Orb no longer had to ask about to locate the Gypsies of the region she traveled. Now she knew the
signals of their presence and could find them directly. Because she now spoke their language as well as
many of them did-most were bilingual, speaking the local language often at the expense of their own-she
was accepted by them. In fact, her knowledge of Calo enabled her to get along at times when English
didn't, because it crossed national boundaries as freely and existed where English didn't.
In northern France they told her another story of the Llano. She sat among the several wives of the local
chief known to outsiders as his wife's sisters, because polygamy was not an approved family style here-
and listened. The women had heard this tale before, of course, but enjoyed it again. It seemed that once
in the past a tribe like theirs had been trapped by soldiers of the hostile government, in one of the
periodic persecutions of the Gypsies. Outsiders didn't understand about things like stealing food or
deceiving the gullible with fortune telling or entertaining men for money with erotic dancing. Orb
herself had become more tolerant in such respects than she would have believed a few months ago.
"But today is the day my love and I are to be married," a young man protested as the cordon tightened.
"We are trapped and outnumbered and out of bullets," the chief said. "Most of our men have already
been killed. In an hour we may all be dead. How can you think of marriage?"
"I love her! I may have no other chance to marry her."
"We have no food, no wine for the celebration."
"Her lips are wine enough for me!"
The chief realized that he had a point. "You speak like a true Gypsy," he said. "We shall have the
wedding!"
They gathered in a circle for the occasion. But their musical instruments had been destroyed by the
pursuing soldiers, and they had no bright clothing to wear for the dancing. The soldiers were
approaching; shots sounded, and bullets struck the trees beside their camp. They couldn't wait.
One old man among them knew a piece of the Llano. His voice was weak and cracked, but he began to
sing, and the young couple danced the tanana to that song. The rags they wore seemed to become bright
and new; the tarnished buttons on his jacket took on a glow as of fine gold, and her dull earrings and
bracelets seemed to catch fire. The circle of Gypsy women snapped their fingers to the music, and the
old man's voice became stronger. Now it seemed to fill the glade and intensify the day; all of them were
garbed in color. The bride had been of passable feature and figure; as the song suffused her she became
beautiful and provocative, holding all eyes as if magnetized.
The soldiers closed in, firing their guns. Bullets smacked into the bonfire, throwing up embers. But the
Gypsies, mesmerized, kept snapping their fingers, and the couple danced with utter abandon. The song
expanded to touch the soldiers. They stared, amazed that the Gypsies should be ignoring them.
Then a Gypsy girl stepped out of the circle, took a soldier by the hand, and brought him in to the center
to dance. The song overpowered his will, and he set down his gun, followed her, and took her in his
arms and danced. Another girl took another soldier, and a third did the same, while the song continued.
Soon all the soldiers were in the circle, their mission forgotten.
All night they danced. When the morning came, and the old man's voice gave out, and the dancers were
too tired to continue, the soldiers looked about, dazed. Each had a lovely Gypsy girl on his arm, and the
last thing he wished to do was harm her. How would they explain this to their commandant?
They conferred and decided that there was no way to explain it. They would be executed themselves if
they returned. So they decided to remain with the Gypsies and marry the girls they had danced with. The
tribe survived, stronger than before, because of the Llano.
"So it may be that the blood of a soldier runs in my veins," the chief concluded. "I do not begrudge it."
But he did not know the Llano itself, or the source of the Gypsies. "But perhaps the Gypsies of Germany
can help you," he suggested.
In Germany they had a problem. Consumption had taken out a chief, and the officials had buried his
body in a pauper's grave and driven the wives out of town. The women were bedraggled and absolutely
filthy. "But I can get you water!" Orb exclaimed.
As one, the three women shook their heads in negation. "We may not wash or touch water until his body
has disintegrated completely in the earth," one explained.
So it was that Orb learned of the Cult of the Dead. All Gypsies followed it, including those of France
and Spain; there had been no death in the vicinity when Orb was there, so she had not encountered this
then. When a Gypsy died, all his scant possessions were burned along with his corpse; in that manner
his women were freed of their geis and could be clean again. But when the authorities interfered, then
plight was severe. "We can not even feed the grave," they said. For it was the custom to set food on the
grave, so that the spirit of the deceased would not go hungry.
Orb stayed the night with them in their tent, though the smell was thick. But no sooner had she fallen
asleep when she was awakened by a commotion outside. She scrambled up with the woman and peeked
out.
There stood a bedraggled man, dirt sifting from his beard. "Faithless wives!" he cried loudly. "Why have
you not brought me food? Are you trying to starve me?"
It was the ghost of the dead man. The women fell down in terror, crying. The ghost advanced angrily on
them, making as if to strike. Orb stepped out, acting before she knew it. "It is not their fault, Gypsy!" she
cried in Calo. "The townsmen won't let them near the grave!"
The ghost turned on her. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Just a woman in quest of the Llano," Orb said bravely. How could she be debating with a ghost?
"Impossible!" he said. "Even I do not know the Llano! How can you, an outsider, seek it?" He took
another step toward the fallen women.
Orb did not know what else to do, so she sang. She started a Gypsy tune, projecting her magic with it.
The ghost paused again, evidently daunted. He did not move till Orb stopped singing.
"There was a man like me, who died," he said then. "His family could not burn him or his horse, because
it was raining and they had no fire. But one among them knew a fragment of the Llano, and she sang it,
and the pyre heated and steamed and finally burst into flames, and destroyed it all, and he rested in
peace, and his wives were clean." Then he faded out.
The women scrambled up. "You saved us!" they exclaimed.
"Only for tonight," Orb said, troubled. "Will the ghost really hurt you?"
"Oh, yes, he was always an angry man in life, and death has not sweetened him. We must feed his
grave!"
"Or better yet, burn his body," Orb said.
"Yes! But how can we do this? The police-"
Orb feared that she would get them all arrested, including herself, but she had to try. "Perhaps he has
told us how. I will try to help you. Can you burn his body if you are given access to the graveyard?"
"If the police let us. But they will not."
"Perhaps they will. We'll try it tomorrow night."
On the following night they drove the Gypsy wagon to the town, making as little commotion as possible.
They parked at the edge of the graveyard. The family members set to work digging at the gravesite,
while Orb settled herself with her little harp and waited.
The police were alert. Within the half hour they arrived in force. Burly policemen charged up to the
graveyard.
Orb began to sing, accompanying herself on the harp. Her magic flung out, touching the moving men.
The men stopped, listening. They stood about her, doing nothing else. The Gypsies, beyond the range of
her full magic, continued working.
Orb sang song after song, keeping the policemen mesmerized. In due course the corpse was out, and the
pyre built. The fire started, and then blazed high, and the stench of burning meat wafted out.
The ghost appeared. "That's more like it!" he exclaimed. Then, as his body crumbled into ash, he faded
out.
Orb stopped singing and playing. She rejoined the Gypsies as their wagon pulled out. The police still
stood, bemused, looking at the open gravesite and the pile of embers.
They went to the nearby river, and the women stripped and plunged in, desperate to get clean again.
Then they set about washing their clothes.
Finally, shivering, naked, they wrapped themselves in blankets from the wagon. "You did it!" one
exclaimed. "If that was not the Llano, it was akin!"
"It was not the Llano," Orb said. But she was quite pleased with herself.
Hungary was the land of Gypsy music. World renowned composers and musicians were here, and
Gypsy orchestras toured the country. Historically, the top composers of Europe had drawn upon Gypsy
music, popularizing it as their own. Schubert, Brahms-the beauty of their music owed its share to
melodies the Gypsies had possessed before them. The Hungarian pianist Liszt had transcribed Gypsy
music as the Hungarian Rhapsodies.
Here the Gypsies were known as Tziganes. They had been here before the Magyar conquest, and the
Magyars sought to profit by mingling Tzigane blood with their own. When the Tziganes resisted, laws
were passed requiring Tziganes to become Christians and to marry only Magyars. This drove many
Tziganes out of the country, into Russia and Poland and Germany and France, in one of their great
historical diasporas. Many did pretend to accept Christianity, decorating their wagons liberally with
crosses, but at heart they believed in no religion but their own. They were required to settle in houses
and desert their own language; this caused another exodus, for no true Gypsy could be anchored in one
place long. They were accused of cannibalism and severely persecuted for it, their denials being taken as
confirmation of the charge.
Still they survived, and their facility with metal and wood greatly benefited the sedentary culture around
them, and their music shaped that culture. It seemed that every blacksmith was a Gypsy, and every
musician a Gypsy, too. The greatest of contemporary Tzigane musicians was Csihari, a violinist who
was said to be able to charm the souls of the living and the dead.
So it was to this Gypsy Orb went. But no Gypsy of the region would tell where to find him. She was an
outsider they termed "Ungar," or "stranger," not to be trusted. She realized with flattered bemusement
that they took her for a Gypsy; her command of the language and customs had enabled her almost to
pass as one of them, despite her honey hair. Perhaps they took her for a crossbreed, as Gypsies
frequently married outside their culture. Yet it seemed that they held foreign Gypsies in greater
contempt than they did the mundanes.
She came to a village where the Tziganes were especially surly-an extremely unusual state for this
normally happy people. "What is the matter?" she asked.
"Csinka defiled the water!" she was informed gruffly.
"What?" Orb asked, startled by the similarity of that name to that of her friend Tinka.
"She walked over the underground pipe that brings our water," the woman explained indignantly, taking
Orb's exclamation as outrage. "Now we have to forage at great range for our needs. It's a terrible
inconvenience."
Orb sought out Csinka. The woman was almost suicidal in her chagrin. "I lost my way-I had a big
package to carry and I didn't see where I was going, and before I knew it I had stumbled over it," she
confessed tearfully.
In the Gypsy culture, in some regions, women were fundamentally unclean; Orb had learned this along
with the language, but had not encountered it before. The onus was worst at the time of childbearing; the
woman's clothing of the time would be burned. But her nether region could be suspect at any time. Thus
she could not step over copperware without defiling it, and the same evidently applied to buried water
pipes. No one here would drink the water that Csinka had defiled by her passage over the pipe.
Orb knew better than to argue the merit of such a custom. Such things varied from tribe to tribe and
from region to region, but were honored tenaciously where they held. But by her definition Csinka was
innocent, and she wanted to help. "I once helped a woman to burn her husband's body," she said.
"Perhaps I can help you, too."
For an instant Csinka's eyes lighted. Then despair resumed. "There is no way. We cannot lay a new
pipe."
"But if I can banish the defilement on the present pipe-"
"Are you a sorceress?" Csinka asked with interest.
"No, only a musician, of a sort. I came to meet Csihari, but they will not let me see him."
"Nobody sees Csihari!" Csinka said. "He sees whom he will, and only whom he will."
So Orb had gathered. "Perhaps if I sing him a song, he will come."
Csinka shrugged. "He might. But how can this remove the defilement from the pipe?"
"It is my hope that the music will do that."
Csinka shook her head, not understanding. But Orb made her show the place where she had
inadvertently stepped over the pipe. Then, in the middle of the day, Orb set up a chair at that spot, sat on
it, and began to play her harp.
She sang a song of water: of mountain springs, clear flowing streams, shining ponds, and deep pure
lakes. She spread her magic out, not to an audience, but to the water in the pipe below her, willing it to
respond, to assume the purity of the water of which she sang.
An audience formed, as was always the case when Orb sang. Gypsy men, women, and children, the
Tziganes, standing and listening. She continued singing, songs of clean water, rendering them as well as
she could in Calo. The audience continued to grow, until it filled the street.
When Orb first touched the water with her magic, she had felt the defilement of it; anyone who drank it
would be sickened, and clothes washed in it would remain unclean. The soul of the water reeked of its
special pollution. But as she sang, interacting with it, it clarified, until it became as clean as the water
she sang about. She had not suspected she could do this until the need arose and had not been sure until
she actually felt the response of the water, but now it was certain. The magic of her music had this
power.
She paused and gazed across the audience. "The water is undefiled," she said. "Who will drink it now?"
They merely stood, not accepting this. After all, she was sitting right over the pipe, continuously defiling
it herself.
"I touched it with my song, and it is clean," she said. "It will not hurt you. Drink of it and see."
"I will drink of it!" Csinka exclaimed. She went to the tap on the pipe that rose from the main line and
filled her cup and drank.
She stood and was not harmed. The water had not sickened her.
"She is not harmed because she defiled it!" a man said. The others nodded; it was no test.
"But I am over it now," Orb pointed out.
Point well taken. They glanced at each other, uncertain.
"You need this water," Orb said. "I am a woman; my body defiles it. But my music counters the ill, and
this water is pure. Who else will drink of it?"
But no one trusted this. No one volunteered to try.
Was her effort to fail, even though the water had been restored? Orb did not know what else to do.
Reluctantly she got up and put away her harp.
"I will try the water," a man said from the edge of the crowd.
Heads turned. There was a murmur of awe as a handsome, well-dressed middle-aged Gypsy marched
forward to the tap. He turned it on, put his cupped hands under, and drank from them. Then he let the
remaining water fall, turned off the tap, stood untouched. "It is good water," he said.
Then the others came and tried it, too, and agreed that the water was good. The curse was off it, and they
could return to their normal existence.
"Oh, my lady, thank you!" Csinka cried, tears of gratitude flowing.
"Thank this man," Orb said. "He believed when the others did not. He made them accept it."
"Because I knew," the man said. "I heard the music, like none before."
"Thank you," Orb said. "May I know your name?"
"You did not know?" Csinka asked, amazed. "He is Csihari!"
Orb's jaw dropped. "But you would not meet me!" she exclaimed to the man.
"I had not heard you play." He put out his elbow. "Come to my wagon, and I will play for you."
Orb took the arm. They walked down the street, the others giving way before them, until they reached
the musician's wagon. There he brought out his violin and played an extemporaneous theme, and it was
the most beautiful music Orb had heard. Again an audience gathered, but it did not matter; Orb had ears
only for the singing violin. How well justified was this Gypsy's reputation!
When he paused, Orb glanced at her own harp. "May I?"
Csihari made a gesture of acquiescence and started another melody. Orb settled herself on the ground,
set up her harp, and played it, making counterpoint to his theme.
The magic spread out, animating the faces of the listeners in a widening circle. Violin, harp, and the
hidden orchestra: a duet with a mighty accompaniment. Not a person moved; all were enraptured.
Then Csihari stopped and set down his violin. "Enough," he said gruffly. He gestured at the audience.
"Leave us."
In an instant, it seemed, the crowd had dissipated, and the two of them were alone. "You are not
Tzigane," the musician said. "What did you want of me?"
"I seek the Llano."
"Ah, the Llano!" he breathed. "I should have known!"
"I am told that I may find it at the source of the Gypsies," Orb continued. "But I am having trouble
finding that source. I thought you might know it."
"I know the source, but not the Llano. I fear that even there you will not find what you seek."
"But if it is Gypsy music-"
He shook his head. "The Llano is not ours. We only dream of it, no closer than any other. We long for it
as our salvation, but it is denied to us."
"I don't understand."
"You have not then heard the Story of the Nail."
"Nail?"
"It is only a story," he said depreciatingly.
"But it relates?"
"Perhaps."
"Then may I hear it?"
"You know that the Tzigane are only nominally Christian, just as Gypsies in Moslem lands are only
nominally devotees of Mohammed. We truly honor no belief but our own."
"I understand," Orb said. In this, too, she had learned tolerance.
"When the Romans set out to crucify Yeshua Ben Miriam, whom others now know as Jesus, they
required four stout nails for his hands and feet. In those days nails were scarce and valuable and had to
be crafted individually for the occasion. So they sent out two soldiers with eighty pennies in the
currency of that day, to purchase the nails from a local blacksmith. But the soldiers, being indolent,
stopped at an inn and spent half the coppers drinking the foul wine of Jerusalem. It was late in the day
before they emerged, having spent half the money. They were due back with the nails by dusk and they
were half-drunk, so they hurried to the nearest blacksmith and demanded that he make the four nails.
But the man had seen Jesus, and refused to forge the nails to crucify him. Angry, the soldiers set his
beard on fire, but he remained adamant. They had to go elsewhere for the nails.
"The soldiers were half-drunk, but they had the sense not to mention the name of the victim to the next
blacksmith. They simply told him to make four nails for the forty pennies they had. He protested that he
could make only four small nails for that price. They threatened to run him through with their lances if
he did not get to work. Suspicious, he refused. Enraged, the soldiers made good their threat, and killed
him, and went on to a third blacksmith.
"This one they gave no choice: he would make the nails immediately, or they would kill him.
Frightened, he went to his forge-but then the voice of the dead blacksmith seemed to cry out, telling him
that these nails were to crucify an innocent man, and he threw down his tools and refused to work. So
the drunken soldiers struck him down and hurried on to a fourth blacksmith.
"This one was a Gypsy, who was just passing through and knew nothing of the local politics. He was
glad to take the money and make the nails. As he made each one, the soldiers took it and put it in a bag.
But as he forged the fourth nail, the soldiers said that these were to be used to crucify Jesus. At those
words, the voices of the other blacksmiths sounded, pleading with the Gypsy not to make the final nail.
Frightened by this manifestation, the soldiers fled with the three nails they already had.
The Gypsy finished the fourth nail and tried to cool it, but the water went up in steam and the nail
continued to glow. Alarmed, he packed away his tent and equipment and fled, leaving the hot nail
behind. But when he sought to pitch his tent at another place, that glowing nail appeared, still sizzling.
He fled again-but wherever he stopped, that hot nail was there.
"But an Arab had a wheel that needed patching. So the Gypsy blacksmith took the hot nail and used it to
patch the iron hoop. When the Arab left, the wheel carried the nail away. But months later the
blacksmith was brought a sword to repair, and its hilt began to glow. It had been forged from the iron
nail in the wheel and returned to haunt him.
"He fled, but the nail reappeared wherever he went. All his life that dread nail pursued him and when he
died it haunted his descendants. Jesus had been crucified with only three nails, his feet pierced by one
instead of two, and the fourth one pursued the members of the tribe who had forged them. So it has been
to this day, and it is supposed to be the reason that we must constantly travel, so that it will not catch up.
It is also said amongst us that only the grace of the Llano can cool that nail and give us peace, for the
Llano is the universal absolver. But I doubt it; I suspect that the Llano is but an illusion sent to tempt us,
like the Grail of the Christians, having no tangible reality. How could a mere song abate the crime of
making such a nail?"
Universal absolver? That was interesting! "But why weren't the Romans haunted for doing the deed?"
Orb asked.
"How do we know they were not? Where is the Roman Empire today?"
Orb nodded. "Maybe they did pay. But I think it is time for the nail to be put to rest. I will keep looking
for the Llano."
"I think you have as much of the Llano as any mortal person can have. Woman, give up this chase and
marry me."
Orb stared at him, uncertain whether he was joking.
"You have magic in your music. With you by my side, I can achieve a closer semblance of the art I
crave. Besides, you are beautiful."
He was serious! Orb had no interest in such a marriage, but realized that it would not be politic to turn
such a man down arbitrarily. "I am not certain this is wise," she said. "Perhaps you had better have a seer
pronounce on such a union."
"By all means!" Csihari snapped his fingers, and a Gypsy boy ran up. "Fetch a seer, the best," he said.
Soon an old woman arrived. "I mean to marry this woman," Csihari said. "What are the auspices?"
"Give me your hands," the seer said.
Orb presented her hand, and the musician did likewise. The old woman closed her eyes, peering into the
future. But in a moment, as Orb had known would be the case, the seer broke off the effort. "It is blank,"
she said.
"How can it be blank?" Csihari demanded.
"I look, but I see nothing. There is interference."
Csihari looked at Orb. "This is something you know of?"
"My half brother is a magician. He protects my future. I think I am not meant to marry, yet."
"It must be so," the seer said. "Only the hand of the most potent of magicians could balk my vision. I
think he means to see that nothing turns aside this woman's quest."
Csihari sighed. "I should have known that this was too good a prospect to be true. It seems I cannot
marry you, fair maiden."
"I feared that this would be the case," Orb confessed. The musician was being so polite about it that she
was almost sorry that the marriage had fallen through.
"Go to Macedonia," Csihari said. "This I believe is the source of the Gypsies of Europe. Perhaps you
will have your answer there."
In Macedonia she found more Gypsies than anywhere else; it seemed that every second person in the
nation had some Gypsy blood. The Calo they spoke was, by all accounts, the purest version of the
Gypsy language extant. The Gypsies had, she was informed, been brought to this region by Alexander
the Great, for he had recognized their competence in metalworking and desired to enhance the battle
prowess of his army by that knowledge. The Gypsies had not come as slaves, but as honored guests, and
they had been well treated, and the abilities they taught Alexander's people had contributed substantially
to Macedonia's surge toward greatness.
Then Rome had risen, and the Macedonian empire had crumbled. Gypsies had been hauled away to
teach the Romans. The golden age had passed. Gypsies spread out, hiding in the mountains, fleeing to
other lands, clutching their freedom. But most remained to serve the new masters. This was, after all,
their home.
But was it their source? Orb doubted it and in time she learned more of the story. Where had Alexander
found the Gypsies? Not in Egypt, despite the derivation of their popular name from that land; they were
not truly E-Gypt-sies. No, he had brought them from beyond the Persian empire, from the land of Hind.
That was their most ancient home.
And Hind, Orb knew, was India, or part of it. That was where she had to go.
She took another scientific airplane, her route proceeding from Macedonia, across Anatolia and to the
coast of Asia Minor for a change of planes. The next was routed across Arabia and on to the Kingdoms
of India. Orb relaxed, knowing it was a long flight; she might as well sleep.
But fickle Fate interfered. Men appeared on the plane, bearing weapons. One spoke in a language she
did not understand, and several other passengers reacted with horror. Then another man spoke in
English: "This is a hijacking. We are going to Persia."
"But Persia is at war!" another passenger protested. "We'll be shot down!"
"No," the hijacker replied. "They know we're coming. This plane is now the property of Persia. Now we
are going to record your names and nations, so that we can obtain ransoms for you. Anyone who does
not cooperate will be conscripted into the Persian army."
"But my family is poor!" a third passenger cried. "We can not afford ransom!"
The hijacker smiled grimly. "Then welcome to the Persian army! I'm sure you'll like it on the front line."
Orb quailed. This was no good for any of them! The war between Persia and Babylon had been dragging
on with internecine vigor, and both sides were desperate but refused to make peace. Neither honored
international conventions with anything much beyond lip service. Now it seemed they were recruiting
personnel and money by sending agents out to steal entire airplanes.
The listing proceeded, as each passenger in turn gave his or her name and nation, knowing no way to
resist. The plane flew east toward Persia.
But the hijackers had miscalculated, or perhaps the pilot had deceived them. Another airplane appeared,
bearing the markings of Babylon. Orders were barked on the radio, obviously directions to land in
Babylon or be shot down.
"We'll die first!" the hijackers exclaimed defiantly.
There was a warning shot, of the Babylonian type. It put a hole in the left wing. The plane began to
wobble.
Orb knew they would all die if someone didn't do something immediately-and there seemed to be no one
who could. Except herself, by default. She was no hero, but she valued her life. She wished she had
avoided science and stayed with her tried and true magic carpet. She had the carpet with her, of course-
but in the baggage compartment.
"Go up and tell the pilot to resume course when I distract the hijackers," she said to the woman beside
her.
"But they will kill you-and me!"
"Perhaps not." Then Orb took out her harp and began to play.
"Hey!" the English-speaking hyacker said, swinging his gun about. But he paused as Orb began to sing.
She spread her magic out, pacifying all those in the airplane. She nudged her seat companion, who
stirred herself and made her way up toward the cockpit. She continued playing and singing, knowing
that the moment she stopped, the hijackers would resume their mischief.
But the Babylonian plane wasn't affected by her singing. Another shot was fired, putting another hole in
the wing.
Orb broke off her singing for a moment. "Tell them we're landing!" she called, then resumed her song
before the hijackers could revert.
"That's no good!" the pilot called back. "Babylonia is just as bad as Persia!"
"Then lock on the radio!" Orb cried. "I'll sing to them, too!"
In that time, one of the hijackers lifted his gun and aimed it. But before he fired, Orb's song resumed,
and he remained as he was, listening, the gun pointing but not firing.
Now she concentrated on the occupants of the Babylonian plane. Could she move them, too, by her
singing? The radio would carry her voice there, but they were not before her; she could not see them,
and they could not see her. How much of the magic effect was from proximity? She didn't know. But
she concentrated her mind on that other plane, singing to its operators, hoping that the magic would
carry.
Her own airplane shifted course. At first her heart leaped; she feared it was going down because of the
damage to the wing. Then she realized that the pilot was doing it, turning away from the direction
dictated by the hijackers. It was also away from the Babylonian airport. If her music was not pacifying
the other plane...
No third shot came. The airplane proceeded south to an emergency landing in Arabia. Orb was able at
last to rest. Fortunately the authorities were embarrassed by the lapse in airplane security and did not
publicize the event, so Orb was not besieged by reporters. In due course another passenger airplane
arrived, and they were carried on to India, albeit somewhat delayed.
There she had another disappointment. India was huge and fragmented into many kingdoms, each with
its own language or dialect, none of which she understood. There seemed to be no Gypsies here. She
understood they had come from northern India, perhaps being the inhabitants before conquest imposed
the caste system and made them pariahs, made them flee for their freedom. It was said that their
language was very similar to Sanskrit. Perhaps there had been many waves of Gypsies as new
oppressions occurred in India. But until they departed, they were not Gypsies; they were natives. The
source might be here, but not the song.
Well, she would look through all of India, if she had to, until she found some clue. She would simply
tour each kingdom, asking the natives. Somewhere, someone would know something about the Llano.
She had to believe that.
She started in Calcutta. She knew better than to travel alone through such a vast and varied land, so she
joined a road show that was passing through. She had only to audition for the master of the show, and he
hired her on the spot for a fee she knew was too low. But her purpose was not money, but company, and
the show promised to wend its way through much of India in the coming year. She was satisfied. Her
quest continued.

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