Wild Magic

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chu ma vay yal chu ma vay yal

The noise whispered down the Lane along with the ominous rumble of a STRIKER band’s tramping feet.

Utsapisha lifted her head, swore vigorously. “You better duck,” she told the sailor who’d just handed her a copper shabo for a pie. She tucked the coin into a sleeve pocket, jerked a long bony thumb at the bend in the land. “Hear that? Them jeggers is trouble.”

chu ma vay yal chu ma vay yal

The short blond sailor licked juice off the side of his hand, shrugged. “None a my business.”

“Up to you, bavv. They feel like trompin you, they gon’ do it.”

“Huh?”

“Might. Don’ like fora-ners, that’s you, bavv.”

He blinked at her, listened to the SOUND getting louder, coming closer. “Ahsan, Ma.” He flipped a finger at his brow and went trotting off, vanishing down the wynd between a tenement and the boarded-up shop behind her.

“Pemmie, scoot. Get home. Now.”

“Zazi, you…”

“I mean it. Move y’ tail, hon. Or I’m gon’ whip it off when I get ahold a you.”

CHU MA VAY YAL CHU MA VAY YAL Pemmie scowled unhappily at her grandmother, then at the bend in the lane. “Vema, vema, but you take care, you hear?”

“Scat.”

Pemmie walked away, dragging her feet and repeatedly looking over her shoulder.

Utsapisha kept an eye on her until she turned into a wynd, then settled herself more solidly in her chair, smoothed the rag of veil over her broad face.

CHU MA VAY YAL CM MA VAY YAL The STRIKER band came stomping and chanting around the bend, the Prophet a pace in front of them.

Faharmoy stopped when he came even with Utsapisha, stood in the center of the lane staring at her. “Woman,” he called. “Come here.”

Utsapisha sniffed, but she’d lived long enough to learn a little prudence. She bowed her head, tucked her hands in her sleeves, spoke as sweetly and softly as she could manage. “I am an old woman, heshim Prophet, walk-in’s hard, standin’s worse.” She didn’t move.

He grunted and crossed the Lane to her. “Why do you expose yourself in a public street, woman? Why are you not in your house where you belong?”

Jeggin Mal, what the Jann you know about how folks live? Utsapisha sucked in a breath, wriggled her nose under the veil. “I’m a poor woman, heshim. I earn my living makin’ food for hungry folk. It’s honest work.”

“It is not a woman’s place to earn.”

“I am a widow, heshim Prophet. What am I to do, starve?”

“A contumacious and contentious woman. I have seen you fouling your mouth and your sex by the filth that comes out of you. Obscene and froward, forcing your daughters before the eyes of drunkards and foreigners.”

Utsapisha shivered, frightened; he was glaring at her, but she didn’t think he really saw her. What he WAS seeing, she didn’t know and didn’t_, want to know.

The Prophet gestured and two of the Cheoshim ran forward, started rocking the frycart, splashing her with oil from the pot. She squealed with outrage as she slapped at the smoldering drops, gathered folds of cloth, crushing them between her hands to smother the small fires, yelled as the cart crashed onto its side, spewing oil over the boardwalk, dumping the coals in the firepan over the oil. The walk began to burn about her feet. She struggled to get up-yelled again as another two Cheoshim grabbed her arms, lifted her onto her feet and hurried her out into the Lane.

“The flogging posts,” the Prophet said. “Let her learn the cost of her acts.”