuring I can get Sullivan to crack a smile, at least. He stops rifling through his bag to cock an eye at me. It’s a start!
“Penguin? Whas’ a penguin?” Is that curiosity I spot in his eye?
“Why, dear, is’ a special kind of bird that’s gawt no feathers and can’t fly! A whole bunch of dem showed up at da Burrow one day maybe twenty years ago. You might not’ve even been born yet!” I tell him a little about those visitors, just enough to make him curious. That story’s never failed to catch the attention of the kids who were too young to remember when the Burrow was visited by the mysterious, ‘penguins.’
“Right. I scrubbed out da cooking before you woke and packed half it in my bag. You take da rest.” Alright, now that story’s failed once. But I think it might have put him off guard. Time to go in for the fatal strike!
> Why he signed up?
“Is dat what you expected when you signed up for da Lookouts?” I ask as I shove a pan into my pack. “Dish washing duty? Didn’t bot’er me wit’ all da experience I gawt, but boys like you are usually thinking about da action when dey join!” I give Sullivan a smile which he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Naw, but das’ just how it is. Da marching, da washing, da camping. Is’ all part of serving. Gawt your bow? Is it strung good?” I’m really trying not to, but I’m starting to get a little frustrated by Sullivan’s dismissiveness. Little Uther was never this bad even when he was a teenager!
> If he has any hobbies?
“Yup, gawt it!” I’ll try one more topic on him… “Well, washing and marching can’t be what you do for fun, sweetie.”
“It ain’t. You gawt your quiver? Make sure is’ secure on your belt.”
“What do you do for fun, sweetie? You gawt hobbies, right?”
“Naw, I gawt hobbies. But dey wouldn’t interest you. Don’t you gawt your quiver?” This is getting ridiculous! He’s as talkative as a rock!
“I gawt my quiver, dear. With arrows, so you don’t gawt ta ask if I gawt each one,” I try to poke a little fun at Sullivan for being so serious, but it’s half-hearted and I think he didn’t hear the sarcasm because he just nods his head.
“Okay. Put on your equipment on, we’re just about ready ta go.” Sullivan silently paces around our little campsite, making sure we didn’t forget any of our supplies, and it looks like my efforts to get him talking were useless!
It’s not like the sky is caving in on us, but I’d really like to hold a conversation! Quiet is swell for bedtime, but we just woke up! If there’s one thing that frustrates me, it’s dead air.
“Naw, I don’t see not’ing missing,” Sullivan’s finishing his little sweep of the camp and is about to get his backpack on. No! I won’t give up! I’ll get him talking somehow!
> Ask him if he as a girl back home, wiggle eyebrow profusely.
No, asking questions hasn’t worked, he just gives vague, dead-end answers. I need to do something more. I need to do something that he can’t ignore! But what would break his shell?
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