Sons of an Ancient Glory by BJ Hoff

cryptic. “But my people are not. One of my cousins is out there somewhere, right now, keeping watch,” he said, gesturing toward the high, narrow window. “He will be acting as lookout for my older brother, in order that no undue harm might come to me. It would be a small matter to pass a message outside and have it delivered.”
    He stopped, rubbing his fingertips along his chin. “But it would have to be a
written
message. Your wealthy benefactor is not likely to believe the word of a Gypsy.”
    Tierney didn’t miss the barbed edge in the other’s tone. Nor did he give any further thought about bringing trouble on Morgan Fitzgerald. If there were any chance, even the slightest, of getting out of this hellhole, he’d be a fool not to take it!
    â€œWhat is his name, your father’s friend?” asked the Gypsy.
    Tierney hesitated only an instant. “Fitzgerald. Morgan Fitzgerald.”
    Jan Martova looked at him. “The one they call the
Seanchai
? The great poet in the wheelchair?”
    â€œYou know him?”
    The Gypsy shook his head. “Only the stories I have heard. Morgan Fitzgerald is a man of much controversy—and great respect.”
    Tierney would not be distracted from his purpose. “What would you expect,” he asked bluntly, “in return for helping me?”
    Jan Martova gave a small gesture with one hand, then smiled. “Perhaps I might hope the great
Seanchai
would help me as well. I’ve been here before, you see, and I don’t like the place any better than you do.”
    Tierney would have promised him Ireland itself if it meant a way out of this foul-smelling hole! “You said a written message. Where am I to find pen and paper in
here
?”
    Still stroking his chin, the Gypsy said nothing. Suddenly, he caught the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow and began tugging at it until a piece of the material ripped free. Dangling it from his fingers, he motioned toward Tierney’s broken arm and said, “This will serve as your paper. But I hope that is not your writing hand.”
    Tierney glanced over the makeshift splint. “It is,” he muttered. “You’ll have to do the writing.”
    Jan Martova gave him a long, steady look. “I’m afraid I cannot. You must manage with your other hand.”
    It took Tierney a minute, but he finally realized his mistake. He remembered his father telling him that most Gypsies could neither read nor write, that they refused to send their children to school, and so each generation continued to grow up illiterate.
    Embarrassed, Tierney nodded curtly. “I’ll manage.” Pushing himself up from the bed, he stood watching in bewilderment as the Gypsy went to the cot on the other side of the cell and, dropping down on his knees, began to search underneath and at the sides. At last he stopped, his face breaking into a wide smile. He got to his feet, holding up a nail for Tierney’s inspection. “And this,” he said, still smiling, “will be your pen.”
    Tierney stared at him.
    â€œWe will need ink, of course,” said Jan Martova, clearly undaunted.
    It struck Tierney that, not only had he gotten himself mixed up with a Gypsy, but a
daft
Gypsy at that. “And where,” he asked impatiently, “do you propose to find
ink
?”
    The dark eyes took on a glint. “Blood,” replied the Gypsy, withdrawing a small knife from inside the heel of his boot. “Blood will do the job very nicely, I think.”
    â€œBlood?”
Tierney echoed incredulously, braced to defend himself in case this crazy Gypsy made a move toward him.
    Jan Martova grinned. “Blood,” he said again. “Don’t worry, Yankee-Boy,” he added. “We will use
Gypsy
blood. I have plenty.”

5
You Will Always Have Your Memories
    Those we love truly never die.…
The blessed sweetness of a loving breath
Will reach our cheek all fresh