The Gypsy

by Stephen Brust

  Ed nodded curtly and pulled away from the curb. The leap of the Caddy as he fed the big car gas pressed them all back in their seats, and made the Coachman smile. Stepovich marked how he held his hands in his lap, fingers lightly curled but empty, as if unseen reins rested in his hands.

  SOMETIME

  I think I'll never let you go,

  I think I'll never hold you,

  I think I'll never loose the stars,

  Forget what I have told you.

  "GYPSY DANCE"

  Laurie stared at the old woman, who smiled back at her. Then she looked at the fiddle and bow in her hands, but could find no words to describe how it had felt. It was as if Daniel had been there, had been taking her hands and fingers through each motion,and they'd brought forth the music together. The music. Together.

  The old woman's smile widened and she said,"You've done fine, girl. Fine. You've opened a path for a summoning, and I think it happened." She looked around absently, then said, "It won't belong."

  The door burst open and an ugly bald manikin scuttled into the room, walking on its hands and feet,hissing and spitting. Laurie screamed and clutched the fiddle to her. The old gypsy woman stepped in front of her and swished her skirts at it. "Stop it!You're just wasting time and you know it."

  To Laurie's shock it halted and cowered as if the old woman's skirts were burning brands. It turned its head to the side like a malicious spaniel. For the first time, Laurie noticed its flat nose and large round eyes.Where had it come from, and what was it?

  The gypsy woman spoke offhandedly. "It's been done already," she informed it. "The Coachman called the horses, and the link forged of yarn and horsehair will lead them here no matter what you or your mistress do. Why waste time on us? Your mistress knows what must happen now. Go scuttle to Her call, and stop terrorizing the child."

  The manikin stretched its neck up, then forward.Its head swayed from side to side as if it were a snake scenting after a mouse. Its questing tongue was fat and grey. Laurie shuddered but stood firm. Its face wrinkled suddenly, becoming even more ugly, and it beat the floor angrily with its splayed and calloused hands. As abruptly as it had come, it left, slamming the door behind it.

  A great trembling washed through Laurie, bringing dizziness. The old woman was speaking to her, but she couldn't distinguish the words for the buzzing in her ears. The droning grew until it filled the whole world, but the gypsy woman kept talking. "Play!"she told Laurie, and her fierceness forced the word through her confusion. "You must play. You cannot stop."

  Laurie stirred. She stared up into the woman's huge dark eyes. She realized she was sitting on the cold floor, looking up. She felt stiff, as if she had sat a longtime. "I can't," she wailed. "It's gone, and he's gone-"

  Old hands settled on her shoulders, and with surprising strength, drew her to her feet. "I know. It doesn't matter. Play anyway, as best you can. If you do, he'll be back."

  Laurie stared. "Will he? Really?"

  "He will. He must, as must we all." The old woman sighed. Her eyes went distant and knowing."The last dance has begun, child. None, not dancers nor musicians, may pause in their pursuits, not until the last measure has been trod, the last note wrung from the strings. Then we shall see which dancers fall, who calls the next tune."

  "All right," said Laurie, faintly. She lifted the fiddle, wanting only to feel herself become part of Daniel and his music again. No. That wasn't quite it.Wanting more than anything to feel the music coming once more from her fingers, from her heart. She set the fiddle to her chin and drew the bow across the strings.

  And stopped.

  It scraped, it sawed, it was nothing like music, it was the horrid screech of chalk on a blackboard. It made her heart ache.

  "I know," said the old woman. "Cynthia knows. But you must keep playing. Play him back to you,into your arms."

  Laurie took a breath, and dragged the bow once more across the strings.

  AUTUMN, EARLY MORNING

  I saw the panic in Timmy Dee's eyes,

  His tongue flicked out like the tongue of a beast.

  I liked seeing Timmy get cut down to size.

  But then someone phoned the police.

  "THE GYPSY"

  So much happened so quickly. Csucskari felt like a fairgoer, entranced before the puppeteer's booth. The wooden door of the apartment was flung open. Light flashed off the silver of the gun's barrel, there was the slow turn of Raymond's head. Madam Moria's gasp of surprise, the thud of the teakettle lid and splash of the boiling water as it leaped at her startled jerk. Csucskari saw them all as separate movements with a clarity he had not known in a long time. The thin man moved stiffly, and not fast. Csucskari thought about his knife, but it would take too long,and the gun looked very large, its round black mouth gaping at each of them in turn.

  The gunman shut the door behind him and smiled.His tongue whipped over his lips, nervously. "Well,"he said in the voice of a frightened man pretending to be brave. "You didn't expect to see me again, did you? Thought you'd killed me, didn't you? I bet you even thought She'd cast me aside, said I'd failed Her,didn't you? But I'm more special to Her than that.I'm the most important one of them all to Her," He fixed his eyes on Madam Moria as he spoke. Csucskari felt Raymond grip his arm. Only sputters of sound came from Madam Moria's pale old lips; the heavy kettle in her hands shook with the force of her trembling.

  "What do you want?" Csucskari asked, and drew to himself the man's eyes and the gun's mouth.

  The man stared at him, and the gun shook in a wavering circle that never left Csucskari's chest. Csucskari wondered why no fear welled up in him.

  "What do I want?" repeated the man, wondering,as if the question had never occurred to him. "What do I want?" His voice cracked suddenly. "You!You're the one, aren't you? All of this is your fault! I did everything the way She told me to. It all should have worked, but you ruined it. You ruined it!" His voice scaled up to a shaky falsetto.

  "I suppose I did," Csucskari replied softly. "But you're hurt, aren't you?"

  "No!" he screamed. "It doesn't matter. She'll make me better."

  "She'll make you worse," said Csucskari.

  "No! You're lying." His knees were shaking which made him more dangerous. "I'm going to kill you,"the man said in a tone of sudden discovery. "Now I'm going to kill you, and it's going to work. My way.Not Hers. I'm going to make you dead, and I'm going to make Her like me again,"

  "No," said Csucskari. "You are not."

  "I'm-going-to kill-all of you." He spoke in awe at his own power.

  Csucskari remembered that he wasn't alone. He'd forgotten it, talking to this man. Only the two them of had been there, locked into some sort of trial, but now. remembering his brother and the old woman,Csucskari was shaken, and the gunman's eyes widened, and the trembling of his hand worsened. His other hand come up to grip his wrist and steady the gun. It grew still, pointing at the center of the Gypsy's chest.

  "Dirt!" shrieked Madam Moria suddenly. "You,lower than a snake's belly, fit consort for a dung beetle!"

  The gun swung to her, and Csucskari knew, perhaps before the gunman did, that he was going to fire. That peculiar lucidity came over him again; he pulled his knife free as he sprang,

  But it was not a knife, it was only a soft flutter of yarn in his hand, the scarf dragged up from the couch. His hand remembered the brief touch of Raymond's fingers against his; why his brother had passed him the scarf, he did not know. He must trust there was a reason. But neither knife nor scarf could be swift enough to stop the ringer that tightened on the trigger. He saw the hammer fall even as he moved, even as the door was thrown open once more. The shot,the scream, and the slam of the door against the wall all happened at once.

  17 NOV 05:52

  Mr. DeCruz, how do you feel?

  Why don't you just sit down so we can deal?

  BACK IN TOWN

  They were too noisy going up the stairs. Stepovich knew it suddenly, with the sickening drop of gut that hit him
at the worst of times. There was a faint scent of some sort of perfume in the air, and he wanted time to remember what it was. Durand was leading the way, telling Ed about all that had transpired the last time he'd gone up those stairs. He was talking back over his shoulder, talking over Daniel and the Coachman, who were behind him. Those two were in a conversation of their own, the Coachman leaning heavily on Daniel as he helped him up the stairway. Ed was behind them, all but filling the narrow way. And Stepovich was coming last, the wrong position, for there was no way to push past them, no place for any of them to go.

  "Durand!" he yelled, even as Daniel said, "Shush!"and the Coachman said, "Timmy!"

  "Get out ta the door!" Ed warned as Stepovich shouted, "One side!"

  But Daniel had already pushed the door open. Durand drew his gun and stepped to one side as the Coachman sagged to the other. They all heard the shot, the dull wang of lead against cast iron, and the whine of the ricochet. A bullet burst from the wall in a whuff of plaster, traveling so slowly that Stepovich would later tell Ed that he saw it as it spent the last of its energy burrowing into the biceps of Durand's right arm. The kid cried out, a man's short hoarse cry,but he did not drop his gun. He brought it to level,steadying it with his good hand, and went around the corner into the room as if he'd been doing it for years. Ed and Stepovich were half a second behind him. past the Coachman, propelling Daniel into the room with the force of their rush.

  For a brief yellow instant, Stepovich saw it all like a cheap Polaroid shot: The injured man on the couch reaching after someone, yes, the scarred old Gypsy,fluttering scarf in hands that were closing on, yes, it had to be little Timmy, not so little, but Timmy just the same, and Madam Moria clutching her castiron teakettle; the kettle now had a clean star of almost shorn iron in its side. Like a photograph, it was detail perfect but still, and he had a sense of falling into it,carrying Durand and Ed and Daniel with him.

  AUTUMN MORNING, BEFORE SUNRISE

  Towards dawn I saw the ashes

  Of birches long since dead

  Woah, lannan sidhe let me be.

  I left them clutching shadows:

  Left my curse unsaid.

  Woah. lannan sidhe come to me.

  "LANNAN SIDHE"

  The gun exploded in the small room, so loud a sound that it seemed to be a flash of light as well. Csucskari was stunned by it; his sight blurred and cleared, and in the high ringing that sang in his ears was another voice, familiar in its warmth and accent. The Coachman had returned.

  "Timmy."

  That was the word he had said, the word the gun tried to swallow. Csucskari struggled to make sense of it. Who was Timmy? The gunman, of course. This realization drowned out any other significance in a flood of memory so powerful Csucskari was almost swept away. He stared at the gunman, frozen in time.Voices and shadows, juxtaposed in truth and in memory, beat at his consciousness. Then and now merged and swirled. They call him Timmy Dee, and I don't know what I can do. All the grocery money's gone. Dad's gonna kill me. He cheated. I know he did. Well,all right, my friend, I will go speak with this Timmy Dee, and see if things can't be put right… Timmy. Little Timmy. Timmy Dee.

  Csucskari felt jolted as time caught him up again.A young man-a policeman-weasled into the room.There was blood on his sleeve, his two hands gripped a pistol, his face was calm, tension in his shoulders,his elbows relaxed. The gun went sniffing, found Timmy and held on him, and the young policeman's fingers began the steady squeeze of the trigger, oh so purposefully, oh so calmly, oh so righteously, to put an end to Little Timmy. Timmy would stagger backwards from the knife wound, hold his throat as if he could stop the torrent that laves his fingers, the red that drenches his clothes so swiftly. He'd fall to the ground, gurgling in amazement, eyes still going from Csucskari to the knife to Csucskari, no, no, from the gun to the policeman, no-

  Csucskari flung the scarf like a net, keeping his grip on one corner, and for an instant, one golden instant, no one moved and the world held its breath,waiting.

  Voices came, from nowhere, from everywhere,from the walls of the room and from inside his head.Raven's voice, saying, "He can lead us back," and Owl speaking behind him, saying, "Then listen to your own fiddle, brother," and Raven replying,"Then play your tambourine, brother." The Coachman was there, come back for them all as he had to,and with him a great shaggy old Wolf and a bright-eyed Badger. They all looked to him, to Csucskari,like the spokes of a wheel suddenly recognizing the hub. The burden dragged at him and for a moment the spell wavered. The young policeman should have pulled the trigger then indeed, but the music of the fiddle swept through the room like a wind of sound.Csucskari laughed aloud to be together with his brothers, for this moment, and all of them alive. He flung the scarf into the air once more, like a blessing,crying, "Well, then, Luci, we'll come to you, and see how you like it."

  The scarf spun and grew larger, warp and woof becoming a fine mesh, a painted picture, a target, and then a net of glowing threads. None of them could move as the weave grew and enveloped them in a pattern that filled each mind with the textures of the fiddle's sliding high notes, and Raymond was playing the tambourine off in the distance now, shaking it like a spice box, fingers flying against the brass zils.Somewhere else, far, far away, the Coachman muttered, "Damn gypsies. I'm getting too old for their nonsense." Then they all vanished in a swirl of yarn and music.

  SIXTEEN

  How the Gypsy Fought the Devil

  SOMETIME

  He said, "My business is dead on the floor.

  Though my business ain't often in bars.

  I kill beasts when I just can't take 'em anymore;

  Between times, I look for the stars."

  "THE GYPSY"

  The Fair Lady has been plucking a sparrow and throwing its feathers into the flames. The stench of their burning and the crying of the bird have made a pleasant harmony, but now She casts it aside and rises angrily, scowling at the smoldering yarn. Unnoticed, the sparrow hops away into the darkness. The Fair Lady turns Her head, but the music gets louder and louder, the ringing and thumping of the tambourine in the unrelenting rhythm of the csardas with the fiddle playing like wildfire around its edges. The Fair Lady summons the midwife and the nora and the liderc.The nora scampers wildly about on its hands and feet, its teeth chattering wildly, frantic to please Her, grimace after grimace washing over its young old face. The liderc sways from side to side, one arm held high like a club, threatening nothing and everything. The midwife has brought her knitting, and the needles rattle against each other, clattering like steel instruments in a cold tray.

  But the music gets louder, sweeping past them like an angry broom. A piece of thread dangles down into the fireplace from above. Another follows it, and another, and see how they knit themselves together, even there in the fire?The cloth that forms is impervious to the licking flames, it only grows fuller, until it seems to be a scarf with a peculiar pattern.

  "Soon," warns the Fair Lady. She nods, and Her chair turns to face the door. The nora chitters and approaches the doorway, jumping and skittering about in front of it like a gargoyle coffee table come to life. The others face the doorway as well, even the midwife standing, her knitting needles poised. The cloth drapes the fire, which smolders. One pleading tendril of smoke escapes but withers as it flees. The darkness is almost total. Two doors fly open at once.

  SOMETIME

  One instant, Daniel was leaping into a tapes tried and carpeted room, flinging himself to his brother's aid. Then, in midbreath, he was falling. "Coachman! Lead us back!" he cried out, pleading. But no one answered.

  He fell into darkness, and following the gun's roar;he thought he had been hit, struck blind, and was falling to the floor. But there was no pain, and there was no floor, there was nothing, only the darkness and the falling. I should be frightened, he thought,but he wasn't. He'd been through too much in the last twenty-four hours, perhaps all his fear was used up. He sensed the finality of the confrontation to come. He had waited fo
r it, lived for it for so long that the anticipation had eroded his feelings. Nothing was there but numbness and a small sense of relief in knowing it had begun; no matter how it ended, it would now, at least for a time, end.

  Besides, there was the music.

  For a while, the music had been part of the darkness, but now it ventured out in separate strands, fine as horsehair, glowing like frost in the moonlight. All the music he had ever drawn from his fiddle floated about him in shining strands and snatches, clinging as cobwebs, catching at him as he fell, slowing his descent, cradling him in a silver hammock of sound.

  When he fell no longer, when his music had caught and stilled him, Daniel found he could stand. He walked through the emptiness on the web of his notes, clever as a spider, and each strand sounded to the slide of his feet; each strand sweet and shining in the darkness. Somewhere, the others followed him.

  The music led him as it had all the years of his life.He had always felt it was not a thing he created or possessed, but an elusive phouka of sound that he chased, always a few notes behind the perfect song in his mind. Now it lured and guided him through the darkness, beckoning, taking him around unseen corners, up flights of tune and through corridors like familiar refrains. Twice he sensed something chill and hungry lurking in the darkness, but both times his music swirled up and concealed him.

  And then he came to a place where the music faltered, where the shining web of sound became no more than a tightrope, and even that was first thick and awkward and then thin and frail beneath him.He hesitated. This was not his music, and yet it was.It puzzled him. He stooped to touch it, then followed it, smoothing it as he went, weaving it up on his way,plaiting the notes together into harmonies, and the harmonies into an old familiar ballad about three wandering brothers.