Sons of an Ancient Glory (37 page)

There were curtains on the windows, pots and pans hanging on nails, but no furniture—only a few cushions tossed randomly about the floor, and some plump, colorful quilts spread out in one corner,

“This is grand,” Tierney said in earnest. “I envy you, having your own place.”

“It's only a wagon,” Jan said with a small shrug, but Tierney could tell he was pleased.

They plopped down on the cushions, sitting in companionable silence for a time as Tierney considered his new friend's impressive, and varied, talent. Jan seemed slightly distant, as if he were still lost somewhere in the music.

“How did you learn to play like that?” Tierney finally asked. “You said you never went to school, that you can't read or write. How do you know so much about music?”

Jan smiled a little. “It is true that I did not go to school and I cannot read or write. As for the music—” He shrugged, looking up at the window on the opposite wall. “I believe I was born with it in my soul. My tribe is a part of the
Rom
known as The Musicians,” he explained with a faint trace of pride.

Tierney stared at him. “You mean it just comes natural? You never took lessons or anything?”

Jan laughed. “Gypsies do not take violin lessons, Tierney Burke.” His smile faded, and Tierney was surprised to hear him say, “Although I confess there have been times when I've wished to do so.”

“Why? You should be
giving
lessons, not
taking
them.”

Still staring into the fire, Jan shook his head. “There are many sounds inside me I cannot give voice to because I don't know how to go about it. Besides, I have often thought I would like to go to school. It is not our way, but I would be glad for an education.”

Abruptly, he turned and grinned at Tierney. “But what foolishness is this? A Gypsy who cannot read or write, talking of violin lessons and going to school, eh? As you Irish would say, ‘A daft notion entirely!' What about you? What will you do here in Ireland? Will you take a job?”

Tierney shrugged. “Morgan wants me to get more schooling, but I'd rather work. First, though, he's talking about a tour across Ireland. Soon, I hope. Nobody knows more about Ireland than Morgan does. But he says we'll have to wait until the baby gets a little older. He won't go without his family.”

Morgan's insistence on waiting irked Tierney. He didn't know why the two of them couldn't just go off on their own. Of course, Morgan would insist on taking Sandemon along; he was admittedly dependent on the black. But even that wouldn't be as much fuss as traveling with a wife and baby.

Jan broke into his thoughts. “I could offer you more wine if you like.”

Tierney grinned at him and leaned back against the wall.

Then a strange thing happened.

His legs began to twitch, at first only sporadically, then with more force. Abruptly, it stopped, and then a sharp, knifing pain struck his knees and his calves. It fled as quickly as it came, but had he been standing, his legs would have buckled under him.

He gaped at his limbs in astonishment, clutching his knees as a fresh blast of pain hit first one, then the other.
“What—”

Seeing his distress, Jan jumped to his feet and came to stand in front of him. “What is it? Are you ill?”

Ill? Yes…oh, he was ill! Nausea rose in him like a wave. His stomach blazed with fire, and his heart seemed to stop beating.…

“What is wrong, my friend? What can I do?” Jan's voice seemed miles away, muffled, as if he were shouting from the depths of a well. “I will get help!”

A fierce heat swept Tierney's loins, raged down his legs. Jaws of pain clamped down on him, shaking him.

His head spun, and the floor of the wagon seemed to pitch. He looked up. The door to the
vardo
flew open, and the fierce form of Jan's brother, Greco, swirled above him.

There was a terrible rumbling in his stomach. Tierney ducked his head to retch, but nothing came.

He was hot, so very hot.…

“It is the cholera!”
Greco's voice came, rough and angry.
“The
Gorgio
has cholera!”
He spewed out something in
Romani
, then,
“Get out of the camp! You must leave at once!”

Tierney groaned, twisted, tried to push himself onto his knees.

“He's not
able
to leave the camp! Have pity, Greco! We must help him! He is my friend!” Jan pleaded with his brother, at the same time trying to help Tierney to his feet.

Incredibly, Tierney managed to stand, one arm flung around Jan's shoulder for support.

“You would kill us all for this
Gorgio
?
” Greco went on roaring a stream of invective, as Jan slowly began to tug Tierney toward the quilts in the corner.
“I told you! Didn't I tell you? You see now what comes from letting the
Gorgio
into our midst? Get him out of here or I will drive him out with the whip!”

“ Come, my friend,” Jan urged Tierney, dragging him to the bedding on the floor, then helping him lie down. “He will not leave my
vardo
, brother,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “I will drive the wagon outside the camp, where there is no danger to you and the others.”

“No!” Dimly, Tierney saw Greco lift a burly arm as if to strike his brother. “Are you mad? You would risk your life for him?”

Jan Martova paused, then covered Tierney with a quilt. “You have forgotten that I
owe
my life to him,” he said quietly. “He is my friend.”

“He will be your
doom
if you do not heed what I say, little brother!”

Tierney squinted, saw Jan get to his feet and face his brother. “I am more than twenty years,” he said quietly. “I am no longer your little brother, Greco. I am a man. You will not order me about like a child. Tierney Burke is my friend,” he said, “and I owe him my loyalty. Now get out of my way. This is my
vardo
, and I will take it—along with Keja, my mare—wherever I choose.”

Greco pierced Jan with an intense glare, his eyes narrowed. “If you leave the
kumpania
this night, little brother,” he said through clenched teeth, “you will never be welcome here again.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode off into the night.

After hitching Keja to the
vardo
, Jan Martova stood, thinking. Thinking and worrying. He had no special ability with sickness, especially one so deadly as cholera. The women in the camp saw to all the healing measures, not the men.

Finally he went seeking Nanosh, his young cousin. “There are two things I need you to do,” he told the eager-faced boy. “And they are both very important. Can I trust you not to fail me?”

Nanosh straightened his slim shoulders and puffed out his chest. “You can trust me, Cousin.”

“Good. First, you must ask your mother to send me any medicines at all that are good for cholera. Tell her I will need enough for—I don't know how long. Then I want you to run all the way to Nelson Hall on the hill and tell the big black man who works for the
Seanchai
what has happened.”

Jan paused for breath. “Explain that Tierney Burke has been taken ill with the cholera, and that I am bringing him in my wagon to the land that runs across the stream from the big house. Tell him I will come that far only, no farther, so as not to endanger the
Seanchai
or his family.”

His young cousin nodded and started to turn. Jan put a hand to his shoulder. “You must hurry, Nanosh. And you must do exactly as I say. Your word?”

“My word, Cousin.”

Jan watched him turn and run, his heart sinking within him. He had made his choice. He hoped that neither Nanosh—nor any others among the family—would be stricken with the cholera. And he hoped with equal fervency that once all this was past, his family might find a way to forgive him for putting an outsider before them. Given Greco's parting words, however, he already knew his hope was futile.

This heart, fill'd with fondness,
Is wounded and weary.…

F
ROM
WALSH's I
RISH
P
OPULAR
S
ONGS
(1847)

S
andemon was dozing at the table, his head resting on his arms, when the pounding came at the back door.

He looked up, disoriented for a minute as he waited for his head to clear. The chair scraped the floor when he lurched to his feet, and he banged his leg against the corner of the table.

Was the boy drunk, to make such a racket at an unlocked door?

The sharp reprimand on his tongue died when he flung open the door to find, not the errant Tierney Burke, as he had expected, but a small Gypsy boy. It took a moment for him to realize that this was the same shaggy-haired child who had appeared at Nelson Hall some months past, the one who had carried the message to Nelson Hall from the Dublin gaol.

The boy appeared to be wearing the same soiled white shirt he had worn that night, and his face looked only slightly cleaner. His dark eyes brimmed with obvious excitement.

“I've a message for the
Seanchai
from Tierney Burke!” he burst out with no preamble.

So his suspicions had been right: the American boy HAD been consorting with the Gypsies on his late-night expeditions.

“The
Seanchai
is abed, as you might expect at such an hour,” Sandemon responded sharply. “What is the message?”

The boy studied him as if to assess his reliability. Remembering the little Gypsy's impudence the night he had hauled him into the library to face the
Seanchai
, Sandemon crossed his arms over his chest and fixed the child with a stern glare. “The message?” he demanded again.

“You are to tell the
Seanchai
that Tierney Burke is ill,” announced the boy, preening with the importance of his errand. “He has the cholera and has been banished from our camp.”

Stunned, Sandemon instinctively stepped back.
“Cholera?”
An entire flood of memories assailed him. He had encountered the killer disease in Barbados and again in Ireland, where he and the priests had fought helplessly to stem its spread as hundreds died. It was an ugly, vicious plague. The word itself struck fear into the bravest of hearts.

Suddenly, the boy seemed to throw off his arrogance and give in to the drama of his mission. His next words poured out of him like grapeshot. “The American boy is very ill, I think! My cousin Jan Martova is bringing him in his
vardo
—his wagon—to the land across from the stream!”

A storm of emotions roared through Sandemon as he stood staring in horror at the child in the doorway. If only he had heeded his instincts and confronted the treacherous youth before now! He should never have put off telling the
Seanchai
, should not have withheld what he knew. This, then, was the deadly result of his delay.

“Why do they think it is cholera?” he challenged. “The epidemic is long past.”

The boy bristled. “My cousin Jan Martova knows all about the cholera! He is a man and has seen such things.”