Post by Janyx nó Heliotrope (I) on Nov 1, 2005 0:53:25 GMT -5
17 years ago:
The vardo swayed rhythmically, only occasionally bouncing hard over the trail. Mariska sat in a numb haze, body swaying loosely with the motion of the wagon. All she could think of was her son. Janyx no longer walked the Lungo Drom. Instead he was trapped forevermore in the soil of Siovale; a pitifully small grave for such a vibrant child. Only ten summers old and talented with birds. Gone, gone, gonegonegone.
A single scalding tear fell down her worn cheek. Movement out of the corner of her eye made her swimming eyes turn to the woods.
There. A child.
Mariska saw him collapse in a pathetic heap. She leapt from the moving wagon. Her husband Lazar shouted, and abruptly pulled the oxen to a stop. She ignored his shouts and ran to the child. The little boy was battered, as if he had been repeatedly beaten. His face was half swollen and covered in bruises, but under all that and the dirt he shone like a fallen star. D’Angeline.
She laid a cool hand on his brow, he was burning with fever. A quick search of his battered body revealed a festering gash on his right hand; the flesh was swollen and red. She gathered the boy to her breast and made for the vardo and her herbs within.
“Woman! What were you thinking?!” Lazar’s furious voice barely registered.
“He’s injured, and burning with fever. I must tend to him quickly, or Janyx will be beyond saving.” She stepped around Lazar’s squat body.
“Have you completely lost your mind? Janyx is gone. That thing in your arms is not our son! It’s a D’Angeline whelp left for dead!” Lazar blocked Mariska’s path to the wagon yet again.
Mariska’s eyes cleared, and hot rage burned in them. “Don’t you think I know our son is dead? I will never forget! But this child is a sign, an omen. He is the same age as our son and he needs help. He was put on my Road for a reason. I could not save our son, neither could the gadje. But I can save this child, this D’Angeline. It is my redemption!”
“Mariska, you are not thinking clearly…”
“The drommonde has spoken, it is so. We will take him with us to the City. He will be healed and turned over to my sister. What will be, will be.”
Lazar was stunned to silence. Never before had his wife spoken the drommonde, but hearing her words, he knew it was true. Quietly he assisted Mariska into the back of the wagon. Tendrly she laid the boy out on a bunk and began tending his injuries.
“My Janyx, returned to me.” She hummed softly to herself as she worked.
Lazar stood over them for a moment looking down on the foundling boy. The D’Angeline child’s eyes fluttered open. Lazar sucked in a quick breath. His eyes were the color of ice shards, or a winter sky, just like his son’s.
The vardo swayed rhythmically, only occasionally bouncing hard over the trail. Mariska sat in a numb haze, body swaying loosely with the motion of the wagon. All she could think of was her son. Janyx no longer walked the Lungo Drom. Instead he was trapped forevermore in the soil of Siovale; a pitifully small grave for such a vibrant child. Only ten summers old and talented with birds. Gone, gone, gonegonegone.
A single scalding tear fell down her worn cheek. Movement out of the corner of her eye made her swimming eyes turn to the woods.
There. A child.
Mariska saw him collapse in a pathetic heap. She leapt from the moving wagon. Her husband Lazar shouted, and abruptly pulled the oxen to a stop. She ignored his shouts and ran to the child. The little boy was battered, as if he had been repeatedly beaten. His face was half swollen and covered in bruises, but under all that and the dirt he shone like a fallen star. D’Angeline.
She laid a cool hand on his brow, he was burning with fever. A quick search of his battered body revealed a festering gash on his right hand; the flesh was swollen and red. She gathered the boy to her breast and made for the vardo and her herbs within.
“Woman! What were you thinking?!” Lazar’s furious voice barely registered.
“He’s injured, and burning with fever. I must tend to him quickly, or Janyx will be beyond saving.” She stepped around Lazar’s squat body.
“Have you completely lost your mind? Janyx is gone. That thing in your arms is not our son! It’s a D’Angeline whelp left for dead!” Lazar blocked Mariska’s path to the wagon yet again.
Mariska’s eyes cleared, and hot rage burned in them. “Don’t you think I know our son is dead? I will never forget! But this child is a sign, an omen. He is the same age as our son and he needs help. He was put on my Road for a reason. I could not save our son, neither could the gadje. But I can save this child, this D’Angeline. It is my redemption!”
“Mariska, you are not thinking clearly…”
“The drommonde has spoken, it is so. We will take him with us to the City. He will be healed and turned over to my sister. What will be, will be.”
Lazar was stunned to silence. Never before had his wife spoken the drommonde, but hearing her words, he knew it was true. Quietly he assisted Mariska into the back of the wagon. Tendrly she laid the boy out on a bunk and began tending his injuries.
“My Janyx, returned to me.” She hummed softly to herself as she worked.
Lazar stood over them for a moment looking down on the foundling boy. The D’Angeline child’s eyes fluttered open. Lazar sucked in a quick breath. His eyes were the color of ice shards, or a winter sky, just like his son’s.