The Gypsy

ELEVEN
How the Owl and the Raven Sang

He said, "You can go back home

And never face the dangers,

Or continue toward a life

You will live among strangers…"

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

Daniel waited for the Coachman until he couldn't wait any longer-almost ten minutes. The Coachman's words about each city having its own rhythms had stayed with him, and now he wanted to taste this city's. He took his fiddle and went out to meet the fog in the air and the snow on the ground. He hardly noticed the cold; he'd been living in a place where winter was colder and lasted longer.

He wished the Coachman would find his little brother; both of his brothers, in fact. His big brother could sit and do nothing for hours on end and not seem to mind; he'd just smile with his little supercilious smile and nod from time to time. And his little brother, well, he never had to wait, because wherever he was, things was exciting. But he's, Daniel, always seemed drawn to the excitement, but he never quite knew what to do when he got there.

But no, that wasn't right; he'd never really been tested. All of these years of wandering and waiting,and, except for the first mistake of leaving his little brother, a mistake he shared with Owl, he'd never had the chance to learn what he was made of; never the test, never the hard choice, never the need to put everything into one, horrible, wonderful moment. He knew it, and he missed it, and he waited for it.

He sat down on a wrought-iron bench and waited for something flashy to catch his eye, but nothing came; there were few passersby. There was one tall young man who seemed very dangerous, and wore animal skins that had been dyed black. There was a woman who hurried by who had painted her face so heavily it was impossible to guess at the texture of her skin, except that her hands showed signs of age.

Daniel took out his fiddle, stood, and played waiting music. As he played, he thought of his little brother, and worried about him. "If my fiddle were a shield," he thought, "I'd play music to protect you,wherever you are." So he played to ward off the evil eye, and to baffle Luci's creatures, and he smiled from the pleasure the music gave him. After a while he drifted off to other airs, then, with an odd feeling of having accomplished something, he sighed and went back to the hotel. He finished what little brandy was in the bottle and tried to wait patiently for the Coachman.

… His eyes softened for a time,

I could barely hear his voice:

"It isn't easy to decide,

But few get the choice."

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

Raymond sat in the fog, a bit troubled by the chill,but not too much; where he came from winters were colder and lasted longer. He studied the vague shapes that passed in the fog, twenty-eight of them, noticing the way this one huddled into his coat, or that one clutched her purse tightly as she walked. And, more,he listened to the way they walked, and to the odd rhythms created by the tap-tap of high heels or the slap of shoe leather against the endless murmur of the city: A door slams, and another, closer; hisses; a small car with a standard transmission shifts from first to second; a larger car dopplers away, leaving a faint buzz which blends into the sound of a train that is sofar awso far is only a low moan.

He became aware of the Dove's presence; not near him, but that his brother had been in this city long enough to have an effect. There were lives the Dove had changed, somewhere, flowing and breathing. A tremendous longing to find both of his brothers filled him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew that, had he the powers of his youngest brother, he would be able to bring them together; he did not begrudge him those powers; with powers come burdens, and Raymond could not lighten them. His other brother-what had he been calling himself? Daniel,that was it, Daniel would have wanted to redraw the paths to suit himself, but Daniel was a doer, not a watcher; he could lighten the Dove's burden. Daniel,too, might be nearby; Raymond couldn't tell. They had each their paths, and perhaps their paths would cross.

He sat up straight, suddenly. Something has just happened, he thought. He frowned. It was like the trembling of a web, when the spider, far away on the other side, jiggles a strand. Raymond had a guess who the spider was, and wondered what strands She was jiggling. For a moment, he felt the frustration that Daniel must live with all the time-wanting to act, but being unable-but then old habits came back, and he relaxed, watching, listening, waiting.

At last, just to have something to do, he took out his tambourine, wrapped carefully in old towels. He tapped the head and winced at how lifeless it sounded in the damp weather; It must be proximity to the lake; cold weather was usually very kind to the calfskincalfskin.Nevertheless he sat in the park and tapped at it,playing with rhythms of the city, and finding counterpoints to a strange singing he almost fancied he heard, coming from the wind around him.

He sat for hours, playing his tambourine, neither noticing nor caring whether some passerby stopped for a while to listen before continuing on his way.Two way.Twoone dark and one fair, watched him for some time with that oddly bemused expression people get when they realize for the first time that the tambourine is a musical instrument. He felt a certain pride in getting this reaction, and then he noticed that they seemed frightened somehow. They spoke to each other of only the most inconsequential things; shoes that were too tight, hair that wouldn't behave, yet underneath it all they shared a common terror, which neither would admit to. He thought he saw an animal scurry past, but when he looked he saw nothing.nothing. Presentlynt on their way after giggling and putting a dollar in the pocket of his coat. They seemed not as frightened as they'd been a few minutes before.

He played until dark and the chill began to penetrate his fingers, then he put his instrument away, got up, and began to walk around the city, looking for nothing in particular.

You got your pen and paper.

You got your book of rules,

You got your little list,

Of kings and crooks and fools…

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

Stepovich fell. His stomach told him so. Fell fast and hard and boneless, just like that boy coming out of the tree. He wondered if it would hurt when he landed, and then he wondered if this blackness had a bottom. Maybe the blackness was the surgeons taking the bullet out of his head. Or maybe the blackness was what came when they couldn't get it out. He could feel someone gripping his hand; maybe Jennie had come to be by his deathbed, maybe this blackness was the dying part. He'd heard there was supposed to be a light when you died, and that you'd want to go toward it. He strained his eyes, looking for it, but all he could see was blackness. He could feel the hand in his and smell cheap brandy and garlic mixed with horse sweat.

The carriage landed with a tremendous sproing, like a body thrown against a chain-link fence. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see Marilyn by his death-bed, but he saw fog and buildings and his blue-and-white by the curb. Someone gripped the front of his uniform. The damn Coachman couldn't have been that strong, but maybe he was that scared. He lifted Stepovich half up and gave him a push that sent him sprawling. Stepovich skinned his palms as he landed mostly on his hands and arms in the street. Madam Moria evidently wasn't pleased about this, because she was still screaming in gypsy, but he Coachman seemed to have some plan of his own. Stepovich fell the rest of the way out of the carriage as the black whip cracked. The hooves of the mismatched team skidded and slipped on the damp pavement as the carriage careened off down the street and into an alley. Madam Moria was looking back and shaking her aluminum cane at him as if it were all his fault.

He got his knees under him, was almost up when Durand trotted up to stand over him. "You okay,Step?" he asked anxiously. It was the only thing that could possibly have made it worse: The puppy helping him up like he was some dazed citizen, gripping the front of his shirt to steady him. "You hurt?"

"No!" Stepovich pushed him roughly away, then had to lean against the building. Shit, his head hurt.He hurt.He up to touch it. Lump. No bullet hole.Whahole. Whatl.

"Well, if you're not hurt, how did they get away?"

"In a carriage," Stepovich said viciously. He took his fingers away from the back of his head, looked at the blood.

"Wanta chase them?"

"Fuck, no!" Stepovich took a shuddering breath,realized that Durand was only trying to get the senior officer to take charge of the situation. "What did you find upstairs?" He tried to sound hard and professional. Sounded dazed to himself.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No one in the apartment. No weapon. No sign of a struggle. But I did smell powder. Someone let off a gun in there."

"Blood?"

Durand looked nonplused. "Well… I didn't really notice… I mean, every rug up there is red, and I didn't think to…"

"Right," Stepovich said. He walked ponderously tome squad car, leaned in to reach the mike. He told the dispatcher it was all under control, no sign of any gun or quarrel, cancel the call. The dispatcher came back, her annoyance sounding clearly through the static. "Heard you the first time, Stepovich. Canceled it ten minutes ago."

He turned to Durand. "Did you cancel the call?"

"Huh? No." Durand looked puzzled too, which made Stepovich feel better.

There was a feather on the seat of the car, and the interior stank like a barnyard, or a kernel.

His head was buzzing as he straightened up. He scanned the street, not certain what he was looking for, then he stopped and frowned. "What do you make of that?" he said.

Durand looked back. "What?"

"On the door of the building."

Durand walked over and stared at the smear on the glass. "Blood," he said.

"That's what I thought."

Durand said, "What do we do about it?"

Stepovich sighed and shook his head. "Nothing."

Durand came back to him, and stood a little too close; his voice was a little too demanding as he began, "Enough shit. Step, I want to know-"

"It's Stepovich, God damn you!" he roared, and swung with the weight of the world in his fist.

Look into a deep dark pool.

tell me what you see,

Stars overhead.

Echo of a midnight sky.

branches of a dream

Turnings of a maze.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

The Fair Lady nods to the liderc, who has suddenly appeared before Her. His face is bleeding, and he holds a hand over one eye. "What is it?" She says, not unkindly.

"It's the crawling one," he says. "He is hurt and asking for you."

"Hurt?" The sound of the spinning wheel is constant now, and neither of them notice it.

"He says he's been cut up," says the liderc. "I think it was the Coachman who did it."

"Indeed? How could that be, when he was with an old woman following spools of thread down lanes of curses?"

"I don't know. Mistress. Perhaps before they left?"

"Perhaps. And did you cut the thread, little one?"

"No, Mistress. Not in time. The Coachman saw me and he struck out my eye with a calk on the end of his whip,and then he took them back."

"I see. Well, here is another eye for you." She draws a cinder from the fire and places it in his head. Then She thinks for a moment, and finally nods. "Very well, then we will cut a different thread. Let the Worm bleed. And,for that matter, let the Wolf have him. For now, prepare another guest room. We shall need it soon, I think."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And as for the Coachman, we will send him a bottle of brandy, so that when he drinks it he will be crushed by a horse with five legs and gored by a bull with three horns."

"Yes, Mistress," and the liderc runs off to do Her bidding.

At that moment, there is a scampering of feet and hands across the floor as the nora enters the room. It grovels at the fair Lady's feet. Its bald, leathery head seems to absorb the firelight.

"Well?" She says, beginning to become impatient."Have you failed, as well?"

"Yes, Mistress," it says. "She was protected."

"Protected? How?"

The nora wiggles its rat-ears back and forth, agitated."There was a sound like the chiming of bells and the thundering of cannon, so I could not come near."

"So? It's his damnable brother. Well, we shall see what we can do about that. Send him a good meal, so that when he eats it, the ground will open and swallow him up."

"Very well. Mistress, " and it rushes off to prepare the meal.

Near the fire, the midwife continues to sing.

"Are you having any luck?" asks the Fair Lady.

"None, Mistress," says the midwife.

"How is that?" cries the Fair Lady, gnashing Her teeth with rage.

"There were screams. Mistress, like the screams of impaled men, so he can't hear me sing."

"That will be his other brother. Well, we will fix that.We that.We send him the wench, so that when he kisses her,he will fall down dead on the spot."

"Very well. Mistress," and the midwife goes to find the wench.

If I had the voice,

I'd shout it from the rooftops,

If I had the strength,

I would bend it in my hand;

All I've got's a notion,

all I need's a plan.

To bring It back

to where It all began.

"IF I HAD THE VOICE"

The rest of the shift was horrible. Durand wasn't talking, either because he didn't want to, or because his face hurt too bad. He'd stepped into the punch, taking it on the side of the head instead of the jaw. Stepovich glanced over at him guiltily. Purple. And swollen as hell. Probably hurt almost as bad as the back of Stepovich's head.

Lunch had been Seven-Eleven burritos and coffee inside the car. They hadn't gone to Norm's for lunch.Nelunch.Neither had to suggest that change of plans.Noplans. Nobodyto explain any of this to Tiffany Marie. Stepovich didn't want to explain plugging her sweetie, and Durand probably didn't want to admit that an old man like Stepovich could drop him with one punch. Stepovich rubbed his bruised knuckles unobtrusively on the side of his thigh. Ten more minutes of driving around. Then reports to write. Then go home, eat something out of a can, and lay around and stare at the boob tube or the ceiling. Wonder what the hell had ever happened to his life. He sighed.

"S' matter?" From Durand, grudgingly.

"I feel like shit. I feel fucking stupid." And too damn tired to be anything but honest.

"Y'should."

Poor kid couldn't even get his jaw open. Stepovich was willing to bet the inside of his mouth was cut to ribbons on his own teeth. "I know."

Silence felt a little easier. Street lamp light ebbed and swelled through the car. Getting dark earlier all the time. And colder. "You put a hot washcloth on it when you get home. Hot as you can stand. And drink something cold, milk shake or something like that."

Stepovich paused, remembering. Ed had loosened two of his teeth. For what? So long ago. It came to him.For him.Forpid habit of taking his gun out in the car and checking to see if it was loaded. About six times a day.Untiday. Until Ed slammed on the brakes, punched him one, and screamed, "Play with your dick instead, asshole! At least you can't blow me away with that!"

"S' not funny." Durand sounded hurt.

Stepovich realized he was grinning. He wiped the smile off his face. "I was thinking about something else.Thaelse. Thaton the door. Whose do you think it was?"

"That's funny?"

"No. That isn't what I was thinking about either,but I am now. Whose do you think it was?"

Durand shrugged carefully. "Don't know. You?"

"No. The Coachman guy and Madam Moria seemed pretty chummy. I don't think they were shooting at each other. If there was someone else, he was gone when we got there." Stepovich took a breath, sniffed, forced himself to open up. "I did see some blood in the carriage. On her fingers. But I'm not sure if it was hers. She didn't act hurt."

"Driver?"

"He didn't act hurt either." Stepovich frowned to himself. "Or maybe he did. Acted kind of stiff, like maybe he was holding himself careful. Didn't seem to bother him when he threw me out of the carnage,though." Stepovich glanced at Durand and the kid jerked his hand down from cradling his jaw. He remembered something else from the day Ed had busted his chops.

"Kid. After work, you wanna go for a beer?"

Durand looked at him long through the dimness of the car. He nodded slowly.

"Good," said Stepovich with a heartiness he didn't feel. What the hell had he done that for? The last thing he wanted was company tonight.

Maybe it was the first thing he wanted, too.

Ripples on the surface,

currents underneath.

Ripples on the surface,

Stars overhead.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

Brian MacWurthier drove slowly home from work through the fog during the last hour of the day. On impulse, he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a small bottle of creme de menthe. He had two reasons for doing so. In the first place, he was beginning to want to live again, and that meant treating himself to fancy desserts once in a while, like he'd made for Karen. And,two, she had never liked creme de menthe, and he knew that if he made something she had liked, he'd just get melancholy again. It was time to let go.Whilego. Whilethere, he picked up a paper and glanced at the headlines. "Damn shame," he muttered.

The man behind the counter handed him a bill and some change and said, "What?"

Brian indicated the headline. "The accident. Six dead. Bet they all had families."

"Don't I know it," said the clerk.

Brian studied him. Late thirties, maybe. Big, with a small mustache. Maybe wore a stupid hat and laughed too loud, but he was probably kind to his dog. What the hell. Brian nodded. "You lose someone recently?"

"No." Then he said, "Well, not really."

Brian waited, holding the little paper bag with the creme de menthe in it.

The clerk looked at him and shrugged. "A friend of mine."

"A good friend?"

"Naw."

Brian kept waiting, he wasn't sure why. The clerk said,"It was just nasty 'cause I was here when it happened."

"Oh."

"We weren't real close, though," After another pause he continued. "But it was violent. I still don't sleep too good." Then he said, "What about you?"

Brian hesitated. "My girlfriend. She died of leukemia not long ago." There were still tears inside, but he could say it without choking now.

"Yeah, that's a shame, buddy,"

Brian nodded. "I'm getting over it. I finally talked about it, and that helped."

"Yeah. I know. Some shit, you can't keep inside,you know?"

Brian nodded. "This gypsy said-"

"Who?" His voice was surprisingly sharp.

"Her friend. The guy I talked to."

The clerk scowled.

"What?" said Brian.

"Don't talk to me about gypsies. It was a gypsy who blew my friend away. Right here. I was in back, too fucking scared to move, and this gyp-now that's odd."

"What?"

The clerk stared off into space for a while. "Why did I say he was a gypsy?"

Brian shrugged. "Did the police mention it?"

The clerk shook his head. "No. That's weird. He looks different now."

"Huh?"

The clerk blinked a few times. "I dun no. Man, this is strange. It's like my memory's changing. The description I gave the cops, it's all wrong. But I could have sworn-I hope I'm not flipping out or-"

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. But I better call the cops back right away. This is too fucking strange."

Brian waited while the clerk made the phone call,then waited some more just to make sure the man was going to be all right. When the blue-and-white pulled up, he shrugged and headed out the door, still vaguely curious.

Mr. DeCruz, hope you're feeling well.

Mind if I sit here just for a spell?

Sorry I couldn't be gone for good

Like you thought I would.

"BACK IN TOWN"

Timothy lay on his bed, bleeding from cuts in his side and on his upper chest just below the collar bone, for most of an hour before it occurred to him that something was wrong. He spent most of the next hour denying it, until he couldn't anymore. I could die, he thought, and the other side of that thought conjured up childhood memories; he feared hell for the first time in twenty years.

The next hour lasted forever. The words, "She has forsaken me" never quite took shape in his mind, but they lay beneath the surface, like walking through a swamp knowing there is a snake in there, somewhere. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, failed.Ifailed. It came to him that now there were bloodstains on his nice, clean, white sheets, and he'd never, ever, ever get them out. He wanted to yowl, but had no strength. The thought that he could die kept returning, until in an agony of fear he peeled off his shirt,and pressed his pillow tightly against his side, resigned to getting that soiled, too.

Damn them, damn them, damn them all to Hell forever.forever.Why;t She help me? I did everything She said. I tried to kill the old lady, but the man with the knife… The man's with the knife. Why hadn't he gone down when he'd been shot? Right in the middle, just like the liquor-store man. This guy jumped, once, then struck with the knife, and Timothy had run from the room, not even realizing he'd been cut until he was halfway down the stairs and saw blood soaking through his shirt.

I won't die, he thought. I won't die. I'll live, and I'll show Her that I'm worth something. I still have the gun.Igun.Igo back, and find that man, and shoot him in the head this time, and the old lady, too. No, better. The Gypsy man. That's who She really wants. I'll get him for Her,and She'll come back to me.

I need Her. I need Her. I need Her.

He lay there awake for hours, pressing the pillow against him. Finally, as it grew dark outside, he fell asleep, thinking thoughts of vengeance, still holding the pillow pressed against his side. As he slept, with no magic other than his body's own, the bleeding stopped.

If I had it to do over.

This ain't the life I'd choose,

But the road still runs and so do I

And at least I made the news.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

It was mere moments before sunset, and the end of the day's magic, although the fog held the day's light as leaves hold the dew. It didn't yet look like sunset,but the Gypsy knew. And as twilight sank, through the layers of fog, consciousness of it sank through minds, and more and more lights came on. It became harder and harder to find the light that was his next signpost, amid all those that were on by chance.

He frowned. Why should it be so hard to tell? He followed his feet, his instincts, and if they were true,they should lead him well. So it was, so it had always been. He had been confused for a while, not understanding the ways of the city, but now he did, and the rules should be the same. If not, he was helpless.

He stood, pondering. He closed his eyes, and thought he heard faint singing, as far away as the sea and as soft as the wind across the plains. He shuddered, and his hand went to the knife beneath his shirt, though he didn't know why.

He stood on a street corner. Four paths, the crossroads. But here there were so many crossroads, so many. If a shirt were left at each to bribe the csuma,there would be no shirts left to wear. Not to mention that any shirt left on the crossroads in the city would be taken by whoever first saw it whether he needed a shirt or not, for such were the ways of this place. The crossroads ought to be a place of power for him, but he felt none. It ought to be a place of danger too, but he felt the danger everywhere.

He stood for a moment more, looking around, hoping for a sign that he was to take one direction, or avoid another. Even as he looked, however, the fog began to clear, the night fell, and the day of miracles had ended. He sighed, defeated.

And as the fog cleared, he saw, directly before him, a circle with a dot in the middle. It was on a narrow door with a sign above it. The sign, in baroque lettering, read,

MADAM MORIA, PSYCHIC AND SEER, APARTMENT C.

Almost, the Gypsy smiled. There was no hesitation in his steps as he opened the door, which led up along flight of stairs. He climbed with easy confidence and knocked at the door with an upside-down changing by a single nail. He opened it at the same time the high, thin voice called, inviting him in.

She sat behind a narrow table, and a deck of tarot cards, bright roses on the back, sat in front of her.Therher. Theremall stool opposite her.

"You took long enough getting here," she snapped. "Sit down and cut the cards."