"I won't be gone long," Marielle answered. Without looking at her companion, she turned and walked into the woods, thinking that perhaps she might never return.
If she found him, she thought. If the previous night had not been a dream after all. She hurried through the pines and down into the valley, seeking out the spot in which they had met, in which they had lain together. He had promised he would return. Rain began to fall softly, and she broke into a run.
When she reached their trysting place, water was pouring from the heavens. The sky was black, relieved only by brilliant lightning, which tore across it like a jagged blade. Thunder filled her ears. She pressed herself against a tree. With each stroke of lightning, she scanned the clearing, desperately seeking any sign of her lover. He did not come. In time her legs collapsed, and she slid to the wet ground, huddled against her knees. So she remained for hours, tears diluted by rain. Still, he did not come.
Finally, Marielle rose, calling out his name. Perhaps he was lost in the tempest, she thought. Lost, just as she. She stumbled into the forest. The earth turned to deep, gluey mud. In the darkness she misstepped. The mire closed in around her, pulling her downward, swallowing her to the waist.
Again, she called out, then three times more. The mud rose to her chest. She flailed desperately, clutching at nothing. Her face and shoulders sank into the mire, and the mud muffled her screams. Then a hand clamped hard on her wrist, drawing her from the grave just as the world faded to black.
When Marielle regained consciousness, she found herself in a great cavern, lying on the ground beside a campfire. A black, scratchy blanket covered her body. She rose quickly, then hastily pulled the blanket around her. She was nude, and not alone.
Around the fire sat a dozen gypsies. All had blueblack hair and skin as pale as the moon, like Damius. In their ebony clothing they resembled mourners, while she herself played the role of the dead. They gazed at her calmly, unblinking, with eyes the color of steel. A young woman beside her touched her arm. Marielle flinched. The cold fingers stung her like frozen metal upon bare, wet skin.
"You have nothing to fear," murmured the woman, white teeth flashing. "Nothing at all."
Her words brought no comfort. Marielle looked about the cavern, searching for Damius. The chamber was immense, with corners draped in shadow. She could barely make out two passages, though where they led, she could not see. A smoke-filled alcove lay on the opposite side of the cavern, and within it another small fire glowed. A trio of elders sat around the fire. Only their stooped posture and their silvery hair described their age, for their white skin appeared smooth and unlined. The pale hair glowed against their black robes; in the dim haze, it was as ethereal as the smoke. One of them turned and met her stare. The eyes flashed yellow, then looked away.
A knot of fear took root in Marielle's stomach. By instinct, she pulled her legs close and clutched the blanket more tightly, withdrawing into a fragile, futile shell.
"Where is Damius?" she asked quietly.
"Very close," said the woman at her side. "But you are safe here with us. Is that not true, Niro? Play a little music to soothe her while we wait for Damius to return."
She nodded to a man opposite the fire, and he drew a shining black fiddle to his chin. Ghostly strains issued forth, filling the cavern. Marielle felt the music piercing her soul, and indeed, it put her at ease. Such beauty was not to be feared.
The woman beside her hummed the melody softly for a moment, calming Marielle further. "Damius told us you were near death when he drew you from the mire," she said. "Your body is weak. Drink this, and you shall mend."
She offered a cup filled with dark, bitter tea. Marielle drank it down dutifully, then set the vessel aside. The white faces swam before her, smiling faintly, each a copy of the other. She sank limply to the ground, twisted like a rag doll in lazy repose.
The roof of the cavern swirled overhead. Wet, glistening red lichen covered the stone, pulsing in the firelight like a living organ. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Tendrils of smoke and mist caressed each glittering and jagged point, unhurried as they sought their escape through some hidden chimney in the rock.
"Yes, rest," said the girl. "I am Lizette, sister to Damius. He will come to you soon."
"Damius," Marielle echoed, tasting the name upon her tongue. Her eyelids sank, unable to bear their own weight. She heard a shuffling beside her, as if a small crowd were drawing near.
When Marielle opened her eyes, Damius sat at her side, stoking the fire. He turned and smiled, sensing her gaze. The white teeth shone like pearls.
Marielle struggled to cast off the vestiges of sleep. Damius reached out and stroked her face, tracing her jaw, brushing her lips. His fingers conjured a thin line of heat upon her skin, a tiny snake of sensation that wriggled down her neck and across her body even after his hand had lifted. Her strength slowly began to return.
"I'm sorry I was not here when you first awoke," he said. "I was gathering more wood to ensure your warmth."
Your touch alone is enough, thought Marielle, but she didn't say it. The rest of his tribe still looked on, as quiet as ghosts.
She rose to her elbow, pulling the blanket close.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"At my family's camp," he replied. "Our vardos are outside. We take shelter in this cavern when the storms come."
Marielle looked at the faces gathered round. Half were male, the others female. Their resemblance to Damius, and each other, was uncanny. A few, like Lizette, appeared young, perhaps no more than twenty, though Lizette herself was no longer among them. The others seemed roughly the same age as Damius, which was indistinct, somewhere past thirty, yet still prime. There were no elders among them; the silver-haired gypsies in the alcove had vanished. Nor were there any children. Perhaps the young and old had left the cavern and retired to their wagons.
Lizette reappeared, carrying Marielle's clothes. "They are dry now," she said. "I washed out the mud."
Marielle thanked her and took the bundle, then looked around for a place to dress.
"Shall I go outside?" she asked. "The storm seems to have lifted."
Lizette and Damius exchanged glances and smiled faintly.
"It has not yet gone," said Damius. "We are very sheltered here, and the sounds of the heavens can be difficult to discern. You can dress in the shadows. "He motioned toward the alcove where the elders had sat. "Lizette will stand before you, if you have decided to be modest."
Marielle rose and crossed the cavern. The elders' campfire had faded to ash and glowing embers, but its acrid smoke still filled the small chamber. Marielle turned her back toward the others. Lizette took a position behind her, watching as she pulled on her skirts and then her blouse.
"You are very lovely," said Lizette. "You needn't be shy among us."
The remark made Marielle uneasy. She quickly tied her shawl around her hips and returned to Damius. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her neck.
"Let's go out into the woods," she whispered.
He smiled. "We will break away later when the storm has fully passed. But for now, my tribe would like to welcome you. We do not have many visitors. And one so special as you is rare indeed."
Lizette stood beside them.
"Damius," she said softly. "You must ask her."
"Not yet," he replied. "Soon."
"Ask me what?" said Marielle.
"It is not important now," he answered. "It can wait until after the dance."
The fiddler once again lifted his instrument to his chin and began to play, spawning a dark, hypnotic melody. The five women beside the fire rose and formed a circle. Each held a black silk scarf in her hand, tracing circles in the air.