The previous night Lala had made her swear that she would not leave the camp alone, but Samantha knew she could get to the river and back before it was light. Stealing across the edges of the camp, she broke into a run when she was out of earshot. Her shoulder ached, but she found herself smiling anyway as the pre-dawn air swept across the skin on her face, hot with swelling and fatigue. She stopped running before she reached the horses – she didn’t want to startle them. Clicking softly, she gave them plenty of space as she cleared the trees. They flicked sleepy ears at her as she passed.
The sky had deepened from indigo to lilac by the time she reached the bush path leading down to the river. She paused, suddenly shaky, at the leafy entry. It was still night-time in there. The projector in her mind clicked on again with an image of Scarface jumping out from behind a tree, lopping her head off with the sword.
She shook her head to scatter the ridiculous picture and stepped onto the path. She’d walked this track a thousand times: with others and alone, in sunshine and rain, and at midnight. Scarface and his crew could not possibly be in there. They’d have had to have crossed the camp to reach this spot, and the dogs would have gone berserk.
For the first few minutes, until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she had to make do with her memory of the way down to the river. She trod carefully, hoping to avoid sharp rocks and sleeping creatures. The path was narrow in places, and leaves and branches slapped and scratched at her when she strayed from the track. But when the path widened and she heard the water, her bunched shoulders dropped a little and she jogged lightly the rest of the way down to the river’s edge.
At this point in the river, the bush made way for a sandy beach of sorts, and the moon shone down, round and bright. Just around the bend, the trees marched all the way down, planting their feet permanently in the water. And over the other side of the river, almost impossible to see now, rocky ledges made perfect diving platforms.
With a shiver, Samantha stripped. She dropped her shirt, singlet and briefs onto a rock and, naked, squelched through the night-cold sand to the water. The full moon fractured and re-formed endlessly on the rippling surface and she paused at the edge, the river lapping at her toes. She took a deep breath and raised her arms high over her head. She sent a gypsy prayer out quietly across the shivering waters.
Oh Goddess Gaia, source of Gods and Mortals,
All-fertile, all-destroying, mother of all,
Immortal, blessed, crowned with every grace,
As You fly across the beauteous stars, eternal and divine,
Come, Goddess Gaia, and hear the prayers of Your daughter,
Draw near, and bless me.
Samantha walked into the river.
Despite the hour, the water was refreshing but not cold. It felt delicious on her bruised face and swollen mouth. She washed quickly and stepped out, dripping. It was a little lighter already. She had to get back. They’d kill her for coming down here alone. Lala had told her she wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Carnivale tomorrow, and she’d even hinted that she wouldn’t take her to the very last of the midsummer festivals tonight.
Sam knew Lala would never get away with that, though. The other witches would tell all their best clients that she wasn’t there and then there’d be trouble. She slipped back into her singlet and pyjama pants. Birthday Jones had told her that the Roma witches were now gossiping about her all the time, angry that many of their best customers were trekking out to their camp for Sam’s readings, abandoning the witches in town.
The old frauds, she thought. They’re just jealous. Maybe they’d keep their customers if they actually told the truth about what they saw in the cards, rather than always making up nightmares that would supposedly come true if they didn’t get more money.
She sighed. She and Lala had also done their share of that. They’d been paid by plenty of Gaje women to bless amulets and perform love spells tonight.
Lala will have to take me, she decided. If I’m not there, I’ll bet my tarot deck that those old crones will take out a newspaper ad to tell the world about it.
She gathered up some of the dew-wet herbs that grew close to the riverbank, wrapping them in her T-shirt. A peace-offering for Lala in case she was caught returning – herbs and flowers collected at dawn were required for the potions they needed to make for the rituals tonight.
Sam loved midsummer, and all the gypsy rituals and festivals built up around the season. Well, most of it, anyway. What she couldn’t get used to was the guilt she felt being associated with the Roma witches. She knew that most of them were just in it for the hustle. And whether they believed they had special powers or not – and most of them seemed to have convinced themselves that they did – they rolled out the same script to all their clients. It was pitifully simple really, she thought, moving quickly back along the brightening path. In the very beginning, Lala had told her that ninety-five per cent of their customers would be female, and that seventy per cent of them would have a love-life problem. The other thirty per cent was split fifteen (money issues), to ten (the cursed), to five (health problems).
As she’d been learning the craft, she’d felt worst about the Gaje who were sick, or who came to see them terrified that someone they loved was going to die. She could feel their fear, their desperation, but more than that, with the unwell, she came to smell, to almost taste, their illness: a foul and putrid energy sucking and gnawing at its host. The stench grew so strong it became in her mind a creature, a monstrously fat, syrupy slug – a blonde and sticky tubular beast grown fleshy and fetid on her clients’ innards. It was eyeless, with only a round needletooth-ringed mouth that was always open and feeding.
When the image had first popped into her mind during a reading with an ageing Gaje grandma – Mrs Ungur – Samantha had screamed. Lala had apologised profusely, and tried to take over the session, but Mrs Ungur had stood, obviously in great pain, begging for Samantha to continue.
‘You can see it!’ she’d cried, papery hands outreached. ‘You see it. It hurts. Help me!’
Samantha had stared at the woman, horrified. She’d tried to go back to the reading but she could only see the slug chewing flesh lazily, and before she could turn the next card she had run from the caravan, sobbing.
Her cheeks now burned with the memory as she ran through the bush. She’d prayed every night for Mrs Ungur, who had died within a week. She’d tried to forgive herself; she’d been only nine at the time.
Since then, she’d learned to ignore the slug. She’d discovered a way of making him see-through in her mind, translucent. It helped her to continue the session without any nausea, the way Lala wanted her to, and she’d embedded into every reading special prayers to the Goddess Gaia, asking Her to help her client. And something weird had happened. Many of her sick clients recovered. Like, much more frequently than they should have, according to their doctors. And word had spread, slowly at first, but by the time she was twelve, the Gaje knew exactly which towns Milosh’s camp would be visiting next, and she and Lala would almost always have a full day of work, five days a week, even when the roads were closed because of snow.
She’d heard Lala and Esmeralda arguing late at night, when they thought she was asleep, about the jealousy of the other Roma witches and what they could do to protect her. She’d also heard Milosh, constantly cursing in his drunken, ferocious voice, pressuring Lala to make her work harder. Lala always stood up to him, until one night Milosh had slapped her down – his own mother – sending her to the floor of the caravan with a closed-fist swing.