Disclaimer: The characters from the Queen of Swords are copyright to Fireworks Productions and Paramount. No infringement of copyright is intended nor revenue expected from their use. The story plot and other characters are copyright to the author, Maril Swan.

Acknowledgements: To Elizabeth Milligan, a fine writer, who edited this story and spent a great deal of her own time to help craft it to its final form. To Margie Milan whose ideas and suggestions inspired several details, and for her help with the Spanish terms. And to Carmen Carter, because she is a great fan of Marta (Paulina Gálvez) and I thought she would enjoy this story.

Author's Note: References in this story to: Queen of Cups - Gitano - King of Swords

Spanish & Gitano glossary:
huarachas - sandals made of thin strips of leather, worn mostly by peasants
gitano - Gypsies; gitana - female Gypsy
payos - non-Gypsies
múlo - an evil spirit released from a dead body which is angry because it's dead or has been wronged
marimé - contamination - either by a múlo or other source
remuda - a herd of horses
abuela - grandmother
barrio - district

Un día nuevo
by Maril Swan

Part Two of 8

Spain 1799 - late spring

Tonio held up his hand. Behind him, the line of eight wagons stopped. Their jingling and rattling ceased, leaving a vacuum of silence broken only by the stamping and huffing of the impatient draught horses. He held himself perfectly still, listening intently as he soothed his nervous horse. The faint rumble of approaching wagons came toward him. He turned to the caravans behind him, an anxious look in his eyes, his glance resting upon his sister and her daughter in the first caravan.

His sister, Luisa, gathered her daughter to her side protectively. A small woman, Luisa radiated an aura of authority with her snapping dark eyes and the rigid set of her jaw. She was a force to be reckoned with, as Tonio knew. Though he was the leader of their band, he deferred to his sister for help with major decisions. Her daughter was very much like her mother, Tonio noted, with a finely sculpted face and eyes that seemed to look upon the world with curiosity and intelligence. He watched her move closer to her mother, and take Luisa's hand for reassurance.

The young girl experienced a jolt of fear as they awaited the appearance of the wagons. Was it their own people or soldiers? Marta watched her uncle on his black Andalusian, taking comfort in his stolid presence. Uncle Tonio sat erect, easily controlling the spirited horse. His dark hair was speckled with grey, as was the drooping moustache that graced his wide mouth. It was a mouth made for grins and laughter. He wore a brown leather jacket, made by his own hand, under which was dark vest trimmed in bright colours. Her uncle was a small man, with a wiry slim body, full of energy and vigour.

Marta stared apprehensively at the narrow trail ahead, watching for the wagons whose sound was now ominously loud. She glanced around the deep woods, realizing there was no cover. It was an old forest with many wide spaces among the trees. Her little band followed this byway, known only to the gitano, trying to stay off the main roads to avoid the payos who were once again at war in Spain. She didn't understand what the war was about, only its effects on her people. They tried to remain invisible to the combatants, stay out of the way of their battles. It had nothing to do with the gitano, for to them one government was as bad as another. That was what Uncle Tonio had said, and he kept his little troupe safe, staying on the move, and hiding in places only the gitano could find. The vurma, hidden messages left by gitano for each other, told Tonio where to avoid and what paths to take. So far, the war had not touched them except for the privations they experienced.

A rider appeared suddenly from around the bend in the trail ahead. As the horse trotted toward them, Marta could see her uncle visibly relax. His face creased into a wide grin as he turned to shout, "Gitano! They're our people!" He kneed his mount forward to meet the other rider. For several minutes the two men conversed animatedly, like old friends, then the other man wheeled his horse and cantered back down the trail. Tonio returned to the caravans, his face alight with pleasure. "Luisa, everyone, we will make camp here. The other band will join us," Tonio said loudly. "Move the wagons off the trail, into the trees to make room for the campfires."

************

Marta stood outside by their caravan, tending the cooking pot, while inside, her mother opened up the caravan windows to let in fresh air and light. The two bands camped along the edge of the narrow trail, leaving the centre for the campfires and a wide pathway of open space. As Marta watched, the gitano prepared their meals, visiting with among the caravans and setting up tables for trading their wares. This trade gave the bands something new to sell to the payos, other goods to offer for food. Marta could see her Uncle Tonio deep in conversation with the men from the other band, his face serious one minute, and laughing the next. Over the din of the camp noises, she could hear his unusual barking laugh. It always made her smile.

As evening fell, a large communal meal was shared amongst all the people. Each cooking pot held something different and delicious, prepared by the women of both bands. Marta carried her bowl to each of the pots, choosing from each, entranced by the savoury smells. She sat beside her mother on some blankets near the campfire, silently eating her meal while observing the colourful activity of the gitano, her people. She smiled contentedly. This is a good life, she thought. If only the payos would leave us alone, we could be happy like this forever.

With their meal finished, Marta took the bowls to their caravan, and washing them, put them away. She strolled down the narrow trail toward the line of caravans flanking the other side from their band. Many of the dozen caravans had small tables set up in front to show off the goods they had to trade. Marta paused at each, viewing their wares and talking with the artisans.

Suddenly, an arm gripped her waist and swung her around; she heard a merry chuckle close to her ear. Paolo, her betrothed, grinned widely at her surprise and indignation, as she struggled to free herself from the lean strength of his arms. He set her down gently, his black eyes dancing with mischief as he prepared for the scolding he expected. The grin widened showing his strong white teeth, a contrast with the darkness of his handsome face. His black hair flopped into his eyes, and he brushed the locks away carelessly, drawing his eyebrows into a mock frown. "You have ignored me all day, Marta. When we are married, you will not be able to neglect me so. I will have you all to myself then." He laughed good-naturedly, watching the colour rise in Marta's cheeks.

"Paolo!" Marta began sharply, then she smiled. His infectious good humour always turned away her anger just when she was about to rebuke him for the liberties he often took with her. She shook her head. "You frightened me! Don't do that again," she added lamely, knowing he would. She gazed into his jet eyes, fringed by those long lashes and at that mobile mouth with its frame of black moustache, and had to smile. He was incorrigible. Never serious for a moment. But she liked him. He took her out of her own tendency to brood on things, and made her laugh. That was what had attracted her to him when they had met six months before at a large encampment of gitano. It was an annual gathering in honour of their patron saint.

Paolo was part of another band, and he had noticed her immediately among her own people. And he had made Marta notice him with his crazy antics. Paolo was a born entertainer, with a marvellous tenor voice. He came to her caravan, and sang her love songs. She tried to ignore him but for the entire two weeks of the encampment, Paolo courted her relentlessly. He poured flowery compliments into her ear, making her blush and push him away. He persisted, and at the end of the two weeks, he had asked her to marry him. Marta, rather swept off her feet, had consented. Luisa, her mother, had stepped in firmly when Paolo respectfully asked for permission to marry her daughter.

"In two years," Luisa had said, her gaze unwavering from Paolo's young face. "She will be sixteen then, and if Marta still wishes it, you may marry. Until then, you keep your distance and show her respect. Understood?"

Paolo had flushed with anger at the long engagement, then at the suggestion he would treat Marta in any other way. "Two years is a long time to wait, señora. But, I would wait forever for Marta." He gave Luisa a weak smile which did little to hide his disappointment. Then his ebullient spirit reasserted itself. Only two years. In two years, he would be nineteen. That wasn't so old. He looked up at Luisa, who was seated in her caravan. "May I join your band for those two years, señora? If we are to marry, it would be a good time to get to know each other better - while we wait."

Luisa had asked her brother, Tonio, their troupe leader, and Tonio had readily agreed. Paolo had other skills they could use in their band. Besides being a singer, he was also an artist with metal, a maker of fine jewellery, a crafter of useful objects. So Paolo had joined them and quickly became a favourite with his unflagging good humour and ready smiles.

And now, as he gazed on Marta, standing only a foot away, his eyes took on an intensity that warmed her cheeks. Paolo gently touched the unruly auburn hair that floated about her beautiful face like a multicoloured halo. His fingers grazed her dusky cheek, travelling down to her firm jaw, and across her full lips. On an impulse, he took her arm and pulled her away from the wagons, out of the firelight, and a short distance into the forest. He gently pressed her against a tree, moulding his lean length against her. She could feel his heat, his urgency and his passion as he kissed her, as he had never dared before. A sudden uprush of feeling washed over her, making her scalp tingle, making her lightheaded, and the same urgency possessed her, to get closer, to make this kiss never end.

Suddenly, he pushed himself away, and swore vehemently. "Why must we wait to be married, Marta? Why can't we marry now? I am in torment!" His breathing was loud and ragged as he stepped back. More quietly, he added, "I promised your mother I would show you respect." He hung his head and added, "I'm sorry. I have not been respectful. Let us go back to the camp."

Marta leaned against the tree for support, the unwonted sensations having taken her by surprise. She felt weak, her legs would hardly move. Her heart was racing. She took several deep breaths to regain her composure. "Paolo," she said shakily. "Mama wants me to learn everything she knows about healing. And she wants me to be a bit older before I marry. Do not be angry with my mother. She is doing what she thinks best."

Paolo seemed to collect himself and taking Marta's arm, began to walk back toward the camp. "I don't see why you can't continue to learn about healing when you are married to me. But, we must do as you mother advises. I can wait if I have to." He grinned suddenly, like the sun coming out after a brief violent storm. "But it won't be easy, with you as constant temptation. Especially after that kiss!"

Coming back into the firelight of the camp, Marta searched with her eyes for her mother. She saw Luisa engaged in an intense conversation with Rodolfo, the leader of the other band. Rodolfo was swarthy like all of the gitano, but he had a hardness in his dark eyes that repelled Marta. Something about the black brows that beetled over his shifty eyes kept her on her guard around him. Marta wondered what they were arguing about, and walked over toward them, leaving Paolo with a promise to return.

Seeing Marta joining them, Luisa said, "There is a young man in their caravan who is very sick. Rodolfo wants me to attend him. Come with me, Marta. We will have a quick look to see if there is anything we can do for him." Following Luisa into the other camp, Marta watched as Rodolfo strode toward one of the caravans, then opened the rear door and dropped a step for them to enter.

"The maid should not see this," he growled. "It would sicken her, and give her nightmares."

Luisa brushed by with a disdainful look. "Marta is my daughter, and my apprentice. If she is to become a healer, she needs experience." Luisa climbed up the step into the caravan, making it rock slightly.

From the open door, a sweet, fetid smell wafted out to Marta - like rotting meat. Her stomach roiled and she took several deep breaths to calm it. Ascending after her mother, she suddenly held her hand to her mouth. The stench was intolerable inside the caravan! Swallowing hard, she moved beside her mother and looked on such a wretched sight, her heart turned over. On a narrow pallet lay a young man, his face so wan he looked dead. Only the slight rise and fall of his bare chest suggested life was still inhabited that pale body. Covering his lower parts was a dirty cloth, and on his right leg was a wad of discoloured material that reeked of foulness.

Luisa sucked in a deep breath as she pulled the cloth away from his leg. Marta saw his eyelids flutter then still. His lips were blue and drawn back from his white teeth, like the rictus grin of death. He already looks like a corpse, Marta thought in horror. While Luisa examined the wound, Marta gazed with fascination on his face. A payo, she noted, but French or English? She couldn't tell. His hair was dark red as was the meagre sprinkling of hair on his chest. His pale skin was freckled lightly.

Her mother shook her head, muttering under her breath, then moved aside for Marta to look at the wound. "See here, Marta," Luisa said. "The infection from the wound has gone all through his body. It is putrefied and poisonous. There must be a bullet still somewhere in that mess of flesh."

Marta shuddered, her stomach lurching, threatening to expel its contents as she studied the young man's leg. It was swollen and tight, with red lines radiating from the wound, which suppurated a noxious liquid. The smell alone made her nauseous, but the sight of that gory flesh made her bolt from the caravan to breathe in some fresh air, and regain her control. Rodolfo was lounging against his caravan. He laughed when he observed her wan face, her trembling hands. "I told you not to go in there. Such sights are not for the squeamish," he said scornfully.

She shot him an angry glance, and returned to her mother. Luisa was wiping the boy's brow with a cloth, her face set in a scowl. "Wait here. I must speak to Rodolfo." The older woman moved past her daughter quickly and left the caravan.

Marta took the cloth and moistening it, laid it over his forehead. He sighed, and his eyelids fluttered then opened slightly. His mouth moved as if he were trying to speak. Marta took a dipper and filled it with water, using her finger to moisten his parched lips. She lifted his head to pour a small amount of water into his mouth, then waited for him to swallow. He sank back into oblivion with a shallow sigh. As she dampened the cloth again to apply to his feverish skin, she noted the contrast between her own dusky hand and his milk-white body. She had never been so close to a payo before, and was fascinated by the difference. Each time she touched him, something like a current pulsed between them. Her touch enlivened his dormant body as if some power from her was giving him strength, new life. She pushed his lank hair from his forehead, and he shivered. What is this, she wondered. I feel we are connected and my touch revives him. As if he is trying to live, and needs my strength.

Outside, Luisa had beckoned Rodolfo over. "How did you let his wound get into that condition? His leg should be taken off. It is poisoning his whole body." Her sharp voice penetrated the caravan, making Marta start.

The young man groaned, his lips moved and he grabbed Marta's arm in a feverish grip. "Don't let them...take my leg. I'd rather die," he gasped, then lapsed back into unconsciousness with his hand still clenching her arm. Superstitiously, Marta thought of the angry spirit that could infect her if he died just then. A múlo, she thought with a shudder, then thrust the superstition aside. I don't believe in marimé, or that a múlo can contaminate my body. She carefully removed his hand, and went outside to where her mother and Rodolfo were talking.

Luisa's sharp voice seemed to intimidate Rodolfo as he whined an explanation. "Señora, we have no healers amongst our band. My woman did the best she could."

"Where did he come from? How long has he been like this?" Luisa asked. She gave Marta an anxious look, then concentrated on Rodolfo.

"We found him three days ago on this trail. He was unconscious, and his wound was very bad. It was full of maggots. My woman cleaned it as well as possible, and has been tending him every day."

"Well, Rodolfo, I can do nothing for him. He will be dead in a day or less. He hasn't the strength to survive an amputation which is the only thing that could have saved him."

"Caramba! And I had hoped for a reward for turning in a deserter. You can see he is a soldier. He must be a deserter. Almost a week ago, there was a terrible battle, a massacre. The English attacked the French soldiers, and the villagers helped the English. The French were butchered. No one survived, except perhaps, that one," Rodolfo said, gesturing at the caravan with his thumb.

Marta listened in alarm, knowing the young man could hear everything, even if he seemed unconscious. She stepped between her mother and Rodolfo. "Señor, if the young man dies in your caravan, it will become marimé, and his múlo will haunt you for your unkind thoughts of him. You will have to cleanse your wagon by destroying it with fire, and everything that touched him." Marta watched as Rodolfo's eyes widened and he gasped. "But if you place the young man in our care, you will not have to worry what happens when he dies. You will be far away, and his múlo cannot touch you." She heard her mother inhale an indignant breath, but dared not look at her. She waited for Rodolfo's superstitions work on him.

Rodolfo's eyebrows drew down over his black eyes, his gaze shifted uneasily to the caravan; it would be expensive to replace. "You are right, señorita. The boy should be in your care. I couldn't get a reward for a corpse anyway." He strode away quickly without looking back as if fearing the demon spirit was already pursuing him.

Luisa expelled her pent-up breath and snapped, "Marta! What are you thinking? We cannot do anything for that boy. He is nearly gone. And what about Tonio? It is up to him who joins the band or not. You have taken upon yourself a responsibility that you cannot uphold."

"Mama, think about this. His fate may not be to die yet. What if Fate sent us across his path to save him? How can we not try?" Marta said passionately, taking her mother's hand.

Luisa pressed her daughter's hand affectionately. "Marta, remember when you were a little girl? You used to bring me wounded birds and animals, and you would try to heal them. What happened to those creatures?"

Marta looked down. "Most of them died," she said quietly. "But, Mama, he is not a wounded animal, even if he is a payo. He deserves a chance."

"What if he does not? What if he is a deserter who left his men to save his own life? Does he still deserve a chance then?" Luisa could see by the determination in her daughter's face, she would be unmoved by any reason. Luisa shrugged. "I will speak to Tonio and if he agrees, we will take the boy. For all the good it will do," she cast over her shoulder as she moved across the trail to her own camp.

Marta climbed back into the caravan. In the dim light of a small lamp, she studied his face -and her own reactions to him. He does not want to die, she thought. When I touch him, I feel the flickering candle of his life growing stronger. I can save him. He wants me to. She placed her hand over his heart, dismayed by the intense heat radiating from his fevered body as she felt him quiver. He knows I am here, his body responds each time I touch him. She shook her head in wonder. Is this the power of healing?

***********

The following morning, the other band began to break camp. Four of their men carried the young man on his pallet and set him down outside Luisa's caravan. One of the men placed a canvas knapsack beside him. Without a word, they retreated hastily to their own wagons. They were obviously glad to be rid of him. No one wanted to be contaminated by the angry spirit of this young soldier after he died.

As the caravans of the other gitano moved down the trail, Luisa knelt by the pallet to examine the young man. He looked worse in the fractured sunlight angling down through the leaves. She pulled away the filthy cloths covering his leg and looked more closely at the wound. Taking a deep breath, she probed gently. He moaned in pain but did not open his eyes.

Marta knelt beside him and took his hand. She felt it clench weakly then go limp. Her mother shook her head solemnly. "It is in the hands of God, Marta. All I can do is reopen the wound and try to find the bullet. As long as that lead is in his body, it will continue to poison him. It is a small chance, but the only one he has." Luisa quickly instructed Marta what supplies she would need from her caravan, and the girl hurried to fetch them.

Setting everything on a clean cloth on the ground, Marta watched as her mother skilfully performed a primitive surgery with a sharp knife. Then using her fingers, she probed for the bullet. All the while, Marta held his hand, feeling his pain as it ebbed and flowed through him. He never came to full consciousness, but he groaned and writhed, forcing Marta to hold his other leg still while her mother searched for the bullet. Luisa suddenly expelled a long-held breath as her bloody fingers retrieved a small lump of lead from inside the wound.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "That is the bullet. Now we need to cleanse the wound. Pass me that tincture, Marta." She gestured to a corked flask sitting on the cloth. Luisa poured a light-coloured fluid over the wound. It foamed and the young man howled suddenly with pain. "Hold him still!" her mother said sharply as he tried to lift himself away from the source of his agony. Luisa poured more of the liquid into the wound, then placed a clean cloth loosely over it.

"Hand me the tonic." Luisa accepted another flask, and unstoppering it, tried to force some of the fluid between his clenched teeth. Despite his weakness, he turned away once he tasted it. Luisa handed the flask to Marta. "You try to get him to drink this. It will help purge the lead out of his body. He must drink it."

Marta moved to put his head on her lap, and felt him relax with a deep sigh. He trembled from the pain and exertion, but she sensed he responded to her. "Please, señor. Open your mouth, and sip this tonic," she instructed, gently placing the flask near his lips. "If you want to live, you must drink this." Obediently, he opened his lips, allowing her to pour the fluid into his mouth. He gagged as he swallowed.

"I think that's enough, Marta,'" her mother said, smiling with pride at her daughter. "You can give him more later. Now, he needs to rest."

Luisa stood up, then bent to gather her medicaments from the cloth. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a troubled look. "Tonio said we could stop here for a few days to rest the horses, and give the boy a chance to recover before we move on. Your uncle is a kind man. I hope you appreciate how much danger having this payo here may bring upon us. If he is a deserter, then we can be accused of helping him to escape. I think you remember how swift and cruel is payo justice when used against us."

A shaft of anxiety shot through Marta at the enormity of what she was asking of her people. Why should they care if one payo, more or less, died? They were careless enough about gitano lives. Yet, Uncle Tonio had allowed him to remain among them, giving him a chance to live. In the same circumstances, would this young man try to save one of her people? Did it matter really if he would or not? She must do what her instinct told her - try to save him. Marta carefully moved his head to the pallet and got up. His pallid face was turned up the filtered sunlight, the rays catching the dark red of his hair, glinting it with golden highlights, his red-gold lashes rested upon his pale cheek, and she suddenly thought he was beautiful. A shocking thought, she pushed it away uneasily. I'm a betrothed woman, she reminded herself forcefully, as she strode away quickly.

Continued in Part Three of Eight