Later in the day, Mrs. Nightwing relents and has us help Brigid prepare a basket of food and medicine for Mother Elena as an act of charity.
“Mother Elena has been here as long as I have,” our headmistress says, packing a jar of plum preserves neatly into the basket. “I remember when Ithal was a boy. I hate to think of them gone.”
Brigid pats Nightwing’s shoulder and she stiffens under the sympathy. “Still, it won’t do to forgive the vandalism.”
“Poor old madwoman,” Brigid says. “She looks worn as my handkerchief.”
Regret shows itself briefly on our headmistress’s face. She tucks in an extra tin of lozenges. “There now. Will someone volunteer to take this to—”
“I will!” I blurt out, and loop my arm through the basket before anyone else can take it.
The sky threatens rain. Clouds gather in angry clumps, ready to unleash their fury. I hurry through the woods to the Gypsy camp, holding tightly to the basket. The Gypsy women are not happy to see me. They fold their arms and eye me suspiciously.
“I’ve come with food and medicine for Mother Elena,” I explain.
“We do not want your food,” an older woman with gold coins woven into her long braid says. “It is marime—unclean.”
“I only want to help,” I say.
Kartik speaks to the women in Romani. The conversation is heated—I hear the word gadje used bitterly—and occasionally, they glance back at me, scowls on their faces. But at last, the woman with the long braid agrees to let me see Mother Elena, and I scurry off to Mother Elena’s wagon and pull the bell attached to a nail.
“Come,” she calls in a weak voice.
The wagon smells of garlic. Several heads of it sit on a table by a mortar and pestle. The wagon’s sides are lined with shelves housing various tinctures and herbs in glass jars. Small metal charms live there as well, and I’m surprised to see a small statue of Kali tucked between two bottles, though I have heard that the Gypsies came from India long, long ago. I run my fingers over the figure—the four arms, the long tongue, the demon’s head in one hand, and the bloody sword in another.
“What do you look at?” Mother Elena calls. I see her face through a large bottle, her features distorted by the glass.
“You have a talisman of Kali,” I answer.
“The Terrible Mother.”