Being a Green Mother (9 page)

“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 individualy 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 potent 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.”

“But Persia is at war!” another passenger protested. “We’ll be shot down!”

“No,” the hijacker replied. “They know we’re coming. This plane is now the property of Persia. Now we are going to record your names and nations, so that we can obtain ransoms for you. Anyone who does not cooperate will be conscripted into the Persian army.”

“But my family is poor!” a third passenger cried. “We can not afford ransom!”

The hijacker smiled grimly. “Then welcome to the Persian army! I’m sure you’ll like it on the front line.”

Orb quailed. This was no good for any of them! The war between Persia and Babylon had been dragging on with internecine vigor, and both sides were desperate but refused to make peace. Neither honored international conventions with anything much beyond lip service. Now it seemed they were recruiting personnel and money by sending agents out to steal entire airplanes.

The listing proceeded, as each passenger in turn gave his or her name and nation, knowing no way to resist. The plane flew east toward Persia.

But the hijackers had miscalculated, or perhaps the pilot had deceived them. Another airplane appeared, bearing the markings of Babylon. Orders were barked on the radio, obviously directions to land in Babylon or be shot down.

“We’ll die first!” the hijackers exclaimed defiantly.

There was a warning shot, of the Babylonian type. It put a hole in the left wing. The plane began to wobble.

Orb knew they would all die if someone didn’t do something immediately—and there seemed to be no one who could. Except herself, by default. She was no hero, but she valued her life. She wished she had avoided science and stayed with her tried and true magic carpet. She had the carpet with her, of course—but in the baggage compartment.

“Go up and tell the pilot to resume course when I distract the hijackers,” she said to the woman beside her.

“But they will kill you—and me!”

“Perhaps not.” Then Orb took out her harp and began to play.

“Hey!” the English-speaking hijacker said, swinging his gun about. But he paused as Orb began to sing.

She spread her magic out, pacifying all those in the airplane. She nudged her seat companion, who stirred herself and made her way up toward the cockpit. She continued playing and singing, knowing that the moment she stopped, the hijackers would resume their mischief.

But the Babylonian plane wasn’t affected by her singing. Another shot was fired, putting another hole in the wing.

Orb broke off her singing for a moment. “Tell them we’re landing!” she called, then resumed her song before the hijackers could revert.

“That’s no good!” the pilot called back. “Babylonia is just as bad as Persia!”

“Then lock on the radio!” Orb cried. “I’ll sing to them, too!”

In that time, one of the hijackers lifted his gun and aimed it. But before he fired, Orb’s song resumed, and he remained as he was, listening, the gun pointing but not firing.

Now she concentrated on the occupants of the Babylonian plane. Could she move them, too, by her singing? The radio would carry her voice there, but they were not before her; she could not see them, and they could not see her. How much of the magic effect was from proximity? She didn’t know. But she concentrated her mind on that other plane, singing to its operators, hoping that the magic would carry.

Her own airplane shifted course. At first her heart leaped; she feared it was going down because of the damage to the wing. Then she realized that the pilot was doing it, turning away from the direction dictated by the hijackers. It was also away from the Babylonian airport. If her music was not pacifying the other plane …

No third shot came. The airplane proceeded south to an emergency landing in Arabia. Orb was able at last to rest. Fortunately the authorities were embarrassed by the lapse in airplane security and did not publicize the event, so Orb was not besieged by reporters. In due course another passenger airplane arrived, and they were carried on to India, albeit somewhat delayed.

There she had another disappointment. India was huge and fragmented into many kingdoms, each with its own language or dialect, none of which she understood. There seemed to be no Gypsies here. She understood they had come from northern India, perhaps being the inhabitants before conquest imposed the caste system and made them pariahs, made them flee for their freedom. It was said that their language was very similar to Sanskrit. Perhaps there had been many waves of Gypsies as new oppressions occurred in India. But until they departed, they were not Gypsies; they were natives. The source might be here, but not the song.

Well, she would look through all of India, if she had to, until she found some clue. She would simply tour each kingdom, asking the natives. Somewhere, someone would know something about the Llano. She had to believe that.

She started in Calcutta. She knew better than to travel alone through such a vast and varied land, so she joined a
road show that was passing through. She had only to audition for the master of the show, and he hired her on the spot for a fee she knew was too low. But her purpose was not money, but company, and the show promised to wend its way through much of India in the coming year. She was satisfied. Her quest continued.

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