Mario Reading - The Nostradamus prophecies

‘O Del?’

‘That is our name for God.’

Sabir stood near the Bulibasha and watched as two of the men erected the board that was going to decide his life or death. You couldn’t make it up, he thought to himself. No one in their right minds would believe this. Not in the twenty-fi rst century.

Yola handed him a glass of herb tea.

‘What’s this for?’

‘To give you courage.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘A secret.’

Sabir sipped the tea. ‘Look. This guy Alexi. Your cousin. Is he any good with knives?’

‘Oh yes. He can hit anything he aims at. He is very good.’

‘Christ, Yola. What are you trying to do to me? Do you want me to be killed?’

‘I don’t want anything. O Del will decide on your guilt. If you are innocent, he will spoil Alexi’s aim and you will go free. Then you will become my brother.’

‘And you really believe that they will kill me if the knife strikes my hand?’

‘Without a doubt they will kill you. It must be that way. The Bulibasha would never allow you to go free after a Kriss has decided that you are guilty. That would go against our custom – our mageripen code. It would be a scandal. His name would become mahrime and he would be forced to go in front of the Baro-Sero to explain himself.’

‘The Baro-Sero?’

‘The chief of all the gypsies.’

‘And where does he hang out?’

‘In Poland, I think. Or perhaps it is Romania.’

‘Oh Christ.’

‘What happens if he misses my hand and gets me?’ Sabir was standing in front of the board. Two of the gypsies were attaching his hand to the board with a thin leather strap, which passed through two holes in the wood, above and below his wrist.

‘That means O Del has taken the decision away from us and has punished you Himself.’

‘I knew it.’ Sabir shook his head. ‘Can I at least stand at an angle?’

‘No. You must stand straight on, like a man. You must pretend that you don’t care what is happening. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. Gypsies like men who behave like men.’

‘I can’t tell you how encouraging that is.’

‘No. You must listen to me. It is important.’ She stood in front of him, her eyes locked on to his. ‘If you survive this, you will become my brother. I will take your name until I take my husband’s. You will have a kirvo and a kirvi from amongst the elders, who will be your godparents. You will become one of us. For this, you must behave like us. If you behave like a payo, no one will respect you and I will never find a husband. Never be a mother. What you do now – how you will behave – will show to my family how you will be for me. Whether the ursitory allowed my brother to choose wisely, or like a fool.’

Alexi upended the bottle into Sabir’s mouth, then finished it himself. ‘I like you, payo. I hope the knife misses. I really do.’

Achor Bale grinned. He lay in a sand scrape he had dug for himself, on a small rise about fifty feet above the clearing. The scrape was well concealed from marauding children by a gorse bush and Bale was covered by a camouflage blanket interleaved with bracken, twigs and other small branches.

He adjusted the electronic zoom on his binoculars and focused them on Sabir’s face. The man was rigid with fear. That was good. If Sabir was to survive, this fear of his would stand Bale in good stead in his search for the manuscript. He could use it. Such a man was manipulable.

The girl, on the other hand, was more of a problem. She came from a defined culture, with defined mores. Just like her brother. There would be parameters. Lines she would not cross. She would die before telling him of certain things she considered more important than her life. He would have to approach her in other ways. Through her virginity. Through her desire to be a mother. Bale knew that the Manouche gypsies defined a woman solely through her ability to have children. Take this away and the woman had no centre. No meaning. It was something he would bear in mind.

Now the girl’s cousin was walking away from Sabir, the knife in his hand. Bale adjusted the binoculars again. Not a throwing knife. That was bad. The weight would be difficult to gauge. No balance. Too much drift.

Ten yards. Fifteen. Bale sucked at his teeth. Fifteen yards. Forty-five feet. A crazy distance. It would be hard even for him to hit a defined target at such a divide. But perhaps the gypsy was better than he suspected. The man had a smile on his face, as if he felt confident about his abilities.

Bale swung the binoculars back towards Sabir. Well. At least the American was putting on a good front for a change. He was standing straight up and facing the knife-thrower. The girl was standing over to the side, watching him. They were all watching him.

Bale saw the gypsy draw back his hand for the throw. It was a heavy knife. It would need some power to take it that distance.

Alexi swung forward, driving the knife in a long, looping arc towards Sabir. There was a communal gasp from the onlookers. Bale’s tongue darted out from between his teeth in concentration.

The knife struck the board just above Sabir’s hand. Had it touched? The blade was curved. There couldn’t be much in it.

The Bulibasha and a few of his minions were moving at a leisurely pace towards the board to inspect the position of the knife. All the gypsies were converging on the Bulibasha. Would they kill Sabir straight off? Make it a communal effort?

The Bulibasha pulled out the knife. He flourished it three times around his head, then reached towards Sabir’s arm and cut through the leather straps. Then he threw the away from him disdainfully.

‘Oh, what a lucky boy,’ said Bale under his breath. ‘Oh what a lucky, lucky boy.’

‘The police are watching you.’

Sabir raised his head from the pillow. It was Alexi. It was obvious, however, that if Sabir expected any mention of – or even an apology for – that morning’s proceedings, he would have to wait a very long time indeed.

‘What do you mean, watching me?’

‘Come.’

Sabir rose and followed Alexi out of the caravan. Two children, a boy and a girl, were waiting outside, their faces tense with suppressed excitement.

‘These are your cousins, Bera and Koine. They have something to show you.’

‘My cousins?’

‘You are our brother now. These are your cousins.’

Sabir wondered for a moment whether Alexi was having him on. By the time he had gathered his wits together and had realised that no sarcasm was intended, it was too late to offer to shake hands with his new family, for the children had gone.

Alexi had already started walking towards the periphery of the camp. Sabir hurried to catch up with him.

‘How do you know it’s the police?’

‘Who else would be watching you?’

‘Who else indeed?’

Alexi stopped in his tracks. Sabir watched as his face gradually changed expression.

‘Look, Alexi. Why would the police bother to keep me under observation? If they knew I was here they would simply come in and pick me up. I am wanted for murder, don’t forget. I can’t see the Surete playing a waiting game with me.’

They had reached the ridge behind the camp. The children were pointing towards a gorse bush.

Alexi ducked down and wriggled his way underneath the bush. ‘Now. Can you see me?’

‘No.’

‘You come and do it.’

Alexi made way for Sabir, who eased himself beneath the thorns. Straight away he encountered an indentation which allowed him to slide down underneath the bush and emerge, head forwards, the other side.

Sabir instantly saw what Alexi was getting at. The entire camp was within his line of vision, but it was a virtual impossibility for anyone inside the camp to see him in turn. He backed awkwardly out of the den.