The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  She blew out the candle and the shelter plunged into darkness. As I hugged my blanket around me, I made out the distant glow of the camp-fire. For the first time in months I no longer felt alone. Perhaps this sense of kinship arose because these people were outsiders too. They owned no dwelling place, bore no allegiance to anyone outside their own tribe. Noisy, lively and quarrelsome, they delighted in danger and scorned those in authority. Though I’d feared arrest for vagrancy, they showed no such anxiety. They were accustomed to persecution.

  Certainly they aroused curiosity wherever they went for their ways and customs were very different from ours.

  “We are the Roma,” Luri said as we sat by the camp-fire. Pride shone in his swarthy face. “We have our own laws, our own rules. We are family. We keep together and defend our own people. We stay apart from the gaujo.”

  “Gaujo?”

  Luri laughed showing white teeth. “You are gaujo,” he said. It’s the name for people who are not Roma.”

  My acceptance within their community I owed to Mara, for whilst Luri was their leader, she enjoyed the status of an elder. I felt surprised, and strangely moved that she had chosen to train me, as one might an apprentice, in the ancient arts.

  “Mara is the Puri Dye, the old mother,” Luri told me. “Very special. Listen to her wisdom.”

  “Wolfsbane,” Shangula said, thrusting the flame-coloured flowers so close to my face I flinched. She grinned mischievously. “For bruises,” she explained, dropping the daisy-like blooms into the cloth bag she carried around her waist. Mara had entrusted her to teach me the various uses of plants and herbs. Beyond us, at the edge of the woodland, Akasha gathered the leaves of a tall dark plant, smiling as if mulling over a secret.

  “What’s this?” I knew the woolly, hoof-shaped leaves for coltsfoot and the Roma used them to soothe coughs and diseases of the chest but I tried anxiously to distract Shangula. The two young women could not long be together without enmity. Shangula provoked Akasha for she thought her a rival. Both possessed a fiery beauty, but Shangula’s sharpest weapon proved her quick-witted malice.

  “Coltsfoot.” She spat the answer. No one fooled her easily. Sly amusement danced in her black eyes. “Yon skinny crow will need a potent brew if she wants to keep Dev’s attention for much longer.” She nodded in Akasha’s direction.

  I rolled the coltsfoot leaves without speaking. Dev, Akasha’s man, was well-noted for his roving eye. As he moved around the camp, Akasha watched him closely, her vigilance betraying her anxiety, reminding me of poor Eleanor’s devotion to the king.

  Dev seemed much taken with Duka, Luri’s daughter, a shy fawn of a girl, no more than fifteen, but with a delicate quality that drew men to her. Every evening Dev lingered by her father’s cart, and though he feigned interest in Luri’s words, all the womenfolk saw how his eyes followed Duka.

  “Duka’s young and pretty. Yesterday I saw Dev helping her gather firewood,”

  Shangula said just loud enough for Akasha to hear.

  “It’s a shame you’ve no man to fetch and carry for you, Shangula,” Akasha said. She threw back her raven hair, her lovely features distorted by a sneer. “Then you wouldn’t be so envious of others.”

  “Why choose one when many wait in attendance? It’s the timid creature that fears to walk alone.” Shangula taunted with a wicked smile. “The tamed hinds herd together, while the stag seeks out the youngest and most beautiful from those just out of reach.”

  “Mara asked me to find some borage. Can you help me?” I moved close to Akasha. The pain in her eyes told me Shangula’s spiteful comments had found their mark.

  “I’ll show you where it grows.”

  As we moved away under the shadow of the trees, Shangula called after us. “If it’s something to ease the heart that’s needed, I’ve some lovage.”

  Amongst the Roma, this herb is made into a love potion to arouse the affections of any man who has lost interest in his lover.

  “Perhaps you should keep it for yourself, Shangula,” I said ingenuously, “for I think Mara has no longer any desire for a lover.”

  Shangula’s laughter rang scornful but I knew she wouldn’t bear me a lasting grudge. I had Mara’s protection and goodwill.

  * * * * *

  “Everyone must work, no matter their age,” Mara told me, when I returned with the herbs. She pointed to the women and children weaving baskets from osiers, the men carving and fashioning tools. “We’ll sell these at markets to buy food or things we need. Any money left is given to me for safe keeping.”

  “How did you become travellers?” I watched her divide the herbs into smaller bags.

  “Travelling is the Roma way of life,” she replied, sniffing the borage. “We rarely stay more than a few days in one place. The stories say we left our homeland in search of a lost dream of peace. We follow the way of the wind, and are carried like leaves from place to place. We harm no one and return at last to the earth, just as old leaves fall and make way for new.”

  “Outsiders call us Egyptians,” said Shangula. She sat beside us braiding her shining hair. “No one knows if this is where our people truly began.”

  “I’ve travelled many roads.” Mara handed me some acorns. “Even as a baby I travelled. I saw many places, France, Italy, Spain—And I was taught respect for nature, to take only what is needed. The herbs and plants you’ve gathered today will make medicines and charms. The Roma believe the earth offers her fruit to everyone.”

  Each morning we took to the road on foot or in carts drawn by stout horses, and at nightfall built camps at the roadside or in the woodland. Mara showed me how to make a fire, while the men built dome-shaped shelters from twisted hazel branches which they covered with blankets for the night.

  In the villages, the men entertained with displays of tumbling while the women, flamboyant in their long coloured skirts and tinkling jewellery, danced with a wild stamping and clapping that made the heart race. Their dark-skinned, “foreign” appearance and colourful, strangely fashioned garments always attracted much attention. Though the villagers often stood in hostile clusters, clearly under an unwilling enchantment, they gaped curiously at these brightly dressed strangers who spoke in an outlandish tongue. It brought some interest to their dull, plodding lives. Only the children would gather eagerly to devour the spectacle of tumblers and dancers leaping and twisting in a whirl of rainbow magic.

  Once, when Praba stooped to gather the scattered coins and bow his thanks, the watchers drew back and crossed themselves, frightened by the white smile in his dark face. Fascinated by his garish clothes, a tiny girl crept forward. When she reached out a hand to touch him, her mother snatched her away.

  “Tell your fortune, lady?” Mara asked in her husky voice.

  The woman shrank back, holding the child against her.

  “Want to know about the man with only one hand?”

  Gasping, the woman crossed herself.

  “No need to be afraid, lady,” said Mara gently. “The miller don’t forget his promise to you—”

  Stifling a sob, the woman picked up the child and ran, while around Mara the other villagers stood open-mouthed.

  “How did you know about Seb’s hand?” asked a greasy woman.

  Mara smiled impishly. “Same way I know about the baby boy you lost in autumn.” She stared directly into the woman’s frightened eyes.

  “Tell me what you see for me,” a rough male voice commanded.

  Mara turned slowly holding out her hand. “Give me a coin, then, sir,” she answered in a wheedling tone. “I’ll tell you what you most desire to know.”

  This first time I saw Mara use her gift to tell fortunes, I marvelled at her skill and audacity.

  “Don’t you fear being accused of witchcraft?”

  “I do this to earn a few coins now I can no longer lift my skirts in the dance,” she answered with a laugh. “It’s just nonsense to entertain the needy ones. It needs no skill such as you and I possess.”

>   “But they understand you. And they’ll tell tales. Aren’t you afraid of punishment? And are all the fortunes you tell mere nonsense?”

  Mara’s eyes grew misty with remembering. “Once on Astwith Gorse, I saw a special one. Oh, but she was a fine lady, not like these peasants. I’ll not meet with such a one again.”

  “Who was this maid? What did you see for her?”

  “She was no maid,” Mara’s dark eyes gleamed. “She was a woman men would die for.”

  Something in her black eyes puzzled me.

  “Tell me more.”

  Laughing softly, Mara took my hand. “I told her she’d wed a royal prince. Destiny had chosen her for greatness.”

  “Did she believe you?”

  “It pleased her much. I remember she turned to her friends with such pride they treated her with mock homage. It was sport to them but not for her. She believed it. I saw it in her face.”

  “But was there more?”

  I knew it, for Mara’s eyes shone bleak.

  “I told her she would know grief beyond all imagining. Oh, I saw her recoil then like a little bird from the shadow of the hawk’s beak. I knew by that she’d already chosen her path. I saw darkness in her and I was afraid.”

  “What did you see?” I asked in a whisper, my flesh crawling.

  “Terrible, unspeakable things. How could I reveal them? ‘Troubles dire will fall upon your head,’ I told her. It was enough.” Mara trembled. She’d forgotten my presence in re-living the past. “She steeled herself as if for a blow. I couldn’t stop. “Your beauty and your fame will continue beyond death,” I said, “for bone of your bone will join three great houses in one.”

  “Who was she?”

  “You’ve no need to ask.” I shivered then under the scrutiny of her ancient eyes. “You can uncover such secrets yourself. Besides, you must remind her of the message one day. I’ll be with you when you speak to her.”

  She wouldn’t say more of this though I asked often. “Soon enough when the time comes, child.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Great changes.” Mara turned over the card. I leaned forward to study the image of a wheel rolling with outlandish figures clinging to its rim. Seated upon a kind of pedestal, a crowned, winged creature clutched a sword. “The wheel of fortune,” she said in her husky tones. “Our lives turn within it. Our destinies are carried in the spokes. All is ordained. As the wheel moves, so our lives change. One moment we rise, in another we fall. As light and dark, so fortune and misfortune are linked.”

  With bated breath, I watched her take up the next card from the pile I’d shuffled, according to her instructions. This time, her face assumed a puzzled expression as she laid the card crosswise upon the first. I leaned forward, too eager to remain silent.

  “What is it?” I studied the play of light and shade across her features in the mysterious candle-light.

  A man in a curious hat stood behind a table on which lay several objects, a knife, a cup, coins and dice. “The juggler.” Mara pointed to the rod he held. “The wand is power but he turns his face away. Before him lie the instruments of his greatness, but he doesn’t notice them. Many things are within his grasp but he looks without seeing and so wastes his talent.” She raised her eyes to look at me gravely. Shaken, I sensed the importance of this moment. It was as if she has seen into the core of me and found a void. “Such gifts as you possess should not be wasted. You must be bold. The way is hazardous, but you’ve the skill to take it. The juggler’s a master of disguise. You, too, must wear a mask for your enterprise is couched in secrecy.”

  The third card revealed the faded picture of a monkish figure holding a lamp, as if he embarked upon a pilgrimage. “Brother Brian,” I said involuntarily, and Mara’s glance grew piercing sharp.

  “The hermit travels through darkness, but see how his face turns towards the past. He is alone and has learned wisdom through harsh experience. You must learn, child, to turn away from the past, and look to the future. Like the hermit, you’ve walked alone but you’ve yet to reach true understanding. The past is gone, but the future waits. You have a promise to fulfil. You must meet it with fortitude.”

  Over the weeks we travelled together, I became familiar with these strange devices—swords, pentacles, wands and cups. In the faint candle light, I studied again the pictures that seemed to dance as if within some stately promenade. The Hanged Man grinned at me as he swung from his gibbet; the Devil leered and twisted the chained slaves at his feet; the Hermit shuffled into the unknown, and beyond the ring of light, other images pointed toward the mystery of the future. But the past clamoured for my attention, and I listened, spell-bound, as Mara unravelled it, her dark voice probing secrets that had long lain hidden. The moments spilled like coloured beads, and I saw events painted in fresh, vibrant colours as if I stood amidst them for the first time. The Knave of Swords stared up at me lasciviously and I felt a lurch of desire in the pit of my belly. Close by, the King of Cups looked beyond earthly matters with a world-weary gaze that brought tears stinging behind my eyes.

  “You must look forward,” Mara reminded me. “The experiences of the past are but lessons to prepare us for the future. You have an important task to fulfil.”

  I thought then of the boys who’d haunted my dreams since childhood.

  “The child is precious,” said Mara, as if she’d read my thoughts. “You must save him.”

  When I opened my mouth to ask more, she pressed her finger to it. “Not yet,” she said. “You must find the father first.”

  * * * * *

  “Among the Rom it is called dukkering.”

  Mara’s husky voice growled warm and mellow, in the dregs of the day. We sat with our backs against the cart, luxuriating in drowsy companionship as the last tatters of sunlight faded. Tracing the fine lines across my palm, she instructed me to note their names—life, head, heart, fate—pointing to where they met or crossed like spider threads. “Each hand is different.” I peered at the tiny marks. What mystery lurked in this delicate tracery? Was it really possible to read a life from such a fractured pattern?

  Mara grasped both my wrists and nodded, as she thrust the upturned palms towards my face. “Left hand is for the fate chosen at birth, and right for the ways in which you meet it.”

  “Can I change my fate?”

  Mara laughed her familiar husky laugh. “No man can change his fate. Each man meets his destiny according to his own choice.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If we can choose, then we can alter our fate as we wish.”

  “No.” Mara’s face grew sombre. “Our fates are written. No matter where we run, whatever path we take, however far we travel, wherever we may hide, our destiny leads us willingly or unwillingly to the same end. There’s no escape.”

  “Then what are we to do? Do we just sit and wait for things to happen?

  “No, we are travellers and must face the hazards of the journey with a purpose.”

  She called Akasha from feeding twigs into a pile of brushwood being built for the evening cooking fire. The young woman crouched at her feet.

  “Give Nan your hand.” Without a word Akasha placed it, palm upward into mine. I allowed the lines to take me on their intricate journey and found myself unfolding Akasha’s past with growing confidence. The pictures spun me forward—I chased them eagerly until—

  A gasp of horror forced me to confront Akasha’s expectant gaze. A bruise, like a purple flower, bloomed upon her cheekbone, and another angry weal lurked at the corner of her swollen mouth. More shocking than these ugly wounds gleamed the look of acceptance in her eyes.

  “Akasha knows,” Mara said. “Nothing you say can hurt her more.”

  “But she can’t, mustn’t—” Emotion strangled my voice.

  “No man or woman can escape destiny.”

  Akasha smiled up at me with such tender resignation I felt shamed.

  Death by sudden violence, death at the hands of strangers, early death and a c
hild left lonely by the roadside. How could she accept such a future with a smile?

  “Shangula will take the child,” I said. “He’ll be a joy and consolation to her in her solitude.” Gratitude shone in her eyes. “He’ll grow up strong, a man of worth among his people. He’ll be loved. His children will be many.”

  Through the shimmer of her unshed tears, I read relief and satisfaction.

  “Akasha was stoned yesterday in the village.” Mara gestured to the bruises. “The Rom are not always welcome visitors.”

  I stared at my own hands as if afraid to read what lay ahead.

  “Sometimes we must conceal what we see, for some are not strong enough to face the fate. As you grow older, you’ll learn what to open and what to wrap in darkness. Many will call upon your wisdom to guide their steps. You must guard your tongue lest it leads you into grave danger.” Mara closed my fingers and took my fists in her own strong grip. “You’ve such a long road to travel, child. Already you have a purpose. Be sure to see it to its end.”

  * * * * *

  Thin fingers of light stretched across the black arch of the sky when we heard the mewling cry of the child.

  “Kamala’s babe is born!”

  Shangula’s voice broke the tension. We rose at once, chattering like jays. Someone passed me a cup and I drank the hot spicy liquid, scalding my mouth. I coughed until tears filled my eyes.

  Mara melted away into the shadows. I knew she would go back to her charts. We’d awaited this birth anxiously for it was Kamala’s first child.

  Pulling my shawl around me, I stamped my feet against the cold. Stars still hung like twinkling jewels above us. I tried to make out the constellations Mara had taken such pains to point out to me and wondered what the future might hold for the new baby.

  “Our fortunes are written in the heavens,” Mara told me. She stretched out her bony fingers to the smattering of stars across the skies. “The pattern changes with the seasons. Each constellation has its reign, just as a king rules his people for a span, and those born under such and such a star, will share its spirit.”