The Gypsy Morph

TWO

ANGEL PEREZ WALKS the HOT, dusty streets of her barrio in East LA, her small hand clutching Johnny’s. She hovers beneath the reassuring mantle of his protective shadow, feeling safe and warm. She does not look up at him, because holding his hand is enough to let her know that he is there, looking after her, staying close. The world around her is peaceful and quiet, a reflection of her sense of security, a testament to what being with Johnny means. People are sitting on their stoops and leaning out their windows. Their haggard, worried faces brighten at Johnny’s appearance. Hands wave and voices call out. Johnny’s presence is welcomed by everyone.

She glances up at the sky. It is cloudless and blue, free of the smoke and ash that have plagued it for days. Months. Years. There have been gang activities all through the region, much of it ending in fighting and looting. But Johnny keeps all that away from this neighborhood, and today there is no evidence of it anywhere. The clear sky and the silent air are proof of a fresh cleansing. She smiles, thinking of it. She wonders ifperhaps something good is coming their way. She feels that it might be possible, that a turning of the wheel of fortune is about to occur.

“I am so happy,” she says to Johnny.

He says nothing in response, but words are not necessary when she feels the gentle squeeze of his hand over hers. He understands. He is happy, too.

They walk for a long time, content just to be with each other, like father and daughter, like family. She thinks of them this way, of herself as his daughter, him as her father. There is more to family than shared blood. There is trust and friendship and commitment. She is only eight years old, but she already knows this.

They pass out of the wider streets and into some that are narrower, moving toward the edge of the neighborhood. She is not allowed to go beyond the boundaries that mark their barrio, but he takes her to those boundaries often so that she will know where she is allowed to go in his absence. He travels outside the barrio, but he does not talk of where he goes or what he does. When she asks, he only smiles and says it is necessary. He is her father in all but blood, her best friend and her protector, but there is much about him that is a mystery.

At a corner marked by houses with broken–out windows and crumbling walls, they encounter members of a gang. She knows what they are from their markings, but she does not know their names. Johnny stops at once, confronting them. There are five in all. Their clothes are ragged and dirty, their faces hard and dangerous. They do not have weapons in their hands, but she knows they have them hidden in their clothes. They stare at Johnny for a long time, barely sparing her a glance. Then they turn aside and disappear into the ruins of the buildings.

Johnny does that to people. She has seen it over and over. If they are like these sad creatures, they back away. There is something in his eyes that tells them what will happen if they don’t. There is a presence about him that warns of offering challenge. Johnny never needs to say anything much to those who pose a threat. They instinctively know what they risk and are likely to lose.

The barrio ends at a forest of half walls, steel beams, and rubble piles, all that remains of what was once a warehouse district. The sun beats down on blocks and blocks of silent, empty ruins. Nothing lives here. Nothing will sustain life.

“Walk with me, pococito, ” Johnny whispers to her.

He has never taken her beyond this point, so she is surprised at his request. But she does not refuse. She will go anywhere he wants to take her. Her trust in him is complete and unequivocal. She is not afraid.

They thread their way into the maze, winding down narrow passageways that are more alleyways than streets and in some cases not even that. The air is heavy and thick with dust, and it is difficult to breathe. But she does not complain. She ignores her discomfort and walks with him as if everything were as it should be.

Indeed, with Johnny, how could it ever be anything else?

But as their journey through the surreal landscape continues, she becomes aware of a slow darkening of the sky. It happens gradually and for no apparent reason. There are no clouds, no storms approaching. The sun simply begins to fade until their surroundings are wrapped in twilight. If Johnny notices, he is not telling her. He walks steadily ahead, her hand in his, his stride even and unchanged. She keeps pace, but she is looking around now, wondering. It is midday. How can the light be so dim?

Then suddenly Johnny stops, and his hand releases hers. For a moment, she cannot believe he has let go of her. She stands quietly, motionless in the fading light, waiting for him to join hands again. When he does not and when he says nothing, she looks up at him.

He is no longer there.

He has disappeared.

She catches her breath and shudders. How has this happened? How can he have vanished so completely?

Ahead, a shadow figure appears, cloaked and hooded, its features hidden. It does not move, but stands facing her. She does not know what it is, but it makes her feel cold and alone.

“Quien es? " she calls out, her voice breaking.

The figure says nothing, but starts toward her, moving woodenly through the rubble, cloak billowing out behind it in dark folds. She knows suddenly what it is and what it wants. She knows why Johnny has brought her here and why he has left her.

She waits, already anticipating the inconceivable.

Angel woke suddenly to biting cold and darkness. She lay half buried in a snowdrift, her damaged body stiff and drained of warmth. Her wounds were frozen beneath her clothing and in some places to her clothing, but she could feel almost nothing of the pain. The wind blew in sharp gusts, causing the snow to swirl across the empty landscape in intricate patterns. Particles of ice stung her face where there was still feeling, dancing at the edges of her vision like tiny creatures. Overhead the stars were bright and clear in the cloudless night sky.

She was on the mountain the Elves called Syrring Rise, collapsed in the snow that layered the upper slopes. She had crawled this far after her battle with the demon, seeking to reach the ice caves into which Kirisin and his sister had gone earlier. She had used up the last of her strength to get to where she was, but she already knew that it wasn’t enough to save her.

She was dying.

She was amazed at how readily she embraced the fact, how clearly she recognized it. She should have been fighting against it, struggling to break free of its grip. She knew that the Elves might be in terrible danger from the second demon and have need of her. She knew that if she continued to lie there, to fail to rise and go on, she would be unable to help them. But a deep and pervasive lethargy gripped her, discouraging resistance to its immense weight, leaving her content merely to lie there and accept the dark hands reaching out to gather her in.

She saw the cloaked figure in her dream anew, the one the ghost of Johnny had taken her to meet. Death was waiting patiently for her to come, and now she was almost there. She thought again of the four–legged horror that had brought her to this, a thing of chameleon shapes, first a woman with spiky blond hair and finally a monstrous cat, but always a demon with an insatiable need to destroy her.

Which now, it seemed, it had.

She was tired. She was so tired.

She could feel the tears gather at the corners of her eyes, then trickle down and freeze on her face.

Her hand gripped the carved surface of her black staff, but she could feel no life in it. The warmth that marked its magic was gone and the runes that signaled its readiness, dark and unresponsive.

What should she do? She could continue to crawl forward through the snow, searching for the ice caves and shelter. But she had no idea where they were, and in the darkness there was nothing to show her the way. Her wounds from the battle had drained her of energy and strength, of willpower and purpose. It all felt so hopeless. She knew it was wrong to feel this way, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

The dream, she thought suddenly, had been a premonition of what was coming. She was going to meet Johnny. She was going to where he waited for her, away from this world, away from the madness.

iTienesfrio, Angel? she heard him asking from the darkness. Are you cold? iTienes miedo de morirte? Are you afraid of dying?

“Estoy muy cansado, ” she whispered. So tired.

She would go to him. She would let go of what held her tethered to this world, to her hopes and plans and sense of obligation to the Word and its order. She had done what she could, and she could do no more.

She closed her eyes and began to drift, the sensation both freeing and welcoming. She floated on the promise of a long, deep sleep that would end with her waking in a better place. With Johnny, once more. Her child’s world had been so good with him. That was why he was in her dreams. It was the best of what she remembered of a shattered childhood, of her dead parents, of her world destroyed. Johnny.

Then suddenly he was coming for her, surrounded in a blue light that blazed out of the darkness like a star. She opened her eyes in surprise, the brightness reaching for her, bathing her in warmth. It approached from across the broad expanse of the snowy slope, a steady beam that stretched from far away to draw her in. She lifted her hand in recognition, reaching out to grasp it.

“Angel! ” he called to her.

She watched him materialize out of the blowing snow and dark night, shrouded in a heavy–weather cloak, the blue light shining out of his extended hand. She tried to call back to him, but her mouth was dry and the words came out a thin, hoarse whisper.

“Angel!” he repeated.

“Johnny,” she managed to respond.

He knelt in front of her. The blue light went out. “Angel, it’s Kirisin,” he said, bending close, his young face pinched against the cold.

She stared at him, trying to find Johnny’s face in his young features, failing to do so, and then realizing who it was. Not Johnny. Kirisin. She blinked against her tears. She was back in the real world in an instant, lying cold and exposed on the frozen slopes of Syrring Rise, still alive, but not by much. “Kirisin,” she answered.

He brushed snow from her crumpled body, his eyes scanning her bloodstained clothing. “Can you get up?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“I’m going to help you,” he told her at once. “You’re freezing to death. We have to get you inside, out of the cold.”

He worked himself into position that allowed for decent leverage and put an arm under her body to pull her upright. The pain returned to her in a sharp flood as he did so, the wounds opening anew. But he got her into a sitting position, put both arms around her, and heaved her to her feet. She stood leaning into him, unable to move.

“If you can’t walk, I will carry you,” he told her, his mouth against her ear so that she could hear him through the howl of the wind. “Do you understand me?”

She almost laughed aloud; she knew he was too small for such a task. Nevertheless, she let him try. She brought the black staff around and used it for leverage, putting her weight on it. She found she could take a step by doing so. Then take another step, move the staff, take another step, and so on, while he moved along with her, taking her weight on his shoulders, guiding her with his arms.

“It isn’t far,” he said, breathing hard.

She nodded. Couldn’t speak.

“Is the demon dead?” he asked a moment later. The powdery snow had already formed a layer of white on his hunched body, a cloak of sorts, blown in from the Void. He looked to be a ghost. As she must, too.

She nodded. Dead and gone. “The other one?” she managed to gasp out.

“Dead, too. I’ll explain everything, once we’re inside.”

They labored ahead a few more steps, and then a few more. The snow swirled viciously about them, attacking with tiny, stinging bites. Angel had never been so cold, but at least she was feeling something again. Not everywhere–much of her body was numb and unresponsive–but enough that she could tell herself she was still alive. She thought fleetingly of the dream and of Johnny, leading her from life to death, from this world to the next. It had seemed so real, so close. She had wanted to go with him, to be with him. But now she understood that it was the hurt and the cold that had seduced her. The dream was a trick, a way to steal away her willpower and make her a slave.

She wasn’t ready yet for death. Death would have to wait.

But maybe not for long, she added. She had pushed it away, but it lingered at the edges of her vision and in the corners of her ruined body. It would come to claim her quickly enough if she faltered even a little. Kirisin had saved her for the moment, but only that. If she were to survive this, it would take an immense effort on her part.

An effort that only a Knight of the Word could summon.

She stumbled and nearly went down. Kirisin tightened his grip to hold her upright, pausing in his efforts to guide her until she had regained her balance. She straightened, and her gaze locked on the darkness ahead where the side of the mountain was a black wall rising to meet the stars.

“I almost didn’t find you,” the boy said suddenly, his voice nearly lost in a sudden howling gust of wind. He was struggling for breath, his own strength depleted from his efforts to help her. “I didn’t think of it at first. Too new, I guess. But the Elfstones can find anything. Even you.”

The blue light, she thought. It was the magic of the Elfstones seeking her out in the shroud of darkness. Kirisin had come looking for her using the Elfstones. Clever boy. She wouldn’t have found him on her own, wouldn’t have made it out of the snow and cold. He must have realized this.

“I had given up,” she admitted, her voice a whisper.

He didn’t reply, but his grip tightened about her waist. Don’t give up now, he was saying wordlessly. I’m here for you.

Locked together, they staggered ahead into the night.