by L. A. Meyer
“If you do not,” hisses the Chief of Police, “we shall imprison your people and burn your filthy wagons. We have the militia to do that—hundreds of soldiers. We will put your men to labor, and your women to... other things. Do you get my meaning?”
He grins, showing crooked teeth through a thick black mustache.
Zoltan stands stricken, but I do not. I turn away and head for our wagon. On the way, I see Medca’s sister Dika.
“Dika,” I cry. “Get me three oranges, cut in half and laid on a tray! Bring it to our wagon, now!”
Mystified by all that is happening, she goes to do it. I plunge into the back of the wagon, open my seabag, and pull out a certain bottle, one filled with a purple liquid. I am withdrawing the cork with my teeth as Dika comes in with the tray of sliced oranges.
I take my shiv and make cuts into the orange flesh and then pour my Tincture of Mushroom over them. The fruits seem to suck it up avidly. I recork the now half-empty bottle and toss it back into my bag.
“Thanks, Dika,” I say, as I pick up the tray and head out toward the very one-sided parley.
I do not go up and offer the fruit to the policia, oh, no. What I do is skirt by them, as if I am trying to escape notice.
“Here!” shouts one of the armed men upon seeing me. “What are those?”
I drop my gaze down into one of complete submission. “Th-these, Sir? They are special treats for a wedding party. It is tradition... for the bride and groom only.”
“Ha!” says the Jefe. “Bring them here! What need dirty gypsies of weddings? All they do is rut like dogs in ditches! Give ’em over!”
Meekly, I hand over the tray, and soon purple juice is coursing down the greasy jowls of the Chief of Police and those of his cohorts.
Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he announces, “So that is the way of it. Two hundred reales in my hand tomorrow, or the lot of you will be tossed in prison and your wagons burned. Comprende? Good.”
He looks about, clearly enjoying his display of power.
“Now,” he continues, preparing to leave, “I will take a hostage to insure that you will not just pack up and leave. Who shall it be? Someone young and comely, I hope.”
His men chortle in glee at the great man’s wit.
I step forward and say, “I will be the hostage.”
The Jefe looks me over. “She will certainly do. What do you say, men?”
They agree heartily, with much low laughter and rude gestures in my direction.
“Very well,” says the head man. “Let us leave this pigsty.” He points his finger at Zoltan. “Tomorrow, noon, or face the consequences, gypsy.”
If looks could kill, all six of the worms would lie dead on the ground before him, but looks do not kill and noble Zoltan must stand helpless before these petty thieves.
A rope is tied around my neck and I am pulled away and dragged off. But before I am gone, I lock eyes with Buba Nadya Vadoma, who stands with hands clenched and held tight to her sides, and understanding passes between us. She knows I offered myself up as hostage because I knew that if the scum tried to take a real Romani girl, there would have been riot, the consequences be damned, and it would have been a disaster for our band.
What she does not know is that I have an ace up my sleeve, one that I have already put into play. As she mutters what I am sure are dark curses upon the scurvy heads of those who take me off, I give her a secret smile and a very broad wink.
Much later, I come strolling back into camp, idly twirling the rope that had been around my neck and whistling a merry tune, which I do believe is “Whistling Gypsy,” ah yes, a slightly more upbeat version of “Black Jack Davy,” which I had previously performed around the campfire for the enjoyment of my Roma friends, and which seems real appropriate right now.
As I enter the center of the circled wagons, I am greeted with astonishment by Zoltan and Buba Nadya Vadoma, who seems no less astonished to see me return, apparently unharmed.
“What the hell, girl?” exclaims Zoltan. “What is going on? What happened? What... ?”
“Although there is no longer a threat to us from the Jefe de la Policia, whom I last saw climbing the steeple of the Cathedral de Santa Maria la Vieja, stark naked and proclaiming himself to be the new mayor of Cartagena...” I say, all nonchalant, “... and although all his henchmen are now in jail or the insane asylum, and the political future of Don Pedro de Castro, Chief of Police, looks grim—he did take a few pistol shots at the present mayor on his way up the steeple—it might be better, Papa Zoltan, if we did break camp and push on.”
He needs no further urging and barks out orders. Bags are packed and thrown into wagons, kids rounded up and tossed in same, horses put in harness, and the wagons begin to form the line...
. . . but not before Buba Nadya points her finger at me and crooks that same gnarled finger into a summons for me to meet her in her wagon. No mistaking that look.
I obey the summons, but not before I collect my seabag, for I know what she will be asking.
“So explain, Ja-elle,” she says upon my entry. “And no nonsense about spells and such.”
I open my bag and pull out the half-empty bottle of purple liquid and put it on her side table. Then I open my paper packet of three dried mushrooms and place two of them beside the bottle, keeping the third one for myself to maybe show Dr. Sebastian, or Mr. Sackett, whichever of the two scientists I happen to meet up with first.
“Now, Buba, what you must do is chop up the mushrooms very fine and then boil them in about a cup of water, strain the liquid, then add an equal amount of brandy.”
She nods warily. “And what does this potion do?”
“It makes those who drink it see things somewhat... differently,” I say. “Like those men who had taken me today? Well, several of them thought to have some sport with my poor self and made so bold as to run their rough hands over me. But then, suddenly, their attention was somehow distracted and they began to talk of purple clouds and purple birds flying about their heads, and other such things, and I was no longer bothered, as they seemed to have better things to do, like staring off into the distance with drool running down their chins, muttering about wonderful visions—visions far more wonderful than some skinny little gypsy girl.”
“Hmmm,” says Buba. “Strange things you tell to me, Ja-elle.”
“Well, you be careful with this stuff, Buba,” I say. “You do not need to be known as more of a witch than you already are.”
She snorts and gives me a level stare and again points her finger at my face.
“This old woman wonders”—she says with a slight smile and a shake of the head—“which of us is really the witch.”
Well, I was once called a witch, back there in Puritan Boston that time, but it wasn’t true.
Not really.
Chapter 51
James Long Boy Fletcher, Envoy
House of Chen
Onboard the Vessel Mary Bissell
In the South Atlantic
Headed West
Jacky Faber
Location ?
Dearest Jacky,
Actually, I get the feeling that you are somewhere close—like perhaps in the same hemisphere. I am probably wrong in that, but still . . .
It is dawn on our first day out of Cape Town, and I stand on the deck and look out over the calm and rolling sea.
No, I did not have to face the obnoxious Mr. Skelton on the field, or, rather, the deck of honor. No, I did not, as that gentleman departed rather hurriedly in Cape Town and has not been seen since.
Upon seeing the intent of Mr. Skelton and me to face each other on his deck, the Captain decreed that we meet after Cape Town, which was certainly agreeable to me and, hearing me say that I was unfamiliar with pistols, lent me two of his own with which to practice. I have the feeling that he did not like Mr. Skelton very much and, being a Yankee, wished to see a somewhat fair fight.
Assisted by young Master Jeremiah Lowe, I too
k up a position on the fantail, behind the quarterdeck, upon which Captain van Pelt habitually stood, and in plain sight of Mr. Skelton.
I bade Jeremiah scare up some empty bottles from the mess deck and line them up on the fantail’s rail.
After making a show of listening carefully on how to load the pistols, I called up to Captain van Pelt, “What will be the procedure for this... duel... as it is called?”
“You and Mr. Skelton will stand right there, back to back, with pistol in hand. At my call, you will each step off ten paces, turn, and fire. Is that clear, Mr. Cheung?”
“Yes, Captain. Most clear. Like this?”
I stand with my back to the bottles and begin walking forward, while counting, one, two, three, four...
At ten, I turn, raise the pistol, and blast the first bottle to the right. It disappears in a shower of glass.
“Very much like that, Mr. Cheung,” says Captain van Pelt, chuckling and looking back at a suddenly very concerned Mr. Skelton. “But perhaps it was a lucky shot.”
“This humble person is sure it was that,” I say, as I strip off my fine Chinese jacket and stand forth in loose white shirt. I roll up my sleeves to show my Shaolin dragon—Jeremiah gasps in admiration—and take up another pistol.
I go through the procedure once more, and again a bottle meets its fate.
“I see that it is a thing my Zen masters would appreciate,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Mind, body, eyesight... and bullet winging to target. Very much of a spiritual thing.”
Jeremiah has reloaded both pistols and I take them up. I do not bother stepping off the paces but merely send the last two bottles shattering into space.
When I turn, Mr. Skelton is nowhere to be seen.
I thought then of Master Kwai Chang... “It is better, Long Boy, to plant the Worm of Doubt into an enemy’s brain, for then you may not have to put an ax into it.”
So, Jacky . . . to America.
Jaimy
Chapter 52
We have left Cartagena and all of its charms behind us and we now camp in the pleasant little riverside town of Almería. We will spend a few days here and then the Roma will head west for Granada, and I will go south to Gibraltar.
I spend a lot of time with Medca, who seems accepting of her fate as future bride of Milosh. Hey, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, I say to myself, but not to her. I offer Jan what money I have toward the bride price, but he will not take it. Stupid male honor—same the whole world over, I swear . . .
Today, I seek out Marko, for he always brings me cheer, with his wide-open guileless grin and happy playful puppy ways. We join hands and walk along through the circled wagons. As we stroll, I see Medca and Tsura walking down to the river, water jugs on their hips.
Marko is trying, as he always does, to get me to slip under the nearby bushes with him for a bit of the old slap-and-tickle, but I fend off his advances and he takes it in good grace, and—
Then there is a great outcry in the camp. Tsura has burst in crying, “The gadzsos! Many of them! They have taken Medca! Down by the river! They are hurting her!”
God, no!
Jan, his face a mask of shock and outrage, rushes by me as I run to our wagon and pull open the door. Marko, too, is gone from my side. I leap upon my seabag and rip it open. I thrust my hands in and find my pistols and yank them out. Damn! I must put in the caps! Hurry!
I have kept the percussion caps in my pocket and I fumble for them. Stupid, clumsy fingers! Yes! There they are! I jam them on the pistols, pull the hammers back to full cock, and charge out of the camp, pounding down the path to the river. Lord, I hope we are not too late!
Cresting a small hill, I see Medca down below. She is on her knees on the riverbank, wailing, the front of her dress ripped open. Six gadzsos are upon her, dragging her to a waiting rowboat. She kicks and struggles, but to no avail. If they get her into it, she will be lost!
I am too far away for a good shot, so I close the distance as fast as I can run, the breath tearing into my chest, pistols held to my sides. But Jan gets to them before I do. He is on them like a demon. He takes his stand in front of Medca, swinging his fists and smashing them into any gadzso’s face they can find.
“Let her go, bastard gadzsos!” he shouts, flailing his arms about him like a man possessed, as indeed he is. “Get gone or I will kill each one of you pigs with my bare hands!”
But bare hands ain’t gonna do it, I can see that. One of the pigs has drawn a knife and brought it down on Jan’s shoulder. It tears through shirt and flesh, and blood begins to pour down his arm. More knives are drawn as I burst upon them.
“Back, scum!” I shout, leveling my pistols at them. “Get back in your boat and go back to your pigsty!”
They all turn to look at me.
The one with the knife sneers at me. “She is bluffing. If a gypsy hurts a Spaniard, that gypsy will die in the garrote.” He spits on the ground. “Dirty gypsies, they all should die.”
“That is probably true, bastardo,” I say between clenched teeth. “But, you see, I am not a gypsy.”
I pull the trigger and crraack! The pistol bucks and I put a bullet into his upper chest. He staggers and falls back, no longer sneering.
“I have another bullet,” I say, pointing the barrel from one to another. “Who wants it?”
It is plain, no one does. From behind me I hear the sound of the Roma men and women coming to our aid, no doubt with knives flashing.
The gadzsos see them pouring down the bank and think better of their ill-planned adventure.
“Vamos!” says one, and heads for the water. Two of his comrades pick up the wounded one and toss him howling into the boat. Then all climb in and push off.
The Romani are on us, shouting curses at the would-be ravisher of one of their own. Gentle hands are put on Medca, to lead her off, but she will have none of it and instead wraps her arms around Jan, crying, “Jan, Jan! They have hurt you! Oh, my dear sweet Jan!”
Jan is not hurt so badly that he cannot walk. He puts his good arm around Medca’s shaking shoulders and they begin to stagger off, back to the wagons.
Zoltan is there, looking grim. “We must prepare to move. There might be trouble,” he says. He looks to his daughter and her young man. “And Jan... you have paid the Bride Price.”
We get Jan back to the camp and patch him up in one of the tents. I have seen much worse wounds than his—the gadzso’s blade hit mainly hard shoulder bone, not deep flesh. He is brave during the sewing up, and well he should be, for his bride-to-be stands by his side, holding his hand tightly and looking at him with big, brimming, loving eyes. I wish I had some of my faithful Tincture of Opium handy, but I don’t. And I don’t think he really needs it, anyway.
When I step back out into the light, I am surprised to see the Romani in a bit of an uproar.
What’s going on? I wonder. We have just survived a vicious attack, so why is everybody laughing and smiling?
I slowly realize that they are smiling at me in particular. Girls look at me and blush and giggle. Boys and men wink and laugh and shake their fingers at me.
What?
I find out just what is going on when I go to put my pistols back in my seabag and... uh-oh . . . the bag is lying open, its contents in disarray.
Nuri, I am going to kill you!
Steam is coming out of my ears as Fifika comes to the doorway of our wagon and says, “Buba Nadya wants to see you, Ja-elle. Now.” Then she is overcome with a fit of barely stifled snickers and can say no more.
I go to Buba’s wagon and knock.
“Come in, Ja-elle,” she says. She does not sound pleased.
I climb in, and sure enough, lying on the bed is The Virgin Maja, glowing in the soft light. Buba sits in a small chair to the right and is gazing at the painting.
“Everybody has seen it, Buba?” I ask.
“Yes. Nuri took it all around the camp, showing it off.”
Grrrrrr . . .
I see she has her cane next to her.
“Will I be beaten?”
She shakes her head, eyes still on the painting. “No, but it is perhaps best that you are leaving us. Not so much for this, but you did just put a bullet in a gadzo. There might be trouble. If they come, we will tell them that we threw you out and you were headed north.”
“May I stay for Medca’s wedding?”
“Yes, it will be tomorrow. You may stay till then.”
“Very well, Buba. Will that be all?”
She says nothing for a while. Then she smiles and again looks to the picture and sighs...
“Oh, to be so young and so foolish... and so full of life. Goodbye, Ja-elle.”
Goodbye, Buba Nadya Vadoma . . . and thank you.
Chapter 53
The Romani are gathered for the wedding.
Zoltan and Marta lead their daughter Medca to the center, the space between the wagons, where we usually entertain the townspeople. Medca is a lovely bride, of course, radiant under her crown of flowers, her hair braided with bright ribbons.
Jan, dressed in his best, is led to his bride’s side by his parents. At Zoltan’s signal, both bride and groom sit on chairs set side by side. Words are said and a piece of bread is placed on the bride’s knee, and a similar piece is laid on the knee of the groom. A dish of salt is placed on the ground between them.
Medca reaches down and takes a pinch of salt and sprinkles it on her bread. Jan does the same to his. Then she gives her bread to him and he takes it and eats it, and passes his to her. She eats it.
A cup of wine is given to Medca and she drinks from it and passes it to Jan. He takes a drink and that is it. They are now man and wife, and the celebration begins.
