to a distant point where fairy lights danced. The lights grew larger and resolved into torches and lanterns and cook-fires around which a dozen
vardos
were set. The sides and doors of the brightly colored wagons were carved with horses, birds, lions, griffins, flowers and vines interlaced with elaborate scrollwork. The vardos formed a loose circle around the camp and at its center was a dirt ring edged by a hand-packed rim of raised mud. Men and women sat on wooden folding chairs or sprawled on wildly patterned woven blankets. Children wrestled and played on the fringes or sat in the shadows of their parents to watch the entertainment. Lawrence sat on his mount and watched, too.
A handful of musicians played a rolling, hypnotic tune as a dark-haired, red-lipped, olive-skinned woman danced with erotic abandon in the center of the ring. As she whirled her many skirts floated high enough to show the sleek and muscular curves of her naked legs; sweat pasted her sheer half-blouse to her full breasts,and her eyes flashed dark fire as she moved. She moved like a snake. She had complete control over every muscle and her body rippled and twisted into impossibly erotic shapes as the firelight caressed her flesh.
Lawrence swallowed a throatful of dust and had to shake his head to clear it of her seductive magic. He dismounted and led the horse into a space between two wagons, watching the woman twist and turn and leap and undulate.
“ ’Chavaia!”
cried a harsh voice and Lawrence turned to see a burly Gypsy emerged from the shadows, a rifle in his hands. The barrel was not pointed at Lawrence, but the man held it with professional competence and there was no smile of welcome on his dark face.
“I—” Lawrence began, but the man fired off a long string of incomprehensible words in Romany. Before Lawrence could protest his ignorance a boy slipped from behind the man and held up a warning hand. The boy wore baggy trousers that were gathered at his waist with a red sash, a white shirt and a black vest stitched with vines.
The boy listened to what the man said, and then looked up at Lawrence. “He says you must come into the camp and stay with us now.”
“What?” Lawrence said, surprised.
“The woods are not safe.”
It was then that Lawrence noticed that the man with the rifle was not looking at him, but was instead glaring into the shadows of the forest behind him.
“Take your horse, your honor?”
The boy could not have been more than eight or nine, but he already had a smile that was on the unctuous side of earnest. The double entrendre of his question was not lost on Lawrence.
Take your horse, indeed.
Lawrence fished a coin from his pocket and made sure that he jingled the coins so that the child could hear the promise of others. He handed a coin to the boy along with the reins and watched as the boy expertly tied the gelding to a young tree. As the horse turned in place the boy caught sight of the rifle in its sturdy leather scabbard. It made the child pause and flick an uncertain look at Lawrence, who returned the look with a knowing smile.
Lawrence showed a second coin to the boy, producing it with a sleight of hand he’d learned long ago in his earliest days in the theater.
“Here’s a second so you don’t touch that,” he said and then magically produced another. “And a third to take me to whomever sells these . . .”
With his other hand he drew Ben’s medallion from his vest pocket and held it up so that it caught sparks from the campfires.
The boy paused halfway to taking the coins and the sight of the medal wiped the smile from the child’s face. He looked at the image of St. Columbanus and the wolves as it turned slowly in the fire light, then back at the guard with the rifle, who gave a terse nod, and then up at Lawrence. He accepted the coins solemnly, all traces of Artful Dodger impishness gone from his face. Several seconds drifted past before he decided to accept that third
vardos
were set. The sides and doors of the brightly colored wagons were carved with horses, birds, lions, griffins, flowers and vines interlaced with elaborate scrollwork. The vardos formed a loose circle around the camp and at its center was a dirt ring edged by a hand-packed rim of raised mud. Men and women sat on wooden folding chairs or sprawled on wildly patterned woven blankets. Children wrestled and played on the fringes or sat in the shadows of their parents to watch the entertainment. Lawrence sat on his mount and watched, too.
A handful of musicians played a rolling, hypnotic tune as a dark-haired, red-lipped, olive-skinned woman danced with erotic abandon in the center of the ring. As she whirled her many skirts floated high enough to show the sleek and muscular curves of her naked legs; sweat pasted her sheer half-blouse to her full breasts,and her eyes flashed dark fire as she moved. She moved like a snake. She had complete control over every muscle and her body rippled and twisted into impossibly erotic shapes as the firelight caressed her flesh.
Lawrence swallowed a throatful of dust and had to shake his head to clear it of her seductive magic. He dismounted and led the horse into a space between two wagons, watching the woman twist and turn and leap and undulate.
“ ’Chavaia!”
cried a harsh voice and Lawrence turned to see a burly Gypsy emerged from the shadows, a rifle in his hands. The barrel was not pointed at Lawrence, but the man held it with professional competence and there was no smile of welcome on his dark face.
“I—” Lawrence began, but the man fired off a long string of incomprehensible words in Romany. Before Lawrence could protest his ignorance a boy slipped from behind the man and held up a warning hand. The boy wore baggy trousers that were gathered at his waist with a red sash, a white shirt and a black vest stitched with vines.
The boy listened to what the man said, and then looked up at Lawrence. “He says you must come into the camp and stay with us now.”
“What?” Lawrence said, surprised.
“The woods are not safe.”
It was then that Lawrence noticed that the man with the rifle was not looking at him, but was instead glaring into the shadows of the forest behind him.
“Take your horse, your honor?”
The boy could not have been more than eight or nine, but he already had a smile that was on the unctuous side of earnest. The double entrendre of his question was not lost on Lawrence.
Take your horse, indeed.
Lawrence fished a coin from his pocket and made sure that he jingled the coins so that the child could hear the promise of others. He handed a coin to the boy along with the reins and watched as the boy expertly tied the gelding to a young tree. As the horse turned in place the boy caught sight of the rifle in its sturdy leather scabbard. It made the child pause and flick an uncertain look at Lawrence, who returned the look with a knowing smile.
Lawrence showed a second coin to the boy, producing it with a sleight of hand he’d learned long ago in his earliest days in the theater.
“Here’s a second so you don’t touch that,” he said and then magically produced another. “And a third to take me to whomever sells these . . .”
With his other hand he drew Ben’s medallion from his vest pocket and held it up so that it caught sparks from the campfires.
The boy paused halfway to taking the coins and the sight of the medal wiped the smile from the child’s face. He looked at the image of St. Columbanus and the wolves as it turned slowly in the fire light, then back at the guard with the rifle, who gave a terse nod, and then up at Lawrence. He accepted the coins solemnly, all traces of Artful Dodger impishness gone from his face. Several seconds drifted past before he decided to accept that third
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