The Sweet Far Thing - Page 37/257

Another turn of the kaleidoscope, and I am on the streets of London. The lady motions to me to follow. The wind blows a handbill at my feet. Another leaflet for the illusionist Dr. Van Ripple. I pick it up, and I’m in a raucous music hall. A man with black hair and a neat goatee places an egg into a box and, as quick as a blink, he makes it disappear. The pretty lady who led me here takes the box away and returns to the stage, where the illusionist places her into a trance. He takes hold of a large slate, and with a piece of chalk in both hands, the lady writes upon it as if possessed: We are betrayed. She is a deceiver. The Tree of All Souls lives. The key holds the truth.

The crowd gasps and applauds, but I’m pulled out of the music hall. I’m on the streets again. The lady is just ahead, running over cobblestones slick with the damp, past rows of narrow, unlit houses. She runs for her life, her eyes wild with fear.

The rivermen shout to one another. With their long hooks they fish the cold, dead body of the lady from the river. She clutches one sheet of paper. Words scratch themselves onto the page: You are the only one who can save us….

The vision leaves me like a train whooshing through my body, out and away. I come back to myself inside the musty boathouse just as the oar snaps in my hands. Trembling, I slump to the floor and place the broken pieces there. I’m unaccustomed now to a vision’s force. I can’t catch my breath.

I stumble from the boathouse, sucking in a great lungful of fresh, cool air. The sun works its magic, dispelling the last remnants of my vision. My breathing slows and my head settles.

The Tree of All Souls lives. You are the only one who can save us. The key holds the truth.

I’ve no idea what it means. My head aches, and it isn’t helped by the steady syncopation of hammers drifting over the lawn.

Mother Elena startles me. She pulls her braid, listening to the hammering. “There is mischief here. I feel it. Do you feel it?”

“N-no,” I say, staggering toward the school. Mother Elena falls in behind me. I walk faster. Please, please go away. Leave me be. We reach the clearing and the small hill. From here, the top of Spence rises majestically above the trees. The workmen are visible. Great panes of glass are hoisted on heavy ropes from the roof and fitted into place. Mother Elena gasps, her eyes wide with fear.

“They must not do this!”

She moves quickly toward Spence, yelling in a language I do not understand, but I can feel the alarm in her words.

“You do not know what you do!” Mother Elena screams to them, now in English.

Mr. Miller and his men have a small chuckle at the mad Gypsy woman and her fears. “Go on now and leave us to men’s work!” they shout.

But Mother Elena is not swayed. She paces on the lawn, pointing an accusing finger at them. “It is an abomination—a curse!”

A worker yells a sudden warning. A pane of glass has gotten the better of its handlers. It twists on its rope, hovering precariously until it is guided into the hands of workers below. One man grabs for it and cuts his palm along the sharp edge. He cries out as the blood flows down his arm. A handkerchief is given. The bloody hand is wrapped.

“You see?” Mother Elena calls.

There’s murder in Mr. Miller’s eyes. He threatens her with a hammer till the other men pull him back. “You bloody Gypsies! You’re the only curse I see!”

The shouts have drawn the Gypsy men to the lawn. Ithal stands protectively in front of Mother Elena. Kartik is there as well. Mr. Miller’s men grab hammers and irons to stand with their foreman, and I fear there shall be a terrible row.

Someone has sent for Inspector Kent. He steps into the thin line of grass separating the Gypsies and the English workmen. “Here now, what’s all the trouble?”

“Bloody Gypsies, mate,” Mr. Miller spits.

Inspector Kent’s eyes go steely. “I’m not your mate, sir. And you’ll have a care around these ladies or I’ll have you at the Yard.” To Mother Elena, he says, “Best go back, m’um.”

The Gypsies slowly turn but not before one of the workers—the man in the red-patched shirt—spits at them, and the insult lands on Ithal’s cheek. He wipes it away but he can’t erase his rage so easily. Anger burns in Kartik’s eyes too, and when he glances at me, I feel as if I am the enemy.

Ithal speaks softly to Mother Elena in their native language. Her mouth tightens in fear as the men lead her away. “Cursed,” she mutters, trembling. “Cursed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

DINNER IS A PERFECTLY FORGETTABLE AFFAIR OF FISH STEW that wants salt, and badly.