“Yes, Buba, just so,” I say. “You have taught me, and I hope I have taught you. I give you that deck. If you practice, you will be better at it than I in a very short time. I hope you will use it wisely.”
She looks at me, her dark gaze level.
“I will, Ja-elle,” she whispers. “But are you sure there is no Roma in you?”
She smiles as I rise to go.
“I would be proud to have Romani blood in me, Buba, and I—”
I don’t get any further, as a breathless Medca comes rushing to us.
“Trouble, Buba!” she cries, her voice full of fear. “Men from the town. They say they are the police... They are with Zoltan now!”
Buba Nadya Vadoma and I are up in an instant. We go to the center of the wagons, and sure enough, Zoltan stands tall and furious before six very heavily armed men. I get close and listen. A small fat man with a red sash across his chest is pointing his pudgy finger at Zoltan and speaking.
“So you see, gypsy man, this is the situation. You and your people come here unbidden and squat upon the sacred land of Cartagena! Ah, but you have not paid money to camp on the public land of Cartagena, oh, no. I am Don Pedro de Castro, Jefe de la Policia, and I demand that money in the name of the good people of Cartagena!”
“But, Jefe,” says Zoltan. “We have always been welcome here. Come, good sir, have some wine and let us talk this over.”
“We want none of your wine, as it is sure to be poisoned,” says the oily little man, all puffed up in his importance. “What we want is two hundred reales!”
“Madre di Dios!” exclaims Zoltan. “We cannot possibly raise that amount of money! We are poor travelers!”
“If you do not,” hisses the Chief of Police, “we shall imprison your people and burn your filthy wagons. We have the militia to do that—hundreds of soldiers. We will put your men to labor, and your women to... other things. Do you get my meaning?”
He grins, showing crooked teeth through a thick black mustache.
Zoltan stands stricken, but I do not. I turn away and head for our wagon. On the way, I see Medca’s sister Dika.
“Dika,” I cry. “Get me three oranges, cut in half and laid on a tray! Bring it to our wagon, now!”
Mystified by all that is happening, she goes to do it. I plunge into the back of the wagon, open my seabag, and pull out a certain bottle, one filled with a purple liquid. I am withdrawing the cork with my teeth as Dika comes in with the tray of sliced oranges.
I take my shiv and make cuts into the orange flesh and then pour my Tincture of Mushroom over them. The fruits seem to suck it up avidly. I recork the now half-empty bottle and toss it back into my bag.
“Thanks, Dika,” I say, as I pick up the tray and head out toward the very one-sided parley.
I do not go up and offer the fruit to the policia, oh, no. What I do is skirt by them, as if I am trying to escape notice.
“Here!” shouts one of the armed men upon seeing me. “What are those?”
I drop my gaze down into one of complete submission. “Th-these, Sir? They are special treats for a wedding party. It is tradition... for the bride and groom only.”
“Ha!” says the Jefe. “Bring them here! What need dirty gypsies of weddings? All they do is rut like dogs in ditches! Give ’em over!”
Meekly, I hand over the tray, and soon purple juice is coursing down the greasy jowls of the Chief of Police and those of his cohorts.
Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he announces, “So that is the way of it. Two hundred reales in my hand tomorrow, or the lot of you will be tossed in prison and your wagons burned. Comprende? Good.”
He looks about, clearly enjoying his display of power.
“Now,” he continues, preparing to leave, “I will take a hostage to insure that you will not just pack up and leave. Who shall it be? Someone young and comely, I hope.”
His men chortle in glee at the great man’s wit.
I step forward and say, “I will be the hostage.”
The Jefe looks me over. “She will certainly do. What do you say, men?”
They agree heartily, with much low laughter and rude gestures in my direction.
“Very well,” says the head man. “Let us leave this pigsty.” He points his finger at Zoltan. “Tomorrow, noon, or face the consequences, gypsy.”
If looks could kill, all six of the worms would lie dead on the ground before him, but looks do not kill and noble Zoltan must stand helpless before these petty thieves.
A rope is tied around my neck and I am pulled away and dragged off. But before I am gone, I lock eyes with Buba Nadya Vadoma, who stands with hands clenched and held tight to her sides, and understanding passes between us. She knows I offered myself up as hostage because I knew that if the scum tried to take a real Romani girl, there would have been riot, the consequences be damned, and it would have been a disaster for our band.
What she does not know is that I have an ace up my sleeve, one that I have already put into play. As she mutters what I am sure are dark curses upon the scurvy heads of those who take me off, I give her a secret smile and a very broad wink.
Much later, I come strolling back into camp, idly twirling the rope that had been around my neck and whistling a merry tune, which I do believe is “Whistling Gypsy,” ah yes, a slightly more upbeat version of “Black Jack Davy,” which I had previously performed around the campfire for the enjoyment of my Roma friends, and which seems real appropriate right now.
As I enter the center of the circled wagons, I am greeted with astonishment by Zoltan and Buba Nadya Vadoma, who seems no less astonished to see me return, apparently unharmed.
“What the hell, girl?” exclaims Zoltan. “What is going on? What happened? What... ?”
“Although there is no longer a threat to us from the Jefe de la Policia, whom I last saw climbing the steeple of the Cathedral de Santa Maria la Vieja, stark nak*d and proclaiming himself to be the new mayor of Cartagena...” I say, all nonchalant, “... and although all his henchmen are now in jail or the insane asylum, and the political future of Don Pedro de Castro, Chief of Police, looks grim—he did take a few pistol shots at the present mayor on his way up the steeple—it might be better, Papa Zoltan, if we did break camp and push on.”
He needs no further urging and barks out orders. Bags are packed and thrown into wagons, kids rounded up and tossed in same, horses put in harness, and the wagons begin to form the line...
. . . but not before Buba Nadya points her finger at me and crooks that same gnarled finger into a summons for me to meet her in her wagon. No mistaking that look.
I obey the summons, but not before I collect my seabag, for I know what she will be asking.
“So explain, Ja-elle,” she says upon my entry. “And no nonsense about spells and such.”
I open my bag and pull out the half-empty bottle of purple liquid and put it on her side table. Then I open my paper packet of three dried mushrooms and place two of them beside the bottle, keeping the third one for myself to maybe show Dr. Sebastian, or Mr. Sackett, whichever of the two scientists I happen to meet up with first.
“Now, Buba, what you must do is chop up the mushrooms very fine and then boil them in about a cup of water, strain the liquid, then add an equal amount of brandy.”
She nods warily. “And what does this potion do?”
“It makes those who drink it see things somewhat... differently,” I say. “Like those men who had taken me today? Well, several of them thought to have some sport with my poor self and made so bold as to run their rough hands over me. But then, suddenly, their attention was somehow distracted and they began to talk of purple clouds and purple birds flying about their heads, and other such things, and I was no longer bothered, as they seemed to have better things to do, like staring off into the distance with drool running down their chins, muttering about wonderful visions—visions far more wonderful than some skinny little gypsy girl.”
“Hmmm,” says Buba. “Strange things you tell to me, Ja-elle.”
“Well, you be careful with this stuff, Buba,” I say. “You do not need to be known as more of a witch than you already are.”
She snorts and gives me a level stare and again points her finger at my face.
“This old woman wonders”—she says with a slight smile and a shake of the head—“which of us is really the witch.”
Well, I was once called a witch, back there in Puritan Boston that time, but it wasn’t true.
Not really.
Chapter 51
James Long Boy Fletcher, Envoy
House of Chen
Onboard the Vessel Mary Bissell
In the South Atlantic
Headed West
Jacky Faber
Location ?
Dearest Jacky,
Actually, I get the feeling that you are somewhere close—like perhaps in the same hemisphere. I am probably wrong in that, but still . . .
It is dawn on our first day out of Cape Town, and I stand on the deck and look out over the calm and rolling sea.
No, I did not have to face the obnoxious Mr. Skelton on the field, or, rather, the deck of honor. No, I did not, as that gentleman departed rather hurriedly in Cape Town and has not been seen since.
Upon seeing the intent of Mr. Skelton and me to face each other on his deck, the Captain decreed that we meet after Cape Town, which was certainly agreeable to me and, hearing me say that I was unfamiliar with pistols, lent me two of his own with which to practice. I have the feeling that he did not like Mr. Skelton very much and, being a Yankee, wished to see a somewhat fair fight.
Assisted by young Master Jeremiah Lowe, I took up a position on the fantail, behind the quarterdeck, upon which Captain van Pelt habitually stood, and in plain sight of Mr. Skelton.
I bade Jeremiah scare up some empty bottles from the mess deck and line them up on the fantail’s rail.
After making a show of listening carefully on how to load the pistols, I called up to Captain van Pelt, “What will be the procedure for this... duel... as it is called?”
“You and Mr. Skelton will stand right there, back to back, with pistol in hand. At my call, you will each step off ten paces, turn, and fire. Is that clear, Mr. Cheung?”
“Yes, Captain. Most clear. Like this?”
I stand with my back to the bottles and begin walking forward, while counting, one, two, three, four...
At ten, I turn, raise the pistol, and blast the first bottle to the right. It disappears in a shower of glass.
“Very much like that, Mr. Cheung,” says Captain van Pelt, chuckling and looking back at a suddenly very concerned Mr. Skelton. “But perhaps it was a lucky shot.”
“This humble person is sure it was that,” I say, as I strip off my fine Chinese jacket and stand forth in loose white shirt. I roll up my sleeves to show my Shaolin dragon—Jeremiah gasps in admiration—and take up another pistol.
I go through the procedure once more, and again a bottle meets its fate.
“I see that it is a thing my Zen masters would appreciate,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Mind, body, eyesight... and bullet winging to target. Very much of a spiritual thing.”
Jeremiah has reloaded both pistols and I take them up. I do not bother stepping off the paces but merely send the last two bottles shattering into space.