Chapter #12
Message from the Past
He looked the same… and yet completely different. I recognized those piercing gold eyes, but the frame of the man was not the one I remembered. He seemed larger, taller, and far more menacing. A familiar mask covered his face from forehead to lips, hiding his secret from the rest of the world by a thin layer of finely tailored kidskin. This one was not white and from a distance, one might believe it was a natural human face; yet the harsh, immobile lines showed it to be nothing more then a clever, flesh-colored dye. His loose, comfortable threads proclaimed him a Gypsy with his own personal touch of plain black without the slightest trace of flair.
If I ever saw him again- and I had little reason to believe I would- I would have never pictured him in a place like this. Building fantastic buildings, maybe; writing symphonies for the great theatre's of Europe, definitely. Never here. Not even in my wildest dreamings would I picture him in the middle of the brush with Gypsies, or anyone else for that matter.
He had never been one to give away his emotions, but several blinks let me know he was nearly as surprised to see me as I was him.
The crowd had parted on either side giving him a path towards my cage. He hardly moved for a moment, and I entertained the notion that perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. But then he began to move forward, silent as a panther, and I his unlucky quarry.
All the Gypsies showed him absolute respect as he came towards me, some voicing what I thought were greetings. He nodded occasionally in acknowledgement, but didn't speak, and never took his eyes off me.
Their reactions to him were far cries from the screams I remembered on the night of my last performance. People had run, others had fainted dead at the sight of that face. No living person could bear to look upon such a tragedy and it was only through force of will that I had. Perhaps these Gypsies did not know him as he truly was.
But, a voice of reason whispered in my mind, this was not the same man I knew at eighteen. This was someone different and I had never known him well to begin with.
Little Dika was practically beaming, very much pleased with the culmination of her work. Her brown eyes darted between me, and the man approaching, as if she could not decide who was more fascinating.
When he was just out of arm's reach, he kneeled on his haunches and tilted his head to one side, studying me. I scrambled clumsily towards him on all fours, my chains scrapping against the hay and metal on the bottom. I grasped the bars of the cage and pressed my face between them. Seeing those eyes, so real after all these years, set my heart pounding in my chest.
I could think of nothing to say. He was the only person in this place who would understand me, but given our history, I did not feel I had any right to ask for his help. I did not want it either. All the conflicting emotions I had felt in his presence bubbled to the surface. Any tenderness was clouded by intimidation and pain. I would no more willingly let him back into my life than I allow a snake into my bed while I slept.
Yet I knew I would not get out of here without him. No matter the circumstances of our past, there had once been a level of respect between us. I pressed my face between the bars and willed for something –anything- to show on my face that might induce compassion.
His eyes left mine and swept over my body. He took in my chains, my ragged dress, and from the way his nostrils flared, I knew he could smell my blood. I would have liked to look my best and show him the richness of the years we had spent apart, but beggars at a time like this certainly could not be choosers.
My arms gripped high on the bars of the cage. The chains hung like a macabre swing between my arms. He reached out and touched one of the links, examining it with both eyes and fingers until he let go, setting the chain swinging.
Then, he stood. I felt as if I had fallen off a building and landed, hidden from view, in a bush, now out of his scrutiny. My erratic heartbeat slowed, but still did not reach a normal rate. My eyes, no longer held by his glance, shifted to my hands, which I found to be shaking.
I looked up again in time to see him jerk his masked head at three men in the crowd. They sprung into action, moving towards me as the Phantom stepped back to give them room.
Panic overwhelmed me and, afraid of what the men might do, I tried to push myself into the farthest corner of the cage. One of them crouched down and managed to grab me by the ankle, pulling me out backwards. I did not want to fight anymore, was practically incapable of doing so, but I would not make it easy for them. I went as limp as a rag doll, forcing the man to carry me as the Phantom led us into a nearby tent.
Inside, I was dropped onto a wooden box with a large stone sitting in front of it. An old Gypsy man with a beard was standing in the corner, smoking a pipe with one hand, swinging a hot poker with the other, and looking at me with interest. I stared right back.
The Phantom spoke to the man in tones I could not hear, then disappeared through the flap of the tent. Out of my sight now, he meant nothing to me and I looked to the old man to appeal for help.
"Can you speak to me?" I found it hard to believe that a group of people could be this far into France and not know any of the language, but no one would speak to me! The old man did not answer, merely raised an eyebrow when I spoke and continued to blow smoke rings that died in the roof of the canvas.
The old Gypsy waved his poker at the stone. When I did nothing, one of the young men moved in front of me and grasped my wrists. He pulled them over the stone, then separated them until the metal chains sat taunt as a bow string over the top of the stone.
I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting some kind of physical punishment, and none came. When I opened them, I saw the bearded man place the end of the poker in the blaze and keep it there, the metal glowing slightly in the heat. While he waited, he turned his head away from his task and winked at me. I had no time to react when the man holding my hands suddenly pulled them harder until I cried out in pain.
The pain passed and I opened my eyes. The bearded man was still at his task of heating the poker. Behind him sat an anvil with several horse-shoes laying around its base. The iron hub of a caravan wheel lay alongside a bucket of water. Everywhere I looked, there were fresh metal tools, or old ones in various states of brokenness, waiting to be fixed. The man was a blacksmith.
Though I understood this, it was not until the flaming end of the poker headed towards me that I realized what was happening. The bearded man pressed the tip of the poker into the keyhole of the lock on my chains, the metal glowing red at the contact. Within seconds, the lock popped open and fell on the ground.
Bracelets and chain fell in the dirt, and could rust away to nothing for all I cared. My wrists were red and blue with blood and bruises, but I was relieved. I rubbed one absently while the Gypsy put away his poker, setting it back in the fire. When he was done, he came closer to examine his work. He clucked his tongue when he saw the damage, then gave me an encouraging smile, and patted me on the shoulder.
He said something that sounded to me like, "Careful," but he left before I could call him back.
I rolled my right wrist to check its range of motion; perfect. Except for a slight soreness, it wasn't broken. The other was fine too. My stomach was upset and I felt slightly hot, but I was otherwise fine. Free from the cage and now my shackles, my mind was now open to wonder what these people –and my former tutor- would do.
I doubted he wanted much to do with me; I wanted less to do with him. The Gypsies, though, might want something. I had heard the horrible tales of thievery and black magic. Farmers that don't share their livestock with a traveling Gypsy tribe found their herds dead the next morning. Unbaptized babies were stolen from their cribs to become ingredients in black Gypsy potions. I tended to reject such extraordinary tales nowadays, but they seemed like very real possibilities now that I was their prisoner.
I was also penniless. The only wealth I had was Raoul's signet ring and the little cross Dika had given me. My gown, once worth a king's ransom, wouldn't fetch half a franc at a fair now. I was probably worth less then those wretched mongrels wondering the camp.
Days ago, I had been a wealthy, disgustingly so. Raoul's family was one of the richest in Europe and I had carried their name. I was also a wanted murder suspect.
If these people knew who I really was….
But they didn't, and I'd be damned if I let them find out.
He knew. Maybe not recent events, but he certainly knew enough to turn a few heads with his knowledge.
Why, of all places, was he here?
I would need him as an ally now. My decision to abandon him that night after Don Juan had given me five quiet years with Raoul, so I had little regret over my actions. But revenge had been driving the Phantom I knew his whole life. I could not rely on any sympathy he may or may not carry for me to save my life, I did not have that luxury.
Dika peeked her head into the tent and waved at me. When she was close enough to see them, she examined my wrists, fascinated by the change. When she had her fill, her little face scrunched, and she looked as if she were building the strength to say something
"Masahj," she finally said. I hoped she did not expect me to know any of her words.
"Mesahj? What… oh message! You mean message? For me?" Dika nodded. "From whom?"
Dika put her hand across the right side of her face.
"From Erik? You have a message to me from Erik?" I did not know how she would give it to me; her French was nearly non-existent.
"Tawt word masahj," she said, concentrating fiercely on her words. "Mulani waitig you en wooods."
A/N: Mulani: Gypsy word meaning 'ghost'.
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