Mrs. Holgrim's blue eyes, which were still very pretty, opened wide. "Really, Daniel?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why haven't you told me this before?"

He returned the knife to her and accepted two dollars per knife plus a one-dollar tip. He wiped his hands on his shirt, the oil blending into the moss green. "Because, Mrs. Holgrim, then you wouldn't have needed me to sharpen your knives for you."

Her mouth dropped open, closed again. She seemed to think about getting angry, but finally said,"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Because I won't be here."

"Won't-where are you going?"

"I'm not sure. I won't know until the driver comes,but I think it's somewhere in the midwest. Ohio, I believe. Or Indiana."

"You don't know?"

"No, I only know that it is time to pick up my fiddle and find my brothers. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holgrim."

Daniel continued down the street, ringing his bell.

Scarf wound tight around my head

To keep hair from my eyes;

My knife would cut deeper

Then I could realize.

"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"

"… And the captain told me, 'My whole crew's a bunch of yo-yos.' Well, I didn't give it another thought until we were halfway back to the States and we hit an iceberg. The ship sank." Pause. "Sixty-five times." There was some scattered laughter as the large comedian shook his head sadly, and crossed the stage.

He stopped in front of a small, attractive woman at a front table. He puckered his lips obscenely for a moment, then said, "Hey, cutie, wanna go halfsies on a baby?" This got more laughs than the ship joke had.

The gypsy, who had forgotten his name, sat in back, wondering how he'd gotten there. He found little humor in the comic, J. J. McNair, yet he appreciated the skill of the storyteller. He admired the comedian's timing and ability to read the audience.How? Why did he know these things when he couldn't remember his own name? He remembered being called "Little One," but that wasn't right. And how had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember clearly was performing a ritual over his knife,to purify it. He knew it had worked, but why had it been necessary?

The comic was saying, "I'm a great lover, honey. I am. Really. I taught myself." A bit more laughter. "I bought a complete sex manual and I've been following it. I'm up to page eighty-three. It says, 'Get a partner.' " He raised his eyebrows lewdly while the audience laughed, more at the woman's obvious embarrassment than at the jokes.

McNair wasn't bad. It was not a sort of storytelling the observer was used to, yet it made him unaccountably homesick. Homesick for-

For-

A voice, that's all it was. A melodious, half-drunken voice that told stories with an ironic bite to them, for all their seriousness. Tales of fairies and heroes, and he, the "Little One," had listened eagerly and believed them. He remembered the champing of horses,the ringing of the bridle loops like the tinkling of the zils of the tambourine. He remembered the black horses, and a black coach.

Yes.

And he had learned from that voice. He had learned that if you make a promise, you must always carry it out, or else you might have to behead the cow with one horn who had always given you food when you were starving. Yes, you must always keep your promise.

What promise had he given, then? And who was he? Gypsy, that's what they called him. The name came back with a certain sense of relief. That wasn't his name, but it was one of them. There were other gypsies, he knew that, but he was the Gypsy. Yes.Now, if he could only remember the promise, and to whom it was made, and if he could only find his brothers. He needed them for-

For-

The comedian was now in front of a group of middle-aged women off to the side of the tiny stage."I understand one of you ladies is going to have a baby." When they looked confused, McNair added,"I haven't decided which one yet." More laughter.More, decided the Gypsy, than it deserved, but that was because he had the crowd now. All of them, he thought, except me. And that isn't his fault, it's because I don't fit in. I don't belong here. I'm not one of them. I'm-

I'm-

He stood up and made his way to the door. The comedian said, "Hey, buddy, I didn't leave when you showed up." The Gypsy didn't begrudge him the laughter.

The street did not look familiar. It was crowded,and it was evening, and there were lights everywhere racing up and down the buildings, and it came to him as a revelation that these lights were to attract his notice, that they were intended to draw attention to themselves and away from the other lights. As he stood there, a black-and-white police car crossed by in the traffic opposite, and he pulled himself into the shadow of the building from which he'd issued. Memories returned of entering it for just that reason. He had gone this way, aimless, after the purification, because it was empty and deserted. And then, as the sun fell, people emerged from everywhere, as if they sprouted from the sidewalk, and he'd felt the trapped animal fear, and then he'd seen the police car and ducked into this place.What was it called? "Tiny's," that was it. But what reason had he to fear policemen?

Yet, he did have a reason. He knew that and believed it. He felt for his knife, hilt tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt, and the cold feel of the grip brought a freshness, and a certain clarity. Here,take this, little one. I don't need it. That voice! The same as from the stories. Tears welled up in his eyes,though he could not say why.

The police car was gone, now, and he began walking. A few people stared at him, but only for a moment. He tried to ignore them. He aimed toward places where there were few people, through alleys and side streets. After half an hour, in a more deserted area, he stopped, staring at a street sign. Why?What was it? Something about that street. He stood there until he was afraid he would attract attention to himself, then began walking along it.

The night grew older, and he realized he could see his breath. Was it cold, then? That thought, those actions triggered a vague sense of familiarity. As he walked he noted that the lights were gone now, leaving small brick buildings with plate-glass windows.An hour or so later, these gave way to old houses,most with open porches and heavy doors, collapsing steps and two or three mailboxes.

It came to him that he had stopped; that he hadn't moved for some time. He stared at the house and kept blinking. It had once, perhaps, been yellow or green; it was difficult to be certain in this light. A big porch, two mailboxes, two doors. One door led upstairs. He tried it and it was open. The stairway was very narrow and curved for the last three steps at the top. The hallway here was narrow, too.

He hesitated for what felt like a long time, then, he knocked. He heard a chair shuffling, and heavy, slow footsteps. From the other side: "Yeah, what is it?"

He took a deep breath and said, "Please, let me in. Karen sent me."

The door flew open as if it were being ripped off its hinges, and the Gypsy stared into a pair of cold blue eyes, wide with shock and anger. Around them was a round, clean-shaven face more suited to grins than rage. The hair was well-groomed, and he wore a checked sports shirt unbuttoned over a white tee shirt. He said, "What the fuck do you mean, Karen sent you?"

"Are you Brian MacWurthier?"

"Yeah."

The Gypsy read confusion behind the anger."Karen sent me. She told me that you had cared well for her, and that I was to see that you were all right,and-"

"When did she say all this?"