"I will help you," the gypsy woman said. "Tell me of this curse upon
you."
"There is a voice in my mind," Mrs. Wladek said. "The voice tells
me--even now it continues--to go to an employment agency, to accept
work ... and the voice is not of my making."
"Whose voice is this?" the gypsy woman said.
"It is my own voice," Mrs. Wladek said. "The voice is my own, but I did
not tell it to speak. Inside my own head, I can hear my own voice as if
someone else put it there."
"Ah," the gypsy woman said. "And who is the witch who has put this curse
upon you?"
Mrs. Wladek sighed. "At the office of the social workers, there is one,
a young woman. She has done this to me."
Marya Proderenska nodded. Her eyes closed.
Mrs. Wladek stared at the still figure without moving for a minute. Time
stretched endlessly. The room was very quiet; Mrs. Wladek heard the
continuing voice in her mind and felt fear.
Another minute ticked by.
At last the gypsy woman opened her eyes. "It is a strong curse," she
said in a distant voice. "But I have erased it for you. I have taken the
hex from you. Is it not so?"
"Taken the hex--" Mrs. Wladek shook her head. "Then why do I still hear
the voice?"
"You still hear it?" The gypsy woman muttered under her breath. "Come
back tomorrow. We work again."
"Tomorrow is a long time."
The gypsy woman closed her eyes for a second. "All right," she said, and
snapped them open. "Four o'clock this afternoon."
"I will be here."
"It is a strong curse."
"You will help me," Mrs. Wladek said.
"I will help you," Marya Proderenska said.
But, after the old woman had left, Marya Proderenska sat alone and her
face was troubled. The strength of the curse--she had felt it
herself--was enormous. She did not know of any magician who had such
power.
She listed over the members of her own clan in her mind, and became
satisfied that none she knew was responsible. And yet, the strength of
the curse argued real power; was it possible that a power existed within
the city, and she did not know of it? Marya felt a cold wind on her
back, the wind of fear.
Such a power might do--anything.
And yet it was being used to coerce one useless old woman into taking a
job!
Marya Proderenska lay flat on the floor, her arms outstretched. Thus one
might gather the vital energies. Four o'clock was not many hours
distant, and by four o'clock she would need all of the energy she could
summon.
She did not allow herself to become doubtful about the outcome.
And yet she was afraid.
* * * * *
Gloria smiled understandingly at the woman who sat across the desk.
"I understand, Mrs. Francis," she said.
"It's not that Tom's a bad boy, you know," the woman said. "But
he's--easily led. That's the only thing."
"Of course," Gloria said. She looked at the middle-aged woman, wearing a
gray suit that did not fit her overweight frame, and a silly little
white hat. "I'm sure everything's going to be all right," she said.
Mrs. Francis gave a little gasp. "Oh, I hope so," she said. "Tom doesn't
mean to cause any trouble. He just doesn't understand--"
Gloria went over the report sheets mentally. Tom didn't mean to cause
any trouble, but he had been involved in a gang war or two--nothing in
the way of Thompson sub-machine guns, of course, or mortars, just a few
pistols and zip-guns and rocks and broken bottles.
Tom hadn't been killed yet. That was, Gloria thought sadly, only a
matter of time. He hadn't killed anybody yet, either--but he'd come
close. Tom had seen the inside of a jail or two a lot more recently than
he'd seen the inside of a classroom.
Tom was easily led.
Sure.
Well, Gloria thought, the problem was to lead him into something more
productive and satisfying than the gangs of New York. And that didn't
seem to be too hard.
Of course, she had very little practice as yet. The theoretical
knowledge she'd been able to dig up in college was mostly on the magic
and superstition shelves of the library--and, while she got full credit
in her minor, Anthropology, for the research she'd done, a great deal of
it just wasn't any practical help.
Not if you _were_ a witch--or what passed for one.
"You see what I mean, don't you?" Mrs. Francis said.
"Of course I do," Gloria said, and gave the woman her most reassuring
smile. "I'm sure something can be done. Do you know where your boy is
now?"
Mrs. Francis nodded, birdlike. "He's home now. I think he's sleeping. He
usually doesn't wake up until after noon."
"I see." Gloria hesitated a moment. "Can you describe him for me?"
"Describe him?"
"That's right," Gloria said. "You see, the somatotypes have, we've
discovered, a great influence on mental and emotional makeup."
She didn't feel right, lying to the woman--but chances were that what
she'd said didn't make any sense to Mrs. Francis and, in any case,
Gloria could hardly tell her the real reason she wanted a description.
It would aid in making the doll she needed.
"He's about six feet tall," Mrs. Francis said, "but he's very thin, and
sometimes I worry about that. I try to give him the best nourishment I
know how, but he--"
"What color is his hair?" Gloria interrupted.
"Oh," Mrs. Francis said. "Brown. And brown eyes. Really nice eyes;
they're his best feature; everybody says so."
"Any distinguishing marks, or anything unusual about him?"
"He has a scar now, on his left arm just below the elbow, but he got
that in a fight with these boys--"
"All right," Gloria said. "Thank you very much."
"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Francis said. "You're not going to have
him arrested or anything, are you? Because he's not a bad boy, you know
that. He's only--"
"Easily led," Gloria finished. "Of course. There won't be any need for
arrest, or for anything as drastic as that. You just go home now, and
don't worry. I'm sure everything's going to be all right."
"I only want to help my boy," Mrs. Francis said.
"Of course you do," Gloria said. "I want to help him, too."
Mrs. Francis stood up and swallowed hard. "I appreciate that," she said.
"It's my job, that's all," Gloria said, feeling unaccountably shy. As
the woman left she thought about that embarrassment and finally decided
that she felt she had no right to be complimented. She was doing a job;
it needed to be done; that was all.
True, she had special talents for the job--but Mrs. Francis didn't know
that, and she hadn't made the talents anyhow, but been born with them.
Congratulations?
Don't be silly.
As a matter of fact, Gloria thought, she deserved a good talking-to. She
hadn't had enough experience, and that was the simple truth. It was all
very well to work on a boy like Rudi, or another one like Tom Francis,
when they didn't have any idea who you were or even that you were trying
to do something. That was easy.