The gypsy camp looked entirely different during the daytime. The mystique and romance were gone. Everyone was very busy doing something. He could hear sad and emotional music being played by a violin. Paul was always amazed how the gypsy musicians could produce both such very sad songs and such very joyous and festive tunes from the same instrument.
Most of the gypsies knew that he was a friend of the magistrate. They also knew that he stood between a lynch mob and Maleva in an effort to save her life. No matter, he was still a gadjo, which is gypsy for a male outsider.
He rode to Maleva's vardo; Bela watched as he approached. Paul got off Beowulf and tied his reins to a tree limb. Bela gently stroked the nose of the horse.
"Your horse likes you now." Without looking at Paul, he said, "Maleva is inside. She is expecting you."
Paul entered Maleva's wagon. She was sitting at her small table. She looked much better than the last time he had seen her.
"I am sorry I am a little late, your son nearly talked my ear off out there."
Expressionless, she pointed to a chair.
"Sit." He dutifully obeyed. "Why do you come here?" she asked.
Paul leaned over, "You have ancient remedies here, some with amazing curative powers."
"What are you trying to cure?" she asked.
"Do you know what turbare is?" Paul knew from his reading that turbare was the gypsy word for rabies. She looked at him incredulously. She leaned closer to him.
"We are a people that live in the forest with the wild animals. Of course we know only too well about turbare."
"That's what I am trying to find a cure for, Maleva, that's why I need your help!"
"This sickness" she said, slowly and carefully, "is more curse than illness. Many gypsies have died from this." She thought for a moment, "It may be the worst death. We know of no cure."
"Maybe," Paul suggested, "if you share with me the knowledge of your ancient medicine, I can combine it with what I know, then perhaps we can find a cure?"
"I will give you some of our remedies before you leave," she said firmly, "Now give me your hand" she demanded. She took his hand and looked intently at his palm. Paul had a simian crease across the center of his palm. Not many people have this trait. She wondered what it meant. She took his other hand which had normal palm lines. She sensed a feeling of foreboding. This feeling was familiar to her. It was the same feeling she experienced when she read Larene's palm. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. Soon, she could hear the voices of her ancestors, trying to reach her. Again she saw horrible images and frightening symbols. Visions raced across her mind's eye: shadows flashed by, with faint images of wolves, death, pentagrams, the full moon, Dr. Paul, Larene, her son Bela, and a nightmarish werewolf creature not born, but created. She dared not stay in this dark mental place any longer as she felt her sanity slipping away.
"What can you tell me about my future?" Paul asked as she regained her senses. Maleva released his hand. She was still seeing faint phantom images. Maleva used her meditative skills to center herself and regain her balance. She took a deep breath.
"You may very well find what it is you are looking for, doctor. I must warn you though, it may come at a very high cost to you personally." Maleva wasn't usually that candid about dark prophecies. She felt psychically compelled to warn him.
They both stood up from the table. Maleva made her way over to her apothecary. Paul stood beside her as she searched for useful medications. Paul recognized about two thirds of what she had in her gypsy hospital. The remaining third he could only guess what these things were and what they did medically. She picked out three items. She explained that combining the elements can change their characteristics. She told him that not all animals or people respond the same to any given organic cure.
"You are working with wolves, yes?" she asked.
"I am." he said.
"You need to know that wolves are very sensitive to the phases of the moon. It changes them. They howl at a full moon for a reason." She handed him a tin of a metallic powder comprised mostly of a unique silver compound without turning away from the table.
"Small amounts of this are useful with the most serious sicknesses," she instructed. "But keep in mind that silver can be sensitive to light." Maleva gave him a small bottle with a slightly white and cloudy liquid in it.
"This is essence of Morning Glory. It is also a powerful aid in treating illnesses." She turned to him, "a morning glory is one of the few plants that will turn to face a full moon. All these things are connected," she warned. She was about to give him a third powder to take, but changed her mind. She took the container with the white powder and locked it in a little drawer in her desk. Paul was grateful for what he had. Hopefully, he wouldn't want or need whatever it was that she wasn't willing to share. He thanked Maleva and left her vardo. It was after 3:00. There were still a few hours of sunlight left. Bela was gone. Some young gypsy girls had braided Beowulf's mane and inserted small flowers into the weaves. He was being a good sport about it but Paul could tell he was ready to leave. The clan was getting ready for another night of paying guests. As he and his now ornamented horse trotted through the wooded path, he could hear a lone violin playing a sad gypsy song.
"Come on Beowulf, let's go home."
Paul rode up to the house just as the sun was setting, the sunset filling the sky with colors. He was glad to be home.
Larene was in the kitchen, eating.
"Guess what? Someone left us grilled lamb chops!"
"Oh, that was the Sabows," Paul said. "Payment for bandaging up poor Rummy."
"How is Rummy doing?" Asked Larene, now devouring a second lamb chop.
"I didn't see him out in the field as I rode up. They may have put him down."
"That's so sad" Larene said softly, knowing how much Paul liked the dog. "How did your visit with Maleva go?"
"Fine, I guess," Paul said, pulling a chair up to the kitchen table and stabbing a lamb chop with his fork. "She read my palm."
"Which one? Not the funny looking one, I hope."
"No, she used the normal palm, smarty."
"And?"
So Paul told her everything, in as much detail as he could remember. They agreed that Maleva's prognostication was troubling, although she did infer that Paul might be successful in his research. Larene told him about the Christie brothers and how nice they were. Of course they were more than willing to risk life and limb to carry the caged wolf downstairs into the cellar for Larene.
"They wanted me to send you their regards. Those boys have really grown up," she said nonchalantly, "I offered to make them lunch for all the work they did, but they said they had to get back to their ranch."
"Well, you offered honey, that is the important thing." Paul smiled to himself.
Larene was up early the next morning. She had made coffee. Paul came downstairs, muttered a good morning, and thanked her for the coffee. She was reading an old book on herbology. She seemed preoccupied, bordering on moody. Paul didn't pry. She wanted space and time to contemplate something important. It could be one or more of a dozen of things that women think or worry about. Paul knew this was not the time to hover or be clingy. Being raised with three older sisters, he knew that women were complex creatures. Once you think you have them figured out, they evolve, providing nothing more than a moving target for your fruitless attempt to categorize them. Larene was both the Rock of Gibraltar and as elusive as St. Elmo's Fire. She would come around; she always did.
It was an overcast day, so exiling oneself in the cellar doing research didn't seem so bad. Paul opened the doors, checked on the animals, and cleared a place on his desk so he could work. Before he sat down, he walked over to the cage that the wolf was in. It was lying down, curled in a corner of the cage. It was a young female wolf, which had probably just reached maturity. Her coat was a blend of grey, black, and white. He could just make out a red spot on her fur, near her rear leg. It looked like a bite wound.
Paul was fortunate, as the townsfolk knew about the rabies epidemic and the work he was doing. They would bring over all kinds of unwanted critters and leave them by his outside cellar door, in cages, and usually with a note if they suspected the animal to be infected. Twin girls, Deborah and Agnes, about 11 years old, would drop by and help with the test animals. They lived nearby and their parents didn't seem to mind. The girls were smart and careful. They knew better than to get attached to the animals or to get too close to them. They were cute; sometimes they seemed anxious to grow up into women, and other times, happy to be tomboys.
Paul referred to his library to research the remedies that Maleva had given him. He wanted to confirm all the verifiable medicinal properties. Fortunately, there was information about the silver available. Both alchemists and metallurgists have written much about this interesting metal. Paul took comprehensive notes. Information about the Morning Glory extract was not as easy to find; he hoped that the book Larene was reading about herbs might offer something useful.
Larene joined him in the lab bringing, the book on herbs and a throw pillow for her chair.
After a few minutes, Paul inquired, "Larene, did you come across anything in your book about Morning Glories?"
"Yes I did." she said, opening the old book to the right page. He picked up his chair and moved next to her. She was wearing a pale blue summer dress and moccasins. Her hair was in a ponytail, but flipped and secured in such a way that it made a loop, to keep her hair off of her neck. She shared what she had learned about Morning Glories, and he did the same with respect to the silver compound.
"What do you think Maleva had that she decided not to share?" Paul asked Larene. She quickly leafed through her book. She drummed her fingers on the table.
"You said it was a white powder?"
"Yes," he said, "and she was very protective of it."
Larene pinched her nose and rubbed her eyes. She massaged her forehead while she squeezed her eyes shut. She was trying to remember something.
"Paul, isn't there a gypsy lady working in the cobbler's shop? Didn't she leave the clan and marry the cobbler?" Women have an amazing memory, Paul thought admiringly. Men are always shocked by how a woman can remember every little transgression, going back many years. He knew that memories were anchored in the mind by emotions. Some women tend to be emotional, and will readily assign how something made them feel to a memory. Conversely, men are not quite that invested in their feelings, so they don't remember all those little things that women deem important.
"We should go into town in the next day or so and see her," Paul suggested, "Maybe she knows what Maleva is being so secretive about." Larene agreed.
Together they prepared 5 test serums, using various quantities of what Maleva had donated, and other known medications. Larene was in good spirits again, and the morning's work seemed less arduous. They took a break for a light lunch at noon. They sat on their porch, eating fresh bread and playfully fighting over a dipping bowl of blueberry preserves. For no particular reason, they shared a glass of red wine. The sun came out just long enough to lift their spirits even more, before it retreated behind the clouds.
Some life-threatening emergency not withstanding, Paul had arranged his schedule so he could focus on his research. Eleven townsfolk had lost their lives due to rabies and countless more in livestock. Almost everyone had suffered some kind of personal loss. Animals played an important role in Llanromney. When people are afraid to handle their own livestock, the whole town suffers. It was important work, and the villagers knew that and were supportive, as long as the research didn't involve their dogs.
Paul and Larene went back to work in the lab. They identified five test animals that were in the advanced stage of infection. The two cats and three raccoons were injected with the different test serums. Of all susceptible mammals, skunks and bats were infected the most frequently albeit, but they didn't make ideal test subjects.
Paul looked at his pocket watch. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. The watch was the only heirloom he had of Captain Thomas, his father. Paul had been eighteen when his father died. The salty old sea captain died in the pilot's chair on the bridge of his ship; almost as if he had planned it. To his credit, he never pushed for Paul to go out to sea. That was his passion, not Paul's, and he had always respected that.
Larene was taking notes about the tests. Paul was determining what other variations he might try with the medicines he had to work with. Above the sound of pens scratching on paper and animals rustling about in their cages, he heard a different noise; it sounded like water dripping. He spun around in his chair, Larene turned to look at him in alarm.
"Do you hear that?" Paul demanded.
"Hear what?"
"It sounds like water dripping!"
"Maybe it's drizzling outside?" Larene said, leaning over to look at the sky through the outside cellar door.
"I don't think it is raining, Paul." The dripping sound continued. "Look at the steps, Paul!"
She pointed to the stone steps that led up to the back of the house. A slow stream of water was cascading down the steps.
"What in the world?" Paul said, getting up to investigate.
Larene and Paul followed the water up the steps. Now in the back of the house they traced the water through the mud to its source. He had a very large wooden cistern that caught the rainwater. It looked like an extraordinarily big wood barrel, cut in half, with metal hoops holding it together. The problem was, the top metal hoop had slipped down, allowing the wood stave joints to separate and leak profusely. He had meant to get the town's barrel maker to come out and fix it, but with all that had been going on, he had forgotten. His backyard was a muddy mess on a good day, but now it was a swamp. The slippery mixture of clay and soil made it hard to stand. His first priority was to try and stop the water leakage.
Paul looked at Larene, who was standing ankle deep in the muck.
"What a mess!" said Paul, with a sigh. He looked behind Larene and saw her moccasins buried in the mud.
"Can you help me pull up the hoop on the cistern? That should stop the leaking until we can get it fixed." Every step they took made a sucking sound. They both were waving their arms around, trying to keep their balance. Every movement was theatrically exaggerated, like clowns entertaining children. Paul walked behind the cistern. He almost fell backwards, his hands flapping like a bird. Larene couldn't help but giggle. She had a very contagious laugh, which got Paul started chuckling. Both of them were sliding around the cistern, trying to get traction.
"Okay, grab that hoop and let's pull it up as far as we can." She tried to steady herself against the cistern, and together they slowly pulled up the hoop. The higher up it went, the more it closed the seams between the wood slats, slowing the water leakage. They almost had it up as far as it would go when Larene suddenly cried out. She lost her footing and fell forward, face first and waist deep in the water. She stood up again, soaked; her hair was wet and straggly across her shoulders. The dress she was wearing was saturated with water, it clung to her like a sheer second skin. Paul burst out laughing at the picture she made.
"Funny, huh?" she ask with a mischievous smile, "Let's see how YOU like it!" and with that, she took both hands and sent a tidal wave of water in his direction. The water splashed up into his face, soaking him thoroughly. They both were laughing so hard that tears covered their cheeks.
"Let's try it again!" Paul cried as he steadied himself in the mud. Larene grabbed the side of the cistern, got her footing, put her fingers under the metal hoop and looked up. "Okay, now!" They both pulled up on the loose metal band, inch by inch, slowly closing the gaps in the wood until the hoop was tight, the seams sealed together, and the water stopped leaking.
"We did it!" They cried out together. They were a sight, and they couldn't help but chuckle at each other. He came around the cistern, arms swinging about, struggling to keep his balance. When he finally reached her, they grinned at each other like little kids. Paul started to take a step when his feet went out from under him. Down he went into the mud with a big SPLAT! He was flat on his back, looking up, and hopelessly stuck like an overturned turtle. Larene was holding her sides, she was laughing so hard that she was gasping for air.
"Are you okay?" she finally managed to ask.
"Oh, I'm fine," he said reassuringly, "I have a wonderful view of the sky and of that lovely dress you are wearing." Larene looked down at herself.
"Oh dear…" she said, realizing her wet dress had been rendered virtually transparent, leaving little to the imagination. Unfazed, she leaned over and offered him an outstretched hand. She stood at his feet, dug her toes into the mud, bent her knees for stability, and carefully pulled Paul out of the mud. Just when he was almost free of the muddy trap, she lost her footing and fell right on top of him with a big muffled plop.
Paul's belly laugh had them both shuddering together in the mud. The way Larene had fallen on him, her weight was evenly distributed on top of his body; she didn't feel heavy at all.
"Well, that went… well." Paul muttered, trying hard to regain his composure. It took him a moment to realize that Larene wasn't laughing. She was very serious. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Her lips were slightly parted as she breathed deeply. Paul could feel her warmth against the entire length of his body. He reached up and gently cupped her face with his hand. He softly caressed her cheek. He slid his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her towards him. Her lips were soft, cool, and sweet. They held the kiss, eyes closed, and drifted together in a dreamy state of intimacy. With both hands, he traced the sides of her body, slowly exploring the curves, the softness and the firmness, until his hands circled her lower waist. His fingers drifted to where the dimples were, at the base of her back. He could feel all those womanly motors and gears humming away in rhythm. Larene pulled away from the kiss. She had a very different look in her eyes. He fully expected to see soft, demure eyes. The look he was getting was one of intent and desire; a desire that was not going to be denied. Lost in her gaze, he could feel her move, pressing her pelvis against his. She lowered her mouth to his ear. She softly whispered, "We're going to that special place in hell."