The Devouring

by G S Eli

  Victor gave Leichman yet another look of skepticism.

  “Even if this usurper is paired already, we can use the gilded tomb to separate them from it,” Leichman pointed out. “I know you rebuilt it years ago.”

  “Even if that was true, we don’t know if it will work that way…we would need a pureblood Garade Gypsy.”

  “The tomb will work,” the cleric insisted. “The Wallachian tomb suppressed its power for five hundred years, and for all we know, His Excellency the Count is still the rightful owner. Our tomb should work just as well.”

  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, frustrated, Strauss began to pace up and down the aisle. “The Count? Really? This is getting absurd. I won’t risk my fortune on the tomb! And there are no more Garade!” He waved his hands in exasperation. “Every last pureblood was killed. They were purged, eradicated, devoured. The Nazis saw to that!” Strauss paused, then said, “I won’t take that risk! Not based on your mystical theories.”

  “Yes, you are right.” Leichman whispered. “After all, I am no magi. However, I am not the only one who believes it has been found.”

  Strauss turned on his heel and stared at the cleric, intrigued.

  “There is an old hag … she is a true mystic, a Gypsy witch who lives at the camp. She also believes that it has been discovered. Nevertheless, if you insist on playing it safe, then we’ll just have to use a Garade Gypsy,” Leichman replied. “We know that will work.”

  “Are you going deaf? There are no more Garade!”

  “No, there is one left. He has been right under my nose for years.”

  “At the camp?”

  “Yes, an orphan boy with the gift of intuition. And what is most interesting, I did not realize it until this evening … the mystic has been keeping him safe, protecting him all these years.”

  “If that is true, she will continue to protect him,” Strauss responded.

  “Agreed. We must deal with her soon!”

  Strauss stood up straighter at this news. He held his chin between his thumb and forefinger and slowly stroked it, his characteristic gesture when deep in thought. Leichman could tell he had finally convinced his old friend. “Do you have him in custody now?” Strauss asked with enthusiasm.

  “I let him go.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Relax, my old friend… Throughout history, the Garade and the talisman always seem to find one another. If he’s free to wander, he will lead us right to it.”

  “That is a huge risk, perhaps we need to put Operation Rubbish Removal into place, for added leverage,” Strauss strategized thoughtfully, still stroking his chin.

  “Agreed!” Leichman said approvingly. “Summon every man you can from your party. We have much to do. We must find the usurper, search for the artifact in case she does not have it, and best of all, clean out the Gypsy rat’s nest.”

  IX

  Rubbish Removal

  “Two hundred? Come on! The parts cost more than that!” Mila exclaimed.

  “It’s not my fault you paid too much for the repairs,” replied Ludwig, the heavyset junk dealer.

  “What are you talking about? I bought most of the parts from you!” Mila reminded him.

  “Hey, I’m a business man not a saint. Two hundred, not a penny more. Take it or leave it,” Ludwig said.

  This is going to be harder than I expected, Mila thought. He had been busy all morning and into the early afternoon. He had two tasks to accomplish. The first was to get the stolen iPhone back to Casey. The second was to sell his beloved motorcycle and donate the money to the camp, which was turning out to be the more difficult of the two.

  Shortly after the kris, Mila came up with a plan. Using Casey’s iPhone, he replied to one of Vivian’s countless texts, pretending he was Casey. “Hey Viv! Yeah, I’m still with Jack. We’re heading back shortly. Can you remind me the name of the hotel we’re staying at?” Sure enough, a text came back from Vivian. “Sometimes I wonder how you even pass any of your classes. You’re so stupid Casey Richards. You know very well we are staying at the Bavarian Palace.”

  Once Mila found out where Casey was staying, he waited until sunrise, then rode to the hotel before anyone at the camp awakened. Using his tourist costume, he approached the front desk of the posh hotel. The woman at the desk didn’t seem very kind, but he was on a mission.

  He approached her. “Hi, my name is Mi—I mean … Elijah. Yes, Elijah,” he stammered, not wanting to give himself away. “Do you have a guest that is checking out today?”

  The tired-eyed woman dressed in a blue blazer looked at him as if he had two heads. “Mr. Elijah, we have many guests checking out today, and checking in. Are you searching for anyone in particular? A name, perhaps?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Yes, of course. Casey Richards. She’s an American student traveling with her class.”

  “Ah yes, Ms. Richards. Are you from the hospital?” the woman asked.

  “Hospital?” Mila responded confused.

  “Yes, I received a call from the hospital, saying that someone will be picking up her things shortly and checking out for her. Is that not you?”

  Mila wanted to ask if Casey was okay, but he also didn’t want to get in any more trouble. Fearing that Jack might be arriving any moment to pick up Casey’s things, he placed the phone on the desk in front of the woman.

  “Can you give this to whoever comes to pick up her stuff? This is Ms. Richard’s phone.”

  “Yes, of course,” the woman said.

  Mila then turned around and headed for the exit, but he couldn’t resist knowing what happened to the beautiful girl. He stopped for a second and turned back to the woman.

  “Ms. Richards … she’s okay, right?” he asked the woman.

  She finally cracked a smile and said “Of course. Nothing serious. I believe it’s just a sprained ankle.”

  Comforted, Mila left the hotel and headed straight for the scrapyard that was not a far walk from the camp, hoping to negotiate a sale with his friend Ludwig who managed the shop. Unfortunately, when Mila arrived, Ludwig was not there. He opted out to wait. After several painful hours, Ludwig finally arrived, and their haggling began.

  “Come on, Ludwig, I need to sell it” Mila pleaded. “I’m in a whole lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t get you, kid. You drove me crazy for months to get the parts for the damn thing, and now you want to get rid of it?”

  “I made a lot of trouble for the camp. If you don’t buy the bike, I’ll be in even more trouble,” Mila told him.

  Ludwig glanced over Mila’s shoulder at the glass door. “I think that trouble has already started,” he said.

  Mila turned to see what he was talking about. He saw a plume of smoke in the distance, mixing with the storm clouds. It looked almost like it was coming from the camp. At first, he assumed it came from the factories. Then, to his horror, he realized it was far darker than the factory smoke. Mila knew this was his cue to leave. He made a beeline across the street for his bike. A startled driver slammed his brakes, stopping just short of running into him. Mila jumped on his bike as the car’s horn blared. As he raced down the road, he could see it clearly. The smoke was definitely rising from the Romani camp.

  Pulling off at the nearest exit, Mila took the side road past Schmidt’s to the camp. Men in hard hats and reflector vests blocked the road. They manned a set of barricades labeled Construction Zone, waving only work vehicles through. Mila skidded to a stop. He looked past the roadblock to Building A. The structure had been gutted. A wrecking ball was repeatedly smashing into the sides, reducing Mila’s home to dust and rubble.

  Beyond the demolition ball, he could see bulldozers plowing through the shacks and tents, pushing the debris into a series of bonfires. In the distance, near Building B, two crowds had gathered. One stood in tight, uniformed ranks: police,
of course, Mila thought. Facing off with the police was a loose mob of ragged Rom: undoubtedly the residents of the ghetto.

  Mila held on tight as he gunned his bike toward the camp. A construction worker darted out of the way as the bike blew past the roadblock. The motorcycle shook violently as he pulled off the road onto uneven ground.

  This can’t be happening! Mila thought. Father Leichman protects us. He has a deal with the rubber factory. We’re supposed to be safe. With the word safe, Mila remembered the piles of eviction letters in Nasta’s apartment.

  “Oh no!” he cried out. “No!” as he sped up.

  He crossed the football field, where a massive bonfire crackled and snapped, sending clouds of black smoke high into the air. The fumes stung Mila’s eyes as he drew closer to his kin, who were gathered at Building B.

  Up close, he noticed a loose organization to the mob. The women and children were pushed to the back, while the men had gathered at the front. From here Mila could see the gadje more clearly, too. They wore black, military-style uniforms with no police badges or other identifying marks. Each carried a baton and a riot shield. Could they be private security? Mila wondered. Lolo stood just a few feet from these men, shouting something. A violent confrontation was clearly imminent.

  Mila pulled up to the women and children. He found Rosa right away. “Nasta and Petre are in there!” she cried, pointing to Building B. A second crane pulled toward the building. Mila’s stomach began to churn as he watched the wrecking ball.

  He jumped off the motorcycle and let it fall on its side. Passing dozens of his relatives with anguished faces, he pushed through the crowd of women and children to the front. Young girls sobbed while old women slapped their own faces hoping this was a bad dream and they could wake themselves up from it. Little ones clutched their mothers’ hands and cried in panic and bewilderment. “We must take the children and run!” one woman shouted.

  “They’re destroying everything!” came the anguished voice of another.

  “The church, we have to go to the church—it’s the only safe place!” urged an older woman.

  Mila made his way to the group of Romani men. He pushed his way to the front and found himself shoulder to shoulder with Stephan. The two exchanged glances, sharing a moment of fear, anger, and a sense of duty.

  “There are people in there!” Lolo cried one last, desperate time.

  A passing construction worker stopped, looking concerned, but a security guard shouted, “Ignore his Gypsy lies! It is empty. We checked.”

  Satisfied, the worker moved on as the Rom continued to shout with rage. The moment had reached its boiling point. Though well-armed, the contractors were outnumbered. The Rom knew they had a chance. The wrecking ball took its first swing. The ground shook as the heavy black sphere crashed into a concrete wall. At the same moment, someone threw a bottle at the security force’s phalanx. That was all it took to set things off. The guards charged at the Rom, wildly swinging their clubs. A few of the Rom picked up bits of wood or stones, but most were unarmed. As the clubs swung back and forth, Romani bodies began to fall to the ground, writhing in pain.

  A guard took a swing at Mila. He ducked just in time. While the man was distracted, Stephan went in for a tackle. He caught their attacker off guard and sent him toppling to the ground. They started to grapple with each other, creating a gap in the battle line.

  “Go!” Stephan cried. “Get in there! Save them!”

  Mila broke away from the melee and ran for Building B. The doors were chained shut. He leaped through one of the shattered windows and sprinted up the stairs to his great-aunt’s apartment. The building shook as the wrecking ball crashed into it again.

  At Nasta’s place, the door was open as usual. There was even the lingering scent of cherry peppers in the air, the remnants of some unfinished meal. Tremors from the demolition had knocked cookware and dishes to the floor, which was now covered with pots, pans, and shards of ceramic. As Mila stepped inside, he heard a whimper from under the table. He lifted the old tablecloth and bent to find the source of the noise. Petre was huddled underneath, terrified.

  “Petre, I’m gonna get you out of here,” Mila said. “Where’s Aunt Nasta?”

  “The shrine,” Petre whispered.

  Of course! Mila thought. He ran to the closet and tore open its door. Nasta lay prone in front of her little altar. A bulky chunk of concrete had fallen on her leg, trapping her. Mila grabbed the piece of rubble and lifted with all his might. It was no use. The concrete wouldn’t budge.

  Nasta regained consciousness as Mila strained to free her. Weakly, she put her hands flat on the floor and pushed, raising her upper body slightly until she could see her great-nephew. Her ripped sleeve revealed to Mila for the first time a series of numbers tattooed on the underside of her arm. Mila stood looking down at her, his eyes wide with shock as he recognized the mark of the Nazi death camps.

  “Mila, thank God,” she said. She appeared close to fainting from the pain.

  “I’ll get you out. Just stay with me,” Mila said. “Little man, get in here! I need some help!”

  Petre crept out from under the table as if his cousin’s courage had made him brave, too. He scampered into the room and wedged his hands under a corner of the concrete block. Nasta sat up as best she could to help them. The three managed to lift the rubble enough for the old lady to pull her leg free. Mila almost gagged at the sight of her mangled limb. But she managed to stand.

  Mila gave her his arm, and she leaned heavily on it, keeping most of her weight on her uninjured leg. Petre ran to her other side and gave her his little arm to lean on. They both did their best to help her as she began to hobble to safety.

  “Your dream is coming true,” Nasta told Mila.

  “Don’t talk. Save your strength,” Mila replied.

  “Mila, you will listen to me,” Nasta insisted.

  The hallway shook and splintered as the wrecking ball struck again with a crash. They stumbled into the stairwell and began to descend at a snail’s pace. Tripping now could spell disaster.

  “The two gadje from the train station, where are they?” she asked.

  “The hospital. The girl is injured, but I returned the phone,” Mila said as they inched down one stair at a time.

  “It’s the work of the scepter.”

  “The scepter? What are you talking about?”

  “The scepter from the painting,” she explained. “Father Leichman knows this as well. The scepter is not just a flat object pictured on canvas. It exists. Here. Now. It is real. And it is a thing of great evil. I know what your visions have shown. I know what my divinations have shown. If this girl is suddenly sick, it is no coincidence. It is fate.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t understand!” Mila cried.

  The wrecking ball struck again. Another wall crumbled. A portion of the ceiling collapsed, falling onto the stairway just above them. Nasta tripped and nearly fell, but Mila managed to grab the railing. They stumbled down the rest of the flight, coming to a stop on the third-floor landing. Nasta sank to the ground moaning in pain, her hurt leg now twisted beneath her at a crazy angle.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Mila lifted Nasta into his strong arms and carried her down the stairs. Her frail body was heavier than he’d expected, but he managed to lift her and keep moving. Carefully but quickly, he went step-by-step to the first floor and then down the corridor.

  Through the broken window where he’d entered he could see that outside the Rom had managed to push back the security forces. Lolo and Merikano stood on the other side. Mila rushed to the window and lifted his great-aunt across the sill and into her son’s arms. Merikano added his arms for support, and they carried her to safety. Mila helped Petre out next, then leaped through the window just as the wrecking ball struck again.

  The rear wall of Building B caved in. Then the ent
ire structure began to fall in on itself. Piece by piece, crash after crash, their home crumbled to the ground as the Rom retreated to the field near the train tracks.

  As entire families fled, the guards as well as the crowd of gadje onlookers jeered. “That’s it, Gypsies! Run!” they yelled. “It’s rubbish removal day—so get lost!”

  The Rom ran for their lives. Mila pushed through the panicked crowd to find Nasta. She lay on the grass with Stephan, Rosa, Petre, and Korey by her side. As Stephan tore a blanket into strips for bandages, Rosa took them from him and did her best to set the old woman’s injured leg. She groaned in pain; her leg was clearly shattered in several places.

  “Mila, come closer,” she moaned in a voice he could barely hear. He obeyed, kneeling next to her.

  “Mila, you must find the scepter. You must bring it to me,” she whispered weakly.

  “There is no scepter,” Mila insisted.

  Rosa leaned over to Stephan. “What are they talking about?” she whispered. Stephan shrugged and continued tearing off bandages.

  “There was a scepter. You did not realize it at the time. If the girl is dying, it is because of the scepter,” Nasta insisted.

  “Dying? What do you mean?”

  “Yes, Mila. The girl is dying. The scepter is cursed, poisoned. That is why you must find it before he does. Only you can keep it from causing more harm.” She reached into her apron pocket. Pulling out her tarot deck, she tried to flip through the cards. They scattered everywhere, yet she was able to find the Magician right away. She handed the card to Mila. He stared at it, puzzled.

  “That is the scepter,” she explained. “See?” she said, pointing to something the Magician held in his hand. “Do you remember the dead man in your dream? It was you! You’re the Magician!”

  Mila was amazed that Nasta knew he was the dead man in the dream. He was now realizing this was more than silly superstition. With that, he immediately thought of the girl.