Mulengro, page 37
Janfri stared numbly out the window as the three men approached. He didn’t need Briggs’ identification to tell him that they were police. He recognized two of them as the Ottawa detectives who had questioned him on Yojo’s doorstep. As for the third man . . .
“Oh, Christ,” Jeff said, standing behind the Gypsy once more. “We’re fucked. The cops and Bob Gourlay.”
“Don’t panic!” Janfri said harshly.
“Don’t panic? Jesus Christ! What’re you talking about? If you think I’m—”
Janfri turned, lifting the revolver. “You’re going to do exactly what I say, do you understand me, Jeff?”
There was a stranger looking out of the Gypsy’s eyes again. Jeff nodded numbly. “Su-sure, Janfri. No . . . no problem.”
“Boboko. Get Ola.”
The cat nodded and jumped down from the sill. Janfri moved quickly to the kitchen table, thrusting the revolver into his belt. He picked up the shotgun and motioned for Jeff to go to the door.
“Open it,” he said, “and then stand back.”
Jeff nodded nervously. “Jesus, you’re not going to—”
“Do it!”
As Jeff moved towards the door, Janfri shot a quick glance out the window. It was hard to tell with the drizzle, but he thought he could see misty shapes taking form at the top of the hill.
“J-Janfri?” Jeff asked, his hand on the door knob.
Janfri nodded and moved in front of the door, aiming the shotgun at the center of it. “Open it,” he said.
forty-eight
Jackie ushered Ola into the small spare bedroom in Zach’s cottage. The gray drizzle outside made the room seem gloomy, but when Jackie went to flick on the overhead light, Ola touched her arm and shook her head. Jackie drew back, startled at the touch. She was afraid for Ola—but afraid of her as well. The drabarni looked fright-eningly intense—as Janfri could. Jackie thought of a talking cat and objects that moved without a hand upon them and for a moment she saw the blood on the Gypsy’s clothes as belonging not to some dog that had died on top of her, but as the result of some cabalistic ceremony. She shuddered, was afraid that Ola had seen the fear in her, could read her thoughts, but the drabarni was no longer paying attention to her. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection.
“O-Ola . . . ?” Jackie said.
Ola stared into the mirror. There was blood, stark against the white of her blouse, and smears of mud and grass; her hair was a wild tangle and her eyes held fear now in their depths. The drawn features of the reflection’s face no longer seemed familiar. She felt Mulengro’s presence drawing near like a discordant note in a familiar melody. She wanted to look away from the changing features in the mirror, but her gaze was trapped. Scar tissue formed under the reflection’s eyes, the eyes became another’s. They were pale eyes and held a fanatic’s gaze. Mulengro watched her from the mirror—his image replacing her own reflection completely. Madness stared back at her from those eyes, a madness made all the more terrifying by its obvious belief in its own sanity. No, she told the image.
Wolflike, the image smiled with sadness. It is God’s work I do, drabarni. Do not fight what must be.
No. If she could not tear her gaze away, then she would will another’s image to shape on the mirror’s surface. Mulengro’s features wavered.
There can be no escape, she heard him say, but his voice seemed more distant.
She bent her will to the task. Be gone, be gone, be gone....The image rippled, like a heat mirage, then grew stronger once more. Be gone, be gone....Ola concentrated harder. Again the image wavered. A vein throbbed at her temple and she could feel the beginning of a headache start up behind her eyes. Mulengro became no more than a shadow on the mirror, a vagueness that threatened the borders of her thoughts, but for the moment he was ousted from her mind. She knew the moment’s freedom wouldn’t last. He was stronger than she, his draba more potent. She reached for another Gypsy mind to help her—for Janfri, or Yojo—but when the ether gave up the bolstering strength she needed, the mirror reflected another face back to her. Pivli Gozzle looked back at her from its surface.
Help me, Ola thought to the image.
The old woman in the reflection seemed to be looking directly into her own eyes. For a moment there was no distance between them, and Mulengro’s presence was banished.
This is your task, pen, Pivli replied. I will help as I can, but I have seen that it will be you and your companions that will cleanse us of this evil... or it will not be cleansed at all.
Give me at least his name.
It did not seem odd to Ola at that moment that Pivli Gozzle should be communicating with her. The last time she’d seen the old woman had been in Rommeville and she had no reason to suppose Pivli should be anywhere else. But as their minds reached across the distance separating their bodies, Ola understood that the old drabarni was very near. She was near and there were other Rom ... a greatmany Rom nearby…
His name I do not have, the old woman replied. I can only give you my own, sister, and it is Magda Chikno.
Mine is—
Do not speak of it, pen, lest he hear you. But you…
I am an old woman now, sister. Martiya and o Beng already know my name, so why not let him know it as well? If you fail in this task, it will make no difference in the end that he knows it or not.
Why must this task fall to me?
The old woman shrugged. Is there ever a choice in such matters? Her image began to waver. You spend your strength needlessly, farspeaking to me, when you could be using it to fight him, pen. God be with you.
No. Don’t go! Ola concentrated, to no avail. The image was almostgone and Mulengro’s presence could be felt once more, buffetingher mind. Behind her eyes, the pain was a stabbing wound. Magda,she thought then. Magda Chikno. The power of the old woman’sname brought her image back onto the surface of the mirror. He istoo strong for me, old mother. Even without his mule...he is toostrong…
Are you not a Rom? Outwit him, sister, if you cannot stand against him. But his ghosts...
Call up your own ghosts to deal with his. Ola shook her head. I have no ghosts. We all have ghosts, pen. He controls the mule—not I.
There are ghosts and there are ghosts, Pivli replied. You know the ghosts of the dead, those lost mule who haunt the night. Fearsome are they, but not nearly so fearsome as the ghost that springs from the mind of the living. Sinister and vile thoughts—anger, hatred, vengeance, bloodlust—they are strong enough to send such a mulo forth from a man’s mind and into the world of the living. Those mule exist only to destroy.
Ola shivered. I could never call up such a monstrous thing. Just so. And so you must call the dead to help you against this Mulengro, pen.
But ...Ola began and got no further.
There was a disturbance in the ether. The old woman’s image shimmered and was gone. For a long stunned moment Ola stared at the mirror. It reflected nothing, threw no image back, either of herself, or those she could lay on it with the power of her draba.She tore her gaze from its black surface to stare about the room, and then she knew. Mulengro’s time had come. The noon was upon him and his mule walked the earth once more.
She felt the power of Mulengro’s mind battering at her thoughts, increasing the pain that already throbbed between her temples. She heard shouts from the front of the cottage, but could not make out what was being said. She felt the mule gathering and approaching the cottage. She sensed Mulengro’s nearness, felt the hot breath of his dogs on her neck. Her fearful gaze fell upon Jackie’s pale features.
“I have no ghosts,” Ola said bleakly.
Jackie shook her head, backing towards the door. Her gaze caught movement behind Ola, a misting shape that was creeping in between the cracks in the frame of the window, and she froze. Ola turned slowly. A face took shape in the mist, grew more solid. The blood drained from Ola’s cheeks.
“Say-hey,” Stan said wetly through his ruined mouth. “What’ve we got here?”
Pivli sighed, staring at the forest through the misting rain. She’d wanted to tell Ola that she was here to help, but couldn’t take the chance that Mulengro would learn more than he should. She had felt him listening in. His power was all that she had feared it to be, and more. But she could do nothing now—not without the night. Only in the night, when Martiya roamed, could they deal with him. Otherwise he would simply rise again. The half hour of freedom that mule had at noon was not long enough to do what must be done. So they must wait.
Let Mulengro think that the Rom had gathered to box him in. But when the night came, when he had his mule gathered at his side and his strengths at their full potency, he would discover why the Rom had come. Each trunk of the Gypsies’ cars was filled with bags of salt, strings of garlic, packages of black pepper and red, and other herbs and spices. They would scatter his mule to the four winds and the drabarno himself...he they would deal with as only the Rom knew how to deal justice.
So they must wait. And pray that Ola and her companions survived this noon assault.
“A half hour,” she muttered. Big George looked up from where he sat under a broad umbrella and stirred nervously. Her bright eyes looked up and pinned the rom baro with their fierceness. “Is it so long?” she demanded.
Big George shook his head quickly, not at all certain as to what the old woman was speaking of. Pivli nodded to herself and looked down at the muddy ground between her feet. And if they could not rescue Ola and her companions tonight, they could at least avenge them. Water ran in rivulets down her cheeks and not all of it was rain.
forty-nine
Briggs took in the ruined porch and the deep ruts in the lawn in front of the cottage. Looked, he thought, like someone had been hotrodding it and plowed right into the front of the place. He glanced to his left, saw Yojo’s Lincoln. He thought of Big George and those long black cars that his Gypsies had parked alongside the road, but before he could remark on the car to Will, the front door of the cottage swung open and he saw a dark-haired man standing there, the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed in their direction. He recognized Janfri immediately.
“Drop it!” the Gypsy ordered as Briggs started to bring up his gun. “And stay close to each other,” he added as Will instinctively began to move to one side to make a separate target.
Briggs hesitated, staring at the shotgun. At this range . . .
He started to lower his hand, but then Bob Gourlay hit him from behind and was trying to wrest the gun from his hand.
Boboko reached the doorway of the spare bedroom as Stan Gourlay’s mulo moved across the room to prevent Jackie from running off. The mulo struck her across the face and then pushed her against Ola. The two women stumbled and Stan looked down at the cat.
“Well, shit,” he said. “Looks like it’s old home week, yessir.”
Boboko launched himself at the mulo’s leg and passed straight through it. He landed in a startled tumble beyond the ghost, chilled by the misty touch of it.
“It’s easy,” Stan said conversationally, “once you get the hang of it. I can touch you, you little fucker, but you can’t lay a paw on me.” He kicked at the cat. Boboko moved a fraction too slow and took a bruising blow on one hip that swung him about and knocked him against the wall.
“No!” Ola cried, moving past Jackie to confront the mulo.
Stan’s grin was a lopsided leer. “When I’m finished with you,” he told her, “there just isn’t goin’ to be enough left for sloppy seconds, nosir.” He grasped the drabarni and threw her to the bed. “See, I’m kinda curious,” he said as he stood over her. “I’m wonderin’. Can I still get it up when I’m dead, or not?”
Jackie came at him from the side and he punched her in the stomach. As she doubled over, he hit her across the face again and shoved her to the floor.
“You gotta wait your turn,” he said. “Me an’ the little lady here got us some unfinished business, don’t we?”
The bedsprings sagged under his weight and his corpse-reek attacked Ola’s nostrils. The ruined face bent low towards her.
“I’m learnin’ real fast,” Stan told her. “ ‘Bout the salt and that kinda shit. See, I know you ain’t got any on you, little lady, so there’s dick-all you can do to me. You or—” he turned as Boboko came at him once more, a meaty fist striking the cat in midair, knocking the animal to the floor “—your little cat.”
When he turned back to her, Ola took a quick breath through her mouth and tried to steady the fear, the rage, the sense of helplessness that had turned her muscles to water. She understood now what she must do. Before the mulo could touch her, she reached up with her gaze and caught his eyes.
“Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del” she said, willing herself to believe what she said. I forgive you and may God forgive you too.
The mulo shivered, like a ripple running across a still pool.
“Shut up!” Stan roared, not understanding the meaning of what she said, only knowing that it hurt him. “Shut the fuck up!” He slapped her across the mouth. Her teeth cut her lips and blood sprayed across the side of her face and the bedsheet. Before he could hit her again, she repeated the words, believing them fiercely.
Stan Gourlay’s mulo moaned.
When Bob saw the Gypsy standing in the doorway with the shotgun in his hand—his fucking shotgun, for Christ’s sake!—the pain in his head exploded and he lunged forward. He fought Briggs for the detective’s handgun, but pain lanced up his arm from where the dog had bitten him. Before he could break free, Will stepped in close and hit him in the kidney with the butt of his own revolver. As the big man stumbled, Will pushed him and he went sprawling in a muddy rut.
Will expected to hear the shotgun’s blast at any moment, to feel the pellets tear into him. He turned quickly, aiming his gun at the door. He saw that Paddy had the Gypsy covered as well. He glanced at the Gypsy’s emotionless features. The shotgun was still pointed at them. The way he and Paddy were standing, the Gypsy could take out the both of them.
“Easy,” Will said softly. “Just take it easy, Mr. Owczarek or whoever it is that you are. You pull that trigger and you’re not going to solve anything. Either my partner or I’ll get off at least one shot and we won’t miss. So why don’t you lay that thing down and nobody’ll get hurt.”
Janfri smiled without humor. “Will you tell that to the dead?” he asked.
Briggs started, feeling his own ghosts stirring inside him. They had a standoff for the moment, but with a psycho like this guy obviously was, Christ knew how long it would last. He wondered if Owczarek and Wells were working together.
“What do you mean?” Will asked, keeping his voice reasonable.
Briggs nodded to himself. That’s it, Will. Humor him. Just until we can turn this thing around on him.
“The dead rise behind you,” Janfri said.
Jesus, Briggs thought. He was being so matter-of-fact about it. What the hell went on inside the head of a guy like this? He might not be the scarred Josef Wells’ partner, but he was right out of the loony bin all the same. Briggs could feel his partner’s tension. The .38 was slick in his own rain-wet hand. He stared at the Gypsy and for all the world wanted to turn around to see the nonexistent ghosts he was talking about. Ghosts. Maybe Owczarek had them in his head the same way that Briggs did. Then he heard the growling, remembered the dogs—
He turned suddenly. The movement startled Will. As Briggs turned, Will moved a quick step to one side, weapon still leveled at Janfri, but he’d heard the dogs, too, and at last he had to look as well. The shotgun boomed and Will turned in time to see a dog blown apart by its blast not a half-dozen feet from where he stood. And there were more. He fired at the nearest. And then he saw ...His mouth went slack as he saw the fog-draped shapes moving down the hill, gliding, the rain going right through them. . . .
Briggs’ weapon sounded as well. Two quick shots. Then the detectives were backing towards the door. The remaining dogs held off their charge. Four of them were down. But there were others. And those things. ...Will remembered the hookers’ statements, and Red-eye Cleary’s...fog... a man in black. ...He looked up to the top of the hill and saw the black-clad figure staring down at them. A hand grabbed his arm and hauled him into the cottage.
“Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled. “What the hell are those things?”
Janfri pushed him away from the door. He dropped the shotgun and hefted a bag of rock salt that Zach used on the heavy ice in the wintertime.
“They are the dead,” he told the policeman as he moved towards the door. “And this is all we have against them.”
Will glanced at his partner. Paddy looked as ashen-faced as he felt.
“But . . .” Will began. They can’t exist, he wanted to say. They can’t be real. He turned back to the door in time to see Janfri being bowled over by Bob Gourlay and the bag of rock salt flying from his hands. A dog rushed in after the big man, bounding over their struggling bodies. Briggs fired and the animal was knocked aside by the force of the bullet. Then the doorway filled with fog.
“You are dead,” Ola said, “and this world is no longer yours. The land of shadows calls to you. I forgive you and free you, mulo.”
“No,” Stan moaned. He tried to hit her, but his hand no longerhad substance. He could feel himself drifting apart, as he had whenJanfri had thrown the baXt spices on him the night before, but nowhis essence was being sucked away ...out of the world itself…
“You are free, dead man,” Ola said, rising from the bed.
Stan’s mulo backed away from her, afraid of touching her. Contact would finish him, he thought.
“No,” he told her. “I’m not dead!”
A strange radiance filled Ola. She knew she hated this man, but the man who’d earned her enmity was dead. He no longer existed. This was only a mulo. A lost soul that needed her to guide it away from the world of the living, that required her forgiveness to be free. And that forgiveness she could freely give. Mulengro’s mule were his responsibility and nothing she could do or say would send them on to the land of shadows. But this ghost . . . it existed because she had slain its body. This mulo she could banish from the world of the living.
