into the work of making the carvings, the weavings, the clothes, the instruments. It was like a hundred talking books all playing quite distinctly at the same time. As I took this all in, it was a moment before my other senses focused, and I heard the tap and whistle of the instruments being tried, the wind chimes gonging, muffled laughter and intense conversations, and saw the counters of beads and music, figurines and instruments, and the displays of clothes and bags, shawls and headdresses. But all that wasn’t what was making the hair on my arms come up.
The air had a charge in it, a hum that can be sensed in any place that magic is frequently raised. Outside, the drummer keyed into it, helping to sustain it, and fed it into his own drumming at the same time, probably without knowing he was doing it. It made a pleasant buzz, a counterpoint to the symphony assaulting my senses. There were half a dozen customers. One tried on masks, taking them down one by one from the wall. A couple were experimenting with whistles, a pair of girls pranced in front of a narrow mirror, decked in colorful clothes, and one was in the corner examining every millimeter of one of the African drums. They were all caught in the buzz, I noted. I’d bet people hung around here all the time without knowing why.
Next to the corner with the drums was a doorway into the back, covered by a curtain. Richard followed me as I crossed the store toward the ward I felt there. It conveyed the impression that there was a wall beyond the curtain, though I could see it moving in the slight air current. There were layers to the ward that said, “Oh, look over there,” and “There’s nothing back here.” She was strong, all right, and crafty. I called from the doorway, “Madam Tamara?”
A rich, melodious voice answered, “Yes? Come in.” The wards parted as she spoke.
Well, she certainly wasn’t expecting trouble. Or she was too tough to worry. I led the way through a narrow office, with desks on either side and shelves piled with papers, through another doorway and into a large workroom whose walls were lined with crowded counters, above which were crammed shelves. The center space was mostly taken up by an enormous long table, piled with half-unpacked boxes of ceramics, jewelry, shawls, carvings, and gourds, cluttered with instruments half-repaired, pieces of furniture awaiting another coat of paint, and lined with chairs that were also cluttered with piles of stuff. A tall, dark woman in a flowing dark blue cotton dress with an elaborate red and blue turban covering her hair was bent over what looked like a huge, hammered copper mirror. She looked up as I came in and started to smile in greeting, when her attention moved—and riveted—to Richard behind me.
She was quick. She spat a curse, leaped for the wall and lifted up a wooden crucifix. Her movements somehow set trembling a set of bells that hung in one corner of the room, and a free-standing gong on the counter opposite went off as though someone had smacked it but good. She held out the cross toward Richard, describing signs with her other hand, and speaking loudly and adamantly in a foreign language. I started for her, but stopped, because there was no point in scaring her. Richard walked on past me, went up to the woman, who held her ground, and fell on his knees. He leaned forward and kissed the crucifix, and then sat back on his heels. She fell silent.
“I went to mass twice a week for a hundred years,” he told her. “I can recite by heart the entire Anglican Book of Common Prayer and the King James Bible.”
“Be silent,” she said. She laid the cross on his head. He didn’t move, and nothing happened. Since Richard had started this, I waited to see how he’d resolve it, but that’s when two of the bears came in the back door behind her, and the other two came in behind me. She wasted not a second, but stepped back, still holding the crucifix like a spear, and nodded at
The air had a charge in it, a hum that can be sensed in any place that magic is frequently raised. Outside, the drummer keyed into it, helping to sustain it, and fed it into his own drumming at the same time, probably without knowing he was doing it. It made a pleasant buzz, a counterpoint to the symphony assaulting my senses. There were half a dozen customers. One tried on masks, taking them down one by one from the wall. A couple were experimenting with whistles, a pair of girls pranced in front of a narrow mirror, decked in colorful clothes, and one was in the corner examining every millimeter of one of the African drums. They were all caught in the buzz, I noted. I’d bet people hung around here all the time without knowing why.
Next to the corner with the drums was a doorway into the back, covered by a curtain. Richard followed me as I crossed the store toward the ward I felt there. It conveyed the impression that there was a wall beyond the curtain, though I could see it moving in the slight air current. There were layers to the ward that said, “Oh, look over there,” and “There’s nothing back here.” She was strong, all right, and crafty. I called from the doorway, “Madam Tamara?”
A rich, melodious voice answered, “Yes? Come in.” The wards parted as she spoke.
Well, she certainly wasn’t expecting trouble. Or she was too tough to worry. I led the way through a narrow office, with desks on either side and shelves piled with papers, through another doorway and into a large workroom whose walls were lined with crowded counters, above which were crammed shelves. The center space was mostly taken up by an enormous long table, piled with half-unpacked boxes of ceramics, jewelry, shawls, carvings, and gourds, cluttered with instruments half-repaired, pieces of furniture awaiting another coat of paint, and lined with chairs that were also cluttered with piles of stuff. A tall, dark woman in a flowing dark blue cotton dress with an elaborate red and blue turban covering her hair was bent over what looked like a huge, hammered copper mirror. She looked up as I came in and started to smile in greeting, when her attention moved—and riveted—to Richard behind me.
She was quick. She spat a curse, leaped for the wall and lifted up a wooden crucifix. Her movements somehow set trembling a set of bells that hung in one corner of the room, and a free-standing gong on the counter opposite went off as though someone had smacked it but good. She held out the cross toward Richard, describing signs with her other hand, and speaking loudly and adamantly in a foreign language. I started for her, but stopped, because there was no point in scaring her. Richard walked on past me, went up to the woman, who held her ground, and fell on his knees. He leaned forward and kissed the crucifix, and then sat back on his heels. She fell silent.
“I went to mass twice a week for a hundred years,” he told her. “I can recite by heart the entire Anglican Book of Common Prayer and the King James Bible.”
“Be silent,” she said. She laid the cross on his head. He didn’t move, and nothing happened. Since Richard had started this, I waited to see how he’d resolve it, but that’s when two of the bears came in the back door behind her, and the other two came in behind me. She wasted not a second, but stepped back, still holding the crucifix like a spear, and nodded at
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