Part One Gelem, gelem, lungone dromensa Maladilem bahktale Romensa A Romale katar tumen aven, E tsarensa bahktale dromensa? He stumbled through the trees, dragging himself grimly onwards, his clothing reshaped into a shirt and trousers that had a smaller chance of entangling themselves in the foliage than that of a cloak. Not to mention that their colors were less bright than that of his customary red. He wasn't sure how they had found him. Or what...who commanded them, or what they wore and wielded, but he was sure of three things - one, that they were definitely trying to kill him. Two, that his powers couldn't affect them in any way - perhaps a new type of plastic? God knew that many substances couldn't be affected by magnetism in the first place. Three, that if he didn't somehow elude them he was going to die. One of them had already hit him in the leg, but he moved on with iron determination built up over the years. Death was something familiar to him, and he'd lived with its presence in the camp. The thought didn't actually scare him anymore, and neither did continual survival thrill him in the first place. Only that it would give him a great satisfaction in frustrating whatever organization those idiots on his trail belonged to. Erik had no idea where he was now. Distractedly he recognized deciduous trees, but he also decided he did not actually care. He couldn't even remember how he'd ended up here. Something about flying...what was that? Erik swiftly moved away to a particularly thick posse of trees. Whoever it was, it wasn't his pursuers. The things in front were making enough noises to wake the dead. ** What looked like a darker shadow appeared to be a man crouching down in the undergrowth. He also appeared to be speaking to himself. "Closing in," he muttered to his helmet, "Roger." Idly, the man wondered why 'Roger' was used to terminate a message. He was dressed in dark clothing that merged in perfectly with shadows, but he wasn't bothering to hide himself. He and his other comrades knew perfectly well where their quarry was. The man had a growing respect for their prey. Somehow it had managed to kill off three of the specially trained agents, by calling up metal from the ground itself. Their 'shield' prevented use of magnetism in a radius around them, but from somewhere their prey had learnt how to defend himself without use of his powers. The metal, shaped roughly in the shape of throwing darts, had been launched with powerful force beyond the radius, such that when they entered at burning speed they needed not any more of the magnetic guiding force to plunge themselves into the three targets. What had been most unnerving was that their prey, better known as Magneto, did not look exactly surprised that they had broken into his sanctum and were trying to kill him. As if it happened to him everyday or something. The most unnerving thing was the look in Magneto's eyes - a dead, blank, weary look that had abruptly, like an extinct volcano's sudden eruption, burst into a blue fire of mad rage. The man thought that Magneto was mad. Now he knew that was true - in a way. Magneto's fury had for a moment shocked even he and his comrades, until now men that were not considered easily shocked or daunted. At least they'd managed to hurt him. Then again, the injured and cornered animal fought the worst. The man concluded that he was not looking forward to the upcoming fight at all. He hoped that the Hawk operations would call them off, but brushed off that idea just as quickly as it had come, and continued forward, holding his specially made gun in a practiced position. ** The girl passed yet another tree, her sharp black eyes looking around for any sign of her companions. She had short black hair and a red ribbon tied on, and her ragged dress already showed wear and tear from brambles. She stopped suddenly, quick intuition pointing out a particular tree with a presence somewhere behind it. Thinking it may be an animal of some kind, or some intruder of which she was honor bound to see who it was, she circled carefully as if minding her own business, heart pounding. Threading her way through, she came up behind the thick posse of trees, and frowned. Nothing was there. With a light step, she walked towards it, and saw with a little thrill that some of the grass had been pressed down and was just curling back up. When she stood up and turned around, she nearly ran into a tall stranger with startling white hair and a suspicious yet amused expression. She opened her mouth to scream, but the stranger moved like a snake - he was already kneeling beside her, hand clamped around her mouth. "Don't say anything, please," he whispered in perfect German. She turned her eyes to his, then bit his hand. As he let go with an oath, she screamed and started to run, but hesitated when her three companions, alerted, burst in towards her, and froze when they saw the tall stranger. "Wildcat," the stranger muttered. "You're gypsies?" "Bengesko niamso!" the leader of the four shouted bravely at the stranger as the girl took her place beside them. "Cursed German! Spying on us!" "No," the stranger said, with a haunted expression, "Merely passing through. Will you please be quiet? Damn!" The children started at the stranger's last exclamation, and saw that three more strangers dressed in outlandish clothing had materialized behind them. "Have you stooped to taking children hostage?" one of the men snarled, "Gypsy children do not affect us." "Heartless killers that would kill them just as easily as you would kill me," the stranger said wearily, standing up. The one who had spoken looked down at the children, and their hearts beat faster. His movements were slick and disjointed, a professional hunter. Then their eyes fixed on the large shiny gun that he held, to the small icon of a hawk on his plastic-like armor. "And perhaps we should," the man said cruelly, "None should learn of Hawk's existence as yet." The air around the stranger suddenly seemed freezing cold, with a festering hatred. "You had better not," the stranger warned. "Really, Commander," one of the other strangers protested in English, "They're only children! None of their parents would believe them." "You will never know," the stranger said, moving his gun in a single motion such that it pointed at the leader of the boys. The children, frozen in horror, stared at him. "You can't!" the English stranger cried, and, dropping his gun, lunged forward, hitting the Commander's hand such that the shot misfired, the bullet ricocheting off a tree to disappear into the forest. Then as the two began to wrestle for the gun the third stranger neatly stabbed the English stranger with a thin syringe-like tool, and he crumpled to the ground. The children scattered like leaves in the wind, but the stranger didn't hesitate - he'd moved over to the discarded gun, and quickly emptied shots into the other two, who also collapsed. Then he walked quickly over to the English stranger. "Couldn't...let...him," the man gasped, "Are they...all right?" The stranger looked up. The children were somewhere near - he could sense their presence. Then the girl walked in cautiously. The English man smiled weakly. "Always loved...kids." The boy led the rest back in. "We can take him to camp," he said doubtfully. "No use," the man said, "I know what's in that syringe." "Liquid cyanide," the white haired stranger said, picking up the instrument. "The devils." "Yes," the man said, then narrowed his eyes. The stranger flinched back even as the man's hand swept through the air and missed, the shine of a small dagger flashing past. "A last try," the man smiled again, "Too...bad, really." Then his body froze into the inanimate repose of the dead. "Amazing tenacity," the white haired stranger murmured. The children had horrified expressions on their faces even as he picked up a gun and examined it. "There are more of them," the stranger advised, "You had better tell your people to move on. You are Romany gypsies, are you not? It has been a long time since I have seen your people." They looked at him with a blank expression, then the girl's gaze moved to his injury. "Maybe you like to come?" The boy hissed at her, and there was a short argument in the Roma language. "You have money?" one of the boys asked hopefully. The stranger smiled, then winced as his leg throbbed in pain. "Not exactly." "Englishmen in camp taking 'videos'," another boy said helpfully, "Maybe they drive these gadjos away." "And how can they do that?" the stranger asked, apparently trying to humor the children. "Police don't abuse us when Englishmen near," the boy explained, "We get to live in better place when Englishmen here." "And maybe tarot lady can help you," the girl said, pointing to his wound that had continued to bleed sluggishly through his trousers. "I see," the stranger said thoughtfully, "Well then, I suppose I could come along." The leader of the gang hissed at the rest, and there was another spirited debate. The stranger sighed, and probed the ground until he located a vein of silver, then summoned it to him. The silver burst out of the ground, and he shaped it into several small shiny marbles before dropping it in front of them. The children squeaked in excitement and gathered up the treasures, then the boy nodded to the stranger and gestured for him to follow them. The stranger smiled - some things never changed. "How you do that?" one of the boys asked excitedly. "This solid silver!" "Magic?" the girl, asked, "Can you do again?" "Certainly," the stranger said, wincing as weight was put on his foot. He really needed refuge and medical help soon, or the wound might turn septic. Sometimes he wished he had a healing factor. ** John reached the steps of the pine green wagon boldly, trailing the others like the tail of a relatively short comet. A black cat darted out from under the steps to sit at the top, watching them with hypnotic green eyes. "Superstition at its finest," Neuman sighed, "But it is a fine creature." The cat purred, delicately raising one coal-black paw to lick at it, but still barring their entrance as much as a cat could. John went up the stairs, ignoring its affronted stare, and reached over it to knock respectfully on the closed doors. "Anyone in?" he asked in German. There was the sound of a confused scuffle inside the wagon, then a clear, female voice replied, "Come in." John opened the door, and the cat slipped in, then he looked back at the others to come in. "No videos," the female voice said sharply. John started and almost fell off, but regained his balance with admirable alacrity. "Can all of us come in?" John asked. There was a hesitant pause, then an amused chuckle. "Of course." John motioned imperiously for the rest to hurry up, while Neuman grumbled as he locked his camera fast on the ground and carefully screwed on the lid to protect the lens. Richard and Larry had a halfhearted argument about where to drop their equipment, but finally settled for next to the camera at an insistent whisper from Neuman. Inside the wagon, sunlight filtered in to form a gold pool on a table, plain wood except for a spread deck of tarot cards. What little furniture was inside consisted of two wood trunks, some forlorn chairs, and a neat bed at the far end. "No crystal ball," Richard whispered to Larry, who stifled a laugh. "I do not use fallacies," the voice said coldly, "If you have come to see those I am afraid you will be disappointed." She sounded defensive. "We were but investigating your role in the village," John said, mollifying, "Is the role of the 'tarot lady' broadly common in all Romany gypsy communities?" The lady in question was sitting behind the table. She would have been about seventy or more, considering, but she had aged very well - her head of dark brown-black tresses still luxuriant, with only a few rebellious silver strands. Her skin was also dark like the rest of the gypsies, and her face regular, even handsome. Wrinkles on her forehead and lines at the edges of her eyes were the only hint of her age, for even her hands, demurely in her lap, were smooth and rounded. Her eyes were a melting brown, but they seemed to stare off into space, blankly, and John realized with a shock that she was blind. "So," the lady said mischievously, her voice smooth and naturally melodious, "Would you like your fortune told? Or would you want to subject a poor old gypsy to heavy questioning?" "Were you educated?" Neuman asked, then stopped abruptly, mortified by his question. The gypsy turned her beautiful face to look unerringly at his, even as the black cat leapt onto her lap, purring ecstatically. "You will have to define education," she said dryly. "My colleague means you speak remarkably well," John shot Neuman a glare. "Some of us go away for...education," the gypsy said, "And they come back. From them I can learn, for though my eyes have closed much of the world to me I can still hear." "If not a video, may we include you in our magazine?" John persisted. The cat leaped onto the gypsy's lap, purring ecstatically. She petted it absently, her head tilted appealingly in thought. "I do not see why not," she said in the end, "But do not use my name. And do not ask me why." "Agreed," John said with a touch of enthusiasm. "The children call you a 'tarot lady'...is this occupation broadly in existence within gypsy communities?" The gypsy smiled. "The children are one of the only ones who come and see me regularly," she remarked, gesturing in the vague direction of a cracked jar on her windowsill, crammed full of bright wildflowers. "I would think it is, for most communities have an old woman who knows how to tell fortunes, true ones or faked. Cross my palm in silver, gentlemen?" she grinned. "How do you actually tell a fortune?" Richard spoke up. "The tarot is supposed to be magical," the gypsy said with a hint of sarcasm, "But to me it is. You would ask me a question, and the tarot would answer it in a pick of three cards. But that is how I do it." "You cannot see the cards," Larry said bluntly, then winced as Richard kicked him in the shins. "That adds to the...authenticity." the gypsy said. "Because I cannot see the cards, my visitors think I would not meddle with it." "But do you know the cards?" John asked. "Of course," the gypsy said, "This deck has been with me for decades." John's notepad flew out of his pocket and he scribbled furiously on it. "Do you only use the cards for visitors?" "No," the gypsy said, "I draw them every day to ascertain the 'fate', you could say, of this tribe, and also for the sake of curiosity, myself." "Is there a fixed time?" John inquired. "First thing in the morning," the gypsy said. "Is there an importance to this?" Neuman asked. "In case I forget," the gypsy said mischievously, "But seriously, it is because one's mind is clearest in the morning and thus most receptive to the deck's magic. That is an explanation you can put to your readers," she added. John laughed. "Which is true?" "Broadly," the gypsy said, mimicking John's English accent and his earlier words, "The first, of course." "For the sake of curiosity, what is your name? You have our word we'd not write it in our magazine." Richard said. John shot him a glare. "My name?" the gypsy said, "All Romany have three names - our secret one, our Romany one, and the one we give the gadjos." "You surely would not tell us the first one," John mused aloud, "The second?" "Mayhap forgotten," the gypsy said, "The children's nickname has been most tenacious. Only those my age know my Romany name. The rest call me the 'tarot lady'," here she mimicked a child's high voice, "Or the Lady Tarot, depending on their age. Or Bloody fortuneteller. Or 'the one that married a gadjo'." "Ah yes," John said, "Did you really do that?" "Marry a gadjo?" the gypsy repeated, "Yes." "The consequences..." Larry began. "I knew full well," the gypsy said coldly. "But that is over now, and this tribe has given me the honor of allowing me to join them." From the flatness of her tone, Larry had obviously touched on a sensitive spot, and they hurried on, like any good journalist. "Your name that you give the 'gadjos'?" Neuman pressed. "That is the one I normally would not tell," the gypsy said, "But for your curiosity, it is Magda." ** "Is it far?" the stranger winced. He was wondering if he should try flying, but had decided long ago that he proved a very large target in the sky. "Nein," the leader said. "Short walk." Short walks sometimes proved longer than most, the stranger reflected. "Can you do gold ones?" another boy said, holding up one of the silver marbles. "If I can find the gold," the stranger said. "Sometimes I can't." "What's your name?" the girl asked, impulsively placing more trust in the stranger, "Mine is Miarka." "That's nice," the stranger said, changing mental gear, "My name is Erik." ** "A beautiful name," John said gallantly. The gypsy looked visibly relieved that he did not seem to recognize it. "Is it a derivation of Magdalene?" The gypsy shrugged. "Perhaps. I care not." "You heal wounds?" Larry asked. "Yes," the gypsy said, "Some of the old remedies are clearly wrong, but most of them truly work. And some of those who come back from the cities, especially the...doctors, they bring some medicines with them which they say is lacking here. But we are a strong people, and I rarely treat illnesses, more usually animals with broken legs or wings." "But you're..." Neuman stopped. "You're all failures as journalists," John said, eliciting a laugh from the gypsy. "Blind?" the gypsy grinned, "I can feel. And you should know that the loss of one sense leads to a higher development in the rest. The children act as my eyes. Any more questions?" "Are further interviews a feasible idea?" John asked. "Certainly," the gypsy said. "Then we shall take your leave," John grinned, putting down several coins on the table, "And thank you." The gypsy waited until they had left and closed the door, then pocketed the coins. She deposited the cat on the table, then with trembling hands shuffled the cards. Those Englishmen would never believe her if she told them how she really 'saw', anyway. ** "Finally," Erik muttered when they came in sight of a gypsy camp. Several adults stared at him, then a man walked forward to bar their way. "Mike," he asked of the leader, "What is the meaning of this?" The boy, in the Romany tongue sprinkled with German, explained quickly what had happened in the wood and what the tribe should do. "The authorities will not allow us to move so soon," the man said, then he glanced at Erik. "We would help treat your wound." "I thank you," Erik said. ** Magda blanched when with shaking hands, she picked out the cards. The cat peered at them, and meowed. Strength, the Wheel of Fortune, and Lovers. Again! She didn't understand it at all. The same three cards as in the morning! The cat purred as she stared with unseeing eyes at her hand of cards. It couldn't mean anything...but then again; the last card meant everything in the world. On an impulse, she picked up another card, and the cat peered at it. The Tower...the first words in her mind: surprise, suddenness. The door of her wagon suddenly sounded with knockings, and in her fright and shock she upset her cards. "Come in," she said quickly as she knelt down to grope for the cards. Her hands found them with accuracy only when the black cat leaped down gracefully to the ground to watch her. She managed to pick up the cards, and pulled the hood over her head to hide her face. The cat leaped up onto the table again to watch the visitors. "A patient," a man whom she recognized as the girl Miarka's father announced formally. "Very well," she said, but Miarka's father walked inside. "He is a gadjo, and an odd one at that," the man said quietly, "Be careful. Help will come if you need." "Thank you," Magda felt moved by his concern and also faintly indignant that they still labeled her a weak-minded woman for what she had done so many years ago. "What has happened to him?" "Miarka says that many bad people were threatening to shoot them, so I suppose one got lucky earlier," the man said. "Where?" Magda asked. "In his leg," the man said rather unhelpfully, "We'd be taking him in now." Then he shouted some words in Romany. Magda sighed and walked accurately over to one of the trunks, taking out clean bandages and some medicine that one of the young lads that had come back called 'antiseptic'. Steps sounded on the stairs like someone was grimly dragging a foot along, with someone calling admonitions at the stranger's back. The black cat padded to the door, then hissed. Magda heard the 'snickt' sound as his claws came sliding out.