The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  The man seemed convinced by my small lie—at least I hoped so, as he closed the window without another word, and the light went out. A few moments later we heard the bolts being drawn back on the heavy pub door. The landlord, whose name we learned was Flint, came out in a mackintosh and heavy work boots, carrying his lamp. He inspected us thoroughly.

  ‘Gypsy girl?’ he asked, rudely.

  ‘Indian,’ I lied again, mustering a tone of indignation. ‘I’ve been serving abroad for a long time.’

  The challenge to the man’s values was laid down. It would be improper for him to question me about whether I had taken a foreign wife or a foreign servant, but the implication in either case was that I was his superior, and he had already strayed too close to the line drawn by propriety. Flint merely nodded and turned away, leading us to the stables.

  When we stepped inside out of the rain, he indicated a little neck-or-nothing gig and a sturdy pony.

  ‘I can spare this ’un. But it’s most irreg’lar—I’ll have ten shillings; we’ll see about the change if’n you bring it back.’

  ‘Be a good fellow and get her ready, and I’ll make it a guinea.’ I took out a note from the roll I had taken from the late Commander Denny, and watched as Flint’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.

  Flint could not work fast enough thereafter, and in ten minutes we were ready to go. With a parting word of thanks to our ungracious saviour, we rattled off down the road back to the camp. Our only hope was that the Othersiders had not pinpointed the location of Rosanna’s people—they would have to search the countryside based on their best intelligence, whilst we could go there directly. We had lost over an hour, though, and could only pray we would not be too late.

  FOURTEEN

  The caravans were burning. Lit in the roaring flames, Rosanna’s face would have been hard as stone, were it not for the tears streaming down her cheeks. Men were running to and fro with pails of water, trying to put out the worst blazes, whilst horses bolted terrified into the woods. The rain had eased to a pitiful drizzle just when we needed the elements to do their worst.

  I leapt from the gig, pistol in hand. Another arc of lightning flickered out from the black treeline, illuminating the scene of abject panic for a split second before sparks flew from the side of a tent and the canvas went up in flames. I dashed towards the location of the shot, leaping over the remains of the night’s cook-fire as I went. A few frightened gypsies recognised me, but were too caught up in their own fearful efforts to intervene. All except one, that is; as I neared the treeline I saw the towering figure of Gregor bellowing orders in the Romani language, pushing fleeing men back towards the fires and using his imposing presence to lead his people. He may have been doing his best to save the camp, but I needed his help more than those painted caravans did. I slapped him on the shoulder—he spun around wide-eyed, and seemed relieved to see me.

  ‘We are under attack!’ I cried. ‘The enemy is there. Take this and follow me!’ I tossed him a shotgun and pointed to the trees. He snatched the weapon out of the air, and followed me without a word, vengeance burning in his eyes.

  Dawn was approaching, and the sky was taking on a pale yellowish hue, though the woods were still unsettlingly dark. We separated, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, but being careful to keep each other in sight at all times. The agents had evidently moved on from their initial vantage point, perhaps unaware that we were on their trail.

  Then I saw it—less than twenty yards ahead, beyond some low scrub, a tiny dot of red light, like a glowing cigarette on the draw. It was followed instantly by a flash of blue light, and screams from the gypsy camp. I need say nothing, as Gregor saw it too and sprang forwards through the bushes, shotgun readied. I was several paces behind him. I heard a cry of alarm, followed by the boom of the shotgun. I barrelled through the undergrowth, to see Gregor standing over the prone figure of a man in a black suit. The whining sound began to rise from the agent’s body, but there was no time to lose searching the man.

  ‘I am certain there’s another. Be alert!’ I hissed.

  Gregor needed no instruction, until he chanced a look back at the body of the felled man, and saw the corpse dissipate into so many specks of light, before fading into thin air.

  ‘By all that is holy!’ he cried. ‘What are we fighting? Are these men, or phantoms?’

  ‘Sometimes they are both,’ I replied, scanning every shadow in search of my prey. I was glad Gregor was a man of such stern stuff, for a lesser ally would have been frightened out of his wits to see such a thing with no prior warning. ‘Gregor, listen—they are here for the girls, the Five Sisters. Don’t ask me why, but they wish them harm. Where are they?’

  ‘Why, they are…’ he began, but he was cut off by a blood-curdling scream that pierced all of the sounds of commotion at the gypsy camp.

  We raced back whence we had come, Gregor leading the way to the tent of the Five Sisters, for he knew instinctively what was happening. Two girls were fleeing the tent, running towards us, with Rosanna close behind them, pushing them away. As we reached the tent-flap, a Romani man staggered out of it, blood gushing from his throat. Gregor did not check his stride—he brushed past the wounded man and burst into the tent, his bravery and rage driving him forward with equal power. Before I could step inside, there was a flash of brilliant light from within, and I saw several figures silhouetted through the canvas in a tableau of battle. The tent caught fire in an instant, but I dived though the flap and into the fray.

  ‘You! You should be dead!’ screamed a woman. I recognised the voice at once. Lillian was before me, pointing a pistol at us, whilst holding a knife to the throat of a Romani girl, whom I recognised as Rosanna’s sister, Nadya. Another of the sisters, Elsbet, lay on the floor of the tent, her throat slit from ear to ear and her vitality drained in a great pool, staining her pretty dress crimson. The fire spread all around us, and I could feel the heat at my back.

  ‘Let her go, Lillian,’ I said, trying to sound calm.

  ‘Do not call me that!’ she snapped. ‘Never—not you! I am leaving this rats’ nest alive, and you are going to let me, do you understand? Or this girl dies.’

  ‘Is she not one of the witches that you hate so much? You will kill her anyway… we both know that. Let her go and put down the weapons, and you will be spared.’ I noticed that there was another tent-flap opposite us, directly behind the agent—she would escape us unless I could think quickly. If only I’d had the time to prime the Derringer device I had acquired, I would have been able to use the element of surprise—but alas, I had no such resource to call upon.

  ‘Do you understand nothing?’ she cried. ‘What matter my life compared to the lives of a world. Do you think I would barter with you, or allow myself to become your captive? This will not happen. Back away, unless you want us all to burn alive!’

  ‘I understand—but you must also understand that we both fight to save a world. You from forces unknown, and I from you! And I swear to you, I will fight every bit as hard. If you kill this girl, there is no universe in which you can hide!’ As I spoke, my rage increased—logic and reason released its sway over me, and I played into my enemy’s hands.

  ‘To hell with you!’ she snarled. She raised her boot into the small of Nadya’s back, and gave the girl a tremendous kick, propelling her across the tent towards me. I caught the girl, whilst Gregor raised his shotgun again to fire at Lillian. The shotgun blast rang out, but Lillian dived backwards, away from the buckshot, and flipped through the tent-flap like an acrobat.

  Even before we could react further, a great part of the tent roof peeled away as the flames ate at it, and it collapsed around us. We could stay inside no longer, for the smoke and flames now billowed up towards the rent in the roof, and so I dragged the terrified girl from the tent whilst Gregor snatched up poor murdered Elsbet. Once outside, he bellowed for men to stop Lillian, whose slender form was even then mingling with the shadows of the forest as she sprinted away with prod
igious speed. Rosanna had returned with more help. Nadya hugged her sister hard, and all of the girls let out such a mournful wail upon seeing their beloved Elsbet so brutally slain. I had no time to comfort Rosanna, and I stepped away to leave them to their grief, handing Gregor some cartridges as I did so. We ran to the forest, determined to catch the agent before she eluded us once more.

  We ran until our legs ached and our lungs almost burst. Branches tore at our faces and ancient roots conspired to trip us with every other step, and it seemed that we could not possibly catch Lillian, so nimble and sure-footed was she. We lost sight of her more than once, and only the fluttering of disturbed birds or the snapping of a branch underfoot kept us on her trail. It was getting lighter now, and even the densest parts of the forest were welcoming the first weak rays of sunlight. With light came our hope of catching our enemy.

  Just as we thought we neared her location, we were both surprised as we plunged from the undergrowth at the same time onto a little dirt road, lined with trees on both sides and barely wide enough for even the smallest cart. Neither of us had realised how far we had pursued our quarry, and we looked around in desperation, squinting in the half-light.

  ‘There!’ shouted Gregor, and headed off down the road.

  I saw at once a shadowy figure, some fifty yards away on the bend of the road, and we gave chase. As soon as we got a clear view of Lillian, Gregor snapped off a shot with both barrels of his sporting gun. It was folly—my father’s shotguns were sixteen-bore, and Gregor was far from a crack shot. All he achieved was to send a flock of roosting wood pigeons soaring from the tree-tops. Lillian’s pale face turned and fixed us with a glare. It was as though she had been unaware of our presence until the shotgun blast had rung out and echoed through the woods. Her response was to level her pistol at us once more—I was at a loss; I needed her alive to get to the bottom of Lazarus’ plans, but it seemed she was intent on murder and destruction.

  I barely had time to push Gregor aside as the lightning arced past us, smouldering the humid air and making our hair stand on end as it went, before striking a nearby oak tree with such force that the bough was sundered with an almighty crack. The tree, kindling as it fell, hit the ground between us and the agent, sending us scurrying for safety so as not to be crushed. Gregor’s foot was trapped beneath its trunk, but I managed to avoid the felled oak, and scrambled through its branches to see if Lillian was still there. I caught sight of her, and saw why she had stopped on the road. She had been saddling her horse—Rosanna’s horse—and was now mounted and ready to flee the scene of the crime. And yet she had paused, waiting to see if I had survived. When she saw me scrambling clumsily through the fallen branches of the oak tree, she cast a devilish smile my way and then, turning away, set the horse off down the road at a canter. She had eluded me again.

  * * *

  Back at the camp, the last of the fires were dying, and plumes of grey smoke drifted into the pale morning sky with a tranquillity that belied the turmoil below it. The camp was desolate—perhaps half the caravans and tents had been destroyed. Men sat around dumbstruck, children screamed and women sobbed. And at the heart of the camp there was a gathering around the body of Elsbet, with such an outpouring of grief over her loss that I could hardly bear to go near. All through the camp I attracted stares. Some seemed to say ‘Why? What have we done to deserve this?’ Others seemed more accusing—I was the stranger who was foretold, was I not? Rosanna’s message of hope at my arrival had been tempered with a warning that I would bring great danger upon them. I turned my head away in shame, for I knew that I was a herald of great dismay for those poor people.

  When I did finally approach the grieving sisters, it was as though they did not even see me. They were locked in their mourning, and had their own ways and traditions to uphold before an outsider such as I could even be acknowledged. So I walked away from them, alone, wracked with remorse for their loss, and with anger at the invaders who had visited such violence on the people who had shown me such kindness.

  I walked beyond the boundaries of the camp until I reached a little lane that wound down to a stream. There I sat for a while, staring at the babbling water and thinking about what I must do next. I felt distant—too remote to be of any use to anyone. In taking the opportunity to recover from my ordeals out here in my homeland, I had turned my back on my duty. I knew that I had to return to London, and perhaps should have done so already. But of course, had I done that I would not have held Rosanna in my arms, and she would most likely be dead at the hands of my Otherside sister. I could do no right for doing wrong, it seemed; but would I really have done anything differently, given the chance? Would I allow my sense of duty to guide me back to London, knowing that Rosanna would be lost if I did? Rosanna and her little coven knew the risk they took in helping me, and yet they helped me all the same, and were now paying the price. This was their destiny, just as it was mine.

  I was brought back to the present by the arrival of Gregor. The big man sat on a low dry stone wall next to me, and passed me a cigarette.

  ‘I have seen some things, friend John, that I did not think were possible,’ he said, pausing to take a draw. ‘I had no time to think on these things at the time, but I have time to think now. Who were those people? Who was that woman?’

  I did not know how much to tell Gregor, or how much he would understand. Though I had come to think of him as a good man, he was not made for outlandish philosophical theories about mirror universes and magic portals. But he did not deserve a lie, so I told him, as best I could, what he needed to know to understand the threat, if not the cause.

  ‘They are agents; spies,’ I said. ‘Like me, I suppose, but enemies of the Crown. As far as I know, their mission is to cause anarchy and chaos, until they are strong and we are weak. Then they will strike.’

  ‘Why? To what end?’

  ‘To take over the world.’

  Gregor nodded acceptance. I think perhaps he needed to hear that our enemies had a purpose of great import, in order to make sense of the despair and anger he was feeling. I could understand that.

  ‘When we were fighting,’ he said, ‘you told me that they were here for the Five Sisters. Look, friend John, we are Romani, we are nomads… we are nobody. If someone wants to rule the world, they kill kings and politicians—the leaders of the great nations, not a little gypsy princess. Why did they do this thing? Was it because we helped you?’

  He was trying to sound reasoned, but this last question was delivered with emotion that betrayed him. He had trusted me, and did not want his suspicions to be true.

  ‘No… I don’t know,’ I answered honestly. ‘Until last night they believed me dead, just as my employers back in London must believe me dead. No, I believe they would have come for the sisters, whether I had been here or not.’

  Gregor nodded, and sat in silence with me for a while. When Rosanna approached, Gregor made to say something, to console her perhaps, but no words would come. She squeezed his shoulder and gave him some silent word, at which he left us alone. Her eyes were red from crying, but the tears were passed. Her features were set.

  ‘It isn’t over, is it?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. What could I say?

  ‘I brought you here, John,’ she said. ‘I knew the dangers that we faced, the risk you presented, and yet I took you in anyway. It was… foreseen.’ Her voice cracked. ‘But I should not have gambled Elsbet’s life. If I had known…’ Now a tear came, and she blinked it back. ‘All of us knew the risk… but not her, John; not her…’

  I held her, and saw that she was tensed, fists clenched.

  ‘Rosanna, listen to me,’ I said, suddenly struck by an idea: the seed of a plan that began to take root. ‘I should have died in London, but I was given another chance. I wish I could have saved Elsbet. I would do anything to make it right, but there is still danger ahead. Those people, our enemies, will be back. Now that they know I’m here, I think they will be more determined still. Rosanna,
you say my coming was foreseen? Well, then I am ready to face my destiny. But for that, I need you. I need your sisters. I need the Sight.’

  ‘John, not now, this is not the time!’

  ‘There is no time,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see? Everything that has happened to us has been for a reason. Elsbet’s death can’t have been in vain. If we are to avenge her, we must act. We must find out what our enemy plans to do next, and we must stop him. Whatever it takes.’

  * * *

  Rosanna had begged me for one day to perform the proper rituals for Elsbet, and I had relented, on the condition that the camp moved so that the Othersiders could not easily find it. The gypsies spent the rest of the day and much of the evening moving what remained of the camp further east, and this was no easy task. Horses that had fled during the night had to be caught, carts had to be prepared or even constructed from spare parts to provide transportation for the infirm. Some of the men were appointed as scouts and guards, and patrolled the locale ceaselessly for any sign of would-be attackers. Through all of this, the funerary rites for Elsbet were begun. Her body was washed and bound by those camp followers who were not of Romani blood, for a Rom may not touch the body of the deceased. Elsbet’s nose and mouth were filled with pearls so that evil spirits could not enter her body. Her favourite possessions were placed alongside her, whilst everything else that she owned was burned, removing all ties that her spirit had with the camp so that she would not be forced to walk the earth for ever after. Half a dozen messengers were sent out from the camp in all directions, to take word of Elsbet’s death ‘to the ends of the earth’—only when her friends and distant relatives received the news and came to Rosanna’s camp could the funeral be held. Until then, Elsbet’s name could not be uttered out loud, and her sisters would wear only white or red garments as a symbol of their mourning. I was touched by the intricacy of the preparations, and amazed at how little direction the gypsies required—they all seemed to know what was required of them, and mobilised as if for war, with an efficiency that would pride the greatest industrialist.