by David Wise
The hand moved, so slowly at first that she failed to notice its progress. The fingers slid like silk along her leg. When she pulled her focus from the ebony pool, she saw that the ring and the hand had reached her knee. The fingers were spread wide. The arm was now draped along her calf. The hand inched forward like a spider, drawing the arm behind it.
A chiseled shoulder appeared, then a man's dark and shining mane. The shadows on the floor shifted and changed, and she saw a masculine figure crouched beside her bed, completely unadorned. His head was bowed, concealing his face. The hand continued to snake across her leg, rising to her thigh, drawing the man to his knees. A storm of black hair slipped across her ankle. Hot breath caressed her calf, and she felt the brush of his lips. The hand crept onward.
Marielle caught sight of a mirror upon the wall. It flashed red, as if afire. Mirror to the soul, she thought. The hollow cold within her had waned, staved off by the ever-building heat.
Then the night gained a voice.
"Damius. ."
The hoarse whisper came not from the man, but from every corner of the vardo, echoing softly.
In the whirlpool of shadows above her, a shape ap- peared, the barest outline of a face. The darkness slowly relinquished its hold, and a pair of steel-gray eyes emerged, shadowed by a dark, heavy brow. Features took shape around them — pale, chiseled, and strong. It was his face, of that she was sure. Deep within the eyes, a flame began to burn. The lips parted, wide and pale.
"Say my name," he whispered," and make me real."
She did not have to answer; the night did it for her. Once more, a whisper echoed throughout the vardo, rising from every corner, vibrating through her.
"Damius. ."
Her lips silently mouthed the word. The face lowered to her own. Her lids sank lazily as his lips brushed hers. When she opened her eyes, the vision was gone. It was as if a lifeline had been cast out to her from the darkness, then pulled away as soon as she dared to grasp it.
For a moment she simply lay there, contemplating the dream. Who was the man? Was he even a man, or merely some message in a man's guise?
The moonlight pulsed upon her skin. Marielle knew the heavenly orb was nearly full, swelling with power. On such a night, Magda had told her, certain herbs could be gathered to make a brew. When drunk, the concoction would sharpen and guide a Vistana's inner sight. Sergio, of course, would not approve of such a harvest. It was bad enough that Marielle held such powerful magic within her, but to enhance it — to perform the rites that summoned spirits who wove tales of moments future and past — that he had forbidden since Magda's demise. Of course, Marielle had disobeyed him before. He did not have to know it this time.
She rose and drew on her clothes, wrapping a red silk shawl around her shoulders. Then she slipped out into the night.
Yuri sat by the embers of the fire, ostensibly keeping watch. But his head was bowed in half-slumber, and Marielle's footsteps were too swift and soft to rouse him. As she crept past the sleeping pit, the ancient yellow hound shifted and moaned. Marielle put a finger to her lips, and the dog sighed, then went silent. In three swift and fluid strides, she was free of them all. The forest closed in around her.
Beyond the tangle of birch and brush lay a deep stand of pines, an army of tall black sentries. The wind surged through the heavy, feathered branches, sighing. The scent of the pine was intoxicating, and she drank it in like wine. Her senses blurred. Yet, without question, she heard the trees whisper her name: "Marielle. ."
Swiftly she moved onward, bare feet padding across the dense carpet of needles. She knew the pines would not hold the treasures she sought; their fallen needles kept all other flora at bay.
Soon the pines gave way to oak, and the forest floor was cloaked with moss and rotting leaves. She scanned the ground for the precious herbs. For a moment, she felt someone watching her and paused to search the shadows for the source. Perhaps she merely hoped it was true. Both the herbs and the watcher eluded her.
She descended a slope into a low, damp valley where the wood thinned and was dotted with clearings. A warm mist filled the hollows, rising like steam from the soil. The vapors snaked round her ankles as she walked, swirling softly. Marielle paused to remove the shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it around her waist. Then she continued her search.
At last, she spied a patch of the rare plant she sought most: the moonflower. Each tiny white blossom formed a cup, bent upward to drink in the light. Marielle removed the shawl and spread it upon the ground, then tied the ends to form a pouch. Carefully, she began to gather her treasures. In all, there were fewer than ten.
Again, she felt the eyes upon her. Fear danced along her spine, mingled with anticipation. She rose slowly and turned.
The man from her vision was standing before her, but a few paces distant, his back against a tree. He was the embodiment of midnight. The white, chiseled face shone like the moon itself, framed by the wild mane of shiny blue-black hair. His clothing was fine and foreign in appearance — a white silk tunic billowing across the broad shoulders, a black sash at the narrow waist, black trousers tucked into shining black boots upon his long, slender limbs. Tendrils of mist floated around his body like faithful servants.
For an eternity, neither soul moved. Then Marielle dared to speak.
"Who are you?" she asked quietly, as if afraid another might overhear their conversation.
"I believe you already know," he replied. He smiled, revealing a glimmer of white teeth.
Inside Marielle, a spark flared. He was toying with her, a cat with a mouse, and she sensed she was no match.
"Damius," she whispered.
He nodded. Suddenly, he stood behind her left shoulder, his breath upon her ear.
"Yes — Damius," he whispered.
She froze, staring forward, not daring to turn. The space between them was palpable.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"What you want," he murmured. "I am your slave. Did you not summon me? "
"No," she replied.
Without warning, he had shifted. Now he stood to the other side. She did not move.
"No, then," he answered slyly. "As you would have it."
"You were in my dream. I did not invite you," Marielle protested gently.
"Nor did I invite you into mine," he whispered, words flowing as easily as the mist. "Yet here you are."
She started. The fog swirled around them. Was she really a part of his dream, or was he merely toying with her?
"Are you not real?" she asked.
His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. The softness of his touch was agony.
"What do you think?" he asked in turn.
"That you are danger itself."
"Perhaps to some. Never to you," he replied.
The distance between them narrowed. Only inches before, it was now no deeper than a layer of skin. Still, it felt like a chasm to Marielle. Pressure rose in the void.
"What do you want from me?" Marielle repeated.
"It is I who must ask that of you," he said.
Marielle paused. "And if I want you to leave me?" she asked.
"Then I would go. If that is truly your desire. "Again, his breath pulsed upon her neck. "But I think it is otherwise."
She did not, could not, answer. He moved closer, and she felt him against her. One arm came round her waist in a gentle caress. Involuntarily, she pressed herself back into his embrace.
"Shall I go then?" he asked, mocking her.
A voice within her struggled to say yes, but it was too distant, too faint. A storm had begun to rage through every tissue in Marielle's body, and its fury drowned all reason. Hot tears spilled from her eyes.
"No," she answered.
She felt her clothes slip to the ground, piece by piece, trailed by a tiny snowstorm of white blossoms. More than mere flesh had been exposed. But she did not care.
At dawn, Marielle was awakened by the cock's crow. She lay in her vardo. Her memory of the re
turn was faint, clouded by the intensity with which she recalled the sensations that had preceded it. A ray of sun pierced the white window and fell upon her face. Instinctively, she rolled away from the light. Her legs and arms felt weak, her body heavy with exhaustion. She had no wish to rise anyway; her dreams held more interest than the day. In moments, she slept again. The dreams did not come.
When next she awoke, someone was rapping on the door. A woman called out.
"Marielle?"
It was Annelise. Without waiting for a response, the young woman opened the door and stepped inside.
Marielle groaned.
"Are you ill, Marielle?" Annelise asked, standing beside her. "It's well past midday. We assumed you were off wandering or gathering wood, but when you didn't reappear, I decided to check on you. Sergio will be wondering why you haven't risen."
Marielle drew the blanket over her head. "I'm fine."
"Then why not get up?" Annelise persisted, mildly annoyed.
"All right, because I'm ill," said Marielle. "Or I was. I'm better now. I'll be up in a moment."
"I'd help you dress," said Annelise," but I've got to get back to my baby. "She paused. "It looks like you did burn yourself last night, Marielle. Your leg has a mark."
Marielle opened one eye, following the gesture of Annelise's hand. Sure enough, a red streak lay upon her thigh.
"It's nothing," she said.
"Well, it's not bad, but you should be more careful," Annelise chided. "I don't suppose you will, though."
Marielle sighed. The woman was tedious. "No, I don't suppose I will."
Annelise did not hear her reply. She had already stepped through the door and closed it behind her.
Marielle rose and pulled on her clothes, then stepped out into the daylight, squinting. The sun was not bright, despite her reaction. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, promising a heavy rain. Three boys were playing with a stick and ball while a dog bounded beside them, yapping. The sound hammered through Marielle's head.
"You don't look well, Marielle. "It was Annelise, back again. This time, she held her baby to her breast. Her concern was genuine, if not deep.
"Perhaps I'm not," replied Marielle. She gazed around the camp. She could not bear the thought of remaining there through the day, and hungered for the night to return. "I think I'll go for a walk. It might refresh me."
"Now I know you're ill," said Annelise. "Can't you see a storm is coming? The weather is about to break. It'll hardly do you good to be soaked to the skin."
"I won't be gone long," Marielle answered. Without looking at her companion, she turned and walked into the woods, thinking that perhaps she might never return.
If she found him, she thought. If the previous night had not been a dream after all. She hurried through the pines and down into the valley, seeking out the spot in which they had met, in which they had lain together. He had promised he would return. Rain began to fall softly, and she broke into a run.
When she reached their trysting place, water was pouring from the heavens. The sky was black, relieved only by brilliant lightning, which tore across it like a jagged blade. Thunder filled her ears. She pressed herself against a tree. With each stroke of lightning, she scanned the clearing, desperately seeking any sign of her lover. He did not come. In time her legs collapsed, and she slid to the wet ground, huddled against her knees. So she remained for hours, tears diluted by rain. Still, he did not come.
Finally, Marielle rose, calling out his name. Perhaps he was lost in the tempest, she thought. Lost, just as she. She stumbled into the forest. The earth turned to deep, gluey mud. In the darkness she misstepped. The mire closed in around her, pulling her downward, swallowing her to the waist.
Again, she called out, then three times more. The mud rose to her chest. She flailed desperately, clutching at nothing. Her face and shoulders sank into the mire, and the mud muffled her screams. Then a hand clamped hard on her wrist, drawing her from the grave just as the world faded to black.
When Marielle regained consciousness, she found herself in a great cavern, lying on the ground beside a campfire. A black, scratchy blanket covered her body. She rose quickly, then hastily pulled the blanket around her. She was nude, and not alone.
Around the fire sat a dozen gypsies. All had blueblack hair and skin as pale as the moon, like Damius. In their ebony clothing they resembled mourners, while she herself played the role of the dead. They gazed at her calmly, unblinking, with eyes the color of steel. A young woman beside her touched her arm. Marielle flinched. The cold fingers stung her like frozen metal upon bare, wet skin.
"You have nothing to fear," murmured the woman, white teeth flashing. "Nothing at all."
Her words brought no comfort. Marielle looked about the cavern, searching for Damius. The chamber was immense, with corners draped in shadow. She could barely make out two passages, though where they led, she could not see. A smoke-filled alcove lay on the opposite side of the cavern, and within it another small fire glowed. A trio of elders sat around the fire. Only their stooped posture and their silvery hair described their age, for their white skin appeared smooth and unlined. The pale hair glowed against their black robes; in the dim haze, it was as ethereal as the smoke. One of them turned and met her stare. The eyes flashed yellow, then looked away.
A knot of fear took root in Marielle's stomach. By instinct, she pulled her legs close and clutched the blanket more tightly, withdrawing into a fragile, futile shell.
"Where is Damius?" she asked quietly.
"Very close," said the woman at her side. "But you are safe here with us. Is that not true, Niro? Play a little music to soothe her while we wait for Damius to return."
She nodded to a man opposite the fire, and he drew a shining black fiddle to his chin. Ghostly strains issued forth, filling the cavern. Marielle felt the music piercing her soul, and indeed, it put her at ease. Such beauty was not to be feared.
The woman beside her hummed the melody softly for a moment, calming Marielle further. "Damius told us you were near death when he drew you from the mire," she said. "Your body is weak. Drink this, and you shall mend."
She offered a cup filled with dark, bitter tea. Marielle drank it down dutifully, then set the vessel aside. The white faces swam before her, smiling faintly, each a copy of the other. She sank limply to the ground, twisted like a rag doll in lazy repose.
The roof of the cavern swirled overhead. Wet, glistening red lichen covered the stone, pulsing in the firelight like a living organ. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Tendrils of smoke and mist caressed each glittering and jagged point, unhurried as they sought their escape through some hidden chimney in the rock.
"Yes, rest," said the girl. "I am Lizette, sister to Damius. He will come to you soon."
"Damius," Marielle echoed, tasting the name upon her tongue. Her eyelids sank, unable to bear their own weight. She heard a shuffling beside her, as if a small crowd were drawing near.
When Marielle opened her eyes, Damius sat at her side, stoking the fire. He turned and smiled, sensing her gaze. The white teeth shone like pearls.
Marielle struggled to cast off the vestiges of sleep. Damius reached out and stroked her face, tracing her jaw, brushing her lips. His fingers conjured a thin line of heat upon her skin, a tiny snake of sensation that wriggled down her neck and across her body even after his hand had lifted. Her strength slowly began to return.
"I'm sorry I was not here when you first awoke," he said. "I was gathering more wood to ensure your warmth."
Your touch alone is enough, thought Marielle, but she didn't say it. The rest of his tribe still looked on, as quiet as ghosts.
She rose to her elbow, pulling the blanket close.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"At my family's camp," he replied. "Our vardos are outside. We take shelter in this cavern when the storms come."
Marielle looked at the faces gathered round. Half were male, the others female. Their resemblance to Damius, and each
other, was uncanny. A few, like Lizette, appeared young, perhaps no more than twenty, though Lizette herself was no longer among them. The others seemed roughly the same age as Damius, which was indistinct, somewhere past thirty, yet still prime. There were no elders among them; the silver-haired gypsies in the alcove had vanished. Nor were there any children. Perhaps the young and old had left the cavern and retired to their wagons.
Lizette reappeared, carrying Marielle's clothes. "They are dry now," she said. "I washed out the mud."
Marielle thanked her and took the bundle, then looked around for a place to dress.
"Shall I go outside?" she asked. "The storm seems to have lifted."
Lizette and Damius exchanged glances and smiled faintly.
"It has not yet gone," said Damius. "We are very sheltered here, and the sounds of the heavens can be difficult to discern. You can dress in the shadows. "He motioned toward the alcove where the elders had sat. "Lizette will stand before you, if you have decided to be modest."
Marielle rose and crossed the cavern. The elders' campfire had faded to ash and glowing embers, but its acrid smoke still filled the small chamber. Marielle turned her back toward the others. Lizette took a position behind her, watching as she pulled on her skirts and then her blouse.
"You are very lovely," said Lizette. "You needn't be shy among us."
The remark made Marielle uneasy. She quickly tied her shawl around her hips and returned to Damius. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her neck.
"Let's go out into the woods," she whispered.
He smiled. "We will break away later when the storm has fully passed. But for now, my tribe would like to welcome you. We do not have many visitors. And one so special as you is rare indeed."
Lizette stood beside them.
"Damius," she said softly. "You must ask her."
"Not yet," he replied. "Soon."