Stephen Brust - The Gypsy

"We believed in each other's lies," he told the Coachman.

The Coachman nodded. "Don't we all."

"I could tell her the truth," Stepovich said slowly."I could tell her right now, and it would change everything. Maybe she wouldn't marry me."

"Maybe you'd go to school full time and become a lawyer. You had the brains for it."

"But not the stomach," Stepovich said slowly. He dragged in another painful breath. "This isn't a dream, is it?"

The Coachman turned, and looked at him for a longtime. "It's your choice," he said quietly at last. "This could be a dream. Or it could be a place where you climb back into your skin, and take a different path."

Stepovich could feel a chill seeping through his blood. He lifted a hand to his shoulder, almost remembered. Somewhere in the night, a slow anger tapped a tambourine."Am I dying?" he asked.

"Dying? No. Not dying, but… you're not dying."

"And if I were, would I get another chance?"The Coachman shook his head slowly. "This is it.You picked this choice place, and I can offer you but one."

"What do you suggest?"

For a moment, it seemed the Coachman winced,but all he said was, "I make no suggestions. Decide."

Stepovich watched them kissing, the young cop and his fiancee. But the man thought he was kissing a cop's wife, and the woman thought she was kissing a Future lawyer. They'd both be wrong. He still had a chance, right now, to step down from the coach and walk a different path, one that led away from the pains of quarrels and divorce. Maybe it would lead to no marriage at all. Maybe he'd learn to like being a lawyer. But there were no guarantees.Then it hit like a whip: No guarantees there'd be a Laurie or a Jeffrey; that's what he was giving up, as well as everything else. That kiss they were sharing,that might be their last. He'd be sweeping away the joys with the pains. Did he want to chance that? Wiping out all those past pains, that was one thing. Giving up the picnics and family dinner in exchange fora life that might be worse, okay; but what if it meant the children never came to be?

A vague notion came to him that there was another thing he'd be undoing as well. He closed his hand on a weapon that wasn't there, groped after a deed he couldn't remember. But it had been important. And somehow it had kept Laurie safe. Funny, how foggy it was all getting. Not just his thoughts, but the night around him. Funny, how the horses plodded on, but they never passed the couple kissing under the street lamp.

"Drive on," he finally said. "Drive on." He leaned back into his pain.

One of the gypsies, the big one, is tapping a tambourine.He says, "So, you are taking all three of them back, then?"

The Coachman nods.

"What about the girl? Doesn't she get a choice?"

"No," says the Coachman. "Not yet, not here, not from me."

"And the old woman?"

"She made all of her choices long ago."

The big gypsy nods. He looks a bit like an owl, the way he stares. The Coachman drives on.

Soon he reaches a place where there is a soft glow of starlight, which is quickly joined by a half moon, waxing,and he feels sorrow. The journey is nearing its end. Only for a short time longer will he sit on this box and feel the horses talk to him through the reins. He has come many lifetimes tonight, but the journey still seems short. The thought takes him that he could turn now, and bring them all to another place-a place where this coach would remain real. Perhaps they would blink in the sunshine and thank him. Perhaps they would not. It doesn't matter; he knows he will not do it.

The sun is rising ahead of him, red and thick behind layers of clouds, and in the glow, the horses begin to fade and the feeling of motion to decrease. Now he sees the faint outline of walls around him, and he pulls on the reins and the horses slow. When they have stopped, they are gone,as are we all, and the reins are no more than a twist of a scarf's fabric tangled in his fingers.

I spent a lifetime in Hell last year,

I'm not sure when I got back.

The plaster statues are running in place.

And some are beginning to crack.

One wears a smile, one wears a frown;

They both seem fools to me.

The game isn't over 'til one of them's lost,

You never know who it will be.

"TELLERS OF TALES"

Durand felt like he was opening his eyes, though he couldn't remember closing them. It was like a play resuming, a crowded set cluttered with furniture and people just starting to stir. Madam Moria was already setting upright an ugly little table that had gotten tipped over. She set her ruined kettle atop it, and glared at him when she caught him staring at her. With a sigh and a wheeze, she sank back into her chair as if she'd never left it. Durand belatedly realized that he was leaning against a tapes tried wall,clutching his bleeding arm.

He watched Daniel rise slowly, look around at the old woman's apartment, and bow to the Coachman,who sniffed. "Don't bow to me you, you gypsy, you."Daniel smiled faintly, and turned to his brothers. Raymond was leaning against Csucskari, who still held the bloody knife.

"A pleasant ride," said Raymond softly. He looked down suddenly, and, "How did he get here?" he asked the Coachman, almost accusingly.

The Coachman shrugged. "Perhaps he never left."

Durand followed his glance. Little Timmy. The one they'd killed. The bloody corpse didn't stir him at all. Only the pistol in the hand seemed real, and the only emotion it roused in Durand was anger.

Csucskari said, "We must see to the Wolf."

And the Wolf is Mike, on the floor with Ed kneeling beside him. Ed pressed his handkerchief against Mike's shoulder, while Laurie knelt beside them,clutching herself as she rocked back and forth. Durand crossed to kneel by his partner. He put his good arm around Laurie, stilled her rocking.

Durand blinked stupidly and looked around. His partner was on the floor, and his own arm was bleeding. From Ed's color, he was hurting as well, even if no blood showed. The three gypsies looked as if a bare breath of wind might blow them all away. The Coachman leaned up beside the door, whip in hand,as if none of this concerned him. "What do we do?"Durand asked them all.

Madam Moria sighed heavily. She folded a scarf very carefully and set it aside. For a long second she shut her eyes. Then she opened them, and announced, "Well, I don't have my cane, so I can't make tea." When everyone looked at her, she added,"My good kettle's ruined, too," and glared at Csucskari as if daring him to accept the blame.

Durand stirred suddenly. He walked over to her phone, a black thing crouching on a small table, and dialed.

"Officer Durand. My partner is down, and I've been injured. We need an ambulance at thirty-four-sixteen Oak Street Upper, northeast corner of Oak and Carradine. No, no back-up needed; the situation is stable. Hurry on that ambulance though. Mike's hit bad. No, I won't stay on the damn line. Use the nine-one-one trace, for god's sake." He left the receiver off the hook. Going back to Stepovich, he took Laurie firmly by the shoulders and pushed her into Ed's arms. He knelt down, and began laying Stepovich's shirt open.

"It doesn't look good," Ed muttered, and tried to keep Laurie from looking. Durand refolded the handkerchief and pressed it once more against the wound.

Stepovich stirred and cried out; Laurie echoed him. She pulled free of Ed, but suddenly Daniel was there, catching her in his arms despite the fiddle he still held. He pulled her face into his chest and held her tightly. She grew still. Durand swayed, then sat back on the floor beside his partner. He put his fingers on the pulse in Stepovich's throat, kept them there. Ed got up and sank slowly onto the couch,one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. "He'll live," he said. "But…" His voice trailed off.