“And those who are cursed?” she asked.
“The same. It takes a will of iron to fight down the beast within if you have been infected or cursed.” Again, he shook his head. “I personally am glad I have never been forced to deal with either. I would feel guilty for a very long time for having to, essentially, punish a victim.”
She nodded, and tried not to think of the werewolves she had not determined to be blood magicians, who she had been forced to put down. And she cursed him, just a little, for planting such disturbing thoughts in her mind.
“I see I have upset you,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I beg your pardon, I did not intend—”
“Do not apologize for the truth,” she said, with a little, abrupt motion of her hand. “It is better to know it and face it.” She shrugged. “Besides, even if I had known that some of the beasts that I dispatched were, themselves, victims, what else could I have done? So far as I know, there is no cure for such things. And all of them had killed. All of them would have continued to kill. I had to stop them, and there is no prison I know of strong enough to hold one of these beasts forever. Either the man will escape through magic or guile, or the beast will, through force and violence.”
He sighed. “No, there is no cure for infection. For a curse? I do not know, and I am afraid I could not tell between an individual who was cursed and one who had been infected. Possibly there is no such thing as a curse; that it is just a poetic way of describing the infected. And . . .” He paused for a very long time before continuing. “And in all of those that I am aware of, who had any morals at all, who knew they had been infected, and knew what they had done—that knowledge was such a terrible burden that it drove them to suicide.”
The night darkened for a moment, and a cold chill settled over Rosa. It was interrupted by Gunther and the Count, who called to them both to come and join the professor and Anna, the brilliant soprano, in an impromptu game of cards. Eager to leave behind their dark thoughts, they both did, and soon Dominik joined them as well.
By the time, Rosa was ready to take her leave for the evening, all such depressing reflections had been driven from her mind, and what she shared with Marie were nothing gloomier than speculations on what, if anything, the gypsies might be persuaded to perform for the company.
The children, when presented at breakfast with the idea of contests, had an idea of their own—and it was quite the clever one.
“We want an Olympics!” proclaimed the eldest of the boys. “Peter and Tobi and I have been studying the Greeks, and we want an Olympics!”
At that, the rest of the children all bounced in place or leapt to their feet. “Yes, yes!” they cried out. “Please Uncle Heinrich! We want an Olympics!”
Rosa had the distinct impression that several of them had no idea what the Olympic Games were, but the three older boys wanted such a competition so badly that they wanted it too.
“It must be a proper Games,” Johan said, with utmost seriousness. “We must invoke the Gods, and we must have chitons and tunics, and laurel wreathes and everything. And we must have an Olympic Torch to light! And we must have a marathon—”
The Graf embraced the plan with as much enthusiasm as the children, and sent his housekeeper running off to find pillowcases and sheets that could be sacrificed to make chitons and tunics. “But I think running twenty-five miles may be a bit much for a marathon,” he pointed out gently. “It will take you a long time, possibly all day, and that would not be fun. So let us make our marathon—hmm—shall we say once around the palace and grounds?”
After due deliberation, and assurances that the Gods would not mind if children did a rather shorter marathon than the ancient Greeks had, the entire company pitched together to design the games. Marie and two of the laundry maids volunteered to make costumes of the sheets. Marie did the designing, and the laundry maids, accustomed to running up linen hems very quickly indeed on their treadle sewing machines, sewed the few seams needed.
By midmorning the preparations were complete. The girls all elected themselves as representatives of the goddess Athena and the god Apollo, and had a solemn procession, ending with the oldest of the girls calling upon Apollo. “Oh Apollo, god of the divine sun and idea of light, send your rays to light this sacred torch!” she called, and the Graf obliged by doing so. When the torch had gone up with a satisfactory whoosh, she continued. “Now you, god Zeus, bless all those here with peace and crown those who have mastered the sacred contests.”
That was the signal for the release of a cage full of doves hidden in the bushes, to the applause of all. Then the games themselves began. There was no wrestling, in part because none of the children actually knew how to wrestle, and in part because there was such disparity in ages and sizes that no fair contests could have been staged. The same went for boxing, and of course chariot racing was completely out of the question as much too dangerous.
But before lunch, there were races in plenty; short sprints, longer races on courses laid out through the garden, and long jumps. And after lunch, there was pony racing, archery, throwing of a ball, and discus, hammer, and javelin. Two of the boys wanted to exclude the girls from these activities on the grounds that women were barred from the original Olympic Games, but the Graf pointed out sternly that the women of Sparta participated in all sports, and it would be counter to the spirit of the Olympics to exclude them.
The adults had cunningly planned the contests so that even the youngest children had a chance of winning at least one, and everything turned out as they had hoped. And it was all unexpectedly entertaining, at least for Rosa.
The conclusion of the Games was the “marathon,” and as it turned out, it was one of the girls who won it, she having the best endurance of the lot.
The games concluded with the presentation of “laurel” wreathes and the prizes the Graf had intended to give for the Hunt. The prizes themselves were rather nice, Rosa thought; really good books, not silly moralistic ones, but rousing things with ancient gods and myths, pirates, knights and American cowboys in them. And good sets of bows and arrows, proper ones, of the sort that she would have loved to get.
Uncle Heinrich might say he doesn’t like or understand children, but unless someone else chose those prizes, he knows exactly what children like. Or at least, the children of Elemental Mages, anyway, who were encouraged to think for themselves and be active regardless of whether they were boys or girls.
And the games had the desired effect of making the children so weary that a couple of them nearly fell asleep over their dinner, which, in deference to the entertainment, was laid at the highly unfashionable hour of six. They were all placed at a sort of head-table, still wearing their Greek costumes and their laurel wreathes, and were served before the adults. They even had wine, though it was well-diluted with grape juice, and got to eat with their fingers in supposed “ancient” fashion.
And all of them were quite willing to go up to bed, clutching their prizes, long before the gypsies arrived.
And arrive they did, just at sundown, without any fanfare at all. Just a single wagon and a trio of riders, each with a second person riding pillion.
They came up the drive to the palace, looking altogether out of place in front of the majestic building, moving slowly, as if uncertain of their welcome. The Graf had called everyone out to wait for them as a show of courtesy, and they assembled at the door.
The Graf went down to welcome them in person. He went straight to the first rider, a venerable, white-haired man with a truly epic moustache. “Romale tai Shavale akarel tume o Heinrich,” he said, spreading his arms wide.
I had no idea he spoke Romany! Rosa thought, pleased. Once again, Uncle Heinrich had proven himself able and willing to do the entirely unexpected.
The Roma gentleman smiled, and there ensued a conversation entirely in Romany, which ended in the Graf pressing upon the man a pouch. The man pocket
ed it without looking at it, and waved to his fellows who waited behind him. The procession went around to the back of the palace by means of a graveled path; Rosa and the other guests went back through the house to the gardens, where the entertainment was to be held. Servants had already brought down the garden furniture from the terrace and arranged it in a half-circle; everyone took a seat. Rosa obtained one of the lounges she had sat in last night, and waited with great anticipation for the Roma to set themselves up.
The wagon drove in, and was carefully positioned like the backdrop of a stage. Then the riders arrived, now smiling. The Graf gave them all a bow, said something else Rosa couldn’t hear in Romany, and took a seat himself.
The riders dismounted, and it appeared that the wagon had been stuffed full of more Roma. They swarmed about the designated spot in the garden, and within moments, had transformed it into a cross between a circus ring and a stage. Occasionally one of them would ask something of the Graf, who would say something and point, but mostly they handled it all themselves. They were certainly costumed colorfully, in nearly every color. The girls wore enormous skirts with ruffled hems, embroidered blouses with bell-shaped sleeves, and wide belts or sashes, and shawls, sometimes tied at the waist, draped over their shoulders, or both. The men wore black or brown trousers with shining black boots, and embroidered shirts with high collars and gathered sleeves, with vests of red or black and wide sashes.
Rosa was very near the wagon, and she was not surprised to see the Roma giving her occasional nods and salutes of respect when one of them passed by her. After all, she could see the auras of power about all of them, though there was only one for whom the aura was very strong, a fine and dignified old lady swathed in many shawls. Rosa didn’t doubt for a moment that they could tell she was an Earth Master; the old lady was, without a doubt, an Air Master. Sylphs practically swarmed all over her.
Her speculation proved true when Dominik finally found himself a seat, and got a similar salute.
A group of Roma arranged themselves in front of the wagon, the old lady and the old man in their midst. These were the musicians; it appeared that the old lady and gentleman were the singers, since they did not have any instruments—there were two fiddlers, a fellow with a concertina and another with a guitar, a young girl with a tambourine and a man with a hammered dulcimer. As soon as they were settled, they struck up a czardas, as the rest continued to arrange matters.
Rosa listened to the music with immense pleasure, tapping her toe against the lounge chair and softly clapping her hands in time to the rhythm, and she wasn’t the only one. The musicians played three songs while the others arranged things to their liking, and then the entertainment truly began.
In the reddening light of the sunset, another young girl rode into the center of the grass on one of the horses. The two came to a halt in complete silence, and paused there for a moment, like a statue. Then, as the band struck up another melody, the horse began to dance.
That was the only way that Rosa could think of it; the horse truly was dancing to the music, picking his feet up gracefully, turning in place, circling the “ring” one way, then reversing and going the other, passing across it in a sort of sideways motion that involved him crossing his legs in a most remarkable manner.
The Graf, who was on one side of her, leaned over and whispered. “I have seen students at the famous Spanish Riding School in Vienna perform like this. I have never seen anyone else do such riding before. This is most remarkable!”
Rosa nodded in agreement, unable to take her eyes off the graceful horse and his utterly motionless rider. She sensed the horse’s immense enjoyment of all this, pleasure in his own ability, pleasure in the admiration he got, even pleasure in the music. It was completely wonderful!
Nor was that the end of the equine entertainment; the girl rode out of the “ring,” and two of the other horses, riderless but in harness, trotted into it, and three boys proceeded to do the most amazing acrobatics around, and on, the moving horses that Rosa had ever seen. They jumped on and off in the most astounding ways; stood on the backs of the horses and jumped through hoops, and jumped from one horse to another. They rode under the bellies of the horses, dangled off the tails, and draped themselves under the horses’ necks. And just as astonishing were the horses, who reacted to these antics not at all. The boys might not even have been there; the patient creatures kept their steady trot around and around, while the band played and each new trick brought a new burst of applause.
The band ended the song, and the horses trotted out of the ring, taking that as their cue to leave, she supposed. The boys bowed to tremendous applause, and one of the Graf’s servants went around the ring, lighting more torches, now that the light was fading into twilight. As he did so, the old man sang in a powerful voice while the fiddler and man with the concertina played. Rosa could not understand the words, but the meaning came through clearly enough; it was so deeply, passionately sad that it brought tears to her eyes that she wiped away without shame.
But the audience was not left to wallow in sadness; the three boys came back, this time with metal rings, which they juggled amongst each other; the rings flashed through the air, reflecting the light of the torches, making all sorts of patterns among the three boys. Nor were the clever fellows done; when the song ended and the rings were all caught, they threw the rings to two girls standing on the sidelines, and got balls in return. Another display of amazing juggling took place, with the balls moving so fast it was hard to keep track of them.
Then the boys finished their turn, and retired. Their place was taken by the two girls.
They literally leapt into a lively series of dances, involving a lot of skirt movement and fast steps. The skirts almost seemed to be alive, in the way that the girls swirled them and made patterns with them. It was so very lively that she found herself clapping in time with the music, and the music itself was so joyful that she found herself not just smiling, but laughing. After three dances, two of the boys joined them, and if the girls had been lively, the boys were acrobatic. There was a great deal of heel-clicking, foot stamping, clapping, knee-slapping, and wild leaps as the girls capered around them saucily. Then the girls retired and the boys stretched their dancing to the limit and beyond.
It was marvelous. She had never seen anything quite like it.
“This is how our gypsies in Hungary dance,” said Markos, from the other side of her. “In Romania the dancing is quite different.”
“And in Spain, it is different as well,” the Graf put in. “The dancers keep their upper bodies very stiff, and the footwork is not to be believed until you have seen it.”
When the boys tired out, the grass was cleared, and the musicians began another slow, melancholy song. This time it was the old woman who sang, and again, although Rosa could not understand the words, she again found herself moved to tears.
When the old woman was done, each of the instrumentalists (except for the girl with the tambourine) took the star turn in a different song. To Rosa’s mind, the most marvelous, and most magical, was the player of the hammered dulcimer. She had heard one once before, but not as good as this fellow. His hammers flew over the strings, which were in pitch-perfect tune, creating waterfalls of music.
When he was finished, the musicians put their instruments down, and the Graf signaled to the servants to begin filling mugs of beer from the barrel he had had brought down into the garden. One of the gypsy girls came to take the mugs and bring them to the others as they rested from their exertions.
“That last—that was the most amazing melody!” said Anna, the soprano. “I wonder if it has words. I must learn it!”
“That was a Hungarian song from the countryside, Fölszállott a páva,” said Dominik. “It means ‘The Peacock.’”
Anna frowned a little. “What a strange name. Is it a love song?”
“Well, the peacock is a symbol of love, but to us,
it is also a symbol of freedom,” Dominik replied. “The song tells the story of a peacock who visits a prisoner who is longing to be released so that he can be reunited with his love. Each day the peacock flies to the prisoner’s cell and serenades him. The peacock’s song sustains the prisoner in his ordeal and gives him hope.” He grinned a little. “Although if you have listened to the Count’s peacocks while you have been here, I think you will rather doubt that part.”
They all laughed, because the cries of the peafowl, as they all knew, might have been wild and free, but they were scarcely melodious.
“Still!” Dominik continued, “It is the symbolism that counts, not the reality. I can teach you the song in an hour, if you like. The verses are simple variations on the words, ‘Fly peacock, fly, to the prison, to sing to the poor prisoner, to sing to him of freedom.’ For someone with your training and experience, it can be mastered quite quickly.”
“I should love that,” Anna replied, giving him a sweet look through her lashes that amused Rosa no end and made Dominik stroke his magnificent moustache, just a little. She happened to glance at Markos, inadvertently catching his eye, and he rolled his eyes a little. It took a great deal of self-control not to laugh.
The musicians were setting up again, and they all fell silent to listen respectfully to the music. The second half of the entertainment seemed to have been devised to fit into the calm of the evening, for there were no more wild dances and fast songs. The dancers swayed and circled rather than clapping and stamping; the songs were all slow, some clearly love songs, some pure, aching melancholy. When the echoes of the last song drifted over the garden, they all rose to their feet, and applauded with such enthusiasm that the Roma grinned to each other.
Blood Red (9781101637890) Page 18
