The Gypsy

FIFTEEN
How the Gypsy Called All the Animals

Old woman, tell me when to hold the sand

And when to let it spill.

Old woman, tell me when the sun's light

Will touch my window sill.

Old woman, tell me if it's me

Or those around me who are ill.

Old woman, promise me

That I will never have to kill.

"BLACKENED PAGE"

Csucskari cradled his brother as gently as if he were holding a bird, but the solidity of him in his arms was a comfort. He studied his brother's face as he bore him through the streets. Years walked lightly on the brothers, but it had been so long since he had seen Raymond that the tracks of time were plain to Csucskari. Bagoly had begun to grow a beard, and the street lights found red highlights in it. The depressions in his temples were accented by his hair,brushed sharply back. His brows were even more full than Csucskari remembered.

Bagoly. Bagoly, he sang silently. Jojjon velem, repulhazafele, O Bagoly, come with me, fly home, he said.Csucskari walked as he sang, his eyes all but closed.Feelings he had thought banished into the cold well of his past, never to be found again save for the distant splash as a sensation brushed him, now rose like mist. It was a tingling of old power, as when a limb that has gone numb stirs back to life, all pins and needles. It came to him, and flowed from him easily and naturally into his brother, as easily as he might put his mouth to the Owl's lips and breathe his own breath into his brother's lungs. Bagoly, Bagoly, jojjon velem, he sang silently. From a vast distance, his brother responded.

People passed them on the street, stepping off the sidewalk to avoid his lolling burden. Later, Csucskari could not recall if they had any other reaction to him; his only thought was to get to Madam Moria's rooms and to do whatever he must to bring his brother back.

As he maneuvered Bagoly through the narrow door of Madam Moria's building. Owl's eyelids suddenly squeezed tight, making lines in his weathered face.Slowly they opened to slits, and then sagged shut again. As he carried Bagoly up the creaking stairs, he felt a shudder move through his brother's body. And as Madam Moria unlocked her door he began to shiver.

She leaned her canes carefully beside a tall wooden coatrack, and divested herself of her long wool coat."I'll brew tea," she announced, as if this would probably set all the world to rights.

Csucskari looked up from his brother's face to meet her dim old eyes, "He'll be all right," he told her.She nodded once, cautiously, and walked stiffly from the room.

There was a narrow divan in one corner, upholstered in a fading red fabric, draped in a tattered afghan. There he placed his brother and dragged the afghan down to tuck around him. Owl seemed to be breathing easier. Csucskari touched the scarf around his brother's shoulders. He ran it through his fingers,feeling the fine threads snag against his callused hands as he stared at her rug. He licked his lips and considered. He felt tired. Tea would be nice, but he'd been told he ought not to eat or drink, and he knew why, now, too.

Madam Moria pushed through the curtains, preceded by a heavy tray laden with a teapot and cups. She poured one for herself, and another for Raymond. Csucskari lifted the delicate cup and held it to Raymond's mouth. The hot liquid lapped against his lips, but as yet he could not drink.

"Twenty-four," mumbled Raymond.

"What?" said Csucskari anxiously. "Twenty-four what?"

"Steps," said Raymond. "Twenty-four steps up here," and settled back more fully into the couch.

Csucskari set the cup carefully back on the tray,and turned to where Madam Moria had ensconced herself in an old bentwood rocker. "The scarf and the rug," he said without preamble. "Together, they mean what?"

Startled, she looked up from gazing at the tea in her cup. "Eh? I've no idea. And no time to consider it. I must boil more water for tea. There will be company, soon."

"Who?" He frowned.

"I don't know that either," she said irritably. "Be patient." She creaked up and went back through the tapestry.

Csucskari scowled after her. When he turned back to Owl, his eyes were open. "Well," said Csucskari gently. "You've been a far ways, it seems."

Raymond opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook his head weakly. Tears gathered in his eyes, while a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. At last he said, "I'm coming back, brother. A few moments, is all. I'll be fine, now you've come for me."

Csucskari looked for words to say and found none. Once more he held the cup to Raymond's lips, and Raymond expended most of his gathered strength in taking one feeble sip. Madam Moria and her teakettle had just re-emerged from the kitchen when the door burst open.

Drink from a deep dark pool,

tell me what you taste.

Bitter mountain stream;

Flows like nectar past your lips,

lying there in wait,

Falls from your hand.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

The warmth of the seeping blood inside the bandage made the night seem colder. He wished he could pull his legs up against his body and hoard what warmth was left to him, but his first effort at that had hurt too much. Better to sit still, leaning against the metal and glass that sided the bus shelter. Sit in the dark and dream. The shelter was no bigger than a good-sized box stall; but a stall at least would have had clean straw to rest on and the warm smell of horses to keep him company.

He remembered a master he had once had, so long ago that he could not remember his name, nor anymore about him than that the master'd thought he was saving money and cheating the Coachman by giving him only a room over the stable. The fool never knew that most nights he had taken his blankets down to the stalls, to sleep closer to those who loved him best.

There had been four, black as night and as soft; five if you counted the ill-tempered stud in his iron-barred stall who had sired them. Storm had been his name,as stupid a name for a stallion as the Coachman had ever heard, and it fit him no more than did his reputation for savage behavior. He had wanted a farmhand, that was all, and a man who did not flinch from his angry stamping, nor let the stable boys get away with letting his stall go dirty because they feared him.He had needed a man who would give him space and time with the tall grey mares they brought him to be serviced. Another man had owned him, but only the Coachman had mastered him. And in return, the stallion had sired the four blacks, the three fillies and the colt, who learned their lessons on his lunge line and under his gentle hands. They'd grown well, and earned the braided harness with leather tassels, and the leather-covered rope traces and the owner's finest coach, with its tall box and carved wooden back and sides, and rounded lanterns.

How they'd stepped out for him, heads always high, black legs flashing in unison! As Storm was their father, so the owner called them Wind, Rain, Thunder, and Lightning. But the Coachman had had his own names for them all: Setal, Sztrajktoro, Madar,and Nagyful, and those were how he called them when he spoke to them at night. Those were the names they would come to, no matter what stood between him and them: Snakes or fires or barking dogs. Once Csucskari had wagered that they'd come to him past death itself if he called those names.

He smiled, the foolish smile of a man who is cold and without hope, bleeding in the night, and he muttered their names like a charm. His head drooped forward onto his chest.

Dive into a deep dark pool,

tell me what you feel,

The world you left behind,

Smooth and warm as life,

the living and the dead,

Stars overhead.

"STARS OVERHEAD"

"So," Durand observed as the Caddy idled at a stoplight, "'If Luci is the lady you're all going to kill, and the Gypsy is this Taltoesh guy that can do it, how does the Coachman fit in?"

Ed rolled his eyes at Mike. Stepovich sighed to himself. Let the guy talk himself out first; he'll tell you more that way. This was stuff he should have been teaching Durand all along.

Daniel looked thoughtful. "He is," he groped for words, but found them only in a language none of them spoke. He tried again: "like the one who plays the music that sets the other dancing. He is not a dancer, nor does he even know the steps they must pace, but nevertheless, he is the one…" He lapsed once more into helpless silence, unable to explain the Coachman's role, perhaps scarcely comprehending it himself. Finally, he said, "It was the Coachman who brought us here. And when all is done, it is he who will take us back. And I feel that the Coachman should be there, to witness the doing of our task. Whether we succeed or fail, he will be the one to know of our doing, and to tell those who should know."

Ed made the lights at Woodwright and Quince, but was stopped at Central. He prodded, "Task?"

Daniel took a breath, then spoke, patiently. "To send the Fair Lady back where She belongs."

The silence that followed seemed to echo Daniel's quiet words until Durand, as if struggling with an idea, asked, "This Choo-, uh, Chuch, uh, Csucskari,this scar-faced Gypsy? The Coachman can find him for us?"

When Daniel gave a tentative nod, Durand leaned back, satisfied. "Well, as long as this Coachman can lead us to that sneaky S.O.B., then I'm happy."

The light changed and they passed under I-79 and continued on West Drewry, the boundary of the industrial area and the Fourth Precinct. Daniel gave Durand one puzzled sideways glance, then relaxed. He leaned his wounded head carefully against the seat back, let his hands go lax on his knees. No. Not relaxed. Stepovich studied him unobtrusively. Taking rest while he could. Suddenly, Daniel's long graceful fingers tensed, his dark eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, cocking his head like a dog hearing a distant siren.

"What?" Stepovich demanded.

Daniel's eyes shone brighter than the passing street lights could account for. His hands floated up as if to the signal of an unseen maestro. He began to mime the playing of a fiddle-mimed it with such uncanny precision that Stepovich could almost hear the eerie music drawn forth from the unseen strings.

Neither Durand nor Ed heard anything, judging by their expressions. Ed eased the Caddy to a stop at a red light at Pine. "Maybe that hit on the head," he muttered to Stepovich, sotto voce. Stepovich shrugged, and turned to stare ahead into the night street and the sparse cross traffic.

The light was just ready to turn, Ed was already letting the Caddy creep forward when every hair on Stepovich's body came to attention. Later it would seem to him that first his hide prickled, and then the four black horses drawing the midnight coach came out of the night and crossed their path. Sixteen hooves rose and fell in perfect cadence, high spoked wheels turned soundlessly against black asphalt.

There was no coachman on the box.

"Follow it," Stepovich whispered.

The Caddy didn't move. Stepovich glanced over at Ed, transfixed behind the wheel. "Follow it!" he bellowed, and the big car surged suddenly forward and took a hard left.

"Shit, oh shit," Durand whispered. Stepovich spared him a glance. The kid's eyes were as big as saucers. Daniel was oblivious, playing his invisible instrument faster now. He was smiling through the tears that tracked his face, leaning forward, swaying raptly to his silent music. When Stepovich turned back, the solid black of the coach was still there, but harder to see. It was visible mostly as a shape that blotted out oncoming traffic, storefronts and street signs. The coach was pulling away from them. There was a dim lantern fixed to the back of the coach, and they followed this more than the coach itself.

"Damnit, no horses are going to outpace me," Ed declared, and pushed down on the gas. The heavy car surged forward, and the coach lantern grew. Just as the black coach began to take on details, it turned out of sight. Ed cursed, and gave the Caddy more gas, and took the corner at a speed that pressed Stepovich up against the door. But the coach was moving up the hill at an impossibly smooth fast pace,turning another comer almost as soon as they sighted it. Ed spun loose gravel following it, and was barely in time to see the lantern wink around another corner as the coach turned uphill once more, on Park, passing back under I-79. Other cars went by, but none slowed down; it was as if only they could see the damn thing, which, all things considered, wasn't unlikely.

Ed floored it, sliding the big car through the turn.Daniel swayed, but never ceased playing. Suddenly,the lantern was stationary in front of them. Ed hit the brakes, throwing them all forward, to a chorus of "Jeez, Ed!" from Durand and the steady low, "Watch it, watch it, watch it!" from Stepovich as he braced against the dash.

The Caddy's tires screeched as they slid helplessly forward. All three cops braced for a collision with a coach that was suddenly not there. In front of them,the night flapped like a sheet on a laundry line, and then was still.

"Which way?" Ed demanded angrily of the empty street. But Daniel abruptly stopped playing his invisible instrument, and flung open the door of the Caddy, narrowly missing the pole of the bus-stop sign.

"Help me with him!" he commanded over his shoulder, and then was down on one knee beside a slumped figure on the bench inside the bus shelter.

Durand, Ed and Stepovich exchanged uneasy glances as the Coachman lifted his head slowly and put one hand on Daniel's shoulder. He didn't try to rise, but waited. Finally Stepovich said, "Well, nothing to be afraid of," and moved to open his door. But Durand was already sliding across the back seat and out. Ed and Stepovich watched him crouch slightly to allow the Coachman to get a good grip on his shoulder.

"How many gypsies am I supposed to fit in this Cadillac?" Ed demanded of the night, and Stepovich asked, "That an ethnic joke?" as Durand and Daniel eased the Coachman into the car.

"Nem cigdny vagyok," muttered the Coachman, almost too quietly for anyone to hear.

"What's that mean?" demanded Ed, turning to watch them.

"He said he's not a gypsy," said Daniel.

"He looks like shit," Ed observed congenially."Take him to the hospital?"

"I don't think so," Daniel replied.

"No," said the Coachman, breathing out pain with the word. He drew another ragged breath and gingerly rearranged himself on the seat. "I just got out of there."

"What's wrong with him?" Durand demanded as he got in his side of the car.

The Coachman turned his head to look at Daniel as he and Durand settled into the car on either side.Whatever passed between them seemed to reassure him. He said, "I was bitten by a snake, crushed by a horse with five legs, and gored by a bull with three horns. Of course," he added, "You might see it differently."

"You been gut shot, haven't you?" said Stepovich. It was all coming together for him.

"I knew you'd see it differently," agreed the Coachman.

"Gut shot?" Durand demanded, and again Stepovich sighed, wishing he'd just let the man talk. "Earlier today, at Madam Moria's place?"

The Coachman nodded. The soft cushioning of the seat and the warmth of the Caddy's heater seemed to be reviving him.

"Who did it?" Durand demanded again.

The Coachman shrugged, an elaborately careful gesture. "One of the Fair Lady's tools. If he has a name, I don't know it. After he's been with Her a little longer, neither will he. Those She takes, She takes all from."

"Let me guess," said Durand. "This particular tool was five feet, six inches tall, one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pounds, had short reddish hair, a long face, snub nose with a few freckles, blue eyes set close together, a high forehead. He seemed nervous, and he licked his lips a lot."

Now everyone was staring at Durand, who was staring at the Coachman.

The Coachman said. "Yes. Like that."

Stepovich frowned, "how the hell-?"

Durand smiled. "That's the revised description of the killer in the liquor store holdup. I mentioned that to you."

"I remember."

"I told you I wasn't as stupid as you thought I was."

"Timmy," said Stepovich suddenly.

"Huh?" said Durand.

"His name is Timmy. It must be."

The Coachman nodded. "Of course. The little boy."

"It all fits," said Stepovich. He shifted uneasily in his seat, caught Ed looking at him, but looked away."God, this is weird," he breathed.

"You wanna explain it to me?" Ed offered quietly.

"I don't think I can," Stepovich said. "But our friend Csucskari seems to be off the hook. On one count, anyway."

"Sure," Durand agreed. "Now it's only escaping custody, and the possible murder of the old gypsy woman."

"You like him for the gypsy?" asked Stepovich,watching Durand closely.

"Huh? Of course not. But he's still wanted for it. We can't change that."

Stepovich nodded unhappily. "What next then?"he asked of no one in particular.

"I think," said Daniel carefully, "that we should find this Madam Moria, and that we should not waste time doing it."

The Coachman nodded. "Driver?" He leaned forward slightly and addressed the word to Ed as if it were a title. "You'd best do as he says. Don't spare the horses, for whatever will happen, it won't wait for any of us."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.