The Assassin's Wife (28 page)

“It’s a boy,” said Kamala’s mother-in-law. Her black eyes sparkled with pride. A boy was the best gift of all, for a boy ensured the continuation of the tribe. One by one we knelt like worshippers to admire the new-born. Shangula lifted one of the spidery hands and sighed as the tiny fingers curled about her own. This sigh was echoed by the other women. Again I felt that surge of love. How I envied Kamala her babe. Homage made, I crept away into the ghostly grey of the morning to where Mara sat hunched over her chart.

“So, what destiny map have the stars drawn for Kamala’s babe?” I asked, eager to learn the skill that I would one day use, myself.

* * * * *

Greedy flames licked the woodwork. The crackle and fall of burning timber, the whoosh of scattered ash and the plaintive song of the young men haunted us, as we stood in huddled groups watching the pyre. It seemed to me the sob and wail of the mourners increased as the hungry fire became a roar, engulfing the cart in vermillion splendour. In spite of the heat, I shivered. Mara handed me a cup, and I gulped the hot liquid gratefully. It burned in my throat bringing tears to my eyes. The familiar taste reminded me of the morning we’d celebrated the birth of Kamala’s child just a month before. This time we drank to Keshav’s passing.

Shama began to howl as the men broke the cooking vessels and destroyed Keshav’s belongings. Dev cut the dog’s throat swiftly, while the horses stamped, their eyes rolling white, their nostrils quivering at the smell of fire and death. Mara touched my arm. We withdrew, leaving the white-clad mourners to join in the crescendo of grief as the last pieces of Keshav’s life were eliminated.

“Why did Dev kill the dog?”

“The Rom believe the dead have need of their possessions upon the spirit path. In life, a dog is a guard and a protector. In death, it may walk with its master and be a guide.”

“Do you believe this?”

“Have you learned so little of my beliefs, child? All this time I’ve taught you how to unlock the secrets of the spirit world, and you ask me such a question! The dead may speak to us in dreams or visions; they may walk with us on our journeys; they may depart into the distant realms of light and dark; they may return in newer forms to walk the earth. There are many pathways they may choose.”
 

“But I don’t understand why you mustn’t speak a person’s name after he’s dead,” I persisted. “To wipe someone from memory seems cruel and wrong.”

“No one is ever wiped from the memory. Those we love are locked forever in our hearts, but to speak out a name is to call back one who has departed, and that too may be unkind. Only the drabardi may call out to the dead, and only then when it is absolutely necessary.” Again she looked at me long and hard. “One day you’ll be forced to call upon the spirits to bring you guidance. They’ll hear you. The wise man’s love may cross between the two worlds. The sacrifice will seek vengeance. But such events are uncommon. The dead return as and when they must. You know this. It’s not for us to disturb them.”

She put a finger on my lips to silence me. “Yours is a thorny road, but love is never wasted or forgotten. You’ll dance at a wedding.”

I wanted to speak of the black-haired stranger then, but she put her finger to her own lips. “Don’t ask,” she said.

“But I dream of him constantly.” The admission brought the hot blood into my cheeks. “I want to find him.”

“He also dreams,” she answered.
 

She bade me lay out the cards, imperious as an ancient queen. Darkness spiralled like smoke around the tall arrow-head of the candle-flame. Taut as the hare on the edge of a danger it cannot flee, I crouched over the painted images.
 

“When the strong man takes you upon a new journey, you’ll begin to understand your dreams at last. I see a sword, and the naked blade is turned against two children. A terrible order is given. The parchment is signed and sealed by a woman’s hand. Because of it much blood will flow and there’ll be great weeping. Such deeds cannot remain hidden. When the sun stands in the noontime of the year there’ll be a reckoning. Other innocents will be sacrificed. She who sows tears, will harvest sorrow.”

A terrible premonition of my own part in this great catastrophe flooded my mind. Darkness threatened to engulf me. “But I’ve set the wheel in motion,” I cried out.
 

“No!” Mara was implacable. “The wheel turns of its own volition. Those who remain in its pathway are merely caught up in its spokes. Sometimes you can do nothing but watch. This is the seer’s burden. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”

“But how then can I save the children?” I cried out in desperation, terrified by the seeming futility of my actions.

“Follow your purpose,” replied Mara without hesitation. “Trust the visions and do what you must. Even the assassin requires love. Rejoice that you’ve been shown the way. Learn from both success and failure. Above all, remember that birth and death are written and unalterable. Nothing is ever left to chance.”
 

“I don’t understand,” I said, my head aching with confusion.

Mara’s hand touched my brow, cool and soothing. “Be patient,” she said softly. “Learn all you can, daughter, for you’ll need all the skills you can muster. This is why I share my wisdom with you. Sometimes the seer is merely the messenger. But you’re more than this. Though your purpose is clear, warnings may often be disregarded—even our own desires may be thwarted—remember this when the widow rejects your service.” Though I begged her to explain, she’d say no more. We were within days of London. Mara called young Durga into the wagon to meet me.
 

“You’ll never find all those lost children,” Durga said, her tight serious little face fixed upon mine.

“Lost children? What lost children?”

“The little boys,” she said, with a hint of scorn.

“The boys? Where are they? How can I find them? I must help them.”

She muttered something to Mara in her own tongue.

“She says they’re not yet born,” answered Mara.
 

The girl watched me with the intensity of a stoat. At no more than seven summers, Durga already had the seer’s gift. Mara had singled her out from among the children to train in the arts of “dukkering.” Already she’d learned to scry using a shallow dish of inky water.

“Durga says you’ll touch upon a special child one day. Such children are precious gifts given only for a short space for us to cherish so we may glimpse perfection.”
 

“The least wanted in the great house will command the direction of your foot-steps and the black-haired man waits in the shadows,” said Durga. “Save one child and lose all.”

I wanted to ask her more, but Mara put a hand upon my arm.
 

“You mustn’t look for answers now,” she said. “Durga has dreamed of swallows. She tells me we must soon leave this place. The cold wind begins to blow and it’ll be unwise to linger.”

Puzzled, I stared at her. Could a child’s dreaming change important plans in a moment? “Luri said you’d stay in the city throughout the winter.”
 

The child ignored us, engrossed in laying out the pack of painted cards.

“I know, but dreams must be heeded.” Mara watched the girl deftly weaving the mysterious pictures into a pattern of her own devising. “They bring portents the seer must interpret. Durga’s had the same dream three times and now she’s sure of its meaning.”

“And that is to travel?”
 

Mara nodded, her attention fixed on the fall of the cards.

“But what if you choose to ignore her advice?”
 

“To do so would be foolish.”

I snorted with exasperation.

She smiled, shaking her head at me in that indulgent fashion I’d come to know so well. “Ever the doubter, and yet I’ve taught you to search your own dreams for instruction. Durga wouldn’t bid us travel on during the hardest of all seasons if she didn’t believe it necessary. What she lacks in years, she makes up for in understanding. You’ll see.”

Durga held up the Knight of Wands.

“What does this mean?” she asked suddenly, her manner shockingly un-childlike.

“Sudden flight and separation,” answered Mara.

The child laid the card in my lap. “I give this to you,” she said, her gaze pitiless. Then she began to sing in her shrill child’s voice. The words were alien, but the plaintive melody spoke to me of loneliness and exile.
 

Mara pointed ahead. “Look where the city towers rise up before us. By nightfall we’ll be in London.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Go now!”

Shangula thrust me back so I couldn’t see Mara. When I tried to approach, she snarled, cursing in the language of the Rom so savagely, spittle flew from her mouth.

“I want to help!”

Around us, stunned bystanders watched and I sensed their anticipation. They lusted for further bloodshed.
 

I knelt in the filth where Mara struggled to rise. A scarlet thread ran from a corner of her mouth. She clutched at her chest. Even while Shangula tried to drag me away, the old woman pushed something into my hands.

“We don’t need your help.” Shangula wrenched at my arms. “Don’t you see what your people do to us? Leave us alone!”

Through her pain, Mara smiled and nodded. “Go, child—Remember, find the black-haired man and he’ll lead you to the children—Go now—”

This instruction spurred me to action. Blind with tears, I burst through the array of stubborn ruffians. Someone threw a clod but I dodged into a coiling alley-way.

Finding myself in quieter streets at last, I pulled my shawl over my head to disguise my dishevelled appearance, and after climbing some steep steps, hid briefly in the shadowy peace of a church. As the hammering of my heart stilled, I saw again and again the terrible pictures of the day’s events.

Three days we’d stayed in London. Three days we’d enjoyed the patronage of the crowds.
 

“Egyptians!”

The word buzzed through the city, drawing people to us like eager moths.

They marvelled as we danced, whirling bright colours, and sang strange, rhythmic music. Scarlet and gold, vermillion, ochre, amber, and sapphire, the shocking garments dazzled and bewitched. The drums pulsed. As Luri plucked the strings of the strange bulb-shaped instrument, the wailing sound pleaded like unfulfilled desire. Caught like insects in the spider’s gossamer, the spectators sighed and groaned, held by the magic of the music, the kaleidoscope of colour.
 

And while they gazed, Mara and Durga and I moved among them, cajoling coins in exchange for words of wonder, telling secrets of the past and future, while Shangula sold them packages of herbs to cure the ague or to capture the heart.

Three days we entertained them, spun them tales of exotic lands and peoples, but on the fourth—

“Thief!”
 

A red-faced, bull of a man seized Akasha by the hair. She screamed, twisting to shake free, but he wrenched her head back so cruelly I thought he’d snap her neck.

“I felt her hand upon my purse!” he roared at the fascinated crowd. “Now it’s gone. I’ll wager she has it about her somewhere!”
 

He fumbled at her breasts, ripping at her clothes. The crowd surged forward. Above the clamour, I heard the ribald jests.

Dev fought his way through the press of bodies. Behind him Luri howled. The crowd became a mob that battered and trampled. Jabbed aside, I snatched at figures in a struggle to maintain my balance, and met with elbows, fists and nails. Briefly, I glimpsed the torn face of Akasha. Her eyes gleamed wild, the whites turned upward like those of a maddened horse.

Someone threw stones. I shrank from the whistle and thud, the high shrieks of pain. Pitiless in my desire to escape, I thrust myself against all those who obstructed me, forcing them to give way.
 

Someone tugged at my arm.

“Mara!”