coin.
“You want to talk to Maleva,” he said softly and with grim reverence.
“I expect so,” agreed Lawrence. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The boy did not ask who “MacDuff” was, figuring it for some foreign phrase. He pocketed the coins and gestured for Lawrence to follow him into the camp. As they passed by, the Gypsies watched him with calculated interest.There were fifty or more of them, many of them tinkering away on pots and sham jewelry, a few stringing beads and others engrossed in embroidering flowers on clothing. Cooking pots charmed him with rare spices and a roasted pig sizzled with juices as it was turned on a slow spit. A few of the more dangerous-looking men appraised him for whatever threat he might pose, or risk he might bring, while others calculated his value as a well-heeled customer. Everyone in the camp looked at Lawrence as he passed by, and he knew that each of them, from the youngest child to the oldest crone, could value his clothing and accoutrements to the last halfpenny.
Just beyond the dancing circle Lawrence saw a big cage on wheels in which a lumpy animal squatted dispiritedly behind the stout bars: the dancing bear the publican had mentioned. But Lawrence sneered inwardly, knowing that this mangy old beast could not have caught his brother, let alone killed him. The poor creature looked more than halfway into its own grave.
The boy led him to one vardo that sat apart from the others, tucked farther back under the boughs of a diseased maple whose leaves had been chewed to lace by moths. A pair of lanterns hung from posts beside the short stairs that led up to the colorful door of the wagon, and tapestries of almost regal beauty were hung on lines to create a palatial setting. Whoever this Maleva was, he thought, she must be of great importance.
The boy stopped just outside the spill of lantern light from the wagon. He pointed to a figure seated on a stool outside of the vardo and then, without a further word, he retreated back to the music and noise of the main camp. The boy wasted no time in leaving the vicinity of the figure seated in the shadows.
Lawrence had no such reservations and he strodestraight toward the figure. From twenty feet away he could tell that it was a woman, but as he drew close it was clear that the woman was ancient. Maleva sat hunched over, a colorful shawl pulled close around her bony shoulders. A thin cigarillo bobbed between her lips as she hummed along with the distant music. She heard Lawrence approach but without even turning her head she said, “You wish to have your fortune told?”
He stopped a few feet away and held out the medal of St. Columbanus. He stood silent, waiting for Maleva to turn. As she did the bored expression on the old woman’s face darkened and when she raised her eyes from the medal to meet Lawrence’s gaze she gave him a look of mingled dread and sadness. Maleva slowly reached out a thin and wrinkled hand to take the medal.
She held it for a moment, then closed her eyes and pressed the medallion to her chest. Maleva bowed her head, nodding to herself as if confirming a dreaded suspicion.
“You had better come inside,” she murmured.
C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
T he vardo looked like a junk shop to Lawrence. Strings of cheap beads hung from the rafters, dozens of bad imitations of holy relics overflowed from drawers and chests, and a pot of “good luck” coins had cracked and spilled its contents onto the floor. But past this debris there was another layer to the décor made up entirely of boxes of herbs and pots of compounds made from roots and exotic flowers. Strings of wrinkled plants and strange fruit hung drying in the corners, and streamers of animal hide were nailed to the wooden walls. Maleva waved Lawrence to a three-legged chair and he had to move aside several bolts of beautiful fabric to give himself leg room on the other side of a small divination table.
Maleva laid the medallion on the tabletop, and
“You want to talk to Maleva,” he said softly and with grim reverence.
“I expect so,” agreed Lawrence. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The boy did not ask who “MacDuff” was, figuring it for some foreign phrase. He pocketed the coins and gestured for Lawrence to follow him into the camp. As they passed by, the Gypsies watched him with calculated interest.There were fifty or more of them, many of them tinkering away on pots and sham jewelry, a few stringing beads and others engrossed in embroidering flowers on clothing. Cooking pots charmed him with rare spices and a roasted pig sizzled with juices as it was turned on a slow spit. A few of the more dangerous-looking men appraised him for whatever threat he might pose, or risk he might bring, while others calculated his value as a well-heeled customer. Everyone in the camp looked at Lawrence as he passed by, and he knew that each of them, from the youngest child to the oldest crone, could value his clothing and accoutrements to the last halfpenny.
Just beyond the dancing circle Lawrence saw a big cage on wheels in which a lumpy animal squatted dispiritedly behind the stout bars: the dancing bear the publican had mentioned. But Lawrence sneered inwardly, knowing that this mangy old beast could not have caught his brother, let alone killed him. The poor creature looked more than halfway into its own grave.
The boy led him to one vardo that sat apart from the others, tucked farther back under the boughs of a diseased maple whose leaves had been chewed to lace by moths. A pair of lanterns hung from posts beside the short stairs that led up to the colorful door of the wagon, and tapestries of almost regal beauty were hung on lines to create a palatial setting. Whoever this Maleva was, he thought, she must be of great importance.
The boy stopped just outside the spill of lantern light from the wagon. He pointed to a figure seated on a stool outside of the vardo and then, without a further word, he retreated back to the music and noise of the main camp. The boy wasted no time in leaving the vicinity of the figure seated in the shadows.
Lawrence had no such reservations and he strodestraight toward the figure. From twenty feet away he could tell that it was a woman, but as he drew close it was clear that the woman was ancient. Maleva sat hunched over, a colorful shawl pulled close around her bony shoulders. A thin cigarillo bobbed between her lips as she hummed along with the distant music. She heard Lawrence approach but without even turning her head she said, “You wish to have your fortune told?”
He stopped a few feet away and held out the medal of St. Columbanus. He stood silent, waiting for Maleva to turn. As she did the bored expression on the old woman’s face darkened and when she raised her eyes from the medal to meet Lawrence’s gaze she gave him a look of mingled dread and sadness. Maleva slowly reached out a thin and wrinkled hand to take the medal.
She held it for a moment, then closed her eyes and pressed the medallion to her chest. Maleva bowed her head, nodding to herself as if confirming a dreaded suspicion.
“You had better come inside,” she murmured.
C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
T he vardo looked like a junk shop to Lawrence. Strings of cheap beads hung from the rafters, dozens of bad imitations of holy relics overflowed from drawers and chests, and a pot of “good luck” coins had cracked and spilled its contents onto the floor. But past this debris there was another layer to the décor made up entirely of boxes of herbs and pots of compounds made from roots and exotic flowers. Strings of wrinkled plants and strange fruit hung drying in the corners, and streamers of animal hide were nailed to the wooden walls. Maleva waved Lawrence to a three-legged chair and he had to move aside several bolts of beautiful fabric to give himself leg room on the other side of a small divination table.
Maleva laid the medallion on the tabletop, and
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