The air on his face helped him push aside the confusion the pain medication made, but the chill tightened his skin. He was aware of the too-large jeans rasping against the bandage on his thigh with every step he took. The hospital was on a hill, and the surrounding neighborhood was dark. He walked two painful blocks past the hospital's park-like "quiet" zone before he felt the telltale warmth begin on his stomach. He walked another two blocks, counting each painful step, before he came to the bus-stop. It boasted a roofed enclosure, a single yellow bulb of light encased in a heavy metal cage, and a pay telephone with no handset. The Coachman sat down heavily on the cold concrete bench. The next bus, he promised himself and Raymond, no matter where it was going. He'd get on the next bus, into light and warmth, and get off when he was in some section of town that was still awake. He pressed his fist gently against his stomach wound and tried not to cough.
17 NOV 01:05
A drop, a rise. a jump, a spin;
Let the music lead you.
Keep the sunlight at your back;
There's someone there who needs you.
"GYPSY DANCE"
"I think there's a piece of glass in here… What the hell did he hit you with, anyway?"
The gypsy who called himself Daniel didn't answer. Stepovich glanced back into Ed's kitchen,thinking that the scene looked like something from a bad movie. Daniel sat in one of Ed's straight-backed kitchen chairs, his hands still cuffed behind him. His dark head drooped exhaustedly forward on his chest.Blchest.Blood down the back of his neck and stained his green shirt. Anyone who walked in here, Stepovich thought, would think we were torturing him. But Ed's big hands handled the tweezers as if he were tying fishing flies. Durand's face showed only a mild queasiness as he held the flashlight. Twice now, Durand had raised questions about the legality of what they were doing, in frantic whispers that Daniel wasn't supposed to hear. Twice Ed had growled and shut him up.
"Dammit, kid, get a haircut," Ed muttered, and Durand tried to grin appreciatively.
The gypsy said nothing.
"For Christ's sake, uncuff him, Ed. I promise I won't touch him."
"He's been telling you the truth." Ed said it matter-of-factly, his big blunt fingers sorting through the gypsy's hair.
"1 just don't…" For an instant, all the dizzying shock of the gypsy's tale hit him again. Laurie in that sleazy bar, a place he wouldn't even go himself. Laurie tarted up like a whore. Stepovich gripped his coffee mug with both hands, raised it, forced himself to drink from it. None of that was the gypsy's fault. But when he talked about Laurie, the way he called her Lore lei, and the quiet warmth he put into her name made Stepovich want to punch his lights out. Damnit,she couldn't be that old yet. Couldn't be. And even if she was, the gypsy wasn't what Stepovich had planned for his daughter. Some high school jock with a letterman's jacket and a beat-up old car, or some nerdy boy with thick glasses and penny loafers, even some punk with an earring and half his head shaved-those were the boys Laurie should be looking at, flirting with in the hallways at school. Not some sorrow-eyed street fiddler who knew the world from the seamy side out.
But he was the one. She'd chosen Daniel to confide in, Daniel to shelter behind when she got in over her head. She'd trusted him. And he'd been worthy of her trust. Ironically, that was what he couldn't forgive. That Daniel had been there for her, as Stepovich hadn't. Damn. Ed was watching him. Stepovich looked aside, forced the jealousy from his face. "1mean it, Ed. I'm cool. Uncuff him."
Ed glanced over at him, and gave Durand a barely perceptible nod. Durand set down the flashlight and fished the key out of his pocket.
"Gonna unlock you, kid. But I'm warning you, you make any kinda funny move, you got all three of us on top of you. Understand?" Durand was going to have to work on his style. Then again, maybe if Durand had felt better about what he was doing tonight,he'd have put more conviction into his words.
"I understand," Daniel answered in the same clear but exhausted voice he had used to answer all their questions. Or almost answer, Stepovich thought to himself as he watched the cuffs come off. Daniel maintained the same posture, only pulling his hands forward into his lap and gently massaging his wrists. No complaints. No threats of police brutality charges,no demands to know on what grounds he was being held. None of it added, not the way he had shrugged off Ed's offer of a trip to the emergency room, nor the way he had constantly asked them to clarify their questions. Hell, Daniel had asked more questions than he'd answered. He and Ed had had a fine time,questioning each other, dodging and weaving like boxers in a ring. Did Daniel know the scarred Gypsy?Well, he wasn't sure. What kind of scars were on his face? Oh? And was he a sickly old man? No? In good health, then? The gypsy he was with, did he have a tambourine? Oh, he was alone then? And on and on.
Stepovich wasn't sure Ed had had the best of it. And none of it added up. Anybody could look at him and see he was related to the scarred Gypsy. It was in the cheekbones and the eyes, in the hooked nose and narrow chin. He had to know something about the man, but whatever it was, he was hiding it behind shrugs and blank stares, and "I don't understand"s. But he wasn't hostile, he wasn't defiant. He was waiting for something, content to remain in their hands to see what happened next.
What happened next that Ed said, "Got it!" and flicked a chunk of glass the size of a nickel onto the kitchen table. In the next instant he was pressing a dish towel to the back of the gypsy's head, staunching the flow of blood, so red against the black curling hair. "Oh," Durand breathed, and Stepovich understood. The sight of it dizzied Stepovich for an instant,as the sight and smell of blood did sometimes, and he found himself grinning hard to hold off the weakness.
"Boy's got enough hair," Ed muttered, and Stepovich registered that Ed had already classified him as"the kid" and "boy." Meaning that Ed had already made his personal judgment that Daniel was okay.Otherwise he'd have been "the punk" and "dick head."
"Hard to see through all this hair." Ed carefully lifted the towel away from the staunched cut as Durand craned his neck to look at it."Black as a raven's wing," Stepovich said softly.Daniel's head came up slowly, as if someone were pulling it on a string. The eyes he turned on Stepovich were bird-bright and sharp, then suddenly cloaked.
Flashes: An escape from pursuit, a dream of burnt stew, an impossible coach ride, the suspect from a fifty-year-old crime come to life, an old woman dead in a hotel room, a knife that couldn't have killed.
Stepovich fixed his eyes on Daniel and cleared his throat. "Someone told me," he said, his voice still coming out hoarse, "that if I were wise, I'd let a Raven sit on my shoulder and hunt with me," Was there a flicker in those dark eyes, still fixed on his face? "And an Owl keep watch in the night for me.And a Dove tell me secrets."
Durand turned incredulous eyes to Ed. But Ed had on his "wait and see" look. After a moment, Durand gave a slow nod of agreement.
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. He straightened slowly in the chair. Like a burden had been lifted? No. More like he had just resettled a heavy pack on his shoulders. His eyes were tired and old,but the spark of hope that kindled in them was a new,young thing. "The first thing we hunt for," he said into the unnatural silence, "is the Coachman."
FOURTEEN
How the Gypsy Found the Owl
THREE HOURS PAST CURFEW
I got nothing I can offer,
Like a dog without a bone.
If there's someone up there listening.
There's a poor boy out here alone.
"HIDE MY TRACK"
The cab was taking its own sweet time coming. Laurie hunched lower in the booth seat; took another sip of Coke. She was alone for the moment; Tiffany Marie had gone back to the counter to wait on an old woman and an even older man. Thank god. Laurie was already sick of her lectures. Every time she finished with a customer, she'd come back to Laurie's boot hand say, "And another thing…" and launch into a horror story about her experiences. Laurie knew it was all bullshit. Tiffany didn't look like she knew the firs
t thing about the street. Laurie watched her smile,making conversation with the old people as she took their order, nodding and listening like what they were saying was really important. Laurie wondered what they were doing out so late at night. They should have been at home, sleeping or reading newspapers Or watching old movies.
All Tiffany Marie could talk about was how great Ed and her dad were, and what would have happened to her if they hadn't come along. Well, Laurie didn't think they were so great. For crying out loud,here she was with a whole bunch of problems, and what was her dad doing? Not worrying about her,that was for sure. Hell, he hadn't even phoned the diner to ask if she was safe. Some father. He was probably too busy picking on Daniel.
Daniel. Her heart softened at the thought of him. Dark man, shadow man, so much more real than the strutting little jerks she went to school with, with their designer holes in their designer jeans and pre-scuffed leather jackets. Daniel. He was what she wanted,what she had always wanted. He was nothing like her father, nothing like anyone else in her world. He was night and music and the mysterious kind of sex that made the bottom of her stomach drop out when she tried to imagine it.
"And another thing," Tiffany Marie said, sliding into the booth opposite her. "That guy you were with tonight, the one with the mustache. You probably got all kinda romantic ideas about him, but the truth is…"
"There's my cab!" Laurie said, and slid out of the booth, clutching the fiddle to her as she went. Tiffany Marie had already given her a ten dollar bill. As she hurried out of the diner, across the sidewalk and into the cab, she toyed with the idea of not going home.Maybe Chrissy's house. No. If Chrissy still wanted to be friends after tonight, she was going to have to do some apologizing. Maybe her dad's? That might be cool. She had a key to get in, and she could wait up for him, find out what he'd done to Daniel. Shake him up a little. Shake up her mom, too, when she found out Laurie's bed was empty in the morning.
"Twelve-twenty-seven Garneld," she told the driver's. He just grunted, settled his cap, and pulled away from the curb.
Laurie settled back on the seat. Cabs always stank of people and sweat and cigarettes and old perfume.She sat the fiddle case on her lap, as if it were a child,and leaned her head against its neck. It smelled like Daniel to her. She hugged it tighter. Holding it she could almost ignore the stink of the cab. Almost. It smelled like, well, not like a cab. More like the animal cages in the biology lab at school. She glanced out the window as they turned left on Cushman. After three blocks, she was sure they were going the wrong way.
"Hey, mister!" she complained, indignant that he'd try to rip her off like that. "You just went past Eucalyptus."
He made no response, only ducking his head deeper between his shoulders. Street lights and beer signs flickered past the window. He ran the light at Maple.
"Hey! I'm not some stupid little kid you can drive around for a while and then charge double. I grew up in this town, I know where I'm going."
The cabby giggled.
A stillness prickled through Laurie. For the first time she noticed how high the cabby's collar was, how low his hat was pulled, the way his sleeves hung past his wrists. In the flickering passage of light, she could see very little of him. What she could see did not seem very human.
She hugged the fiddle case. "I'd like to get out at the next light." Despite her best efforts, her voice quavered.
He glanced back at her. One eye was yellow, the other gleamed red. "Not the next light, no," he giggled. "Your light will be the light in the Lady's eyes."
NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH. EARLY MORNING
Walk through the door
like our brother before
A lifetime remains until dawn.
The trees seem to say
you'll be passing this way
In the wink of an eye you'll be gone.
"WALK THROUGH THE DOOR"
Two hundred and eight cars had gone by. Sixty-five pedestrians; two of them had noticed him, as evidenced by the pause in their footsteps before they'd walked on. From the other direction, the alley, two drunks had stumbled over him, cursing. One had started pawing at his clothing, perhaps to see if he had anything to steal, but then had changed his mind. Perhaps the scarf was protection in some way. Perhaps the scarf explained why Raymond didn't feel cold, why he hadn't died of exposure yet. He wished he knew how many hours, or perhaps days had gone by, but he had no way to measure time. He had hoped, one hundred and seventy-three cars ago, that the scarf would lend him strength, but it hadn't; yet the fact that it had come meant that someone, somewhere, was looking out for him. It had a softness and a warmth that did not belong in this world, and there had been no one around him when he suddenly felt it, between one breath and the next,wrapped around his shoulders like a mother's arms.he didn't understand it, but as long as it kept him warm, he would not give up.
He had tried, one hundred and forty-eight cars ago,to reach the Coachman with what little strength he had, and he thought he'd succeeded. But the Coachman was dead or injured, so that might not do any good.
Two hundred and nine. Two hundred and ten. Eighteen buses, now. The buses made the big sounds like trucks, but didn't have that ratchety sound from the engine, and they had a more stately way of approaching traffic.
"Melody," someone had once told him, "is in the fingers. Rhythm is in the mind." It had sounded like nonsense at the time; to tell the truth, it still did.But in his mind he played the tambourine that rested beneath his coat. Someone might hear it, and it was something to do besides counting cars.He shifted for a while to a complex Indian rhythm he'd learned from a tabia player he'd met in Cincinnati: Triplets within triplets, and fives within nines. He doubted he'd actually be able to play it on the tambourine, but in his mind it was a very fine thing indeed, the zils ringing out clear and precise, his imaginary fingers rolling like waves from the rim to the middle of the skin, and all the tones were warm and full and perfect.
Two hundred and eleven.
It would be a good thing if he could find the Dove or the Raven, for that matter. Csucskari would know what to do with the scarf, and Hollo would knowhow to find Csucskari. (Two hundred and twelve, and one more pedestrian). It must have come to him with some purpose beyond keeping him alive. After all,what was his life worth? What was any life worth, for that matter?
Bah. Morbid thoughts. Silly. "All you think of is death, Bagoly," Hollo had told him once. "It isn't healthy. And you know why that is? It's because you never do anything. Everything that meets you pushes you. And you always let it happen. Push push push. This way, that way, like a stick in the river." When had he said that? It wasn't long ago, as he recalled.It was while they were searching for Csucskari. He,Raymond, had noticed the taint of the Fair Lady on their movements even then, and had tried to warn his brother, but Hollo couldn't wait. No, it was just fly this way, fly that way, looking for something to swoop down on, more for the pleasure of the swoop than because it was worth having.
They shouldn't have quarreled like that. They should never have split up. But if Daniel hadn't been so-Now he was becoming angry, and that was as silly as being morbid. Better to play the tambourine in his mind and let the world drift, until it found a use for him. And don't forget the scarf, because, if all were truly over, it wouldn't be here.
The street was not very busy. Two hundred cars on this street probably meant a long time, and the weather had been cold, so the scarf must be doing something. Switch back to a simpler beat so he could keep thinking. Yes, a kajlamare. Funny how they flowed into each other, those rhythms from cultures that had so little in common. But then, in one way or another (two hundred and thirteen), the Fair Lady was common to them all. So was the will to resist Her. Was it day or night? Had it gotten colder?Warmer? Why could he hear and smell, but not see or feel anything, save the scarf? Could he taste?
Dynamics, that's what it needed. Music without dynamics was, well, it wasn't music. He built up a nice crescendo in his mind, shaking the imaginary tambourine for
all it was worth, then brought it down to a whisper.
Two hundred and fourteen. Two more pedestrians,both of them noticing him. Not leaving, either. Well,what now?
AUTUMN NIGHT
I never hear those songs again
But still I sometimes cry
When I think of how we left our world,
Raven, Owl. and I.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
The old woman said, "I think he's gone."
Csucskari, staring down at his brother, snorted."I'd know if he were."
"He's cold," she said.
"Yes, I imagine he would be. I don't doubt that he's been here for hours. They found a good place to hide him."
"But how could he-?"
"Hush, old woman."
He bent down and wrestled his brother's form into a position where he was sitting up, squatted, and lifted him onto his shoulder. He was as light as air,light as a bird.
"Where are you bringing him?" she asked.
"To your home, old woman."
"But he needs-"
"A cup of tea will see him well, I think. Do you know how to make tea? Take his tambourine."
"If he's not dead-"
"Tcha! Don't you know Luci's work when you see it?"
She sighed and began shuffling back toward her home. A moment later she suddenly said, "I know Cynthia's work, though."
"Eh?"
"That scarf, around his throat. Cynthia made it."
"Indeed? I wonder how Raymond came to it."
"I've never seen it before. Except-"
Csucskari looked at her. "Yes?"
"The pattern. Does it look familiar?"
"No."
"Hmmmph. You are observant. The rug in my living room."
"Did Cynthia make that?"
"No, I did. But I didn't make the scarf."
The Gypsy Page 53
