****
River had a large stall on the main floor of the market stadium that backed up to and included three steps of the wall. The colorful cloth-walled stall was filled with bins of both fresh and dried vegetables and fruits. A table along one side held small bins of dried herbs. Another table held small, cloth pouches and clay pots of herbal mixes, teas, and medical remedies, each carefully labeled with contents and instructions for use. Shoppers crowded her stall, and a short line was formed to the side for those who were waiting to get in.
I was always amazed with how productive my little sister made her tiny, rooftop garden. Imagine what she could do with a whole farm, or even as the head of a farming compound or commune. I shook the idea from my head. As much as I wanted my sister to be happy and successful, River had dismissed the idea of taking such a job every time any of the family had spoken of the idea. But, in truth, neither Anya nor I mentioned it very often and Pinky never did. The thought of River going off where we couldn’t watch over her was more than we could stand. Though she was a grown woman, she would always be that little lost baby to me. If I were completely honest, I would have to admit both Anya and I loved the care and attention River doted on us. If she were to move away, we couldn’t watch over her, but more, she wouldn’t be there to take care of us.
“Oh, hello!” River saw us and came over, her cheery face split in a grin and her blonde hair flashing in the sun. “I wasn’t sure when to expect you, but I told Miss Leona we would be stopping by today, so she is expecting us.”
“Do you need to wait until your customers are gone?” Ian asked, eyeing the crowd at River’s booth.
“Nah. Bonnie can handle them, just give me a second,” she said and walked over to say something to the young girl that helped her out during market week. Bonnie was twelve, lived in a hemp farming compound, and traveled in every month with the farmers and merchants. She wasn’t officially of legal work age, but helping River for the week gave her something to do. River paid her the same wage an adult would make so that she could help her family and still have a little spending money of her own.
We watched silently as River flitted around, greeting customers, before rejoining us, followed by the guard Sam had sent to watch over her. “Okay. We can go now.” We followed her out of the market building to the tent-crowded lot. “Miss Leona’s wagon is right over there, the one with blue flowers painted on the side.” She pointed to a group of brightly colored wagons about fifty yards away from the entrance.
The three of us headed in the direction of the wagons, but River pulled on my arm so that we could walk a little bit behind Ian, motioning to her guard to walk behind us a bit.
“Spill it, sister!” she whispered as soon as Ian was out of earshot in the bustling crowd.
“Spill what? I don’t know what you are talking about.” I whispered the lie smoothly.
“Ha!” She laughed. “Maybe we should start with where you were when I went into your room this morning to ask you if you wanted to come to the market with me to talk to Miss Leona before the crowds showed up?”
When I kept walking along silently, she continued. “Or maybe you can tell me why, when I touched your bedpost, I got a vision of you asleep in a bed covered in… was that real linen?”
I snapped my head around. “You saw that?” I said through clenched teeth. “River!” I sputtered, trying to keep my voice low.
“I wasn’t trying! You know I can’t control it!” Her voice was indignant. “So, I know you weren’t at home. I know those clothes you have on don’t belong to you. And, I only know of one person you know that is rich enough to afford real linen bed sheets.” She cut her eyes towards Ian.
“So, spill it, sister! I want details!” she said.
Exasperated and unwilling to discuss the subject at all, much less in the middle of a public market just a few feet from Ian, I clenched my teeth and said, “There is nothing to tell. It was just a thing. One night. It’s nothing.” I said it, but I didn’t even believe it myself. I knew it was more than that. Our little exchange a few minutes ago had proved that. But I didn’t know exactly what it was, so I wasn’t ready to discuss it with my sisters yet. Especially not right at this moment.
River didn’t look convinced. “Okay, I won’t push. Just remember one thing, sister of mine. I usually only see things that are going to make a huge impact in our lives.”
She dropped her hand from my arm and quickened her pace to lead the procession to the gypsy camp. I didn’t have time to process what River had said before we reached the camp and were standing in front of a red wagon with blue flowers painted on the side. I put it out of my mind and focused on the task at hand.
The wagon was more like a small home on wooden wagon wheels, complete with a door brightly painted blue and a small window on one side with a matching blue window box that held growing herbs. The area in front of wagon looked homey and inviting with various small chairs and tables circling a small, stone-ringed fire. Hooked, wrought-iron bars held an ancient-looking cast iron soup pot and an even older-looking water kettle over the smoldering fire.
“Miss Leona?” River called.
“I’m here, child. Give me a moment to get my old bones moving,” a surprisingly strong voice called out from inside the wagon.
“Take your time, Miss Leona,” River called back.
A few minutes later, the door swung open and a woman emerged, carrying a wood tray with a ceramic teapot and four mugs. From River’s description, I had expected a doddering old lady, but Miss Leona was far from that. She stood straight and tall, and her skin was a smooth mahogany. The only lines in her face were around her eyes and lips. It was impossible to tell her age. While she looked to be anywhere from forty to sixty, her eyes held a wisdom that said perhaps she was quite a bit older than that.
A vampire, perhaps? I had my answer when she stepped onto the first step and into the full sunlight without blinking or flinching. Vampires had varying degrees of allergic responses to sunlight, but there was always some sort of reaction, most especially eye sensitivity. Even Jarrett, who had the highest tolerance to sunlight of any vampire I had ever met, wore a hat or hooded cloak to keep the sun out of his eyes, and always wore long sleeves. Miss Leona wore a short-sleeved tunic the color of fresh-churned butter tucked into faded denim pants and covered with a brown leather vest, but no hat or eye gear. So, not a vampire.
Ian strode over and stood at the base of the steps, “May I help you with that, Madame?”
“Well, aren’t you a sweet one? Sure. Here, set it there on the table by the fire.” She handed him the tray, then descended the stairs and crossed over to us where we stood. She greeted River with a kiss on the cheek.
“Miss Leona, these are the people I was telling you about this morning, my sister, Agent Fiona Moon and her partner, Ian Barroes.”
“Very nice to meet you all. I was just about to have some raspberry leaf and stevia tea. Will you join me?” she asked, graciously.
“Oh, not me,” River said. “I need to get back to Bonnie. It’s too busy today to leave her alone for too long.” She waved goodbye and headed back to the market stadium, her guard following silently behind.
“Please, have a seat,” Miss Leona said, gesturing to the assortment of chairs around the fire. Then she grabbed a thick towel off a stool near the fire and used it to grasp the handle of the kettle and pour water into the teapot. After replacing it, she sat down, and Ian and I sat in chairs facing her. “Now, what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from an agent of the Black Blade Guard and the Head of the Necromancer’s Guild?”
“You know who I am?” Ian said, taking the mug of tea she poured and offered to him.
“Of course I do, Master Necromancer,” she answered, handing me my own mug of tea, then settling back in her chair. “I am the Mambo of my tribe—that gives me the responsibility of knowing the laws of the lands we visit, especially those that pertain to any of the tribe. There is a necromancer amongst us, and
we spend a lot of time in Nash City. Though, as a gypsy, she is exempt from the registration law, I see to it that she is informed of and adheres to all the rules put forth by your guild.”
“I see,” Ian said with a smile. “I have no doubt you do.”
“Mambo—that is a religious title?” I asked.
The older woman’s dark brown eyes were wary. “In some tribes, yes. In ours, it is both a religious and legal position. I am the head of our tribe, though I answer to a council of elders, just like your own senate.”
“I see. It is actually the religious part of your job that we are here to ask you about,” I said.
The wariness in her expression morphed into pure fear, but her voice was clear and steady, though a bit tight. “Agent Moon, it has been two months since my tribe has visited Nash City. Have the laws governing religious freedoms changed?”
Ian answered before I could. “No, Madame. We aren’t here to accuse or harm you or anyone in your tribe. We just need some information, and River thought you might be able to help us.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“You know River would never have agreed to introduce us to you if we had any ill intentions,” I added.
She relaxed a little, but not completely. I wasn’t sure what to say to put her at ease. If she were nervous or upset, she’d be less likely to give us the information we needed. While I was trained to talk to all sorts of hostile and scared witnesses and victims, this was a fear I had never quite faced. Luckily, Ian came to the rescue.
“Please, forgive me if I overstep by asking, Madame, but were you perchance alive during the Religious wars?” he asked, his voice the same soft and soothing tone he’d used with Millie.
The tension started to flow from her, and then left completely when she looked at me and burst into laughter. I must have looked as baffled as I felt. There was no way she could have been alive during wars that took place over two hundred years ago during the beginning of the Cataclysm.
“Oh, goodness, child, don’t looks so perplexed. I’m a hundred and ninety-two years old. I’m a dhampir; my father is a vampire.” She laughed.
The aged wisdom in her eyes made a lot more sense now. Dhampirs were children born of human mothers and vampire fathers. They were rare, but not unheard of. Usually the N-V virus rendered both females and males infertile, but like with every other disease, it could affect some individuals differently. A small percentage of male vamps could father children for several years after their initial infection. An even smaller number of those never became infertile. Dhampirs did not have to take their nourishment from blood and most didn’t have the same allergy to sunlight. They didn’t live as long as their vampire parents, but they did age slowly and usually lived to be three to four hundred years old.
Miss Leona focused her attention on Ian, her body completely relaxed now. “You are very observant, Master Necromancer. I am a Cataclysm Child. Few of us, the children born during the first decade of the Cataclysm, survived past infancy. I credit my parentage for my survival. Dhampirs are heartier, even as infants, than normal children are. I was too young to remember the wars, but I remember quite clearly the time after. The time forbidding practice of any religion, even quietly in your own home. It was a horrible, bloody time, and even now, across the sea, there are still regions where such laws exist. Our tribe once traveled far and wide, but we’ve come to like Appalachia, and this land has become our home. Very few villages in Appalachia allow religious persecution. We steer clear of them and have lived in peace for many decades. Unfortunately, nightmares take longer to go away. I am sorry, Agent Moon, Master Barroes, that I leapt to conclusions so quickly.”
Now I understood her reaction, and I didn’t blame her. The anti-religion laws had been banished in Nash long before I was born, but I had taken the required history course at the Academy, and Pinky had told us stories.
During the Cataclysm, the religion wars broke out because people believed the weather and natural disasters of the Cataclysm were happening because their deity was angry because of other religions, science, and “godlessness.” People started killing each other in the name of their God, determined to put an end to other religions, non-believers, and thusly the Cataclysm. Soon, all across Appalachia, anti-religion laws were implemented to stop bloodshed, but had ended up creating more. People were dragged from their homes for possessing religious paraphernalia and put on work gangs or in extreme cases, put to death. The anti-religion laws lasted much less time than the religion wars. As the Cataclysm ended and weather patterns shifted so that freak storms were less frequent, travel between communities was easier, and the Council of Elders started working with the city-states to rebuild and become allies, the anti-religion laws were redacted and laws that were more lenient were put into place. Now every citizen had the freedom to choose or not choose to follow a religion as they saw fit. The only prohibition was on publicly trying to convert others or requiring people in a community to confess to a particular belief. By Nash law, religion was a personal choice that could neither be taken from nor forced on any person.
“I am sorry you had to go through such a time,” I told her, sincerely. “I also apologize for not wording our reason for being here a little more clearly.”
“Nonsense. No apologies are necessary. I’m just getting a bit doddering in my old age. Now, how may I help the two of you?”
“Have you ever heard the name Bokor?” Ian asked.
“It’s not a name, but a title. A Bokor is a type of Voodoo Priest. But I think you already know that.” Her look was sharp.
I smiled. “We weren’t completely sure. We are investigating a rash of disappearances and possible murders. Last night, I encountered a suspect and before he got away, he told me to call him Bokor. We thought it was a name, but someone who grew up in a gypsy tribe recognized it. She said her tribe had sometimes camped with a tribe that practiced the Voodoo religion, and she had heard the title there in relation to their Holy Man.”
She nodded. “And when you heard the term Voodoo, River said she knew someone who practiced the religion, and so here you are.”
“Yes,” Ian agreed. “But neither you nor anyone from your tribe is under any sort of suspicion. We know your tribe only just arrived in the city, and so none of you could possibly be responsible.”
This seemed to appease the older woman. “Okay. Proceed with your questions.”
“This person we are chasing, we believe he is a man, is a very bad guy. He has kidnapped numerous mages, and he has powers that we have never seen before. He told me to address him as Bokor, so the name, the title must mean something significant to him. This likely means he either practices or is familiar with the Voodoo religion. Is there anything you can tell us that might help us track him down?” I asked.
“I’m not sure that I can help you track him down, I don’t know any Bokor, at least none I’ve met in the last fifteen or twenty years. But I can tell you this, if your bad guy is calling himself Bokor, I have no doubt that he truly is as bad as you say. Bokor are priests and leaders, like myself, but the religion they worship, the magic they practice, is not the same. Voodoo takes many forms and goes by many names, Voodoo or Vodoun just to name two, and even those can be practiced in many different ways. Bokor and their followers practice dark and evil magic in the name of their religion,” she told us.
“Magic is neither good nor evil, dark nor light. Magic is the use of energy to perform functions,” Ian replied dryly, in that know-everything academic tone that drove me crazy.
“Such a learned definition, Master Necromancer. It is true, magic is nothing more than a tool, but the use of that tool is colored by the intentions of the wielder,” the old woman crooned, a sly smile playing on her thin lips.
Ian tilted his head, eyes down slightly in a gesture of deference. “I concede your point, Madame. Are you saying Bokor and their followers are inherently evil? That their magic is dark because their souls are?”
“That is not
what I’m saying and you well know it. I’m too old and tired to play such games. You don’t believe in pure evil any more than you believe in our deities. Nor do you believe in souls, at least not as beings of good or evil.”
“That is true. What some religions call souls are simply spirits, the life energy and consciousness that remains even after their body is dead,” Ian said, obviously enjoying the debate. “I don’t believe, but you do. And, I am assuming, other practitioners of the faith believe that as well. So, do you believe that Bokor and their followers are evil?”
The gypsy sipped her tea before replying. “There are only a few tribes left that I know of that worship any variation of Voodoo or Vodoun. Fewer still that follow a Bokor. The few Bokor that I have come across tend to worship deities that have darker teachings than most.”
“Dark teachings?” I asked, intrigued. The concept of religion had always fascinated me.
While superstition and religion seemed to be a little more common among gypsy tribes and small mountain communities, in Nash and Atlanta, it was almost unheard of. It didn’t mean no one believed in higher powers, it just meant they kept that belief to themselves. My mother had not had any religious beliefs, and Pinky had taught us that no one could ever know all the mysteries of the universe and to respect all ways of life.
“The Goddess my tribe worships is one of light and love. Our traditions include humility, love, and charity to all. Not all Gods and Goddesses are the same. Some are deities of war, strife, or mischief,” Miss Leona continued.
Our Bokor definitely wasn’t of the love and light variety. “Do you know which deities Bokor and their followers worship?”
The gypsy woman’s smile was indulgent. “Child, there are as many deities as there are stars in the sky. No two gypsy clans worship the same religion, or the same God, in the same way.”
“I can understand that. I imagine that two hundred years of nomadic life has turned each clan into its own micro-culture,” Ian said.
“Another learned observation. But, yes, Master Necromancer, you are correct. The ways of the gypsy tribes are an amalgamation of traditions handed down for two centuries. We don’t all originate from the lost lands, or even from Appalachia. There are tribes that started out as groups of families surviving the Cataclysm and wars together by traveling from place to place in order to find fairer weather, food, shelter, and safety. By the time the weather began to subside and the wars no longer had anyone to fight them, no one was left that remembered what it was like to have a permanent home. Freedom is the only culture shared by Gypsy clans.”
“You must have amazing stories of your travels,” I said, deciding I liked this woman very much.
“That I do, child. You should come with your sister to visit me sometime, and I will tell you some of them.” Her smile was so genuine I couldn’t help but return it.
She rose, signaling the audience was ending. Ian and I followed suit. “Miss Fiona, Master Ian, I am sorry I could not help you more. I could tell you the lore of my clan for hours, but I can promise you that none from my tribe has done these terrible things,” she said as she walked back to her wagon.
Strangely, I believed her, and from the expression on his face, so did Ian.
“Madame, you have been more helpful than you think. With what you were able to provide, our search through the City Archives will be much easier.”
Her eyes went wide with wonder. “You have books about Voodoo and the Gods from before the Cataclysm?”
“Perhaps not whole books, as I believe even then it was not widely practiced. But I am sure there is some information. I do remember running across references during past research,” Ian answered, obviously missing the eagerness in the woman’s expression.
“Perhaps when I come back, we will both have tales,” I said, delighting in the way her face lit up. She was obviously very curious to learn about the pre-Cataclysm practices of her religion. “You can tell me about your travels, and I can tell you what I learn about pre-Cataclysm Voodoo.”
“That would be perfect. You and that sweet River are welcome at my fire any time. You as well, Master Necromancer,” she said, then without another word, she turned and went back into the wagon. The door swung shut after her, effectively dismissing us.