A/N: Great big thanks to my lovely reviewers! :) Thanks to TrinJ for following!
Quick note: I did a bunch of research into gypsies, their culture, traditions, superstitions etc. and eventually came across the Kalderash, who were traditionally accomplished smiths and metal workers which seemed to perfectly fit with the direction of this story. Furthermore, they go on an annual pilgrimage to France which seemed to me the perfect location for Erik to cross their path.
Chapter 9: No Man's Land
1840
The old man's name was Mauro, though Erik did not learn that until much later since everybody only ever referred to him as "he". He was the only one of the gypsies that seemed human to him. The only language they initially conversed in was that of silences. Later on, Erik would learn that of signs as well, of delicate hand gestures and fluid movements that possessed a beauty of their own.
But for now there was only quiet and a kind of hush that couldn't be found elsewhere in the camp. Nobody came searching for Erik although he was certain that the old man's tent was known. He slept mostly and when he was awake thought of ways to detach so he might not have to exist for as much as a single moment in this horrible reality that was waiting just outside the tent.
Sometimes, physical sensations would pierce his consciousness, but more often than not he allowed them to exist without paying attention to them. He felt his arm being lifted, felt rough fingertips brushing over the burned-away flesh. He felt something soft graze his skin next, something wet, administered with great care and caution. He was being washed again, kindly this time, not like an animal who deserved only freezing water and a hard-bristled brush. Every once in a while the old man's face swam into view and Erik used these occasions to study his face. He memorised the curve of his bushy eyebrows, the broad wings of his nostrils, the scars on his tanned chin that were barely hidden beneath a fine, white stubble.
Then sharp pain blurred his vision again, resounded within his skull although it originated in his arm. The old man wiped away the tears that had accumulated on his cheeks, his grey eyes understanding and apologetic. Erik tilted his head away, wishing to avoid the sincerity of that glance that seemed powerful enough to make him come undone. He focused instead on the small bowl in the man's free hand, noticed the pieces of dirt and gravel, some coated in a layer of an unidentifiable white or green substance. He understood now that the man appeared to have extracted them from his skin and the thought very nearly turned his stomach, so he quickly squeezed his eyes shut and let him continue to work. Eventually, the dark mist claimed him and he allowed himself to be whisked away.
When he awoke, the scent of rain permeated the air and his arm felt heavy and warm. He glanced down at it nervously and discovered that it was covered by foreign herbs and leaves and wrapped in a makeshift bandage that once must have been wet as it was caked to his skin now. He touched it gingerly with his left hand but did not dare remove it as the old man had seemed to have known what he was doing.
He lowered his arm carefully and closed his eyes. Droplets of rain were hitting the roof of the tent, their rhythm soothing in their steadiness. They seemed to form a melody and unaware of how it happened, Erik's dry lips parted and he hummed along. Occasionally his voice would dominate the tune, before it dipped lower, grew quieter and allowed the rain to sing the rest.
The cold fingers appeared on his throat so quickly that his eyes flew open and he very nearly startled upright, had his worn-out body and the determined pressure of the hand not prohibited him from doing so. The old man did not offer a smile as would have been customary to ease someone's fear, but held a steady eye contact while his fingers gently prodded his throat as if urging him to sing again. Carefully, Erik proceeded, repeating the tune he had only just created. Slowly, the old man began to nod along, matching the rhythm with each of his movements. A smile appeared on his face at last, broad and youthful, exposing his teeth. Erik tentatively returned the smile and continued to sing, shifting the melodies, altering them until he was quite done. Then silence enveloped them again and the old man's hand slowly drifted down Erik's uninjured arm until he found his hand. He gave it a quick, firm squeeze and then rolled over, turning his back to Erik and went back to sleep.
Erik did not know what to make of that curious moment, but he did know that he didn't want it to pass. He longed to fall asleep permanently, here in that one moment of blissful peace and acceptance.
But the morning changed everything. It brought footsteps, patrolling dangerously close to the tent. He glanced at the old man but his face was neutral, his fingers focused on the bandage he had placed around his arm. It was only when the men entered the tent and Erik startled away that he seemed to notice something being afoot.
"Javert wants to see the little corpse before we leave," Gallius, the smaller man grunted, ignoring the old man's questioning look and the raised eyebrow.
"Move!" the other one snapped, reaching for Erik who recoiled from the touch, too aware suddenly of his naked body beneath the damp, woollen blanket.
But the hands did not withdraw, grasped for him with a kind of violent force that made him tremble. Shifting in between them, the old man gave a very clear sign to stop and then turned to rummage in a chest nearby.
"You better be careful," Gallius muttered, addressing the old man's back, fully aware that he could not hear him, "you have been pushing your luck for some time now."
Ignorant to the warning, the old man turned around again and presented a washed-out white shirt to Erik who offered a hesitant smile in return and pulled it over his shoulders. Then he rose dutifully to his feet, frightened that he might be endangering the old man further if he resisted. The shirt dangled shapelessly from his body, wide and long enough at least to cover him decently.
Erik did not speak to the men but loathed them silently for the gruff manner with which they handled him, the utter disregard they displayed to his wounds and the old man's healing attempts. He followed them around the perimeter of the camp until they reached yet another caravan. It was clearly Javert's for it instantly stood out. It was painted entirely black with golden flowers and horses drawn across its side. Ornaments decorated the space above the main entrance, more opulent than the saints seen on the other caravans. It was obvious that he had crafted even this vehicle as a testament to his power and influence.
"Keep moving," Eladon snapped, pushing him towards the door so hard that he collided with it.
His teeth bore most of the knock and he tasted blood, but nonetheless he bit his tongue to suppress any sound, humiliated enough to be sent grovelling at someone's feet again.
"Ah, here he is! Our little corpse!" Javert greeted him. His little rug of blonde air had been parted and slicked back. "Our little talented corpse." Two fingers curled under his chin and forced his head up, but still Erik remained quiet although his eyes burned with hatred. "Our little songbird."
Javert's voice was like honey, as slick as the grease in his hair. Utterly unpalatable. Despair fluttered in Erik's chest, very nearly unlocking his lips and forcing him to utter another desperate plea. Somehow he managed to stop himself and pride took over the despair when Javert's nostrils flared incensed. The smack came harshly nonetheless, but once the first sting had subsided, Erik tilted his head back in its original position and resumed his icy stare as if unmoved by the pain. The power he felt was like a small triumph, but sadly only short-lived as the expression in Javert's eyes changed and he stepped so close Erik could feel his breath on his face.
"So this is how you wish to play it?" he hummed softly. "Very well, you wouldn't be the first animal I've broken."
His eyes flashed and without further warning Erik was being yanked back and carried outside. Gallius and Eladon silently dragged him through the camp and deposited him in the cage once more that now contained a fine layer of hay that reeked of urine. He turned his back to the men, did not watch them walk away and lightly prodded the hay with his foot, trying to locate a piece that was dry enough to sit on.
Then the waiting began, never-ending and excruciating. There was no respite, no moment to unwind because he did not know what was coming, he did not know what lay ahead, only had the dreadful abyss of imagination to provide him with the most horrific premonitions.
All around him the camp was being packed up. The children that had been running around, their snotty faces pressed against the bars of his cage, were being scooped up and locked in their respective caravans. Tents were dismantled and livestock collected. Colourful ribbons untied and slipped out of forked tree branches, the whole endeavour escalating into a loud cacophony of sound, only interrupted when a number of beautiful horses were paraded into the remnants of the camp and attached to the caravans.
Erik, too, was given a horse, a white one with grey spots and tufts of rough, sturdy hair that fanned out across its hooves. It was larger and broader than the others, adequately built to pull the heavy metal contraption Erik found himself in. As the whole clan moved on, Erik glanced over his shoulder once to watch the clearing disappear, then he focused his attention on the horse, the powerful movements of its shoulders, the beautiful slope of its neck.
The mode of travelling, however, was far from comfortable. The cage seemed to have a mind of its own, bumping about angrily at the slightest obstruction. He tried clinging on to the bars with his uninjured hand to stop himself from being thrown about, but since the journey lasted long through the night it grew weary at last and he was forced to let go. The cage jostled heavily, knocking him into its unrelenting structure repeatedly and despite his best attempts at shielding his injured arm, it was further damaged in the commotion.
Their journey continued for days, the gypsies only stopping occasionally to acquire food and to wash themselves. Nobody approached the cage or glanced at him which was a relief, although he knew that if it hadn't been for the old man pushing pieces of soggy bread through the bars he would have painfully starved in his prison. Many more days passed in which his own thoughts were his only companions, if they had not existed, neither would the words that accompanied them and he might have lost his grip on his mother tongue altogether.
In the first few weeks or so he could not tell where they were as the gypsies largely kept to hidden pathways, following markings on trees that spelled safety and food. It was only when they had left the forests and fields behind and large mountains started to loom in the distance that Erik wondered if they were still in France or if his home country, along with his childhood, had been left behind.
A fair site in front of this breath-taking scenery was the first spot they stopped at permanently. Tents were erected once again, children allowed outside to play and one by one the whole community emerged. Erik wasn't freed and for the first couple of days nobody approached him. Then Gallius appeared, on his own this time, opened the door of the cage and led him out. He did not say where they were headed and Erik knew better than to ask. Instead, he observed the customs that took place all around them. He saw women, young and old, hunched around a fire place plucking chickens and preparing stews. He saw well-toned men bending and shaping metal plates as if they were butter. Children, in bright garments, chasing each other around, others spread across the beams that constituted the underbelly of the caravans, peacefully asleep.
The further they walked, the more he realised just how big the terrain was that the gypsies had claimed for themselves and he began to notice that more than one clan seemed to be present, almost as if a gathering was taking place.
"Wash!" Gallius suddenly instructed, pushing him down a small hill and into the bed of a river.
Erik steadied himself with his unharmed arm and obeyed the order. He did not care to expose himself yet again, but his own smell was sickening him so much that he overcame his reluctance.
"You have a big performance tonight," Gallius taunted and his words made him freeze.
He had never sung for a crowd and worried innocently if his voice would still comply. Naively, he refused to believe that he would be giving a performance of a different sort. It did not make sense, not when he had been locked away for it. He could not see why anyone would want to pay for a fright like that.
Only when it was evening and he had been dressed in an undertaker frock, did the horrible truth start to sink in. Torches had been mounted on all four corners of his cage, illuminating him from all angles, no matter where he tried to seek sanctuary. Soon Javert appeared, immaculately made up, wearing a shiny red costume, leading a whole horde of people towards the cage.
"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, expect to be thrilled for here we have it, the most terrible skeleton, the most vicious of beasts: Le Mort Vivant!"
Incredulous faces, terrified gasps. Erik spun around but they emerged mercilessly, rounded his cage, eyed him bluntly. Children started to wail and scream, grasping for their mother's arms.
"He's dead! That boy is dead! Look, he's decomposing!"
The sour stench of vomit.
"This is monstrous!"
Erik's chest began to heave, his lungs refused to fill with air, making him so breathless that he started to feel dizzy. The crowd was stepping closer now, their greedy hands grasping for him, hitting him, scratching him until he was forced to flee into the centre of the cage where they could not reach him. But still the dark circle drew closer, tightened itself around him like a noose and he was powerless to it, could only bury his face against his body until he made himself disappear, a magic trick he wished to master more than anything.
Around him, the crowd grew disappointed and angry. They had not paid good money, after all, to stare at the shell of a boy. No, they longed to see the gory details. And as their shouts turned more and more vicious and the situation threatened to escalate, Eladon and Gallius suddenly appeared in his cage, thick ropes in their hands. Just as they had done before, they tied him to the bars of the cage, stretched his arms so far away from his body that Erik expected them to pop out of their sockets. The pain was so sharp and searing that he almost wet himself again.
But as the crowd broke into raucous cheers once more, something else took hold of him that eradicated the fear entirely. Hatred. Furious, all-consuming hatred towards mankind and their vulgar amusements. His amber eyes glowed dangerously in the dark as he stared back at their eager faces, vowing to one day take his revenge.