Hidden Moon (Nightcreature 7)

"And the rest of your party?"

He pointed. We followed the long line of his bare aim.

The lake was a puddle of melted black wax - murky, still. On the opposite side, tiny flickers of flame danced with human-shaped shadows. They hadn't been there before.

"What are they doing?" I asked.

"Communing with nature. "

"When you say communing. . . " Grace looked him up and down. "You mean naked?"

He shrugged. "What other way is there?"

"You've got a caravan of naked Gypsies dancing around the communal fire?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Well. . . " Grace paused. "There are laws about that sort of thing. "

"We have little use for laws. "

"Oh, really? And why is that?"

Cartwright lifted his face to the sky, staring at the stars that had just begun to twinkle against the cover of night. "In the year 1530, England passed a law that made it illegal to be a Gypsy. The law wasn't repealed until 1784, making our very existence a crime for over two hundred and fifty years. "

"You can't not be what you are," I said. "That's like making it illegal for someone to have dark hair. "

"The English weren't the only ones," he murmured. "The Nazis declared Gypsies nonhuman and tried to exterminate us along with the Jews. We lost over four hundred thousand in their camps. "

I hadn't studied WWII more than marginally, and I didn't remember this tidbit. But I did know that Hitler had ordered more than Jews into the camps. Nuns, priests, those with mental problems, as well as anyone who disagreed with him too strenuously, were rounded up, shoved on a train, and shipped to various outposts in Hell.

"You can see, Sheriff," Cartwright continued, "why we don't trouble ourselves overmuch with laws. "

Grace contemplated him with a lot less suspicion and a lot more compassion than before. "You do this dance every night?"

"No. Tomorrow night we'll perform. Tonight we ask the gods for protection and success. "

"What gods?" Grace inched closer. She'd always been fascinated with the old ways, and not just those of the Cherokee.

Cartwright's gaze flicked from Grace to me and back again, assessing. "We're Catholics in truth. Every one of us baptized as such. "

"I bet the Church just loves it when you worship naked in the night," Grace murmured.

His lips tilted. "I dinna think they know. "

I bet not. At least the days when such practices would be punished by a bonfire - of people - were past, although I had no doubt excommunication was still alive and kicking people when they were down.

"This is a ritual of our ancestors, nothing more," he explained. "Some people put flowers on graves, eat turkey at Thanksgiving, or cut down trees like these" - he swept his arm out to indicate the towering spruce - "and drag them into their homes for decoration. We dance beneath Alako - god of the moon, defender of all Gypsies, the one who takes our souls at death. "

"And the fire?" I stared at the images of the moon, the stars, and the flames on their wagons. I guessed they were more than just decorations.

"Fire purifies, heals, protects. " He glanced across the water. "Fire punishes evil. "

Punishing the evil with fire sounded like the Inquisition. Another really fun group on history's hit parade. I liked to imagine them dancing barefoot in Hell along with the Nazis.

Grace fingered her gun again. "You been punishing any evil ones with fire, pal?"

"The Rom are not animals. We leave that to our tormentors. Will you become one of them, Sheriff?"