Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  The police were alert. Within the half hour they arrived in force. Burly policemen charged up to the graveyard.

  Orb began to sing, accompanying herself on the harp. Her magic flung out, touching the moving men.

  The men stopped, listening. They stood about her, doing nothing else. The Gypsies, beyond the range of her full magic, continued working.

  Orb sang song after song, keeping the policemen mesmerized. In due course the corpse was out, and the pyre built. The fire started, and then blazed high, and the stench of burning meat wafted out.

  The ghost appeared. "That's more like it!" he exclaimed. Then, as his body crumbled into ash, he faded out.

  Orb stopped singing and playing. She rejoined the Gypsies as their wagon pulled out. The police still stood, bemused, looking at the open gravesite and the pile of embers.

  They went to the nearby river, and the women stripped and plunged in, desperate to get clean again. Then they set about washing their clothes.

  Finally, shivering, naked, they wrapped themselves in blankets from the wagon. "You did it!" one exclaimed. "If that was not the Llano, it was akin!"

  "It was not the Llano," Orb said. But she was quite pleased with herself.

  Hungary was the land of Gypsy music. World renowned composers and musicians were here, and Gypsy orchestras toured the country. Historically, the top composers of Europe had drawn upon Gypsy music, popularizing it as their own. Schubert, Brahms-the beauty of their music owed its share to melodies the Gypsies had possessed before them. The Hungarian pianist Liszt had transcribed Gypsy music as the Hungarian Rhapsodies.

  Here the Gypsies were known as Tziganes. They had been here before the Magyar conquest, and the Magyars sought to profit by mingling Tzigane blood with their own. When the Tziganes resisted, laws were passed requiring Tziganes to become Christians and to marry only Magyars. This drove many Tziganes out of the country, into Russia and Poland and Germany and Prance, in one of their great historical diasporas. Many did pretend to accept Christianity, decorating their wagons liberally with crosses, but at heart they believed in no religion but their own. They were required to settle in houses and desert their own language; this caused another exodus, for no true Gypsy could be anchored in one place long. They were accused of cannibalism and severely persecuted for it, their denials being taken as confirmation of the charge.

  Still they survived, and their facility with metal and wood greatly benefited the sedentary culture around them, and their music shaped that culture. It seemed that every blacksmith was a Gypsy, and every musician a Gypsy, too. The greatest of contemporary Tzigane musicians was Csihari, a violinist who was said to be able to charm the souls of the living and the dead.

  So it was to this Gypsy Orb went. But no Gypsy of the region would tell where to find him. She was an outsider they termed "Ungar," or "stranger," not to be trusted. She realized with flattered bemusement that they took her for a Gypsy; her command of the language and customs had enabled her almost to pass as one of them, despite her honey hair. Perhaps they took her for a crossbreed, as Gypsies frequently married outside their culture. Yet it seemed that they held foreign Gypsies in greater contempt than they did the mundanes.

  She came to a village where the Tziganes were especially surly-an extremely unusual state for this normally happy people. "What is the matter?" she asked.

  "Csinka defiled the water!" she was informed gruffly.

  "What?" Orb asked, startled by the similarity of that name to that of her friend Tinka.

  "She walked over the underground pipe that brings our water," the woman explained indignantly, taking Orb's exclamation as outrage. "Now we have to forage at great range for our needs. It's a terrible inconvenience."

  Orb sought out Csinka. The woman was almost suicidal in her chagrin. "I lost my way-I had a big package to carry and I didn't see where I was going, and before I knew it I had stumbled over it," she confessed tearfully.

  In the Gypsy culture, in some regions, women were fundamentally unclean; Orb had learned this along with the language, but had not encountered it before. The onus was worst at the time of childbearing; the woman's clothing of the time would be burned. But her nether region could be suspect at any time. Thus she could not step over copperware without defiling it, and the same evidently applied to buried water pipes. No one here would drink the water that Csinka had defiled by her passage over the pipe.

  Orb knew better than to argue the merit of such a custom. Such things varied from tribe to tribe and from region to region, but were honored tenaciously where they held. But by her definition Csinka was innocent, and she wanted to help. "I once helped a woman to burn her husband's body," she said. "Perhaps I can help you, too."

  For an instant Csinka's eyes lighted. Then despair resumed. "There is no way. We cannot lay a new pipe."

  "But if I can banish the defilement on the present pipe-"

  "Are you a sorceress?" Csinka asked with interest.

  "No, only a musician, of a sort. I came to meet Csihari, but they will not let me see him."

  "Nobody sees Csihari!" Csinka said. "He sees whom he will, and only whom he will."

  So Orb had gathered. "Perhaps if I sing him a song, he will come."

  Csinka shrugged. "He might. But how can this remove the defilement from the pipe?"

  "It is my hope that the music will do that."

  Csinka shook her head, not understanding. But Orb made her show the place where she had inadvertently stepped over the pipe. Then, in the middle of the day, Orb set up a chair at that spot, sat on it, and began to play her harp.

  She sang a song of water: of mountain springs, clear flowing streams, shining ponds, and deep pure lakes. She spread her magic out, not to an audience, but to the water in the pipe below her, willing it to respond, to assume the purity of the water of which she sang.

  An audience formed, as was always the case when Orb sang. Gypsy men, women, and children, the Tziganes, standing and listening. She continued singing, songs of clean water, rendering them as well as she could in Calo. The audience continued to grow, until it filled the street.

  When Orb first touched the water with her magic, she had felt the defilement of it; anyone who drank it would be sickened, and clothes washed in it would remain unclean. The soul of the water reeked of its special pollution. But as she sang, interacting with it, it clarified, until it became as clean as the water she sang about. She had not suspected she could do this until the need arose and had not been sure until she actually felt the response of the water, but now it was certain. The magic of her music had this power.

  She paused and gazed across the audience. "The water is undefiled," she said. "Who will drink it now?"

  They merely stood, not accepting this. After all, she was sitting right over the pipe, continuously defiling it herself.

  "I touched it with my song, and it is clean," she said. "It will not hurt you. Drink of it and see."

  "I will drink of it!" Csinka exclaimed. She went to the tap on the pipe that rose from the main line and filled her cup and drank.

  She stood and was not harmed. The water had not sickened her.

  "She is not harmed because she defiled it!" a man said. The others nodded; it was no test.

  "But I am over it now," Orb pointed out.

  Point well taken. They glanced at each other, uncertain.

  "You need this water," Orb said. "I am a woman; my body defiles it. But my music counters the ill, and this water is pure. Who else will drink of it?"

  But no one trusted this. No one volunteered to try.

  Was her effort to fail, even though the water had been restored? Orb did not know what else to do. Reluctantly she got up and put away her harp.

  "I will try the water," a man said from the edge of the crowd.

  Heads turned. There was a murmur of awe as a handsome, well-dressed middle-aged Gypsy marched forward to the tap. He turned it on, put his cupped hands under, and drank from them. Then he let the remaining water fall
, turned off the tap, stood untouched. "It is good water," he said.

  Then the others came and tried it, too, and agreed that the water was good. The curse was off it, and they could return to their normal existence.

  "Oh, my lady, thank you!" Csinka cried, tears of gratitude flowing.

  "Thank this man," Orb said. "He believed when the others did not. He made them accept it."

  "Because I knew," the man said. "I heard the music, like none before."

  "Thank you," Orb said. "May I know your name?"

  "You did not know?" Csinka asked, amazed. "He is Csihari!"

  Orb's jaw dropped. "But you would not meet me!" she exclaimed to the man.

  "I had not heard you play." He put out his elbow. "Come to my wagon, and I will play for you."

  Orb took the arm. They walked down the street, the others giving way before them, until they reached the musician's wagon. There he brought out his violin and played an extemporaneous theme, and it was the most beautiful music Orb had heard. Again an audience gathered, but it did not matter; Orb had ears only for the singing violin. How well justified was this Gypsy's reputation!

  When he paused, Orb glanced at her own harp. "May I?"

  Csihari made a gesture of acquiescence and started another melody. Orb settled herself on the ground, set up her harp, and played it, making counterpoint to his theme.

  The magic spread out, animating the faces of the listeners in a widening circle. Violin, harp, and the hidden orchestra: a duet with a mighty accompaniment. Not a person moved; all were enraptured.

  Then Csihari stopped and set down his violin. "Enough," he said gruffly. He gestured at the audience. "Leave us."

  In an instant, it seemed, the crowd had dissipated, and the two of them were alone. "You are not Tzigane," the musician said. "What did you want of me?"

  "I seek the Llano."

  "Ah, the Llano!" he breathed. "I should have known!"

  "I am told that I may find it at the source of the Gypsies," Orb continued. "But I am having trouble finding that source. I thought you might know it."

  "I know the source, but not the Llano. I fear that even there you will not find what you seek."

  "But if it is Gypsy music-"

  He shook his head. "The Llano is not ours. We only dream of it, no closer than any other. We long for it as our salvation, but it is denied to us."

  "I don't understand."

  "You have not then heard the Story of the Nail."

  "Nail?"

  "It is only a story," he said depreciatingly.

  "But it relates?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Then may I hear it?"

  "You know that the Tzigane are only nominally Christian, just as Gypsies in Moslem lands are only nominally devotees of Mohammed. We truly honor no belief but our own."

  "I understand," Orb said. In this, too, she had learned tolerance.

  "When the Romans set out to crucify Yeshua Ben Miriam, whom others now know as Jesus, they required four stout nails for his hands and feet. In those days nails were scarce and valuable and had to be crafted individually for the occasion. So they sent out two soldiers with eighty pennies in the currency of that day, to purchase the nails from a local blacksmith. But the soldiers, being indolent, stopped at an inn and spent half the coppers drinking the foul wine of Jerusalem. It was late in the day before they emerged, having spent half the money. They were due back with the nails by dusk and they were half-drunk, so they hurried to the nearest blacksmith and demanded that he make the four nails. But the man had seen Jesus, and refused to forge the nails to crucify him. Angry, the soldiers set his beard on fire, but he remained adamant. They had to go elsewhere for the nails.

  "The soldiers were half-drunk, but they had the sense not to mention the name of the victim to the next blacksmith. They simply told him to make four nails for the forty pennies they had. He protested that he could make only four small nails for that price. They threatened to run him through with their lances if he did not get to work. Suspicious, he refused. Enraged, the soldiers made good their threat, and killed him, and went on to a third blacksmith.

  "This one they gave no choice: he would make the nails immediately, or they would kill him. Frightened, he went to his forge-but then the voice of the dead blacksmith seemed to cry out, telling him that these nails were to crucify an innocent man, and he threw down his tools and refused to work. So the drunken soldiers struck him down and hurried on to a fourth blacksmith.

  "This one was a Gypsy, who was just passing through and knew nothing of the local politics. He was glad to take the money and make the nails. As he made each one, the soldiers took it and put it in a bag. But as he forged the fourth nail, the soldiers said that these were to be used to crucify Jesus. At those words, the voices of the other blacksmiths sounded, pleading with the Gypsy not to make the final nail. Frightened by this manifestation, the soldiers fled with the three nails they already had.

  The Gypsy finished the fourth nail and tried to cool it, but the water went up in steam and the nail continued to glow. Alarmed, he packed away his tent and equipment and fled, leaving the hot nail behind. But when he sought to pitch his tent at another place, that glowing nail appeared, still sizzling. He fled again-but wherever he stopped, that hot nail was there.

  "But an Arab had a wheel that needed patching. So the Gypsy blacksmith took the hot nail and used it to patch the iron hoop. When the Arab left, the wheel carried the nail away. But months later the blacksmith was brought a sword to repair, and its hilt began to glow. It had been forged from the iron nail in the wheel and returned to haunt him.

  "He fled, but the nail reappeared wherever he went. All his life that dread nail pursued him and when he died it haunted his descendants. Jesus had been crucified with only three nails, his feet pierced by one instead of two, and the fourth one pursued the members of the tribe who had forged them. So it has been to this day, and it is supposed to be the reason that we must constantly travel, so that it will not catch up. It is also said amongst us that only the grace of the Llano can cool that nail and give us peace, for the Llano is the universal absolver. But I doubt it; I suspect that the Llano is but an illusion sent to tempt us, like the Grail of the Christians, having no tangible reality. How could a mere song abate the crime of making such a nail?"

  Universal absolver? That was interesting! "But why weren't the Romans haunted for doing the deed?" Orb asked.

  "How do we know they were not? Where is the Roman Empire today?"

  Orb nodded. "Maybe they did pay. But I think it is time for the nail to be put to rest. I will keep looking for the Llano."

  "I think you have as much of the Llano as any mortal person can have. Woman, give up this chase and marry me."

  Orb stared at him, uncertain whether he was joking.

  "You have magic in your music. With you by my side, I can achieve a closer semblance of the art I crave. Besides, you are beautiful."

  He was serious! Orb had no interest in such a marriage, but realized that it would not be politic to turn such a man down arbitrarily. "I am not certain this is wise," she said. "Perhaps you had better have a seer pronounce on such a union."

  "By all means!" Csihari snapped his fingers, and a Gypsy boy ran up. "Fetch a seer, the best," he said.

  Soon an old woman arrived. "I mean to marry this woman," Csihari said. "What are the auspices?"

  "Give me your hands," the seer said.

  Orb presented her hand, and the musician did likewise. The old woman closed her eyes, peering into the future. But in a moment, as Orb had known would be the case, the seer broke off the effort. "It is blank," she said.

  "How can it be blank?" Csihari demanded.

  "I look, but I see nothing. There is interference."

  Csihari looked at Orb. "This is something you know of?"

  "My half brother is a magician. He protects my future. I think I am not meant to marry, yet."

  "It must be so," the seer said. "Only the hand of the most pote
nt of magicians could balk my vision. I think he means to see that nothing turns aside this woman's quest."

  Csihari sighed. "I should have known that this was too good a prospect to be true. It seems I cannot marry you, fair maiden."

  "I feared that this would be the case," Orb confessed. The musician was being so polite about it that she was almost sorry that the marriage had fallen through.

  "Go to Macedonia," Csihari said. "This I believe is the source of the Gypsies of Europe. Perhaps you will have your answer there."

  In Macedonia she found more Gypsies than anywhere else; it seemed that every second person in the nation had some Gypsy blood. The Calo they spoke was, by all accounts, the purest version of the Gypsy language extant. The Gypsies had, she was informed, been brought to this region by Alexander the Great, for he had recognized their competence in metalworking and desired to enhance the battle prowess of his army by that knowledge. The Gypsies had not come as slaves, but as honored guests, and they had been well treated, and the abilities they taught Alexander's people had contributed substantially to Macedonia's surge toward greatness.

  Then Rome had risen, and the Macedonian empire had crumbled. Gypsies had been hauled away to teach the Romans. The golden age had passed. Gypsies spread out, hiding in the mountains, fleeing to other lands, clutching their freedom. But most remained to serve the new masters. This was, after all, their home.

  But was it their source? Orb doubted it and in time she learned more of the story. Where had Alexander found the Gypsies? Not in Egypt, despite the derivation of their popular name from that land; they were not truly E-Gypt-sies. No, he had brought them from beyond the Persian empire, from the land of Hind. That was their most ancient home.

  And Hind, Orb knew, was India, or part of it. That was where she had to go.

  She took another scientific airplane, her route proceeding from Macedonia, across Anatolia and to the coast of Asia Minor for a change of planes. The next was routed across Arabia and on to the Kingdoms of India. Orb relaxed, knowing it was a long flight; she might as well sleep.

  But fickle Fate interfered. Men appeared on the plane, bearing weapons. One spoke in a language she did not understand, and several other passengers reacted with horror. Then another man spoke in English: "This is a hijacking. We are going to Persia."