Gar gazed at him for a moment, then lay down right where he was and closed his eyes. They flew open again, and he demanded, “Giorgio not sleep?”
Half-wit or not, he still had his exaggerated sense of responsibility. “Giorgio not sleep,” Gianni confirmed. He doubted that he could, even if he had wanted to—not after that dream.
Gar closed his eyes instantly, reassured. Five seconds later, he exhaled in the quick hiss of sleep followed by the long, slow, measured inhalation, and Gianni knew he slept indeed.
So. He was alone with his thoughts—a nightmare re-seeing of that daunting face. But for some reason, Medallia’s face seemed to merge with it, overlay it, supersede it. For a moment, Gianni wondered why—but only a moment. Then he gave himself over, with vast relief, to contemplating the memory of that beautiful face, feeling himself relax, unwind, grow gradually calm …
But not sleepy. He had been right about that.
Sure enough, the Gypsy train came into sight in midmorning, just as the face had predicted—and Gianni staggered under the sudden realization that the dream was no mere spiderweb spun from the sandman’s dust. Somehow, some genuine man of mystic power had thrust his way into Gianni’s slumbers—some man, and perhaps some woman, too …
The mere thought made his pulse quicken. Could there really be such a dancer as he had dreamed of, real and alive, and in this world? Could he find her, touch her, kiss her? Would she let him?
He wrenched his attention back to the Gypsies and began to wave and call to them. “Hola! Holay! Over here, good people! Aid us! A rescue!” He hobbled forward, leaning on Gar as much as he pulled him—then suddenly stopped, realizing how they must look to the Gypsies. What could the travelers see, but a couple of filthy, unkempt men, naked save for loincloths—one huge, dark, and glowering, but clearly obeying the other …
The Gypsies had stopped, though, and were staring at them doubtfully. Gianni realized he must find some way to reassure them, so he came no closer, but called out again, “Help us, good folk! We’re travelers like yourselves, waylaid and brought low by condotierri! Bandits have sacked us and beaten us, so badly that they have addled my companion’s wits! He is as simple as a child now! Please, we beg you! Help the child!”
A woman with a bright kerchief leaned forward from the little door at the front of the lead caravan and called something to the men who walked beside.
They looked up at her, glanced at one another, then beckoned Gar and Gianni to come closer. Gianni’s heart leaped with relief, and he hobbled toward them as quickly as his bruised legs would take him, towing Gar in his wake.
As they came close, though, the Gypsies backed away, eyeing Gar warily. For the first time, Gianni noticed that they were wearing swords, noticed it because they had their hands on their hilts—long straight swords, with daggers thrust through their sashes. Gianni stopped and said, “Don’t worry—he’s harmless.”
“Unless you tell him to be dangerous,” the oldest Gypsy said. His gray mustache drooped below his chin, and gray tufts of eyebrows shaded eyes that glared a challenge at Gianni, who was in no shape to launch into a glib explanation that might both pacify and satisfy. He gathered himself to try, though.
Gar chose just that moment to say, “Tell me about the rabbits, Giorgio.”
The Gypsies stared, and Gianni could cheerfully have brained the man. Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered, “Be still, Gar!” He nearly said “Lenni,” but remembered that the newly made halfwit didn’t know the false name.
The Gypsies seemed intrigued, though. “Rabbits?” the old one said. “Why does he ask about rabbits?” A memory of their last pretense must have surfaced in Gar’s brain, brought on by similar circumstances—either that, or the giant was really pretending, but Gianni doubted that. “Because when he becomes frightened or anxious, I lull him by promising we shall someday have a little farm of our own, with a garden to give us food, and small furry creatures for him to pet and play with.”
The Gypsies exchanged a glance of sympathy that said, as clearly as though they had spoken aloud, A simpleton. Then the older one turned back. “It’s a good dream, that, and a good way to calm him. Does he become upset often?”
“Not so often at all,” Gianni improvised, “but we were set upon by a gang of bandits a mile or so back; they beat us harshly and took all that we had, even our clothes, so he is wary of strangers just now.”
“The poor lad,” said the woman, still looking out of the little door.
The older Gypsy nodded. “We saw churned and muddy earth, and wondered.” He stepped toward Gar, and the giant drew back in alarm. The Gypsy stopped. “We won’t hurt you, poor lad. Indeed, we’re travelers like yourself, and have learned to be wary of the bandits, too—quite wary. Nay, we won’t hurt you, but we will bandage your wounds and give you warm food—soup—and clothing. Will you have them?”
Gar seemed to relax a little. The Gypsy held out a hand, and Gar started, but didn’t run. Gianni took a chance and Gar’s arm, to tug him forward gently. “Come, my friend. They won’t hurt you. They’ll help us, give us shelter for a little while.”
“Shelter, yes.” The Gypsy nodded. “Under the caravan, it’s true, but it’s better than no roof at all.”
“Under?” Gar said hopefully, and took a step forward.
Gianni’s heart leaped at the sign of memory. He explained to the older man, “We took shelter with a Gypsy woman in that way, not long ago. He remembers.”
“A Gypsy woman?” All the Gypsies suddenly looked up, suddenly alert. “Traveling alone?”
“Alone, yes.” Gianni remembered that it had seemed odd at the time. “Her name was Medallia.” The Gypsies exchanged a cryptic glance. “Yes, we know of Medallia. Well, if she gave you shelter and was none the worse for it, we will, too. Come join us.”
“I thank you with all my heart!” Gianni came forward, pulling Gar with him. The giant came, still cautious, but moving.
As they neared, Gianni looked at the Gypsies more closely. Their hair was hidden by bright-colored kerchiefs, but their beards were of every color—yellow, brown, black, red, and several different shades in between. Their eyes, too, varied—blue, brown, green, hazel, gray … Gianni couldn’t help but think how much they looked like everyone else he had ever known, at home in Pirogia. Change their clothes and you could never tell the difference.
Those clothes were gaudy, bright greens and blues and reds and yellows, with here and there broad stripes. Shirts and trousers alike were loose, even voluminous, the shirts open at the throats, showing a broad expanse of chest, the trousers tucked into high boots. They wore sashes of contrasting colors, and men and women alike wore earrings and bracelets.
The merchant in Gianni wondered if they were of real gold.
“Women” because, now that the train had stopped, many more Gypsies had emerged to come clustering around the newcomers. It was the women who took Gar and Gianni in hand, coming forward to say, “Come, poor lads, you must be half dead from cold and hunger.”
Gar pulled back at first, frightened, and Gianni had to reassure him. “Nice ladies, Gar! See? Nice!” He shook hands with one young woman, then realized how pretty she was and wished he could do more. Inspiration struck, and he held a hand up to her hair—auburn, with no kerchief to hide it. “May I?”
The woman looked startled and drew back a pace, then gave him a coquettish smile and stepped forward again. Gianni caressed her hair, then turned to Gar and said, “Soft. Warm.”