Being a Green Mother by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online

Alhambra. This was in the larger region of Andalusia, familiar to her by reputation because Luna’s father had imported special stones from here for his enchantments, called anadalusite. They changed color with the light, being green at times and orange at other times—and more than that, after enchantment. Thus she was glad to make the acquaintance of this country, on whatever pretext.
    “But don’t go there alone,” the travel agent warned her. “A tourist can get into trouble. Hire a guide who knows the language.”
    “The language?”
    “The Gypsies speak their own language among themselves. They will cheat you, or worse, if you go alone.”
    She thanked him. Then she went to a private place, changed the aspect of her cloak to male apparel, bound up her hair, and rubbed a little dirt into her cheeks and chin to simulate the first shadow of a beard. She intended to avoid the peril of being a lone woman by passing for a man. She unrolled her carpet, rode it to the Albaicin, and landed out of sight of the Gypsies. She rolled up her carpet and packed it away.
    She stepped out toward the Gypsy quarter. The hill was dotted with holes, and it was apparent that the Gypsies lived in these holes, for music emanated from them. That was onething about these folk; wherever they were, there was music. No one who really liked music could be all bad!
    She started up the hill. Immediately an old woman approached her, carrying flowers, speaking in Spanish. Orb shook her head. “I do not speak that language,” she said gruffly, walking on. She hoped she sounded like a man.
    The old woman faded back, and a young one appeared. “Ah, you are from England,” she said.
    “Ireland,” Orb replied shortly, keeping her voice gruff.
    “I would adore being your guide,” the young Gypsy said, unconcerned by the distinction. “There is an ancient Moorish castle close by—”
    “I am looking for music,” Orb said.
    “Music! Why it just happens that the finest Gitano guitarist is my best friend!”
    “Gitano?”
    She smiled. “This is our name for ourselves. A man is a Gitano, a woman Gitana. I will tell you all about it—”
    Orb concluded that this Gypsy woman did not have the information she desired. “No, thank you.” She moved on.
    The young woman brought herself up straight, inhaling to make her breasts stand out. She caught Orb by the shoulders and turned her around so that she could stare into her face. “Señor, are you a hundred years old? Do you not see how I am longing for you? For years I have been waiting for a man like you! How can you deny me so cruelly!”
    Orb, caught completely off guard, burst out laughing. She had forgotten for the moment that she was masquerading as a man.
    The Gypsy girl, thinking she was being mocked, reacted with fury. A knife appeared in her hand.
    “No, wait!” Orb cried. “Can’t you see that I am a woman, like yourself? I didn’t want to come alone—”
    The Gitana’s mood reversed as quickly again. Abruptly she was laughing, too. “Ah, now I understand! You fear the Gitanos!” The knife was gone.
    “I just want to locate the source of Gypsy music.”
    “I can take you to an old woman who knows songs that have been long forgotten!”
    That sounded promising. “Very well.”
    “For just a few pesetas …”
    Oh. Of course the girl wanted money. Orb didn’t have thelocal currency, but tried a small Irish coin, and the girl accepted that. Then they were off to see the woman who knew the forgotten songs.
    But when Orb mentioned the Llano, the old woman shook her head. “If I knew that, I would be there myself!” she exclaimed. “Only at the source of the Gypsies can that information be found!”
    “But where is that?”
    “That, too, I can not tell you. We came from Egypt, but that may not be the source. Perhaps the Gypsies of the Pyrenees …”
    This was Basque country. The Pyrenees marched to the water of the Bay of Biscay, and the Basques were on either side of