The Gypsy

by Stephen Brust

  "You all right?"

  "Yeah, I think so. But I better call the cops back right away. This is too fucking strange."

  Brian waited while the clerk made the phone call,then waited some more just to make sure the man was going to be all right. When the blue-and-white pulled up, he shrugged and headed out the door, still vaguely curious.

  A WEEKDAY EVENING

  Mr. DeCruz, hope you're feeling well.

  Mind if I sit here just for a spell?

  Sorry I couldn't be gone for good

  Like you thought I would.

  "BACK IN TOWN"

  Timothy lay on his bed, bleeding from cuts in his side and on his upper chest just below the collar bone, for most of an hour before it occurred to him that something was wrong. He spent most of the next hour denying it, until he couldn't anymore. I could die, he thought, and the other side of that thought conjured up childhood memories; he feared hell for the first time in twenty years.

  The next hour lasted forever. The words, "She has forsaken me" never quite took shape in his mind, but they lay beneath the surface, like walking through a swamp knowing there is a snake in there, somewhere. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, failed.Ifailed. It came to him that now there were bloodstains on his nice, clean, white sheets, and he'd never, ever, ever get them out. He wanted to yowl, but had no strength. The thought that he could die kept returning, until in an agony of fear he peeled off his shirt,and pressed his pillow tightly against his side, resigned to getting that soiled, too.

  Damn them, damn them, damn them all to Hell forever.forever.Why;t She help me? I did everything She said. I tried to kill the old lady, but the man with the knife… The man's with the knife. Why hadn't he gone down when he'd been shot? Right in the middle, just like the liquor-store man. This guy jumped, once, then struck with the knife, and Timothy had run from the room, not even realizing he'd been cut until he was halfway down the stairs and saw blood soaking through his shirt.

  I won't die, he thought. I won't die. I'll live, and I'll show Her that I'm worth something. I still have the gun.Igun.Igo back, and find that man, and shoot him in the head this time, and the old lady, too. No, better. The Gypsy man. That's who She really wants. I'll get him for Her,and She'll come back to me.

  I need Her. I need Her. I need Her.

  He lay there awake for hours, pressing the pillow against him. Finally, as it grew dark outside, he fell asleep, thinking thoughts of vengeance, still holding the pillow pressed against his side. As he slept, with no magic other than his body's own, the bleeding stopped.

  AUTUMN LATE AFTERNOON, BEFORE MOON RISE

  If I had it to do over.

  This ain't the life I'd choose,

  But the road still runs and so do I

  And at least I made the news.

  "RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

  It was mere moments before sunset, and the end of the day's magic, although the fog held the day's light as leaves hold the dew. It didn't yet look like sunset,but the Gypsy knew. And as twilight sank, through the layers of fog, consciousness of it sank through minds, and more and more lights came on. It became harder and harder to find the light that was his next signpost, amid all those that were on by chance.

  He frowned. Why should it be so hard to tell? He followed his feet, his instincts, and if they were true,they should lead him well. So it was, so it had always been. He had been confused for a while, not understanding the ways of the city, but now he did, and the rules should be the same. If not, he was helpless.

  He stood, pondering. He closed his eyes, and thought he heard faint singing, as far away as the sea and as soft as the wind across the plains. He shuddered, and his hand went to the knife beneath his shirt, though he didn't know why.

  He stood on a street corner. Four paths, the crossroads. But here there were so many crossroads, so many. If a shirt were left at each to bribe the csuma,there would be no shirts left to wear. Not to mention that any shirt left on the crossroads in the city would be taken by whoever first saw it whether he needed a shirt or not, for such were the ways of this place. The crossroads ought to be a place of power for him, but he felt none. It ought to be a place of danger too, but he felt the danger everywhere.

  He stood for a moment more, looking around, hoping for a sign that he was to take one direction, or avoid another. Even as he looked, however, the fog began to clear, the night fell, and the day of miracles had ended. He sighed, defeated.

  And as the fog cleared, he saw, directly before him, a circle with a dot in the middle. It was on a narrow door with a sign above it. The sign, in baroque lettering, read,

  MADAM MORIA, PSYCHIC AND SEER, APARTMENT C.

  Almost, the Gypsy smiled. There was no hesitation in his steps as he opened the door, which led up along flight of stairs. He climbed with easy confidence and knocked at the door with an upside-down changing by a single nail. He opened it at the same time the high, thin voice called, inviting him in.

  She sat behind a narrow table, and a deck of tarot cards, bright roses on the back, sat in front of her.Therher. Theremall stool opposite her.

  "You took long enough getting here," she snapped. "Sit down and cut the cards."

  TWELVE

  How the Devil Set Her Traps

  MID-NOVEMBER, 1989

  I got to wonder who it was

  Gave the key to you;

  I got to wonder what they pay

  For the things you do…

  "IF I HAD THE VOICE"

  The Coachman walked slowly. At the best of times,he hadn't liked walking. On the ground he felt shortened, vulnerable; give him the high box of a coach any time, with sixteen legs before him and four wheels under him. Two legs are not the same, especially not when a Worm has eaten a quick hot hole right through the middle of you.

  He thought briefly of Madam Moria's upstairs apartment. He had gone back there, once the Wolf had gone away. He went up to her door, thinking she would take him in, would at least let him sit and breathe if not bandage his wound. But she hadn't.She wat. Shen angry and hard as only old women can be. "Away," she told him, waving at both him and a grey cat sitting on her door mat. "Be gone. I had my Wolf and you threw him away. Do you think I will let you chase away the guest who comes to me tonight? Go on, go read your future in the bottom of a bottle."

  And then she shut the door on him and the cat.The cat.Theked up at him with cold yellow eyes, obviously sharing Madam Moria's opinion of him. "You don't understand," he explained. "The Wolf was hungry. It wouldn't have gone away unfed." The cat was unimpressed. Useless to argue with yellow-eyed cats or old women, he told himself. And made his way gingerly down the stairs.

  And Spider had been very angry as well, when the Coachman returned the carriage and team with no fares at all to show for the day. "You won't drive for my anymore, you drunk son of a bitch!" he yelled."You're nothing but trouble, bringing cops and every other damn thing down on me. Get the hell out of here!" And he shook his whip at the Coachman, as if he knew how to use it. The Coachman thought about cutting him up with his own, to show him. But he'd done enough cutting for one day, and he was cold and tired and in pain, and one drink too sober to stand up to any of it. He started the long walk home, wondering if anyone would be there when he arrived.

  His feet had taken him down an alley, behind the warehouses, past the loading docks where the street lights were yellowing the night and two cursing men were trying to get a crate up on a forklift. He stopped to watch, one hand pressing gently against the warm wet bandanna inside his shirt. She could at least have bandaged me properly. The workmen stopped briefly.briefly.Oneis forehead, sweating despite the cold,while another brought out a pint bottle and unscrewed its cap. They passed it between them and the sweet note of brandy rang clear in the air. The Coachman snuffed after it longingly. That hot kiss, that comforting warmth could ease his pain now.

  They went on with their work, and he leaned against the end of the loading dock, shivering and watching them. A semi was backed up
to the dock,its open van gaping black. There were six large crates labeled LAKOTA MUSEUM OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY waiting on the dock. The men were cursing someone who hadn't shown up to help with the work, and the way they moved told the Coachman they weren't experienced at what they were doing. One mounted an idling forklift on the dock, and maneuvered it awkwardly up to one of the crates. But the crate edged away from the machine, and the man throttled the engine, making it snort white plumes of exhaust like an angry bull. "Put it in reverse," yelled the other,and the forklift driver yelled something back, but the machine surged forward instead, and the huge crate buckled before its roaring advance.

  "Reverse, damnit!" shouted the other man again,and the driver pulled a lever and backed the hulking machine away. A piece of crate tore away with it,pine planks ripping yellow, and the Coachman felt a cold shiver run down his spine as flashing silver eyes and a tossing white mane were revealed. Blue roses were braided in the mane, and the stallion champed a silver bit in his white teeth. Veins stood out in his proud muzzle and in the forelegs lifted high to paw at the sky. Whoever had carved the carousel horse had known what a horse was about. The Coachman would almost swear that it was held motionless only by the vertical pole through its body, that but for the pole the stallion would leap forth from the remnants of the shipping crate. In spite of himself, he stepped closer.

  There was a great deal of swearing and yelling from the two men, with the one throwing his hat down in disgust. They changed positions, with the other man climbing up on the snorting forklift while the former driver pushed vainly at the crated horse, trying to get the crate into a position for the forklift tines to go under it. It was too heavy.

  The Coachman moved a step closer. "Your pardon," he said.

  They noticed him for the first time. The driver looked impatient and annoyed, the other annoyed and curious. "For some of your brandy, I'll help."

  The crate man stopped his useless shoving. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, looked at the Coachman, nodded, and dragged the flask from his pocket, handed it over. The Coachman took it, feeling the liquid weight welcome in his hand. He tipped it back once, and it kissed his mouth deep, promising to take the chill away. A second time, and it curled itself warm around the pain in his gut, quieting it like sleep quiets a colicky child.

  "That's enough," said the crate man, snatching it back. "You can have the rest when we're done." He set the bottle down on the dock behind them, and gestured toward the crate.

  The Coachman nodded. He took his place, and together they tipped the crate up and toward them. The forklift came closer, its tines lowered, snorting and reaching for the crate.

  It came too fast, and the crate man yelled and jumped aside. For one moment the Coachman had the full weight of the crate, taking it, standing eye to eye with the rearing white stallion, and he thought he could hold it. But then his heel bumped the brandy bottle, and even through the snorting of the forklift and the driver shouting, "Where's reverse?" he heard the bottle break. His boots grated on broken glass and then he was slipping, falling backwards off the dock. The white stallion came after him, hooves pawing the sky, and then he felt the hot breath of the forklift sear him as it careened off the loading dock as well. A gleaming metal tine tore his hip, letting his blood out in a rush of warmth and red. He was tangled with the stallion, the front legs straddling him and the angry silver eyes staring down into his.

  Somewhere nearby the workmen were yelling, and a woman was laughing, a throaty sweet laugh as the horses of the Coachman's mind broke their traces and ran away into the engulfing blackness.

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  Let the moonlight show the path

  To a standing cypress tree.

  I'll tell you tales along the way

  Of what you've done to me.

  "GYPSY DANCE"

  When the Coachman didn't come back, Daniel put on his green overcoat and went out again. The grimy walls of the room had become oppressive. The cold night air was preferable to the moldy exhalations of the ratty little hotel room. His fiddle wept with him, as naturally as his feet and hands and heart. The street before the hotel was lit with red and blue neon, flashing names of beers and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. On one corner,three girls tiredly smiled. They weren't as young as they wished they were, and the sequins on their dresses dangled loose from too many casual caresses,the seams strained from having too often been hiked up in the back seats of cars. They reminded Daniel of dancing bears, ruffs on their necks and rings in their noses, fur gone patchy with bad food. He moved a little down the street from them, opened his case on the sidewalk, and played them a tune of innocence and dreams. He saw them listening and becoming uneasy, so he changed it to an old ballad with laughter beneath the tears, with sorrow amid the joy. Their lives were the words and they knew the song well.Thewell. They stood quietly in the wash of the music, watching the cars stop and go again at the light, waiting more passively than they had before.

  He wondered where the Coachman was. He thought of his brothers, but it made the music grow unbearably sad, so he played for the whores once more.

  A fourth one came out of a nearby bar, riding awake of crude laughter. "No hair on her pussy yet!"someone shouted after her, and she hurried away from the bar and toward him. Her heel caught in a crack on the pavement and she teetered briefly before getting her balance again. As she hurried past Daniel,he caught a reek of animal musk in a cloying perfume. Her eyelids were painted purple and silver, and her cheekbones had been rouged so heavily they looked bruised. She hesitated, then edged toward the other whores on the corner.

  They turned on her swiftly, mercilessly. "This ain't amateur night, sweetie!" one snarled at her, while another advised her, "Get home to your mama, girl."

  "I'm… I'm looking for my friend," she said, and her voice trembled like a fiddle string.

  "You ain't got no friend here, jail bait. Get your skinny ass out ta here 'fore it gets kicked."

  She moved away quickly, wobbling on her high heels, and the way she glanced up and down and across the street convinced Daniel that she was telling the truth, she was looking for her friend. She fled past him once more, the perfume again assailing him.Fivehim. Fivesteps, then she paused, then backed closer to the building to let two men pass. They glanced at her, one shaking his head and the other making a laughing comment before they entered the bar. She did not move away from the wall after they had passed, but pressed against it, like an animal trying to conceal itself. Daniel played on, the songs that seemed comfortable in a city, and after a moment he sensed her venturing closer. He looked at her from the corners of his eyes.

  "Hello?" she said tentatively.

  He went on playing. So young, this one. She should be home with her mother. Perhaps the old ways were better, when a girl like this would have a man chosen for her, would know that she had a future planned. She was old enough, this one, that in some kumpanias she would already have a babe at her breast, and perhaps another on the way. But those were the old ways, the very old ways. Now these people liked to torment their young, to keep them between, neither children nor women, but creatures of both worlds, and vulnerable to the hurts of both.

  "Remember me?" she asked softly, venturing a little closer. He wished she were downwind of him; the reek of her perfume overpowered even the dirty air of the city. He shook his head slowly and he continued to play.

  "Don't you remember me?" and the plea in her voice was very real. "We saw you earlier today.Chtoday.Chrissytopped to listen to you play and I put a dollar in your coat and then Chrissy and I went to her house and changed because she said we were going to a party. Only when we got to the bar, her friends weren't there. So she told me to go fix up my face,because I forgot I was wearing makeup and rubbed my eyes, but when I came out, she was gone, and they chased me out of the bar. Please, have you seen her? Remember her? She has curly blonde hair, she's real pretty, she had on silver Spandex and a black Guns'n'Roses tee shirt and red high heels."

  Her voice was r
unning down and his fiddle followed it, going softer as she spoke, so that when she paused, his fiddle was a whisper in the night. He shook his head again slowly, studying her. He looked at her. The shiny blue pants bagged at the knee, the high heels were a size too big for her; her feet kept sliding down in them. Chrissy's clothes, he thought to himself, like the low-cut shirt that exposed the tops of her breasts. "Your perfume is awful," he muttered, the first words he'd spoken to her.

  "Chrissy said it was really expensive, and she got it from a woman with really good taste," she said,and then her face crumpled slightly. "I know. It's awful. It's giving me a headache, I tried to wash it off in the bathroom, but it wouldn't go away. Please,didn't you see my friend?"

  He shook his head slowly, his fiddle moving with it.

  How could he know where her friend was? Perhaps her friend was playing a child's trick, and thus leaving her stranded with an adult's problem. Or maybe she had just left; children playing at being adults were never patient.

  "I don't know what to do," she said softly, fear snaking through her voice.

  It isn't my problem, he thought, and then wondered what his brothers would say to that. But where do you draw the line? Where do you decide when to step in and when to stay back? The Dove simply knew, while the Owl could point to a hundred little signs that would have told him all he needed. But he,Daniel, was forever stumbling through such decisions and then torturing himself afterwards. He cursed silently, and the curse translated itself into a wail the leapt from the fiddle into the night.

  The girl took a step back, and somehow that hurt.To hurt.Toe hurt, he said quickly, "Stay here with me."

  "Here?" she said, puzzled.