Read Page 149

Later in the day, Mrs. Nightwing relents and has us help Brigid prepare a basket of food and medicine for Mother Elena as an act of charity.

“Mother Elena has been here as long as I have,” our headmistress says, packing a jar of plum preserves neatly into the basket. “I remember when Ithal was a boy. I hate to think of them gone.”Advertisement

Brigid pats Nightwing’s shoulder and she stiffens under the sympathy. “Still, it won’t do to forgive the vandalism.”

“Poor old madwoman,” Brigid says. “She looks worn as my handkerchief.”

Regret shows itself briefly on our headmistress’s face. She tucks in an extra tin of lozenges. “There now. Will someone volunteer to take this to—”

“I will!” I blurt out, and loop my arm through the basket before anyone else can take it.

The sky threatens rain. Clouds gather in angry clumps, ready to unleash their fury. I hurry through the woods to the Gypsy camp, holding tightly to the basket. The Gypsy women are not happy to see me. They fold their arms and eye me suspiciously.

“I’ve come with food and medicine for Mother Elena,” I explain.

“We do not want your food,” an older woman with gold coins woven into her long braid says. “It is marime—unclean.”

“I only want to help,” I say.

Kartik speaks to the women in Romani. The conversation is heated—I hear the word gadje used bitterly—and occasionally, they glance back at me, scowls on their faces. But at last, the woman with the long braid agrees to let me see Mother Elena, and I scurry off to Mother Elena’s wagon and pull the bell attached to a nail.

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“Come,” she calls in a weak voice.

The wagon smells of garlic. Several heads of it sit on a table by a mortar and pestle. The wagon’s sides are lined with shelves housing various tinctures and herbs in glass jars. Small metal charms live there as well, and I’m surprised to see a small statue of Kali tucked between two bottles, though I have heard that the Gypsies came from India long, long ago. I run my fingers over the figure—the four arms, the long tongue, the demon’s head in one hand, and the bloody sword in another.

“What do you look at?” Mother Elena calls. I see her face through a large bottle, her features distorted by the glass.

“You have a talisman of Kali,” I answer.

“The Terrible Mother.”

“The goddess of destruction.”

“The destruction of ignorance,” Mother Elena says, correcting me. “She is the one to help us walk through the fire of knowledge, to know our darkness that we should not fear it but should be freed, for there is both chaos and order within us. Come where I can see you.”

She sits in her bed, shuffling a deck of worn tarot cards absently. Her breathing is heavy. “Why have you come?”

“I’ve brought food and medicine from Mrs. Nightwing. But they tell me you will not eat it.”

“I am an old woman. I will do as I please.” She nods for me to open the basket. I present the cheese. She sniffs and makes a terrible face. I put it away at once and take out the bread, which she nods to. She tears off small bits with her craggy hands.

“I try to warn them,” she says suddenly.

“What is it you tried to warn them about?”

Her hand wanders to her hair, which wants a good brushing. “Carolina died in the fire.”

“I know,” I say, swallowing against the raw tickle at the back of my throat. “It was a long time ago.”

“No. What’s past is never past. It is not finished,” she mumbles. She chokes on the bread and I pour her a glass of water and help her take small sips until the spasm subsides. “What opens one way can be opened the other,” she whispers as she rubs the talisman that hangs from her neck.

“What do you mean?”

The dogs bark. I hear Kartik soothing them, and one of the Gypsy women chiding him for petting them.

“One of them brings the dead to us.”

A chill works its way up my spine. “One of them brings the dead?” I repeat. “Who?”

Mother Elena doesn’t answer. She turns over a tarot card. It has a picture of a tall tower struck by lightning. Flames leap from the windows, and two hapless people fall to the rocks below.

I put my fingers to the terrible card as if I could stop it.

“Destruction and death,” Mother Elena explains. “Change and truth.”

The tent flaps open suddenly, making me jump. The Gypsy woman with the long dark braid eyes me with suspicion. She asks Mother Elena a question sharply in her native tongue. Mother Elena answers. The woman holds open the curtain to the tent. pqdm.com