Book Read Free

The Tombs

Page 9

by Deborah Schaumberg


  “Salut, Khaniferre.” She had a robust accent. Without a glance in my direction from her black-rimmed eyes, she leaned in and kissed Khan on the mouth. My cheeks burned again as he placed his hand familiarly on the small of her back. From the way he looked at her, I knew he must’ve been completely under her spell.

  I couldn’t blame him. Her sweet perfume swirled around me, making me dizzy. Feeling uncomfortably aware of my boys’ trousers and oversize military jacket, I looked down at my boots: practical, yes, but that was how a woman dressed. I saw that her bustle allowed just a peek of red lace under the folds of her dress.

  Khan politely removed his hat. “Katalina, this is Avery, the one I was telling you about.”

  I tightened my jaw, picturing him sharing my secrets with her. She turned, and I realized she was probably only a few years older than me, perhaps Khan’s age. He must think of me as a child compared to her.

  Katalina held up the lantern, purging the shadows I so liked to hide in.

  “So naive,” she said. “So full of power.”

  Does she mean the visions? I didn’t feel full of power.

  “All right.” She passed the lantern to Khan. “We start tonight, yes?”

  “Start what?” I asked.

  “We are going to help you, teach you to control your power so you can get your mother out of the Tombs.” She made it sound so simple. “In exchange, you are going to help us.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I said. “I had no idea . . . there are so many guards.”

  She looked directly into my eyes. “Oh, but I do understand, more than you can imagine.” After one last puff of her cigar, she dropped it and smashed it into the dirt with the tip of her boot. Holding out her arm to me, she said, “If you want your mother back, you have to trust me.”

  What choice did I have? I trusted Khan, and he vouched for her. “All right,” I said. “But I want to see Oscar first. And my mother told me to speak with a man named Niko.”

  Katalina tucked my arm in hers, leading us into the camp. “You must mean my father. His name is Nikolai Moralis. Alas, he is not here at the moment. I will tell him. So, you are an aura seer. You are seeing energy around people, yes?”

  “Energy?” I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Bah.” She swiped her other hand through the air impatiently. “We start at the beginning. The first thing you need to know is that auras are energy, the life force around living things.” She glanced at Khan, who nodded.

  “See?” he said. “I told you Katalina knows about this.”

  Katalina grinned like a satisfied cat. I got the feeling she was trying to impress Khan.

  “The aura is essentially an emotional map of the body,” she continued.

  I thought about the times the visions had been more forceful—on the ferry, at the Works. Usually there was strong emotion involved. “I think I can tell how someone is feeling when I see their aura clearly.”

  “Describe to me what you see.”

  I thought for a moment. “It’s like a shifting glow around a person. Sometimes dark, sometimes light. Mostly shades of gray. And changing, flowing from one shade to the next.”

  “No color?”

  “No. No color.”

  “That is unusual. Well, think of what you see as a person’s vital energy. Many cultures have a name for it. In ancient Egypt, it was called the ka, the spark of life. Chinese medicine refers to the chi that flows around and through the body, and the Hindus use the word prana to describe this life force.”

  “Katalina, how do you know all this?” I had never heard such terms.

  “I have learned from my father. He is an authority on the second sight. He has traveled the world in search of such knowledge.”

  After the confusion of the last few days, it felt good to talk to someone who knew what I was experiencing—even if I didn’t understand all she was telling me. “At the Midsummer’s Eve festival, there’s always an aura-reading booth. Is that the same thing?”

  “Yes, a few among us have the ability to see a person’s aura and tell a little something about them. It is more common than you know. But from what Khaniferre says, I have a feeling you are something different, something more. He told me about the explosion. I know of only one other with a powerful gift like yours, and even he cannot do that.”

  “May I please speak with this person?” I asked eagerly.

  Katalina’s arm tightened in mine. “No, I am very sorry, you cannot,” she said. “He is gone.”

  I thought back to the guard with the dog, Bojangles. “Sometimes I see their memories.”

  “Are you sure?” When I nodded, she said, “Hmm . . . that is rare indeed.”

  “I just don’t understand why my mother is being held captive.”

  “We will talk more after you visit with Oscar.” She led me along. “We are almost there.”

  The night sky glimmered with stars. Small torches had been lit around the camp. We passed animal pens and horse stables. Ornately painted wagons were interspersed among the colorful tents. We stopped in front of a wagon surrounded by bright red flowers. Its decorative sides sloped out toward the top.

  “Welcome to the apothecary,” she said. “Please do not step on the poppies.” A candle in a glass mason jar illuminated a set of fold-down steps. “Oscar is in there with the herb doctor. Prepare yourself. He is not well.”

  She put her hand on Khan’s chest when he moved to catch up with me. “Goodness, must you follow her everywhere like a devoted dog? She will be fine without you. You can wait here and keep me company,” she purred, leaning her body into his.

  Khan took her wrists. “Sometimes, Katalina, you let your words fly a little too freely.”

  “Humpf.” She pursed her lips.

  Just what is their relationship? I wondered, as I entered through a Dutch door.

  The apothecary was a wonder to my senses. The dark wood was waxed to a high polish. Candles flickered along the sides, revealing a plethora of cabinets and cubbies, all of which held tiny glass bottles and tins. They tinkled like bells as I meandered through the spice-scented space. Through a gauzy curtain at the far end, I saw a tall, thin man hunched over a wooden bunk built into the side. Both he and the bed were draped in colorful fabrics.

  A low moan escaped from a lump under the sheets.

  “Oscar?” I whispered.

  The herb doctor glanced up, then motioned for me to enter. He had a sharp nose and high cheekbones tattooed with lines of runic letters. One eye was covered with an elaborate monocle strapped over his shaved head, the other was so green it sparkled like an emerald. There was an otherworldly air about him, as if he were made of ancient stardust. It was impossible to tell his age.

  Oscar was clearly sedated. The left side of his face was swollen with bruises, and his legs were splinted with wooden boards. He groaned and shifted, as if the pain reached into his dreams.

  “Will he be all right?” I fidgeted with my necklace.

  “I cannot yet tell,” he said. “Both legs are fractured, but with this one”—he pointed to Oscar’s right leg—“the bone punctured the skin.”

  My stomach did a little flip. The herb doctor continued, “We will watch for infection. If it gets ugly, we must amputate.”

  Poor Oscar. I imagined him waking to discover he only had one leg, like my father. I placed my hand on his arm. It was hot. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right,” I whispered, hoping it was true. “Where are his parents?”

  “Oscar’s mother and father died in a fire when he was very young.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I paused, not sure what else to say. Then I felt in my pocket and pulled out the bills. “Some of his coworkers donated money to help him out.” The boys and I had added what we could to the collection.

  “Very kind.” He nodded and tucked the notes between two jars. He adjusted his monocle so that his eye appeared to be three times normal size. Rubbing his chin, he deftly removed something d
ried and twisted from a tin. “This is arnica root. Mash it into a paste with hot oil and apply it to your injured foot.”

  I looked down at the ugly yellow-brown root. “How did you know about my foot?”

  But Oscar moaned again, and my question evaporated in the thick fragrant air. The herb doctor swiftly dropped the gauze between us, dismissing me to attend to his patient.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Mystic

  Khan stayed behind with some Gypsy boys as I followed Katalina through the maze of tents and caravans. He seemed comfortable within the camp. Obviously he knew Katalina well. After seeing him in Five Points and now here, I was beginning to wonder what else I did not know about my friend. I hated the way this mistrust made me feel inside, jittery and cold.

  Small campfires, surrounded by laughter and music, animated the darkness. It felt warm and welcoming compared to life in the tenements. But did the Gypsies live in any place for long? I knew all too well that they could pack up camp in a day and disappear.

  As if she were reading my mind, Katalina launched into a story.

  “The Romany people are of the old country. We came to America in hopes of a better life. We came here for roots.” I liked her soft lilting accent, the way she rolled her r’s. “What we found was a country divided. White people against black. Children working like adults. Street gangs. Immigrants living in poverty. We found a people broken apart from each other. We came to a nation so caught up in building itself, it forgot its own heritage. It forgot the old ways.” She stopped and looked at me. “It forgot its magic.”

  We had walked to the far end of camp. A blue tent sat just a few feet from the water.

  “We are here,” she said. “Do exactly as the mystic says. Open your eyes.” She placed the tip of her long fingernail on my forehead. “And your mind.”

  With that, she pulled the flap of the tent back and disappeared into the dimly lit interior. I heard her speak in a hushed voice to someone inside, heard my name. My hands felt clammy. I wiped them on my trousers. I had to do this for my mother. Taking a shaky breath, I followed.

  “Katalina?” I whispered. She reached for my hand and pulled me forward, then raised the wick of a lantern on a table, spreading soft light into the space.

  The walls and floor were covered with fabrics and worn tapestries in shades of blue. Sweet incense smoked the air. A young waiflike girl in a filmy white dress looked up at me with huge pale-blue eyes, so pale they were almost white. I’d never seen a ghost, but if I ever did, I imagined it would have her diaphanous appearance. She was exquisite-looking, ethereal.

  On one side of the tent, a gap in the tapestries revealed a small candlelit bedroom. Within, an old man sat on a pillow. He was perfectly still, except for a long gray beard moving ever so slightly with his breath.

  Katalina extended her hand in his direction. “That is Yoska Torre. And this”—she pointed at the girl—“this is his granddaughter, Hurricane.”

  Hurricane looked younger than myself: thirteen, maybe. “Nice to meet you, Hurricane.”

  A tiny smile stole across her lips as she dropped her chin shyly.

  Katalina turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “How long will he sit there? And why is he called ‘the mystic’?”

  Katalina laughed. “Yoska is one of the elders and quite deaf. Hurricane is the one I call ‘the mystic.’”

  “Oh,” I said, stunned.

  Hurricane lifted her head and smiled, seemingly pleased by Katalina’s nickname, as if she cherished Katalina’s approval.

  Katalina grinned. “Do not worry about disturbing Yoska. When he is meditating, nothing can wake him, not even a real hurricane.”

  The girl stood on tiptoe and whispered something to Katalina, whose eyes widened momentarily. Before I could say another word, Katalina whisked up her skirt and swept away. I did not like the secrets.

  An awkward silence settled around us. “So, what exactly is a mystic?” I asked.

  Hurricane gestured toward a tufted chair next to the table. “Please sit,” she said, in a delicate voice. She tucked her silky cropped hair behind her ear. It was milk white, like her skin. “I’m not a real mystic. I just do energy work like my mum used to do, so I’m told.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t want to pry, even though I was curious about her mother. “Katalina said I see energy. Is that why she wants me to meet with you?”

  “Yes. I might be able to help you focus and strengthen your sight. But first, I must cleanse the space.” She lit a bundle of dried herbs bound in twine on fire, then blew it out and waved it through the air. “Sage,” she said, as the smoke dissipated. “It clears away negative energies.” Then she tamped it out. “I will guide you through a meditation by placing my hands on your energy centers. Relax and close your eyes. It doesn’t hurt.” She stood in front of me.

  I closed my eyes, feeling awkward, but her voice was soft, hypnotic. “Relax your shoulders. Focus on your breath, in . . . out . . . long and slow, in . . . out . . . With every breath, relax your mind. If a thought comes to you, let it go, like a leaf in a stream, drifting away.”

  As she spoke, I tried to slow my breathing. She positioned her hands on my head.

  “Imagine a third eye here.” She gently touched the center of my forehead. “Visualize your breath entering through your third eye.”

  Too many thoughts popped into my mind. I heard the hiss of the lantern; an itch on my shoulder made my skin twitch. This is impossible. How do I stop myself from thinking?

  Then I pictured my mother, the blood running down her arm. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. Hurricane lifted her hands and put one lightly on my throat, one on my upper chest. “I sense constriction here, around your heart.”

  I exhaled long and deep, and felt my body relaxing.

  The skin under Hurricane’s hands tingled. There was a lurching sensation, as if I was falling. The feeling unsettled me, so I opened my eyes. When I did, I saw Hurricane in a luminous field of light. Our arms, our legs, were all surrounded by a vibrant light, flowing from me into her, her into me. I turned my head, the light trailing like liquid from my eyes. The old man across the tent sat in a glowing pool of light. A shiver coursed through my body. Did we all share the same vital energy—the same life force, as Katalina called it? The idea filled me with wonder and surprise. What if . . . what if we are all connected?

  My head fell back; my eyes rolled up. Then I lost sense of my body. There was no need of it. I was pure energy, expanding outward. Looking up, I saw beyond the tent to the night sky. It was a feeling unlike any I’d ever experienced, as if I could expand out into the stars, into the universe. Am I dreaming?

  Hurricane squeezed my shoulders. I didn’t want it to end, but she shook me hard. I gathered back into myself. My eyelids felt heavy, and I closed them for hours—or maybe only seconds.

  When I forced them open, everything looked normal. Hurricane sat across from me, studying me. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks.

  I whispered, “It was beautiful. I didn’t know it would be like that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “How did you do it then?” I asked, confused. “That light . . .”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Hurricane stared at me, tilting her head. “You did.” She slid a handkerchief from within her sleeve and dabbed at her face. “I didn’t see any light, but I felt it. It made me feel, I don’t know . . . content, happy inside.” She propped her head on her fists. “Did Katalina tell you how I got my name?”

  “No, she said nothing about you.”

  “I’m told that when we came to this country, my mother fell in love with an American and got pregnant. On the day I was born, a terrible storm was sent to punish her sin. Papi says the storm stole my color. My mother named me Hurricane. Romany people are superstitious of those like me. Albinos are said to bring misfortune.”

  “That’s stuff and nonsense, as my father says.” I’d never heard that word, albino. I reached out and ge
ntly touched her hand. “You mustn’t believe that. You’re beautiful. Where is your mother?”

  “She must’ve been frightened of me, too. She ran off to live with my father on a commune called Brook Farm. I have no memory of her.”

  “Oh, Hurricane. I’m so sorry. I know how hard it is to be without a mother.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. “She left her diary. I’ve read it a thousand times. They called themselves Transcendentalists. It’s from her diary that I learned how to do energy work.”

  I thought of Geeno and the sadness he felt over losing his parents. I told Hurricane the same thing I told him. “Hurricane, if you can’t remember her, you must have been very young. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  She nodded. “Papi says that, too.” She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

  We spent two hours working on my focus. What I needed was my welding gun; I seemed to have no trouble focusing at work.

  As we finished our session, I said, “Thank you, Hurricane. I feel like I’m gaining a little control.”

  “Your second sight is strong. I wonder why it took so long to manifest, though.” She glanced at the diary. “My mother’s notes suggest that trauma or shock can hinder our energy flow.”

  I thought about the years I’d spent not wanting to end up like my mother, denying what was happening to me, burying it inside. Then I remembered Dr. Spector, lurking outside our house. “Do you think seeing something that terrified me when I was young could have had this effect?”

  “Possibly. When did you start having visions?”

  “After my sixteenth birthday. But it wasn’t until I saw Oscar beaten that I felt something open up inside of me, like an eggshell cracking apart.”

  “Is that when you caused the explosion that Katalina told me about?”

 

‹ Prev