Lilith touched the final card facing up. The Hermit held his beacon before the darkness and Lilith knew it represented the next step on Mitch’s voyage. Another seeker, like The Fool, The Hermit has the wisdom of experience, though he shuns material aid. He sets out alone, to plan, to think, to unravel mysteries. The Hermit represents contemplation and a coming to understanding with one’s own past and one’s own self.
Lilith sat back in her chair and frowned at the card, unable to understand what it meant for Mitch. Was he going to disappear on his own for a while? Had it been closer to his conference, that possibility might have made more sense than it did.
Something flickered in her crystal ball like a beacon, but when Lilith frowned at it, there was nothing really there.
How strange.
But she was really tired, after all. Lilith smiled at the reason for her exhaustion. She yawned finally and stretched, knowing she wasn’t going to see this solved tonight. At least not without some sleep.
And as Lilith climbed the stairs, she smiled once more at the prospect of her pleasant dreams.
*
But unbeknownst to Lilith, as she slumbered contentedly through that night, her very first grey hair unfurled like a silver thread in her dark tresses. It was a stark statement that things had not remained as once they were, that perhaps the elixir she had sipped so long ago was finally losing its grip.
Lilith, though, had such an abundance of hair that she would not immediately notice this herald of change.
*
Mitch rolled into the newsroom Monday morning, quite certain that the world was a good place. He and Lilith and the kids had had a great time the day before, all working together in the garden. Mitch had managed to more or less mow the lawn - even if most of what was growing there wasn’t grass, the yard looked green. Jen’s pool had a permanent location for the rest of the summer, Jason and Lilith had managed to get one bed in place and plant some beans before the skies burst open.
It had been a great thunderstorm and they had watched its show from the shelter of the back porch. Much to Jason’s delight, the power went off, and they ate Lilith’s vegetarian quiche cold, by candlelight.
And the more Mitch talked to Lilith, the more he became convinced that one little kink in her system could be put to rights.
Mitch didn’t even blink when Isabel bounced up to his desk in neon pink biker shorts. Her hair was woven into a thick ponytail, she had sunglasses perched on her head and what looked like a butterfly tattoo on her upper arm. Mitch thought she had a few more earrings than she used to.
“New guy?” he guessed.
Isabel grinned. “Bike courier.” She whistled under her breath and rolled her eyes appreciatively. “Legs like you wouldn’t believe. And stamina.” Isabel giggled, then blushed.
Mitch grinned and shook his head. “Hey, can you do something for me?”
“You know it.”
“Try to dig me up some stuff on selective amnesia, repressed memories, basically whatever the brain does to protect someone from reliving a nasty experience. And, if you run across the names of any clinics or psychologist who are particularly good at treating this kind of thing, jot them down.”
“Another juicy lead?”
“No, no.” Mitch got waved in to the editorial meeting, so he scooped up his notepad. He dropped his voice. “This is personal, so don’t spend the company dime on it. I’d just appreciate any quick pointers you could give me.”
He’d figure out how he was going to run this by Lilith later.
“Sure.” Isabel shrugged, her expression immediately serious. “Anything I can do to help?”
Mitch smiled. She was a good-hearted kid. “Not so far. I’ll let you know what comes out of this meeting.” He waved, sipped the horrible excuse for coffee and headed into the morning meeting.
*
An Irish Wolfhound is a large dog, a very large dog. In fact, many books cite the wolfhound as the Largest Dog. It is not uncommon for a male wolfhound to tip the scales at 140 pounds of lean strength, as Cooley did. Jen wasn’t even tall enough to look Cooley straight in the eye.
Like most dogs, wolfhounds eat their weight in dog food every month. Mitch had never even considered joining a gym, the weekly adventure of hauling kibble and daily task of doling it out for a very interested Cooley - never mind walking the amiable beast - more than enough aerobics for him.
Characteristically placid, wolfhounds are often referred to as “gentle giants”. Loyal and protective, they keep an eye on everyone they consider to be their personal responsibility. Cooley was great with the kids, more than tolerant of Jen’s tail-tugging. He lumbered after Jason on the little boy’s many adventures and Mitch often felt that the dog was the best sitter they could ever have.
But on this particular Monday morning, Cooley was uncharacteristically riled. It was more than a general sense that his “pack” was in jeopardy, he could smell trouble. With canine certainty, the wolfhound knew that the neighbor with the sunflowers posed a dangerous threat to his family.
He paced the length of the new fence, restless at his confinement in the yard. Cooley shoved his nose into the small gaps in the fence and could barely wedge it through, let alone the rest of him. He pawed at the fence and jumped on it a few times, but this time, the fence seemed inclined to stay put.
But there was more than one way to get next door. He couldn’t go through the fence or around it, he couldn’t jump over the six foot height, but with some diligence he could go under it.
So, determined to save his family from dire peril, Cooley settled in to dig at the back corner of the lot. Unbeknownst to the dog, he was hidden from view by a particularly big and dangerously prickly thistle.
It would take a long time for such a large dog to dig a tunnel big enough to accommodate his size, but the thistle would ensure that days passed before the time anyone guessed what Cooley was up to.
And then it would be too late.
*
Much to Lilith’s relief, there was no line of panting men at the bookstore that Monday afternoon. A pair of teenagers giggled as they waited for her, an older woman with sad eyes fiddled with her wedding ring.
And a very serious looking young man waited quietly. He was so different from her usual customers that Lilith thought at first he must not be waiting for her.
He was dressed simply but neatly, in jeans and a white shirt, a black leather backpack at his feet, a sheaf that looked to have been torn out of the yellow pages in his hand. His hair was dark, his skin was fair. He was handsome but unaware of it. He looked about the age to be in university, although he dressed with the somber and well-pressed style of someone older. He sat quietly, barely moving, something about the fathomless darkness - and the steadiness - of his gaze making dread rise in Lilith’s throat.
The bookstore owner was delighted to see her. Ryan had decked her little table with fresh flowers and kept saying how he hoped she’d enjoyed the chocolates. Lilith smiled and thanked him, then beckoned to the teenager first in line. She shuffled her cards, feeling the young man watch her and refusing to consider why he was here.
She knew without doubt that he was Rom, the first Rom she had faced since all those years ago. The first Rom who had ever sought her out. That couldn’t be a good thing. Lilith had actively avoided her kind, refusing to consider herself among their ranks.
Because she was not. It was decided and done.
But the young man’s presence made her nervous, all the same.
*
Mitch came out of his meeting, buoyed by praise for his final copy on a recycling materials scam, to find crisis ready and waiting.
Isabel waved a phone at him. “Hey, you know that source you hung your story on?”
Mitch’s heart sank as he guessed what she was going to say. “Don’t tell me.”
“He called. He’s rescinding. His lawyer says he’ll sue.” Isabel grimaced. “Mitch, he sounds scared.”
Well, that wasn’t to
o improbable. Mitch had sniffed out organized crime connections to this scam, but hadn’t been able to substantiate them.
The managing editor spoke from behind Mitch. “Davison, don’t lose this one. I’ve cleared the front page for this.” He looked grim. “I want that story, one way or the other.”
“Yeah, me too.” Mitch turned back to Isabel. “See if you can get him on the phone again. Let me talk to him - we’ll try to set up a meeting.”
Isabel chewed her lip. “What if he says no?”
“Then I’ll find what I need somewhere else,” Mitch affirmed, rummaging through the files on his desk. “The story’s there and I’m not the only one who knows it. That forensic accountant knew more than he told us, I knew it at the time. I’ve got his card in here. And the security guard at the plant wasn’t surprised. I’ll revisit everybody and go over it again.”
Isabel’s eyes shone. “Wow! Can I tag along?”
“It’ll be a long haul.”
“But the closest I’ve been to real reporting yet.” Isabel leaned both hands on his desk in her appeal. “Please, Mitch, get me out the goddamn files.”
Mitch considered her for a moment and could understand her frustration. And she could be a great help to him if things were heating up. He looked to the managing editor, who nodded subtle approval.
Mitch flicked the forensic accountant’s card at Isabel. “Sweet talk him into a lunch meeting, just the three of us. Tell him you’ll make it look like a date, he was worried before and might be more worried now.” Mitch eyed her funky clothing wryly. “But to make it look plausible, Isabel, you’re going to have to change.”
*
Even though she sensed the truth, Lilith was still shocked at his first words when he finally took the seat opposite her.
“Rom san?” he asked earnestly, his gaze searching, his pronunciation meticulous.
Are you Rom?
Lilith caught her breath at the question, her gaze flew to meet those eyes so like her own. She licked her lips, then shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said flatly, disliking the taste of the lie on her tongue.
But she had made her choice and she would stick with it.
The boy heaved a sigh and frowned. “Neither do I,” he confessed quietly and leaned back in his chair, “but my grandmother told me to ask fortune tellers that until one answered me.” He shoved a hand through his hair and looked suddenly very young and burdened. He smoothed the yellow page listings on the table and Lilith saw that he had torn out the section on Occult Bookstores.
They were crossed out in succession, Ryan’s - with its declaration of “Real Fortune Telling on Mondays!” being the one he took a pencil to now.
Lilith couldn’t stop her question, although she was certain hers was just a normal curiosity. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and summoned a half-hearted smile. “It’s really not your problem.”
Lilith smiled. “But it might make you feel better to talk about it.”
“You’re busy.”
Lilith indicated the lack of line behind him, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Not now. Tell me.”
He looked steadily into her eyes as though considering whether he should do so, then abruptly nodded and leaned closer. “It’s my grandmother.”
He swallowed and Lilith saw how deeply he was troubled. She guessed the pair were close, that perhaps the grandmother was not well, and felt sorry for boy opposite her. She wondered if there was anyone else left in his family, and he almost immediately answered her unspoken question.
“She raised me since my parents died and we used to talk all the time. But since she’s been in the hospital, she seems to be forgetting English. She’s stubborn, though, so maybe she just refuses to speak it.”
Lilith watched his fingers tap nervously and thought of another stubborn Rom grandmother she had known. “What does she speak?” she asked, already fairly certain of the answer.
“Rom,” he declared and Lilith’s heart skipped. “Gypsy. She’s a Gypsy, I guess we all are. But now, I can’t even understand her,” he confessed with rising frustration. “No one ever taught me the language. It’s like she’s pulled away to a place where I can’t reach her anymore. I can’t help her, or explain what’s happening, what the doctors are doing. She has to be scared.”
Lilith’s sympathetic heart twisted a little. “But she must have told you something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah. She taught me that question last weekend, told me to look for dark-haired, dark-eyed fortune-tellers.” He smiled sadly. “She sent me on a search for a Gypsy fortune-teller who could speak Rom to her. It’s the only English she’s spoken in a month and she refused to understand anything after that. The whole thing is nuts, it’s never going to work, but I have to try.” He frowned and heaved a sigh in frustration, his gaze flicking back to Lilith. “What else am I going to do?”
Lilith studied him and saw more than he probably wanted her to see. “She’s very ill.”
His lips tightened, and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.” He shrugged and straightened, deliberately looking at the torn pages once more. “But like I said, it’s not your problem. Thanks for letting me dump a bit. Hey, do you know where Mirvell Street is?”
“It’s just west of here. It runs south.”
But he wouldn’t find any Rom at the occult store there, Lilith knew. Her conviction wavered ever so slightly when she considered the difficulty of the task he had taken on, no less his determination to chase down every lead.
“Why don’t you give me your name and a way to reach you?” she suggested, without ever intending to do so. The boy looked up hopefully, but Lilith tried to keep her words light. “You never know how things might come together - the world works in mysterious ways.”
He smiled suddenly, then delved in his backpack for a pen and paper. “Now, you sound like my grandmother,” he commented. He bent to write out an address in a precise hand and probably missed Lilith’s quick intake of breath.
Then, he thanked her and was gone, his footsteps turning west when he left Ryan’s store.
Unfortunately Lilith couldn’t wipe the exchange from her mind as easily as that. And she knew it wasn’t her imagination that his sheet of paper seemed to generate an insistent heat of its own from the depths of her pocket.
Obviously, she was just jangled from sharing the story of his earlier demise with Mitch on Saturday night. That must be the only explanation for any uncertainty that had crept into her mind.
Because Lilith knew she could not do this. There was no question of it. In her mind’s eye, Lilith saw again the condemnation in a dozen pairs of dark eyes, etched in the features of those she thought cared for her. The memory was painfully vivid, now that she had dredged it up, and the ache of rejection burned in her chest as though she had just been knifed. Lilith had been judged, found unacceptable, and cast out by those she loved.
She was mahrime, after all.
Time had not erased that. No doubt, this old Rom woman would reject her, too. To visit her would be inviting a replay of that painful experience.
Lilith just couldn’t do it.
The Hermit card, though, separated itself from the deck as she absently shuffled, and Lilith’s fingers hovered over it. The man pictured there was elderly, like a guardian in a fairy tale or a pilgrim seeking penitence.
Or like a wise teacher pointing out the thread of meaning that might otherwise be missed in the great tapestry of life.
Lilith thought of Dritta; she thought of a stubborn Rom grandmother dying in the alien world of a gadje hospital. The prevalence of white alone would make her crazy, white being considered a fiercely unlucky color by the Rom.
Lilith frowned when compassion coursed through her and defiantly shuffled The Hermit back into the deck. She even managed to smile for the next person who stepped up to her table.
*
The whole story fell apart in Mitch’s hands. Someo
ne had been busy doing some major intimidation. He didn’t much care where the leak was, he just wanted to get to the truth and get it on the front page.
His source had not only clammed up, but disappeared.
The longer it took to confirm his story through other sources, the greater the chance that the competition would catch a whiff of what was going on. Mitch met with the managing editor at close of business and that man made the call.
“We don’t have enough to run on, not for our reputation,” he said with a frown. “You’ve got another day, Davison. But at four tomorrow, I don’t want to be disappointed.” He shook a finger at Mitch. “This is good stuff. I want it.”
Mitch nodded and ducked out of his boss’s office. He eyed his watch, knew he had to pick up the kids. He stuffed every file he could imagine was remotely pertinent into his briefcase and closed up his laptop.
Isabel looked on enquiringly.
“I’ve got one more day and it’s in here somewhere,” Mitch informed her grimly. “I’ll find another way to get this story, if it takes me all goddamned night.”
But when Mitch got into the office the next morning, desperately short of clues and REM sleep, the managing editor was waiting for him.
Not a good sign.
“What was the name of that source who rescinded on you?”
Mitch told him and his boss grimaced. “What’s wrong?” Mitch asked.
“He’s dead, and not of old age. Maybe it really is a suicide – either way, the story just got bigger.” The managing editor looked Mitch right in the eye, handing him a piece of paper. Mitch scanned the notes. “We picked it up on police frequencies – they’re down there right now. Get your ass down there, take another day, but get the whole story.”
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