The Gypsy

by Stephen Brust

  Stepovich looked at Ed, who shrugged. The Caddy rolled on quiet as the wings of an owl through the night, through the night.

  SOMETIME

  I touch your hand. your brow, your lip;

  Hidden by the green,

  Emerging to a weeping bush

  And laughing tambourine.

  "GYPSY DANCE"

  Even after the thing tormenting the old women left, Laurie couldn't stop shaking. Her breath kept making a gulping, hiccuping noise in her throat. "This isn't real," she whispered aloud, and then, wailing, "This isn't real, none of this is real, please. God, tell me this isn't real."

  The woman was very old, and her skin was a terrible color, as if someone had let all the blood out from under her once olive skin, and replaced it with milk. A skim milk in cold coffee color. She drew her skinny old legs and ruined feet up under her long skirts then felt about herself absentmindedly, as if looking for something. "None of this is real," she agreed in her cracked old voice. "And that's the worst part of it, you know. Real things end, somewhere,sometime."

  "It'll end," Laurie whispered, unable to get enough air for real words. "It'll end when they kill us."

  "I'm sorry, my dear," the old woman said slowly."But you're so very wrong. Why, for me. it didn't even begin until I was dead." The old woman casually examined her feet. The burns on them were black places, not red, nor swollen, nor bleeding. Black, as if the coals had been held to a wooden statue or a china doll.

  "If you're dead, how can they keep hurting you?"Laurie wailed. Already she was seeing it happen to her. She clutched the fiddle case as if by holding it tightly she could hold herself together as well.

  "They can do almost anything to me," said the old woman. She looked around the room, a sly look creeping over her face as she did so. "Almost anything they can do to me. But they must keep me here. And while they keep me here, there is much I can do to them." Once more she looked around carefully."Come here, child." she said.

  Laurie's legs quaked under her as she crossed the room. The closer she got, the more she knew the old woman was dead. There wasn't an odor, but there was something she smelled with her skin, not her nose; when Laurie finally crouched down beside her,she knew that, while the old woman was dead, this was not her dead body. Rather it was as if the old woman was inside a mannequin, cunning as any trap.A body the Fair Lady had fashioned-one She could hurt endlessly. Laurie shivered.

  The old woman looked at her shrewdly. "You've the Eye to you, then. It seldom comes to much, in one such as you, but it's a help to us here. It's probably what She didn't see about you at first, probably what drew the Raven closer to you than She'd planned. Yes, hug his fiddle tight, for it's all that stands between you and Her. Or, maybe not. Open the case, girl. Let's see what he's left in there for us."

  Laurie hesitated, then set the case on her lap and unlatched each fastener. The case was lined with some deep green fabric, not felt, not velvet, not like anything Laurie had ever seen inside an instrument case. The bow was secured in its holder, and a storage box supported the neck of the fiddle and held it firmly in place. The old woman tapped the box wit hone arthritic finger. "In there," she whispered."Where he keeps his odds and sods. Look in there."

  Laurie lifted out the fiddle and leaned it against her shoulder. The storage box had a tiny catch on it. She worked it and then eased back the lid. Inside was a worn cube of rosin, showing infinite tracks of bowstrings; white paper packets that held spare strings;smudged papers, folded up small, with musical notes on them like bird tracks; a button off a shirt; and a brush like a makeup brush. "What else, is that all? It can't be all. Look again, girl!"

  "There's some lint. And a feather."

  "Ah!" the old woman exclaimed with satisfaction."Pass me that here." She took the small black feather from Laurie's shaking fingers, whetted it once, twice,thrice across the amber rosin. She smiled an old smile."Now answer me a riddle, if you can. Why is the fiddler's music like the count's coach?"

  Laurie stared at her. She'd stopped shaking. She was numb with terror now, still in the grasp of hopelessness.

  The old woman smiled again, a hard smile. "You don't know, child? Why, they're both drawn forth by horses." She ran the edge of the rosin ed feather down the horse hair strings of the fiddle's bow. It made a breath of sound softer than a baby's whisper. "The right touch," she murmured to Laurie, "can draw them forth together." She handed the bow to Laurie and said, "Play now."

  Laurie shook her head, bewildered.

  The old woman smiled and said, "No, you have Wolf's blood in you, girl. You weren't made to lie down and die; not when you have the ghost of a prayer of hope. Take the fiddle and play."

  Hope? Laurie had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she was holding the fiddle, and she knew that, hope or no hope, Daniel was real, and the fiddle was his. She tucked the fiddle clumsily under her chin, feeling her tears slide down her cheeks onto the wood. She hoped it wouldn't be damaged. She lifted the bow in her right hand and, with no thought to what she was doing, drew it across the strings.

  FIFTEEN

  How the Gypsy Called All the Animals

  AUTUMN, EARLY MORNING

  Old woman, tell me when to hold the sand

  And when to let it spill.

  Old woman, tell me when the sun's light

  Will touch my window sill.

  Old woman, tell me if it's me

  Or those around me who are ill.

  Old woman, promise me

  That I will never have to kill.

  "BLACKENED PAGE"

  Csucskari cradled his brother as gently as if he were holding a bird, but the solidity of him in his arms was a comfort. He studied his brother's face as he bore him through the streets. Years walked lightly on the brothers, but it had been so long since he had seen Raymond that the tracks of time were plain to Csucskari. Bagoly had begun to grow a beard, and the street lights found red highlights in it. The depressions in his temples were accented by his hair,brushed sharply back. His brows were even more full than Csucskari remembered.

  Bagoly. Bagoly, he sang silently. Jojjon velem, repulhazafele, O Bagoly, come with me, fly home, he said.Csucskari walked as he sang, his eyes all but closed.Feelings he had thought banished into the cold well of his past, never to be found again save for the distant splash as a sensation brushed him, now rose like mist. It was a tingling of old power, as when a limb that has gone numb stirs back to life, all pins and needles. It came to him, and flowed from him easily and naturally into his brother, as easily as he might put his mouth to the Owl's lips and breathe his own breath into his brother's lungs. Bagoly, Bagoly, jojjon velem, he sang silently. From a vast distance, his brother responded.

  People passed them on the street, stepping off the sidewalk to avoid his lolling burden. Later, Csucskari could not recall if they had any other reaction to him; his only thought was to get to Madam Moria's rooms and to do whatever he must to bring his brother back.

  As he maneuvered Bagoly through the narrow door of Madam Moria's building. Owl's eyelids suddenly squeezed tight, making lines in his weathered face.Slowly they opened to slits, and then sagged shut again. As he carried Bagoly up the creaking stairs, he felt a shudder move through his brother's body. And as Madam Moria unlocked her door he began to shiver.

  She leaned her canes carefully beside a tall wooden coatrack, and divested herself of her long wool coat."I'll brew tea," she announced, as if this would probably set all the world to rights.

  Csucskari looked up from his brother's face to meet her dim old eyes, "He'll be all right," he told her.She nodded once, cautiously, and walked stiffly from the room.

  There was a narrow divan in one corner, upholstered in a fading red fabric, draped in a tattered afghan. There he placed his brother and dragged the afghan down to tuck around him. Owl seemed to be breathing easier. Csucskari touched the scarf around his brother's shoulders. He ran it through his fingers,feeling the fine threads snag against his callused hands as he sta
red at her rug. He licked his lips and considered. He felt tired. Tea would be nice, but he'd been told he ought not to eat or drink, and he knew why, now, too.

  Madam Moria pushed through the curtains, preceded by a heavy tray laden with a teapot and cups. She poured one for herself, and another for Raymond. Csucskari lifted the delicate cup and held it to Raymond's mouth. The hot liquid lapped against his lips, but as yet he could not drink.

  "Twenty-four," mumbled Raymond.

  "What?" said Csucskari anxiously. "Twenty-four what?"

  "Steps," said Raymond. "Twenty-four steps up here," and settled back more fully into the couch.

  Csucskari set the cup carefully back on the tray,and turned to where Madam Moria had ensconced herself in an old bentwood rocker. "The scarf and the rug," he said without preamble. "Together, they mean what?"

  Startled, she looked up from gazing at the tea in her cup. "Eh? I've no idea. And no time to consider it. I must boil more water for tea. There will be company, soon."

  "Who?" He frowned.

  "I don't know that either," she said irritably. "Be patient." She creaked up and went back through the tapestry.

  Csucskari scowled after her. When he turned back to Owl, his eyes were open. "Well," said Csucskari gently. "You've been a far ways, it seems."

  Raymond opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook his head weakly. Tears gathered in his eyes, while a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. At last he said, "I'm coming back, brother. A few moments, is all. I'll be fine, now you've come for me."

  Csucskari looked for words to say and found none. Once more he held the cup to Raymond's lips, and Raymond expended most of his gathered strength in taking one feeble sip. Madam Moria and her teakettle had just re-emerged from the kitchen when the door burst open.

  NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH, 1989,EARLY MORNING

  Drink from a deep dark pool,

  tell me what you taste.

  Bitter mountain stream;

  Flows like nectar past your lips,

  lying there in wait,

  Falls from your hand.

  "STARS OVERHEAD"

  The warmth of the seeping blood inside the bandage made the night seem colder. He wished he could pull his legs up against his body and hoard what warmth was left to him, but his first effort at that had hurt too much. Better to sit still, leaning against the metal and glass that sided the bus shelter. Sit in the dark and dream. The shelter was no bigger than a good-sized box stall; but a stall at least would have had clean straw to rest on and the warm smell of horses to keep him company.

  He remembered a master he had once had, so long ago that he could not remember his name, nor anymore about him than that the master'd thought he was saving money and cheating the Coachman by giving him only a room over the stable. The fool never knew that most nights he had taken his blankets down to the stalls, to sleep closer to those who loved him best.

  There had been four, black as night and as soft; five if you counted the ill-tempered stud in his iron-barred stall who had sired them. Storm had been his name,as stupid a name for a stallion as the Coachman had ever heard, and it fit him no more than did his reputation for savage behavior. He had wanted a farmhand, that was all, and a man who did not flinch from his angry stamping, nor let the stable boys get away with letting his stall go dirty because they feared him.He had needed a man who would give him space and time with the tall grey mares they brought him to be serviced. Another man had owned him, but only the Coachman had mastered him. And in return, the stallion had sired the four blacks, the three fillies and the colt, who learned their lessons on his lunge line and under his gentle hands. They'd grown well, and earned the braided harness with leather tassels, and the leather-covered rope traces and the owner's finest coach, with its tall box and carved wooden back and sides, and rounded lanterns.

  How they'd stepped out for him, heads always high, black legs flashing in unison! As Storm was their father, so the owner called them Wind, Rain, Thunder, and Lightning. But the Coachman had had his own names for them all: Setal, Sztrajktoro, Madar,and Nagyful, and those were how he called them when he spoke to them at night. Those were the names they would come to, no matter what stood between him and them: Snakes or fires or barking dogs. Once Csucskari had wagered that they'd come to him past death itself if he called those names.

  He smiled, the foolish smile of a man who is cold and without hope, bleeding in the night, and he muttered their names like a charm. His head drooped forward onto his chest.

  17 NOV 02:21

  Dive into a deep dark pool,

  tell me what you feel,

  The world you left behind,

  Smooth and warm as life,

  the living and the dead,

  Stars overhead.

  "STARS OVERHEAD"

  "So," Durand observed as the Caddy idled at a stoplight, "'If Luci is the lady you're all going to kill, and the Gypsy is this Taltoesh guy that can do it, how does the Coachman fit in?"

  Ed rolled his eyes at Mike. Stepovich sighed to himself. Let the guy talk himself out first; he'll tell you more that way. This was stuff he should have been teaching Durand all along.

  Daniel looked thoughtful. "He is," he groped for words, but found them only in a language none of them spoke. He tried again: "like the one who plays the music that sets the other dancing. He is not a dancer, nor does he even know the steps they must pace, but nevertheless, he is the one…" He lapsed once more into helpless silence, unable to explain the Coachman's role, perhaps scarcely comprehending it himself. Finally, he said, "It was the Coachman who brought us here. And when all is done, it is he who will take us back. And I feel that the Coachman should be there, to witness the doing of our task. Whether we succeed or fail, he will be the one to know of our doing, and to tell those who should know."

  Ed made the lights at Woodwright and Quince, but was stopped at Central. He prodded, "Task?"

  Daniel took a breath, then spoke, patiently. "To send the Fair Lady back where She belongs."

  The silence that followed seemed to echo Daniel's quiet words until Durand, as if struggling with an idea, asked, "This Choo-, uh, Chuch, uh, Csucskari,this scar-faced Gypsy? The Coachman can find him for us?"

  When Daniel gave a tentative nod, Durand leaned back, satisfied. "Well, as long as this Coachman can lead us to that sneaky S.O.B., then I'm happy."

  The light changed and they passed under I-79 and continued on West Drewry, the boundary of the industrial area and the Fourth Precinct. Daniel gave Durand one puzzled sideways glance, then relaxed. He leaned his wounded head carefully against the seat back, let his hands go lax on his knees. No. Not relaxed. Stepovich studied him unobtrusively. Taking rest while he could. Suddenly, Daniel's long graceful fingers tensed, his dark eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, cocking his head like a dog hearing a distant siren.

  "What?" Stepovich demanded.

  Daniel's eyes shone brighter than the passing street lights could account for. His hands floated up as if to the signal of an unseen maestro. He began to mime the playing of a fiddle-mimed it with such uncanny precision that Stepovich could almost hear the eerie music drawn forth from the unseen strings.

  Neither Durand nor Ed heard anything, judging by their expressions. Ed eased the Caddy to a stop at a red light at Pine. "Maybe that hit on the head," he muttered to Stepovich, sotto voce. Stepovich shrugged, and turned to stare ahead into the night street and the sparse cross traffic.

  The light was just ready to turn, Ed was already letting the Caddy creep forward when every hair on Stepovich's body came to attention. Later it would seem to him that first his hide prickled, and then the four black horses drawing the midnight coach came out of the night and crossed their path. Sixteen hooves rose and fell in perfect cadence, high spoked wheels turned soundlessly against black asphalt.

  There was no coachman on the box.

  "Follow it," Stepovich whispered.

  The Caddy didn't move. Stepovich glanced over at Ed, transfixed behind the
wheel. "Follow it!" he bellowed, and the big car surged suddenly forward and took a hard left.

  "Shit, oh shit," Durand whispered. Stepovich spared him a glance. The kid's eyes were as big as saucers. Daniel was oblivious, playing his invisible instrument faster now. He was smiling through the tears that tracked his face, leaning forward, swaying raptly to his silent music. When Stepovich turned back, the solid black of the coach was still there, but harder to see. It was visible mostly as a shape that blotted out oncoming traffic, storefronts and street signs. The coach was pulling away from them. There was a dim lantern fixed to the back of the coach, and they followed this more than the coach itself.

  "Damnit, no horses are going to outpace me," Ed declared, and pushed down on the gas. The heavy car surged forward, and the coach lantern grew. Just as the black coach began to take on details, it turned out of sight. Ed cursed, and gave the Caddy more gas, and took the corner at a speed that pressed Stepovich up against the door. But the coach was moving up the hill at an impossibly smooth fast pace,turning another comer almost as soon as they sighted it. Ed spun loose gravel following it, and was barely in time to see the lantern wink around another corner as the coach turned uphill once more, on Park, passing back under I-79. Other cars went by, but none slowed down; it was as if only they could see the damn thing, which, all things considered, wasn't unlikely.

  Ed floored it, sliding the big car through the turn.Daniel swayed, but never ceased playing. Suddenly,the lantern was stationary in front of them. Ed hit the brakes, throwing them all forward, to a chorus of "Jeez, Ed!" from Durand and the steady low, "Watch it, watch it, watch it!" from Stepovich as he braced against the dash.