A Perfect Curse

by Shereen Vedam

  “You did well,” Mark said, thrilled that they could communicate even without magic. “I thank you for defending Nevara, but why did you help her?”

  “You care for her,” the lynx said, “so I protect her.”

  His answer shocked Mark.

  Then the lynx laid its good paw on Mark’s hand. “Mine.”

  Mark chuckled, touched and surprised to find a part of him that had been empty since Miguel’s death, suddenly filled. So this is what it feels like to bond with a familiar. It was like having something furry lie beside his soul. Or having his brother back. He laid his left hand over the lynx’s paw, “Mine.”

  A thread of light wrapped around their wrists, sealing the bond. His grandmother had told him about this ceremony. Miguel had listened avidly, confiding in Mark later that it would be his life-long mission to bond with a familiar. Mark had scoffed, wanting nothing to do with any ceremony that would tie him down for life. What a fool he had been. He thanked heaven that he had retained at least this one precious gift.

  “Don Sabio,” the lynx said, sharing his name, the greatest sign of trust, for names had power.

  Sabio meant wise in Spanish. Appropriate.

  “Mark Dimas Alvaro,” he said, in return. Only then did he lift the lynx, which lay limp across his arms—heavy, warm, wet, and now a part of him—and carry it back to camp.

  Mark’s arrival with his familiar caused more of a stir than Terrance’s return with Earnest. The women were too frightened to tend to the lynx so Mark patched him up, cleaning and wrapping the torn foreleg and then tending to all the other cuts and tears, soothing the animal with soft words when it whimpered in pain. Once he was finished, he set Don Sabio on a blanket the gypsies had provided near the fire’s warmth. He brought water in a bowl for his familiar to drink and allowed the animal to rest.

  The lynx intermittently shivered against Mark’s leg as everyone gathered to start their long awaited discussion. First, the gypsies spoke to each other. Their conversation took on a heated tone as they pointed often to Nevara and Mark. The gypsy mother then asked Mark to repeat what he had said earlier.

  His grandmother once shared an old gypsy proverb. “Not all men are like trees; some must travel and cannot keep still.”

  The constant traveling made gypsies adept at picking up local dialects and languages. So he suspected this Zincali mother had understood his English full well, which was what her argument with her husband had been about. She wanted Mark to admit, in front of her husband, that Mark was a wizard. The woman watched him now with her clever black eyes.

  What did it matter if he said his secret out loud again? This clan would not turn him over to the Spanish Inquisition because the church prosecuted gypsies as freely as it did Jews and everyone else suspected of not strictly practicing church edicts. With a shrug, he said, “I was once a wizard and this lynx is now my familiar.”

  After several silent moments, Nevara spoke to the gypsies. “Please, tell me why you believe I am one of your lost blood.”

  The grandfather rested his elbows on his bent knees until the flames shadowed his wrinkly features. “I tell story.”

  Nevara and her friends gasped, probably surprised the old man could speak English. Not Mark. He hid his smile.

  With Spanish and English words interspersed, the old man began to regale them with a gypsy legend that had been passed down in Mark’s family for generations.

  “Once upon a time, many fathers and mothers ago,” the old gypsy grandfather said, beginning his story, “when Charles I was King of Spain, three magical spells changed the Zincali’s future forever. Especially for one clan. But the real story began many moons before then. Outside Sevilla, there once lived a most wealthy and powerful Señor Cordero Juan Nero de Rivera.”

  Nevara caught her breath and Mark gave her a side-glance. She seemed shocked, and the story had hardly begun. What struck her most? The mention of Sevilla? Or the name “de Rivera?”

  His grandmother had often told this story to Mark and Miguel when they were children. This gypsy legend was his family history . . . and Nevara’s too.

  “This Señor de Rivera,” the gypsy grandfather continued, “was a widower, with one daughter, Maria Belinda Alva de Rivera. She was a beautiful señorita, with skin as smooth as new fallen snow, lips a ruby red, and hair as black as midnight. They would have been happy—this proud father and his beautiful daughter—if the señor had not taken another wife.”

  The old gypsy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It was rumored his new wife was a witch, but the señor, he refused to believe it, so besotted was he with her ravishing beauty. Unfortunately, his new wife was indeed a witch, a powerful one, and she had little liking for young Maria. The witch envied her stepdaughter’s exquisite charm and her father’s unshakable love for his only child.”

  Mark listened as avidly now as he and Miguel used to when their grandmother had recited this tale. This time, the surrounding forest, the scent of burning wood and the cool night air added an eeriness to the old story.

  “For many years, the witch sought out ways to shame Maria,” the gypsy grandfather continued, “all to no avail. Then the witch became with child. The day she gave birth to a baby girl, her need to be rid of Maria bloomed fierce, for no longer did she consider her stepdaughter her rival, but her daughter’s.”

  Nevara’s fingers clutched Mark’s.

  “Remember, this is ancient history,” he whispered.

  “A day arrived,” the old gypsy continued in grave tones, “when there was finally an opportunity for the witch to destroy her stepdaughter. Maria had met a gypsy boy and fallen in love.”

  “From the lost gypsy clan?” Nevara whispered to Mark.

  He nodded confirmation.

  “It was common knowledge that gypsies rarely loved outside the clans. So the señor believed this gypsy boy only wished to fool his daughter and to rob him. But young Maria refused to listen, and at her stepmother’s urging, and unknowingly carrying a deadly wedding gift, she ran off to marry her gypsy lover.”

  Nevara gasped.

  Mark watched her glance fall on the box she constantly carried, the one handed down from mother to daughter for generations. The bewitched stays meant to end young Maria’s life, had almost ended Nevara’s. How could his family have missed this important bit? Was there more they were unaware of?

  Nevara urged the gypsy grandfather to continue.

  “Señor de Rivera,” the old man said, “angered by his daughter’s foolishness, turned to his trusted Huntsman, who was also a wizard, to help him recover Maria and to curse the gypsy clan. The señor ordered the Huntsman to cast a spell to make the gypsies visible to everyone for the thieves, cutthroats and liars that he believed them to be.”

  Mark absently brushed crusted dirt from the lynx’s right ear. So much had happened since that first Huntsman had been asked to fulfil his master’s wish.

  “The stepmother overheard this plan and set about her own mischief to ensure the lovely Maria would remain blinded by love, at least until her fatal wedding night. The gypsy boy’s father, sensing the wicked stirrings in the wind, turned to his wife to cast a spell to hide the lovers and the clan from the horrors that sought them out.”

  “So many spells,” Lord Terrance said in wonder.

  “The night rumbled with the casting of those three spells,” the gypsy grandfather said. “One to reveal the gypsies’ true nature. One to blind Maria. And one to hide and protect the clan. The spells clashed and formed a new curse, one of its own making. Clan members began to change. A son who enchanted people with flame-throwing tricks burst into flames. The daughter who liked to wear disguises could not stop her features from changing at will. A conjurer who played with dice, found objects tumbling away from him, without having touched them.”

  “The Rue Alliance,” Nevara said, lookin
g stunned.

  “What happened to Maria?” Lady Terrance asked.

  “Her sight shifted,” the gypsy grandfather said, “until she could see all the world’s illusions, even magical ones.”

  Nevara’s eyes were wide with shock.

  Mark gently tugged at her hand until she faced him. “You wanted to learn about the origin of your talents and those of your friends,” he murmured. “This was how it came about. But what use is this knowledge, Nevara? If there had been a way to reverse such a convoluted spell, my family would have discovered it. In reality, no one person cast this enchantment. Heaven itself formed this spell. No one person can undo it.”

  She blinked, seeming to have difficulty digesting this astounding revelation and what it meant for her. If she found this surprising, how would she react to the rest?

  “From that day forward,” the grandfather said, “this gypsy clan was reviled as the devil’s spawn. Afraid of what they had become, and unable to control their shifting, they fled. Maria, too, went with her husband and discovered she was with child.”

  “The Huntsman was devastated by his spell’s distortion,” Mark said, adding his knowledge of the story. “He relayed what had happened to his master and Señor de Rivera was horrified, for he had never meant to harm his daughter. He begged his Huntsman to bring his Maria home, so he could beg her forgiveness. He vowed to atone for his mistake by accepting her and her gypsy husband as his family. He would agree to any conditions, if she would only return.”

  “Oh,” Nevara said, “I hope she relented.” Her companions chuckled.

  Nearby, an owl hooted in the quiet night air, as if in reprimand for the interruption.

  “The Huntsman,” the grandfather said, again taking up the story, “along with his son, traveled into the Extremadura, a mountain area where this cursed clan hid. The search took months, but he found Maria as she was about to give birth. He relayed the glad tidings that her father was ready to accept her and her husband. Relieved, she agreed to return, but only if her father would offer his protection to her new bewitched gypsy family too. The Huntsman agreed on behalf of her father, but before they could leave, wolves surrounded the caravans.”

  “Wolves?” Nevara looked at Mark.

  “The witch who sent the wolves after Maria would be long dead by now,” Mark reassured her. “However, the one who sent them to attack you today could be her descendant.”

  “But why? This, as you said, is ancient history. I am no threat to the de Rivera family.”

  He waited for her to make the connection.

  She glanced with uncertainty at Lord Terrance.

  “Money,” his lordship said. “Money and land are at the root of most disputes.”

  “But I have made no claims on either, and I am a female.”

  “Spanish inheritance laws are different from those in England, Miss Wood. If you are the only surviving kinswoman of the eldest daughter of Cordero Juan Nero de Rivera,” Lord Terrance said, “you rightfully inherit everything.”

  “How? I have no proof of my lineage, of any connection to Señor de Rivera. Nor is he alive to claim me.”

  “I am,” Mark said in a soft voice. “My family has tracked yours since the first Maria gave birth to a baby girl named Calida. Each birth, each marriage, each death has been duly recorded for posterity. These records prove unequivocally that you are the heir to the de Rivera estate.”

  Nevara and Belle spoke in unison, mimicking each other’s astonishment. “You are the Huntsman’s descendant?”

  Mark bowed. “At your service.”

  “But why?” Nevara sounded exasperated. “Your ancestor was charged to bring back the first Maria, not follow her descendants for all time.”

  “Allow the gypsy grandfather to finish his tale, and you will know the answer.”

  As if in protest, Nevara’s fingers dug into his palm, but then she gave a curt nod to the old gypsy.

  The grandfather seemed not at all surprised to discover Mark was descended from the Huntsman.

  “Wolves attacked the clan. The Huntsman and his son protected the gypsies as best they could but many died, including the lovely Maria.”

  Nevara cried out.

  Mark understood her anguish. In hearing this story again, he felt closer to this young Maria, her strength of will, her unflinching love for her gypsy husband and her loyalty to the clan who took her in. Mark grieved her passing.

  “Maria’s husband also died, but not the child,” the gypsy added. “Desperate to protect his master’s grandchild, the Huntsman left his son to guard the baby and attacked the wolves in a frenzy, killing many, but most importantly, the lead one. Instantly, all the remaining wolves disappeared and he finally perceived the attack as magical, sent by his master’s wife.”

  Mark again took up the story. “The Huntsman was afraid to take the unprotected child back where she might be in grave danger. The battle had left him wearied and unsure he was strong enough to protect the baby. So he asked the handful of gypsies still alive to spirit the child out of Spain. He then begged his son to watch over the baby until he sent for them both.”

  “Si,” the grandfather said. “The Huntsman then took another gypsy’s dead baby and Maria’s body to present them as mother and child. Upon his arrival, he found his master dead and his wife in power. She thanked him for his services.”

  “And killed him,” Mark finished bitterly, tossing a rock viciously into the flames. Sparks flared. “The witch then cursed the rest of his family from ever returning to Spain or ever speaking of what had transpired to a stranger. If any broke that rule, the perpetrator would be transported back to Spain where he or she would lose his or her magical abilities and face the fury of the witch or her descendant. Thus, she sealed all our fates, the baby Calida’s, the gypsies’ and my family’s.”

  Nevara frowned as if unsettled by his harsh tone. He forced himself to loosen his knotted shoulders. He no longer regretted the duty placed on his family. He raised her hand and kissed it. “I have fought against my destiny all of my life, Nevara, but I am eternally grateful it brought you to me.”

  “Our story does not end that way,” the grandfather said.

  Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise. “How does it end?”

  “The Huntsman warned the witch she would not win. His son or his son’s son would take revenge for this betrayal. So she cursed his descendants—if any ever revealed what had transpired they would be returned to Spain and their power forfeited. And then she transformed the Huntsman into a golden statue, to serve her and her progeny for all time.”

  Time stood still for Mark.

  His ancestor was still alive? He and his grandmother were not the last of their line? Horror and shock mixed and brought him to his feet in a surge.

  Nevara, too, rose, her eyes flooding with sympathy. She held out her arms, offering him comfort.

  He turned away, his heart and mind too immersed in guilt and anguish. All these centuries, they had left the first Huntsman to live in slavery? He felt as sullied as he had when news arrived of Miguel’s death because he had not done more to keep his brother safe. Waving away his companions’ protests, he ran into the woods, wanting, needing, privacy.

  For a long while, he walked aimlessly, images of Miguel haunting every tree and bush he passed. Finally, exhausted, he slid to the ground and his tears anointed the land that had taken Miguel.

  Don Sabio arrived, limping, to lie beside him. He welcomed the lynx’s warm comfort and the calm compassion in the cat’s yellow gaze. At that moment, Mark determined he would atone for his mistakes by rescuing his trapped relative.

  The original Huntsman must not spend a moment longer than necessary in service to the witch’s descendant. Even if Mark could not break the spell that bound him, he could steal the Huntsman from his captor and bring him home. />
  “This I vow!”

  Don Sabio grunted and sat up.

  Mark and his familiar headed back to camp. Long before he reached the campfire, a haunting melody that mimicked his suffering greeted him. The lilting tune drew him closer, echoing in the woods like a sacred call. Sung in a mixture of languages, the words spoke of hunger, prison, and death, and were a poignant reminder of the Huntsman’s enslavement.

  AFTER MARK LEFT her side, Nevara wanted to follow him but Lord Terrance’s hand on her arm stopped her. “He needs time alone, Miss Wood, to come to terms with this news.”

  Belle seconded her husband’s advice.

  Her stomach clenched in an unhappy knot, Nevara relented and stayed by the campfire.

  The gypsies were not so distracted by Mark’s departure. Their questions came fast and furious.

  “Who are these friends the Huntsman spoke of? Are they the descendants of the gypsies who fled Spain? Our lost blood?”

  Nevara cringed from revealing anything about the Rue Alliance. She had inadvertently exposed their identities twice before and did not want to make the same mistake a third time.

  Seeing her doubts, the gypsy grandfather swore a blood oath that his family would keep her secret for all eternity.

  Nevara still hesitated, considering what was safe to share. Her glance strayed to the woods.

  The gypsies entreated her to tell them of their lost blood.

  Belle touched Nevara’s hand. “I believe sharing news of the alliance would not be a betrayal, Nevara, not if they are related to these people.”

  With a sigh, she complied. This was the history of the Rue Alliance that Nevara had been researching for the past three years. Her audience listened with fascination to her tale of how their lost clan had made their way to England and scattered. Many had married into English families. At least three of the descendants were connected to English nobility.

  “They must have believed this was the only way to dilute the blood,” the grandfather said in a thoughtful tone. “Else they would never marry a gadje, a foreigner. If they hid themselves so well, how is it you know of each other?”