She flung her arms back, lifted her head and bayed. Hers was the only voice lifted in the silence of the night; it rose high and piercing, echoing in the cold air. Less than a second later, she sprang forward with a great leap, her long hair drifted out like a dark cloud, and all of them—Anyeta, and the wolves—began to run.
***
There was no keeping up with them, but twice during the night, before I confronted her, I found their handiwork.
The first kill was a small flock of sheep huddled on the lowest plateau of a hillside. Before I saw the slaughter, I heard their terrified bleats, the swift jingling of the bells as they broke into a run and scattered; the sound of the rams and ewes trying to climb to safety, their hooves making frenzied clicks against the rocks, a rain of pebbly shale sliding down.
I stood briefly, looking at the carnage. A dozen or more were dead. They lay on their sides, fat tongues lolling from their narrow mouths. The wool streaked and clotted with shiny black blood where throats had been ripped or guts torn from soft underbellies.
Below me, from a strip of forest closer to the town, I heard the sound of snarling and fierce barks, and I started down the mountain toward it.
***
I picked my way stealthily through the woods, moving through the trees, alert for sounds. The first carcass I came to was one of the wolves, its body savaged, one haunch nearly torn away. In the distance I heard a sharp yelp—suddenly cut off, and guessed this time they’d set on a pack of wild dogs. Edging closer slowly, I stayed downwind, and now I hunkered down in a small pocket of land. Around me the night was alive with the sound of the wolves’ feast. The crunching snap of jaws against bones, the soft wet ripping of flesh, the menacing gnarr and aggressive barking when one protected its kill from the rest.
I clutched myself, huddling with terror, afraid of the pictures in my own mind. The blood-soaked stockings, the sound of the greedy voice. Bite deep. The blood fills your mouth. I moaned softly. Overhead the moon was splotchy with the black shapes of its mountains. Like an enormous tooth, it gleamed: white, hard, spotted with a darker gore.
Anyeta suddenly barked the signal, and I heard the pack breaking into a swift purposeful run, their feet moving over the forest floor toward the hard-packed winding road that led to the town. A bolt of fear shot through me, I saw her teeth bared in that wide grin. And I will take—take whichever one I want. My chest heaved, my breath hissed between my lips, and I let out a long curse. Shit, shit, I wanted to heave myself up and race after them. But I took a deep breath, swore again and made myself wait. I knew if they saw me on their trail, they would turn—with the smooth efficiency of a driven wheel—and tear me to pieces.
***
Ahead of me, I saw the soft glow of streetlamps. The road abruptly changed from dirt to paving. But I’d known for the last half-mile the wolves had departed; the spoor was gone. Prints vanished, there were no more droppings or gobbets of flesh. High up, far off, I heard their cries tune up, then trail off. But something—some feeling impelled me to walk through the town.
I passed a tavern. Inside, a short rotund man wearing a towel across his hips apron-style turned off his ale taps and mopped the bar. One old man sat in the dull glow of the banked fire, the inn keeper urged him to finish his drink, and the old man frowned behind his tumbler, sipping slowly.
A shout came from the second floor. “Gregor! Come to bed,” a woman’s deep voice bellowed. The owner rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, the old man held up his glass with a shaky hand.
“To your wife,” he said, throwing down the drink and smacking his lips with a chuckle.
“Come to bed!” she called again, and next door, from a lighted room I heard the sound of a window being raised. A woman leaned out between the second-story shutters, laughed down at me.
“How about you? You want to come to bed?” she said.
I shook my head, kept walking. Rounding through the steep, curved streets; watching lights blink on, off. Listening to the sound of my footsteps echoing off the buildings; hearing now and then a signboard creaking on its chains, a man’s shout, a cat mewling, asking myself if I was patrolling like some lunatic nightwatchman, or if I thought she was here. I stopped, realizing I did feel her presence—like the steady throb of a pulse.
My pace quickened, I turned down a narrow alley; a clump of ragged weeds sprouted from one corner of a building. I picked my way through broken glass. A dog nosed through a heap of refuse—he lifted his head, flattening his ears and growling at me when I passed. On the right was a low house giving off a dirty light. I peered through a small mullioned window. In the middle of the bare floor I saw a rag burning dimly in a saucer of grease.
There was a sagging bed in the corner of the room; on it a half-naked woman lay in a stupor, one hand dangling over the edge like a signpost for the empty brandy bottle that had slipped from her fingers.
A sudden scraping noise made me pivot. And then I saw her.
She was standing before a boarded over fireplace. Her head was down, and she was clutching what looked like a small bundle of rags close to her chest.
The whole lower half of her face was red with smeared blood—as if she’d dunked it, and I felt my gorge rise, thinking of the gutted animals, of the champing jaws, her mouth gnawing flesh, fur, bone. Her teeth were whiter against all that the darkness. The ends of her hair were clotted with drying blood, had traced idiot patterns across her shoulders and chest. The skirt of her dress was grimed with long smears.
Small gory hands twiddling, she drew back, grinning. Her mouth parted, and now I saw the blood lining the cracks of her teeth. Head lunging forward, she burrowed through the rags to expose a thin white chest. I heard a faint cry. Oh Christ, it was a child. I saw the cap of baby fine curls, the round blue eyes and I screamed, punching my fist through a small pane.
“Stop! For Christ’s sake, stop! Don’t, Mimi! Don’t!”
Her head came up, the eyes glinting briefly in the bluish light. She blinked rapidly, and then she had the look of someone waking from a deep dream. Her glance fell on the toddler and she suddenly shrieked.
She flung the child down, its small hand struck the bedpost. I heard the thin snap of a bone and let out an anguished cry. The child wailed for its mama, breaking into hoarse hysterical sobs. The figure on the bed began to stir.
Mimi shook her head back and forth, her hands thrust behind her back. “No, no, no! I didn’t!”
She leaped forward, pulling the blood slimed clothes aside. The baby cried louder, now sitting up, leaning against the bed, his legs spread wide. The boy’s dirty face was streaked with tears. The tiny chest was unmarked.
Mimi’s bloody hands flew to her face, she stood in the center of the reeking hovel and screamed over and over.
Lights flickered in nearby houses. I raised my leg high, kicked hard to shatter through the rotting window frame. Glass and splintered wood sprayed over the room. I pulled myself over the ledge, jumped inside, grabbed hold of Mimi and dragged her back out with me.
I heard the sound of voices, someone pounding on a door on the other side of the wrecked room, rattling the metal knob, calling on the missus to let them in.
I jerked her arm to make her run, propelled her ahead of me down the alley. Steered her through the cobbled passages, taking her on a spiral farther and farther from the center of the town. Her low voice as we ran was a broken sob in my ear. “Oh, God, I hurt that chavo, oh God forgive me, forgive me, I might have killed him. Oh God.”
-42-
“Do you see what she has done?” I held my hand out toward Joseph. The gray pre-dawn light filtered in the caravan windows, revealing his thin body immobilized against the wall.
Mimi closed her eyes, let out a sharp exhale.
The strips of white cloth fluttered when we neared. I craned my neck to look up at the old man. His gaunt face showed signs of exhaustion. His skin had a sickly greenish cast. There were great hollows under his eyes, throwing his sharp cheekbones into even g
reater relief. His mouth drooped slightly, the corners slick with saliva. His chest scarcely moved; I wondered what it cost him to take a breath, to fight the pain, the drag of gravity. Only his deep brown eyes showed any life, drifting endlessly back and forth.
“He’s dying,” Mimi whispered. Her head sank forward and her brow touched the damp wall. She reached high with one arm, her fingers rested briefly on one of his bony ankles, and I thought of the old women with their beads in church who prayed to the saints, touched the cold marble statues when they left. Mimi turned around,
then leaned her head against the wall again.
“Do something,” I said. “Use the power of the hand.”
“Don’t you think I tried,” she snapped. “Do you think I stood by last night, watching her do this and didn’t try to stop it?”
“What are you saying?” I felt the first tendrils of panic like a black growth in my brain.
“She’s eating at me, Imre. Whittling my power, adding it to hers.” Mimi sat on the edge of the bed; her small hands writhed and twisted against each other in her lap. Her eyes, huge with fear, met mine. “Do you know how many times she came out since you pulled me from that room?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Who suggested I stop and wash the blood at the stream? Was it me?”
I groaned softly.
“Anyeta,” she said. “She came out twice more. Once when I saw a smear of blood on a leaf, the second time when we passed the crest of a low ridge.”
I took her hands in both of mine. “Do you know why?”
She nodded savagely, breaking into harsh sobs all at once. “The kill,” she wept, “and the place where she meets with the wolves.” Her eyes took on a glassy look. “I see it over and over in my dreams, knowing the worst—that it’s not a dream, that it’s real.” She looked sadly at her hands, as if they were still stained with blood; she gave a small desperate cry, and then she rubbed viciously at the corners of her mouth. Her voice, when it came, was low and mournful, I had to strain to hear it. “The guilt,” she said. “This guilt will be with me always, and there is nothing that can take it away.”
I sat beside her, looked deeply into her eyes, felt her pain. What was there to say? That she hadn’t butchered the child was no comfort.
“She gets out,” Mimi said, “and I hear myself telling you lies: saying it was me—and even as I say it, I wish my tongue would dry up in my mouth, but I cannot help it. She has a hold on me; loosening my tongue when she wills it, or binding it, if that’s her pleasure.” Mimi sucked in her breath. “Last night was not the first time she killed, not even the second or the third.” Her hand clutched at my wrist. “I don’t know how many times it’s been. I only know that it was the first time she dared to try a human—if you hadn’t come—”
“But I did.” I squeezed her hand.
“Yes,” she gave a bitter laugh. “Last night, yes. What about tonight, tomorrow and all the nights that remain? Can you chase me down a thousand times? Ten thousand? How many, Imre?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many nights will there be before she tires of the game—for her it is a game, you know. She will delight a long time in eluding you and making you suffer. But when she gets angry or bored—and turns on you, what then?” Her gaze drifted to Joseph’s spent body. “This—or worse?”
“Where is she now?”
“Sleeping,” Mimi said. “Like a drunken man stuporous with wild revels.” She gave a weak smile. “That’s why I’m telling you this—while I can.”
“Take her power then,” I said. “Use it. Let the guilt be washed away in salvation, save him.” I saw a flicker in her eyes. “You told me yourself, the first day in the old woman’s caravan. It can be used for good, it can be used for healing.” She stood up and slowly walked toward the dying man. She stopped in the center of the room.
Her body was ramrod straight, I saw her chin lift, her violet eyes narrow, and the atmosphere in the room was suddenly charged, electric. I felt the air grow warmer. There was an unpleasant tingling sensation in my veins, I heard the sound of humming in my ears, louder and louder until it rose to an unbearable shrill whine, and my head roared with sharp pain.
I saw the body shudder, the eyes suddenly cease their restless tracking. Joseph blinked, and a low moan came out of his throat. He blinked again. “The pain,” he cried, and I thought of all those long hours he hung crucified, his eyelids forced wide. “The light, the light.” His head rolled tipsily toward one shoulder; one brown eye drifted slowly down, like a dull marble sinking in a water-filled tank.
“Blind,” he rasped. “I’m blind!” His black pupils dilated wide until they nearly filled the muddy circle of the iris. At the outermost margin, a streak appeared, like a jagged rip in a dark curtain. And then the irises themselves began to bleed.
The room took on the glowing heat of an inferno, the noise jumped in intensity—shrieking, drilling in my ears.
Joseph’s body trembled, his breath rattled in his lungs, his bony chest heaved up and outward. There was a convulsive spasm, his arms and legs jerked.
“No!” A ragged cry was torn from Mimi’s lips. Her eyes clamped shut, she staggered back.
His body crumpled all at once, plummeting gracelessly to the floor like a wounded bird suddenly felled by a rifleshot. It was that quick. Legs bent, he lay completely still, one arm caught under his back, his gaunt face turned up to the ceiling. Two slender filaments of blood trickled from the wide, unseeing eyes.
The room lapsed into eerie silence, there was only a dull buzzing in my ears.
Anyeta’s sly features rippled over Mimi’s and broke through. Her eyes snapped, the narrow chin took on a vulpine look, the lips were thinner over the white teeth. She saw me staring and she laughed at me.
“Gone,” she said, and I knew she meant Mimi. “Hugging herself and helplessly crying like a senile fool—”
—and for a second, I saw Mimi’s shattered face, weeping in shock and confusion; she looked old, worn out—
Anyeta tapped her chest. “No one usurps me, no one, do you hear? Tell that stupid bitch if she tries it again, I’ll kill her.”
She pointed to Joseph’s twisted body lying on the floor. “And I’ll make her suffer twice what he did before I let her die.”
She stalked to the other end of the caravan, I heard the door slam.
I sat on the floor, and it seemed good to know there were wooden boards, solid and slightly cool under my fingers. I found my mind drifting out toward the truth, and then it would pull back. I sat staring a long time; I knew it was useless, but I couldn’t help it.
My wife was gone, my friend was dead.
-43-
I lifted Joseph up. It seemed to me his body in my arms weighed no more than a large bundle of sticks—as if he’d been ill a long time. I lay him on the bed and gazed down at him; he looked frail, vulnerable. I felt the rough sting of my tears, but they were nothing to what he’d suffered. His blank eyes were bloody pools. The red streaks had dried to a dark maroon crust on his cheeks.
“Ah, Christ,” I whispered. The rubbery lips were pulled back to show the teeth. His mouth, I thought sadly, was like a scream. I cupped my hand under his chin, slowly eased his jaw up, feeling it click against my fingers.
And then I began to prepare his body for the grave, the last kindness any of us ever know.
***
Two cotton pads covered his eyes. I’d sponged the blood from the angular cheeks, shaved the flesh carefully, set a gold hoop in his fleshy ear. I went to my clothes press and removed my only other suit; I sniffed camphor in the dark gray wool, but there was a sprinkling of moth holes. Still, it would have to do I thought, picking at a loose thread in the lapel. I laid the suit at the foot of the bed alongside a clean shirt.
There were Roms that were afraid of handling or in any way touching the bodies of the dead, and some of the old-timers—at great pains—knowing that none would come near them, actually heaved th
emselves off their death beds, washed, dressed themselves in their best. On account of my English mother I had not been raised to that kind of superstition, and of course I’d known Joseph, my father’s friend, from childhood.
Glancing at his rigid body, I recalled suddenly that one autumn, he and my father had been worried about having enough money to manage over the coming winter. It was back in Hungary, the troupe was camped close to Eger, a district known for its wines and fine country inns. The local aristocrats patronized these csardas heavily—often as trysting places to meet with their mistresses. It was fairly typical of the time and place that after dinner, gypsy bands were brought in to entertain. My father and Joseph had heard that given sufficient enthusiasm and plied with the local red wine, the gentry rewarded the performers by throwing gold coins at them.
Both were only so-so fiddlers, but they were excellent organizers—and they assembled the finest bosa venos in the region, promising each man a share in 75 percent of the take, with the two of them dividing equally the remaining 25 percent.
“You should have seen us,” Joseph said, telling me the story while we sat by a campfire one starless night when I was a boy. “Your father thought we’d earn even more if we brought along some of the dancers, and in the end there were twenty or thirty of us. The women wore gold embroidered shawls on one shoulder, left the other arm and shoulder utterly bare. We men had on purple and red and yellow silk shirts, and all of us had on our finest jewelry. We had pride and we wanted to look our best, be our best in front the nobility.
“Well, after the gents and their ladies had eaten, the innkeeper pushed the tables back into a wide ring, leaving a huge space in the center of the room. We were all a little nervous entering, I suppose; I was used to the confines of a vurdan, and I remember feeling awed by the size of the place, the expensive furnishings, the smell of the perfumes and flowers; then we started to play.
The Gentling Box Page 22