We stride forward in silence and soon the flute is replaced by the beggars drum kit, a few paint buckets, a glass bottle, an acquired pot or pan. Half an hour passes upon that narrow walkway as we cross the underground sea, the Black Bazaar looming ever closer.
A pair of torches burn high on either side of a large, rusted metal framework. Equally rusty coiled springs hang at odd angles from it on our side, giving the impression that it had once been a mattress. A broad-shouldered, olive skinned man stands, bare chested, the hilt of a large blade protruding over his left shoulder, on the other side of the portal.
“Um, hello?” Benny braves the man’s stare for a moment before shrinking to the back of our group. The guard ignores him, instead fixing his green eyes upon the clean garments and up kept appearance of my brother.
“Well this is a pleasant surprise,” The olive skinned man’s stern expression finally breaks, and a smile of crooked whit teeth replaces his scowl. “Step back,” He says. We do so and the gate swings open, the hinges silent despite their decrepit appearance.
I look at Jason who nods and winks at me before stepping forward and embracing the big man. “Kareem, I always wondered where you came by such exquisite works.” And then to us, “Kareem here finds me some of the pieces I sell in my shop.”
“Yes,” Kareem says, “And I have another parcel to bring to you when this mess concerning Cyrus is over.”
“So news of his bid for power has reached even here?” I ask.
“There is nothing that goes on, even above ground, that does not reach our ears somehow. Your visit is somewhat surprising though? What brings you here, Dairy Mary?” He asks, turning his attention to her.
She blushes at the use of her unfortunate nickname, but recovers quickly. “Just Mary, thank you.”
Kareem smirks. “It is a fitting name.”
Mary’s blush returns and she opens her mouth to say something, but instead scowls. “Now see here!” She raises her arm to strike him but I grab it, shake my head.
“It’s not worth it. Remember what we came here for.” I say.
“And what is that?” Kareem asks, turning his focus upon me.
“We heard that an old friend might be here and came to talk.” I reply, trying to be vague.
“There are a lot of old friends here, but feel free to come in and look. And Jason, come see me before you leave, I’ll give you that package.”
I limp past him and he pokes me in the gut. I wince at the pressure on my wound. “Third street, second tent on the right. Have Martha look at you before you bleed everywhere.”
I nod and smile weakly. “Thanks.”
We walk further beyond the gate and only then do I realize how many eyes had actually been upon our exchange with Kareem. The first intersection we come to is full of people bustling in both directions, some pushing or pulling carts, others with bags slung over their shoulders.
“So, what now?” Benny asks, though I wish he had not.
“We get you looked at again,” Jason says, and takes me by the arm.
We shoulder our way through the intersection, ignoring the disapproving looks that seasoned traders are giving us newcomers. We stop to let a large group of people pass in front of us, the smell of baked bread coming from somewhere within the huddle of people making our stomachs growl. The third intersection is just like the first two, crowded and noisy, although the din from the drums has finally died down.
I am looking down the street to my right when Mary steps up beside me.
“They’re gypsies!” Mary whispers as she watches a woman walk by, decked in silk of every color of the rainbow and her face painted to match.
I pull Mary closer. “They’re no more gypsies than you are ‘street people,’” I growl and stop her protest before it gets out of her throat. “They are just like you and me.”
“Sorry,” She says under her breath as I nod to the painted woman, who glares at us as she walks by.
“Come on, this way,” Jason says, having spotted our destination.
A drab green tent stands before us, both flaps closed, a white cross painted where they join. “Hello?” Jason calls out.
“Come in, I’ll be with you in a minute,” a female voice calls back, and is followed by a shout and a curse.
“Be careful woman!” A gruff male voice says.
I push aside the fabric and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior.
“Over there,” an old woman says, waving me towards a stool against the tents wall opposite her.
“Are you Martha?” Jason asks, stepping in behind me.
“Yeah, and if you want me to look at the two of ya, you’ll have a seat over there.”
“Do as she says,” says the man who is laying on a table before her.
I watch as she pours a dark liquid over the man’s head, concentrating on the side hidden by his large
nose.
“Damn it!” The man hisses.
“If you hadn’t let it get infected…” Martha’s voice trails off as she dabs at the man with a stained piece of cloth.
“Ow!” He reaches up and brushes her hand aside before sitting up. He nods toward me, but I can only stare at the hole where his left eye would be, the puckered skin around the wound bright red, despite the amount of the dark liquid that still remains on his face.
I hear a sharp intake of breath and finally I tear my eyes away from the man to see that Mary has come in. She stands in the entryway, her hand over her mouth, staring at the injured man.
“Take it all in,” the gruff man says, grabbing a dark strip of cloth from a table near the slab he sat upon and wrapping it around his head, covering the wound.
“Captain Sarin,” The seated man says, putting the final adjustments on the makeshift eyepatch. “And you are?”
“Subway Charlie,” I tell him, and jerk my head toward my brother, “He’s Jason, and that there’s Mary,” I point.
“What happened?” Mary blurts and I shoot her a look.
“It’s ok,” The Captain says, "Let’s just say I had an unfortunate run in with a iron poker.”
“Yeah, and if he had taken care of it, it would have healed by now,” Martha says, followed by “Stop picking at it.” She slaps away the man’s hand as he reaches for the wound.
“I was just going to- bah!” He says and rises.
“Don’t come back until you are ready to care for yourself,” Martha chides as he lifts the tent flap, revealing a black cloaked figure standing outside, a large black bird upon its shoulder. The raven hops off onto the outstretched arm of the Captain and climbs up to his shoulder. He looks back into the room and offers a sharp salute before turning on his heels.
“Now what can I do before you?” Martha asks, and my attention turns back to the room, and the woman, who is standing before me.
I want to ask her how she knew it was me but think better of it and meekly lift my shirt.
“Up,” she says, indicating the slab the Captain had just vacated. Obediently I hop up onto the greying surface, finally recognizing it for what it is, an old picnic table.
“That’s a nice one,” Martha says, reaching for the bottle of dark liquid. “Mary, Jason, come help me over here. He looks like a squirmer.”
