A face appears in the small window draped in the finest hand crafted lace. Immediately he recognised the woman who summoned him at the inn. He notices her name above the door, 'Janda Clairvoyant' in carved letters.
“Come in Sir, this way,” she says pushing open a creaky door butted against steps at the front of the caravan.
“Thank you, Janda.” He says these words nice and loudly, so that she heard her name. Garty bounces up the steps, ducks his head to avoid collision with the top door jamb and finds himself safely inside. A hand reaches behind him to shut the door. Her angry face is now uncovered and her black veil lays casually on her shoulders. She is wearing a finely embroidered dress made with purest white linen. Not bad for a pauper, Garty thinks, wondering from whom she did steal the fabric? Or did she create the fabric? Can she be the one who had the child in her grip, he wonders? Now, however, she is a possible informant, so he makes sure to be on his best behaviour.
“Sit down, here,” she indicates a crafter chair with engravings of angels and demons. Its well worn seat glistening from the best bottoms sliding onto it.
“Thank you, Janda,” Garty replies, squeezing into the narrow chair and placing his cape over its back. He removes his hat and places it on the clover shaped table near his elbow. The woman is seated opposite. She pauses to glare into his face for a moment, so he keeps his mind vacant just in case she can read minds, he muses. He waits for her to speak first, a courtesy that she appreciates.
“I told ye that I would divulge information regarding a baby I have seen in the district.”
Garty nods and waits again. “Say on,” he says. He wants her to hurry up, but she seems to be gathering her thoughts continually.
She is working out what to say and what to leave out, no doubt, he thought. That is fair enough, he feels.
“What I saw that night I can clearly recall. It happened on the heath and there was great clapping and dancing because of the goods the marauders had taken from the castle itself. They were screaming and jousting for a very long time. We waited until they settled down, mostly to a drunken sleep.”
She looks up from her thoughtful pose.
He wonders that she did not consult the crystal ball he sees on a shelf behind her head. But, he said nought.
“I’ll get thee a drink, Sir,” she says, rising and taking a jug from a cupboard. She fills two little cups with a fine golden liquid.
“Apple cider,” she explains, sitting down again, slurping the drink noisily. Garty slurped his sup in response and respect.
“One of our clan managed to get hold of a most beautiful box, shaped like a giant egg.”
Well, Garty’s thoughts rang like a bell. Why had he not heard about this in all his travels? Her vocals drop lower as secrets unfurl from her scarlet lips.
He leans closer to hear. He sees the whites of her eyes. She responds with a warning stare.
“Yes, it was an egg?” he says, nodding his head.
She is happy to see his attentiveness, unhappy at his nearness. She inhales loudly.
“It was not an egg, but a marvellous jewel studded crib with split opening. Custom made!”
Garty ponders this description of a crib. An egg is a crib? He tries to visualise the object of discussion in vain. She sees his curious expression and immediately smacks the table.
“I knew it. I shall have to show thee,” she declares, as though it was the Magna Carta, and not a baby crib! She wipes her nose as she bumbles through the caravan, then bends down on the floor, emits a huge groan and rises up again, holding an object shaped like an egg with its shell split on top. It is a disappointing shabby linen cloth covered frame.
“This is the one. The actual crib they borrowed from the marauders, those evil thieves,” she says with great expressions of disgust.
He examines the crib delicately. It has a bamboo shell and the cloth is worn so much in places it is transparent. He also notices that some objects perhaps as large as buttons have been ripped off, leaving small holes and loose threads all over its frame. He manipulates the creaking twin tops that join at top centre. A little gap remained so that a hand could pull either hood down. He is quite impressed with its design and engineering properties.
This could well be a special crib if it was covered in a kaleidoscope of jewels.
“It looks like a very unusual crib,” he says, handing the delicate object back to its present owner. He wants to take it with him, but refrains from asking being aware of tensions surrounding him. “So what’s the story you wish to share about this crib?” He asks with sincerity, so that she may not shout at me for any misunderstanding.
“It was so beautiful, everyone’s eyes lit up when they saw it. Of course they had to take it away hurriedly. Over time the jewels were shared by the members of the tribe.” She says this with misty eyes and Garty feels convinced this is true. But, he wanted to know about its contents too. And if this family were surnamed Kiano?
“What about the child?” Garty asks slowly, as though it is not urgent.
Her eyes light up like a globe. She shakes her head vigorously as if trying to sweep it away. “She was a good baby, so sleepy and quiet that nobody knew she was inside.”
Was the child dead already he wondered? Did they kill her? His blood turned cold at his own thoughts. He waited for the gypsy woman to continue her story.
“When we found her, we were flabbergasted. It was a serious crime, we all felt that way. We would never steal a little one, just the jewels, I suppose, in line with our Gypsy code!” She grins eerily and her teeth, filled with gold fillings flash before Garty’s frozen face.
“Where is she?” Garty asks without emotion. His mind and physical composure are now at odds. He needs to know the outcome of this tiny child, treated recklessly for her exquisite crib.
The woman shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “I have no idea, nor does anybody else!”
So that is that. Everyone knows what happened twenty years ago but not today. I have wasted my day and my time, he thought, groaning with sudden weariness at his own failings for a vulnerable human being.
“But I know where we took her,” she says in a hushed tone. She leans so heavily on the table with its three legs that it shakes with her vehemence. She draws her veil partly over her face, hiding her bitter emotions, Garty assumes.
“Please tell me more,” Garty says, dumbing down his flailing exuberance.
“The orphanage, that’s where she was left, wrapped in a special scarlet shawl, the poor little darling. It broke my heart…” She stops as her emotions surge quickly.
Was she actually involved in this kidnapping and disposal of a child? Garty takes mental notes. He restrains his distain. Smiling artificially, he stares into her half-hidden face and he notes fear flashing through her eyes.
“There now, do not be troubled by your thoughts. Which orphanage?” He adds this question quickly. That is the clue that could perhaps determine the final outcome of this quest.
“There, over there,” she says, waving her arms towards the woods beyond. She searches her mind for the name of the orphanage. “Grave…no, Graceful, that’s the name, I think. The place is gone to wrack and ruin now. She was there!”
Garty is both disturbed and excited about this revelation. The woman rises and hurries towards the little window, peeping through the curtains using a strong word that Garty ignores. She turns back towards Garty and despite her veil he can see that her face is ashen, as if she has seen a ghost.
“Get out quickly. They followed you!” Her tone is one of anger and dismay. “Quickly, this way,” she wiggles past the table and tugs on a rolled up tapestry on the end wall, allowing it to flop down, showing a tapestry of horses and riders. She pushes open a small door behind the scene. The door swings open, revealing a small platform outside. “Now!” She speaks with urgency. Garty almost forgets his hat. He doubles up and crawls through the small open door, designed for children no doubt, he muses as he twists and turns to bring his shoulders through. The woman speaks quite sharply to someone he did not know was below the doorway.
“Crystalina, get Snow and Mr Garty out of here, quickly. They are coming yonder!” Her tone is snappy.
Garty, for the first time, sees a figure hunched over a loom. At first he thinks it is an old woman. She turns her face towards him, flicking her long hair.
“Yes, Mother,” Crystalina replies dutifully.
His heart almost stops when he sees the creature before him, placing her loom on hold and rising up from a three legged stool.
Her eyes are so beautiful, like two crystal balls in one face.
He can barely believe his own eyes. Mother must be the old gypsy woman, he reasons, but his mind is confused, ecstatic and broken in one look from this young woman. Her hair glistens in the sunlight. It appeared as dark as night and as bright as sapphire and amethyst united as one. She is sleek, not very tall and her figure is superb, delightful to his eyes. His face turns pink with his own thoughts of delight. How can this miracle happen to a grouchy, introverted and crazy woman I have spent a good hour of my time, listening to her meandering?
“Come on Sir, quickly now, we are waiting.”
He hears her voice and it sounds like music to his ears. He shakes his thoughts as if they are snow flakes and stares at first, totally unable to think clearly. He simply gazes at her in awe. She is now seated on a white horse fit for a princess with its golden mane flowing in the gentle breeze. Exuding confidence, she sits bareback, with Brill next to her. Garty is shocked that she has no saddle, no whip, no lead, yet she is totally in charge of this horse and his own steed. His eyes mist over and he wonders if he is dreaming. He must wake up before they are all captured! With that thought in mind, Garty leaps from the small balcony, instantly takes the reins, grasps the pommel, locks his left foot in the iron stirrup, and mounts Brill, pressing his hat firmly on his head, flicking his cape towards the horses’s rump. His desire soars to impress this Empress of horses, flaunting imperil of his life or reputation for a ride alongside.
Crystalina is already hugging her horse, Snow, around its neck, and her black satin hair tie has fallen on the ground. Her body is leaning forward and he can just see an outline of her perky rump, round as a robin’s breast and strong as a young horse’s rump. Glistening blue-black hair flows behind her as the silken veil of her noviciate. Her voice is husky-sweet and demanding.
“Ride low and fast, Mr Garty,” she orders him in a guttural voice that seemed to emit from an alien.
How does she know my name? She is a genius, he moans, heaving a huge breath. He almost faints with excitement as his thoughts rush to and fro. Ride low, he repeats and fast, he adds, repeating her sumptuous words to his soul. His heart cannot respond but beats faster and faster as if it is rocketing to the moon.
“They will shoot,” she adds for clarity. “They are killers!” She shouts this time! “Faster!” Snow, her horse bolts! She hangs on like a circus act, thrilling and courageous.
No time for fear now, Garty thinks, somehow jubilant, yet dismayed at the unknown possibilities.
He rides like the wind and she rides as a whirlwind! Brill must keep up with a fine white stallion with hair the colour of clouds and so wild he is magnificent. Brill is up for it and loves every minute. Fifteen minutes of hard riding sees them go through a thicket.