Gypsy Blood (21 page)

Down to where his Poppa dragged him. Down, to where he’d dragged his Poppa.

Carnival didn’t know Poppa’s real name. He didn’t even know if Momma knew. It was more than a Gypsy thing, it was a magic thing. Poppa believed in keeping secrets.

Carnival knew Momma’s name. It was Magda. Say it softly, like the midnight wind over a wild lily petal. Magda, short for Magdelaine, but Poppa was never anything else but Poppa. Now here he was, down where he wanted, no, not wanted, down where he needed to be. Down deep, inside himself. Deeper than that here again gone again cellar where he’d left what was left of Elija; growing maggots and wistfully dreaming of unemptiable bottles and bottomless kegs.

The beating of Carnival’s heart sounded like the rolling of wet thunder, high over his head. It’s an introverted procedure. Climbing inside yourself like a turtle getting into interior decoration - a little gingham, a coat of fresh paint, a tattering of viscera.

Voila! The rabbit is out of his hat.

There was Poppa, chained to something that might have been a rib. He wasn’t pretty. He never had been, but he was getting worse. Now he was nothing more than rot and bones and a lot of tightly wrapped memories. There was a television in the corner, playing ceaselessly.

 
Regret and reruns. Nothing sticks worse, you know?

“Regret, Poppa?”

Sure, regret. You think I like doing it this way? You think I wouldn’t prefer a tidy little bungalow in heaven. Maybe something high up and close to the sun’s good eye, overlooking the angel’s dressing rooms?

“You made your choice, Poppa. You wanted it this way. You asked for it.”

Choice is a road that you decide to walk upon while you are walking upon it. You made choices too, boy. You asked as loudly as me.

He tossed the red scarf out towards Carnival. Carnival stepped back but just a little. He wanted to walk away but there just isn’t that far you can go inside yourself, especially not from Poppa. A bit of that tattered red scarf wound like a burning silk noose about Poppa’s throat. His flesh was rotting away, what was left of it. The right side of his face, hacked off like a dark wet cave of moldering meat.

 
Your work, boy.

Carnival touched the scar on his cheek.

“You were good with your knife as well, Poppa.”

The old corpse smiled.

Long red piano keys.

It wasn’t pleasant.

If you want to use a sharp tongue, keep your knife sharper still, hey boy?

More wisdom from the dear all knowing Poppa, “You’re home,” Carnival said.

You expected me to be out?

Of course Poppa was here. Carnival had chained him here after they’d fought. The two men, those two knives, that red stained scarf. He still wasn’t sure if what he’d chained down here was a memory, a ghost, or Poppa himself. He’d done the magic a year after Momma died. Got the spell from a demon who had traded in dreams. He’d found the dream in the heart of a passed out drunk. Not Elija, but another drunk.

Liar. Your tongue is hinged at both ends. The dream was yours. You bartered a piece of your hope for vengeance.

Carnival shrugged. “And if that’s true?”

If that’s true, then you are more Gypsy than your old man could ever hope to be.

“I caught you sleeping,” Carnival said.

It was the only way you could catch me.

“You trusted me.”

Poppa shrugged. Carnival felt it, inside and out. It was like swallowing a rear view mirror, your heart kept looking back upon itself.

Trust in God but tie your horse.

Poppa kept falling back on these little aphorisms, like step stones in a swamp. They got him over the muddy parts, past the truth and into the fog of self-deception.

It took you long enough to decide. I thought I might have to throw a rock at you.

Carnival looked around. “There are no rocks down here. None that I can see.”

I know. You took mine away from me. You might have at least left me a kidney stone, maybe.

Carnival gave Poppa his best shrug which is kind of hard to do when you’re standing about half a foot southwest of your shoulders.

“I’ve been talking to Momma,” Carnival said.

I know. You think I don’t listen down here? What else do I have to do with my time? I am ears and patience - but listen boy, you should watch out for your mother. She’s not as good as you seem to think.

“I watch over her better than you ever did, Poppa.”

I said watch out, not over. She’s worse than you could ever think. Badder than your Poppa could ever hope to be. Death changes a person. It changes their perspective. You don’t think about loss if you got nothing to lose.

He always said things like that, even back when he was alive. He told Carnival about how evil his Momma was. He was always full of lies, his tongue flapping in the breeze like a long red scarf.

Carnival didn’t want to hear such words.

“Watch your tongue, old man, or I’ll cut it out.”

You know where your knife is.

Carnival was quiet at that. Poppa kept on talking like a dog on a chain, worrying and working the only bone in sight.

I told you to leave her to her rest. There’s a reason why I didn’t tell you where I put her.

“You tell me a lot of things, Poppa. Don’t think that I listen.”

You dare talk to your Poppa like that?

“Tell the truth and run. That’s what you always said, isn’t it?”

I thought you didn’t listen to me?

“I’m a Gypsy, Poppa. I do what I want, when I want. The rest of the world can go to hell.”

So what do you want? What do you need that you had to come and see me in person, after so many years?

“I didn’t say I wanted anything.”

Why else you would you come? Do you like it down here?

Carnival grinned.

So what is it then, eh?

Carnival said it fast when he finally found the nerve.

“Is there a cure, Poppa? Is there a cure for vampirism?”

Poppa spat, red black tissue into the sludge of his meat cage.

There’s a cure for everything, only none of them work.

“So what do I do?”

Heavy dealings, messing with vampires. That’s a bad kind of monkey shit. You are going to need to talk to some dark people.

“I figured that out all ready. I figured I’d start with you.”

Poppa barked a razor snap of a laugh. A piece fell off him. He picked the piece up and pushed it back on. The skin blurred like putty and reclaimed its doubtful hold.

A hell of a thing. Your old man is falling to pieces.

“No shame for that,” Carnival said. “You must be nearly two hundred years old.”

Poppa grinned.

Older than that. But I did it clean. I never took anybody’s blood.

Carnival gave his Poppa another shrug. It got easier with practice. Anything did.

So ask me. You see me like this, near death, past death, something that death would turn up its bony nostrils and spit at. You look at me and ask if I want to live?

“Do you still want to live, Poppa?”

You’re dead right.

“This is getting nowhere. You’re having too much fun.”

You’ve got to ask me the right questions, is all, boy.

“Listen Poppa,” Carnival said. “You’re wrong when you said you never took anyone’s blood.”

How so?

Carnival touched the scar on his cheek. He looked at his Poppa wordlessly. Poppa said as many words back, and Carnival knew he had scored on him.

“How can I save her, Poppa?”

You think I would know? I’m just a poor old
Rom.
Not even that. A shade of a poor old Rom, trapped inside the cage of his unforgiving son’s heart.

Carnival had good reason not to forgive Poppa. But he didn’t say that. Arguing and wheedling never got anywhere with Poppa. Instead, he played his trump.

“For Momma’s sake, Poppa. If you loved her, as I love Maya, tell me how I can cure her of her vampirism.”

Ha! Would you cure yourself of your Romany? That is what she is, boy. A mulla. A wampyre. One of the undead. You cannot cure her of her heritage
.

“How, Poppa? How?”

How? How? So now he thinks he’s a Red Indian.

Carnival wouldn’t back down. And Poppa finally relented.

You’ll want to be talking to the god of blood. That’s deep stuff. Not any place for a lousy card flipper. Maybe your old man ought to help you.

“You? Help me? Better to ask the devil for a shoe sole.”

You wrong me boy, but I deserve it.

"You're damned right you do."

Damned. That's right. Damned is exactly right. And why? I told you to stay away from the teacups. Why didn't you listen?

"Why didn't you? I don't do teacups. Just palm and cards. Whatever I touch."

Same difference. You tell lies, you sell hope. You should have done better. You could have. You should have followed your Poppa.

"I wanted a different road," Carnival said.

Ha. Some difference. You're here now, aren't you?

Carnival didn't have an answer for that.

Like a fish on a hook, you run one way, you run the other. It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later all roads and rivers run for home
.

Carnival didn’t have an answer for that, either.

Blood runs stronger than the deepest of rivers. This you can never change
.

“Fancy words that don’t matter. What do I do?”

You’ll need something powerful.

“Like a god?”

Poppa looked down at him. It was hard to believe, that such a rancid rotting being could conjure up such great disdain.

You’re not that big. Talk to the Red Shambler first. And then talk to the city.

Carnival nodded. It made sense. If anything could help, the city familiar might.

There’ll need to be sacrifice. It’s got to be bloody.

“Of course.”

Blood washes blood.

“Poppa?”

Yes?

”What did you do with her? What did you do with Momma?”

The remains of Carnival’s father grated out a dull scraping laugh.

You think you can catch an old Gypsy sleeping? Not on your best day, boy. Not on your very best day.

Poppa, Alone and Not

P
oppa stood in the darkness.

Alone.

There was nothing but the beating of his son’s proud heart to keep him company.

It was a good cage that his son had built for him. A good sturdy cage.

Poppa smiled.

That’s magic. Good magic. Strong magic
.

These things were important to Poppa.

Poppa was proud but not proud enough to care. He stopped caring long after the gates of
Auschwitz
slammed shut on his little sister. He’d watched her soul from the fox burrow he’d taken refuge in. He’d watched it whistle up towards heaven on a cloud of greenish smoke.

At least she’d gone up.

He shook the sentiment from off of his rag-tattered soul.

It is a hard world
even when you don’t live in it
.

Then a chill overtook him. A burning hot chill.

The Red Shambler lurched and oozed from out of the darkness.

“Did he buy it?”

You were listening, weren’t you?

“Did he buy it?”

Poppa smiled.

Proud and hard.

Hook, line and blood stained sinker. He’s going to talk to you first, and then he’ll talk to the city.

“He’ll summon the Aggregate? Has he that kind of power?”

If he says he can, then he will. He is my son, after all. If he says he will, then he can. But first he has to eat.

Poppa stared at the Red Shambler, a hard-as-bullets-singing-homeward kind of stare.

That is what you’ve planned, isn’t it?

The Red Shambler laughed like the grating of burnt bones over frozen gravel.

“That is what is planned,” The Red Shambler agreed.