Masquerade by Hannah Fielding

half-naked, brown-faced children erupted out of a dirt track, the entrance to which was scarcely visible, being concealed by mounds of rubble and rubbish. They raced past her towards the beach, scrambling down the dunes like mountain goats, kicking up the sand behind them.
    She decided to turn into the narrow track. Underfoot, the soil was red and rough, more of a bridle path than a proper track. She doubted the heavy-looking caravans she’d seen the other day would be able to tackle it. Now the path dipped down towards what she hoped would be the gypsy encampment, though still she could not see it. The silence was awesome, the landscape barren and even rockier; a countryside petrified in desolation. She could not even hear the sea. There must be another way in. Suddenly she felt incredibly weary. The eeriness of the place was getting to her but she soldiered on; she had come so far, she was not going to turn back now, and the entrance had to be closer than where she’d ended up the day before after her much longer ramble. Up another hill, down again almost perpendicularly and she was there – at the same solid portal of debris she had spotted the previous day.
    The gypsy tents were pitched near a jumble of a few cave homes amid the rubble and rocks, cacti, prickly pears and refuse bags that littered the camp. They were interspersed here and there with the high-wheeled caravans she had already seen, but now she noticed motorcycles, strange-looking wagons loaded with wood and a couple of heavily dented cars.
    The place was heaving with gypsies, many more than had been there the day before when she’d first come across the camp. Fires from copper braseros roared into a sky rapidly turning from azure to purple and now a paler shade of blue. Men, women and children all sat round them in small circles. There were murmurs and laughs, but mostly they were silent and there seemed to be an air of expectancy about the place.
    Luz stood hidden behind a large clump of bristling cactus, peering over the spiky plants in search of the gypsy youth, carefully scanning the faces lit up by the f lickering glow of the fires. Soon, a couple of gitanas came out of a cave carrying large trays of glasses filled with manzanilla. They passed the drinks around and so the Romani revelry began.
    A tall, wild-faced man with black hair standing out in tousled tufts around a face with thick black side whiskers and moustache walked to the middle of the clearing with his guitar, followed by three other musicians carrying a tambourine, cymbals and a fiddle. As they started their instrumental prelude, the audience acted as a chorus, stimulating the musicians by clapping and stamping in time with the rhythm. Some gypsies banged stones on rocks as the noise grew to a crescendo and a few women came forward, hitching their colourful skirts up to cock their hips and swirl to the chaotic music. It was a most vibrant spectacle, the sounds echoing and reverberating through the atmosphere.
    While the performance was taking place, the sun had sunk and twilight turned into evening. The moon beamed in a starless sky but it was still light and visibility was good. Fascinated, Luz had lost count of time. The musicians had ended their show and she was about to turn back when one man moved out from the crowded circle and came forward, a guitar hanging across his chest. Trays of manzanilla went round again. Luz’s heart skipped a beat. She had to smother a gasp as the flickering firelight fell on the face of the man she was looking for.
    The young gypsy took his place in the middle of the circle, which the previous performers had vacated. His long, copper-tanned fingers began thrumming his guitar. The prelude continued for some time and the shouts, clapping of hands and stamping of feet worked his audience up to a state of rhythmic excitement. Suddenly, in a convulsive movement, his features contracted into a mask of agony. He closed his eyes and lifted one hand to his