Disharmony

charms. Gifts for the Goddesses. An intoxicating, fire-filled, bewitching night.

This year, for the first year ever, Samantha wasn’t into it.

All day, just like every year since she’d turned five and become Lala’s apprentice, she’d helped Lala to prepare for the evening. Just as she’d guessed, at breakfast Lala had relented and told her that, despite the dramas of the past two days, she could participate, as long as she stuck to her like glue and performed only the standard spells.

And that’s when Samantha had felt deflated by the whole event. The standard spells. Her heart ached with the sudden realisation that the standard spells didn’t actually seem to do anything. Tonight, she, Lala and maybe thirty other Roma witches from around Pantelimon would gather at the river’s edge bearing seeds, flowers, honey, nuts and fruits; beaded and silver amulets; live chickens; a dagger and heavy cauldron; and hundreds and hundreds of candles. All year long, the people of Pantelimon had paid each of them in cash, services and goods to tonight perform rituals that would ensure business growth, pregnancy, freedom from illness, and love.

Especially love. Because late summer was when the faeries were most drunk on love, feverish with desire, open to assisting mere mortals to share in some of their happiness. All they required were a few special incantations and offerings. Some standard spells.

But Samantha had never seen a faerie. Nor a forest sprite or elf. In ten years, she’d never even sensed anything else out here at midnight under the full moon by the river. And despite the midsummer spells, each year the people of the village always seemed to go on dying and divorcing, declaring pregnancies, bankruptcies and infidelities, whether or not they’d paid for a witch’s aid. Where something ill befell them and they had not consulted the gypsies – well, there you have it. You had your chance, you blew it. And when they had paid a witch for luck and good health and these things had not come to pass, they believed that the curse upon their family must have been too ancient and too powerful, and that they should have listened when their witch told them that more money was required – yet again – to finalise the rituals. Most people in Pantelimon didn’t have an endless supply of money. And the handful who did were either a few blessed Roma witches themselves or, like the gypsy king, they kept a fleet of these consultants to hand.

But Samantha knew that the king’s wealth would certainly not last forever. No, the king’s empire would crumble very soon. The cards had told her that. And she’d warned him.

In the grass by the riverbed, listlessly weaving a wreath of ivy and flowers to float out with the other blessings, Sam thought about that hot afternoon in the caravan.

Unlike tonight by the river, then she’d sensed something Other. More than just the spirits within her cards. Something dark had been there too. And then there was the buttery light she’d conjured somehow and used on Scarface and Milosh. These happenings appeared real, but no one had ever explained them to her or seemed to be able to do the same thing.

Questions about where she came from arose again. Maybe someone in her birth family could explain why she was able to do these things? She slapped the thought away, furious with herself. Every time she thought about the people who’d abandoned her at birth, it felt as though she’d as good as spat in Lala’s face.

She shifted in the grass and yawned, heavy with fatigue. She’d been awake since three that morning, but she couldn’t relax. Nothing had felt the same since the king had visited the camp. And then there was Scarface and the shootout. A nagging tug of worry tightened the back of her neck. She stretched it from side to side to try to loosen it, to shake the feeling of dread. She tried to regain her sense of wonder in this evening. Fifty metres behind her, darkness waited, but here, along the winding riverbank, it seemed that midnight had laid a tablecloth of stars over the grass. Candles and lanterns blinked and winked, pinpricks of fire paying homage to their leader – the roaring bonfire in the centre of them all.

Next to her, Lala crooned softly, singing the spell-songs she’d taught Samantha since she’d been in the cradle. Some of the other gypsies were equally devout, bent over rafts bearing gifts, their lips moving soundlessly as they prayed. But many more of the women were less serene; they shouted in laughter, slurped from goblets, punched plumes of cigarette smoke into the night. Samantha watched as one of the wealthiest witches in Pantelimon, Violka Dragos, rose from the cluster of others fawning around her and lurched sideways, directly into a platter of candles. The molten wax caught the hem of her ribboned skirt and a corner of fabric flared orange with flame. Violka shrieked with laughter as one of the witches doused the fire with wine and then stumbled over to gossip with another group.

Samantha knew what they gossiped about. They made sure of it. She heard snatches of their whispers blowing down-wind with the candle smoke.

She’s ruining our business and she’s not even Roma… You know that they call her the Gaje Princess – stolen by the gypsies! It’s an insult… Have you heard that the king has fallen in love with her?… I’ve been told that she does a little bit more than read cards when she closes the doors of that flea-bitten caravan, if you know what I mean. Why do you think she is so popular?… She’s a fraud! She can’t even read the cards properly… I’ll be casting a special spell for her this enchanted evening, don’t you worry about that… Well, I’ll be doing a little more than casting a spell. I’m going to take this further. We can’t have Gaje harlots pretending to be respectable Roma witches…

The volume of Lala’s singing increased as she tried to block out their words, but Samantha didn’t miss the grief and worry emanating from her. She stopped weaving and placed her hand over Lala’s, willing her peace and calm. Lala raised dark, wet eyes and smiled sadly. A tear found a pathway through a crevice in her weather-ravaged cheeks.

‘I love you, my kitten,’ she said.

‘I love you too, Lala. Thank you for saving me.’

‘I haven’t saved you yet, my child.’

Samantha bowed her face back to her work to ensure her tears could not be seen by the crones on the riverbank. She told herself that the anxiety she felt welling inside her was just the fear from her Lala, residue emotion that always found its way to her heart.

Tonight, she knew she was lying.

A camp on the outskirts of Pantelimon, Bucharest, Romania

June 30, 7.17 p.m.

‘Look,’ said Mirela. ‘We have to go. How can we not go? It’s the Carnivale!’

‘Yes, I do realise the Carnivale is on tonight,’ said Samantha. ‘It is only the coolest thing that happens all year. And I haven’t forgotten that we’ve both been counting the days since spring.’ She turned another page of her novel, and spoke into the book. ‘And then there’s the fact that you’ve been blathering on about it all week.’

‘So? Get ready! We have to go.’

‘Oh, okay, sure,’ said Samantha. ‘I’ll just pop out and let your mum know that we’ll need a ride into town then, shall I?’

‘Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Believe me, we don’t need to worry about my mother. And Lala’s already asleep because you guys were out until dawn this morning.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Samantha, stretching.

She was curled up on the lounge in the caravan, reading.

Sooking is what you’re doing, Mirela had told her when she’d found her.

‘And you know that my mother has Fifika over for cards tonight,’ said Mirela. ‘Can’t you hear them from here?’

‘I can hear them from here,’ said Samantha.

‘Well! They’re drunk as lords already. Fifika is sleeping over and in another hour they won’t know which country they’re in.’

‘Doesn’t mean they won’t notice we’re missing.’

‘Puh-lease,’ said Mirela. ‘Last time Fifika was over, you, me and the boys cooked up a midnight feast. We