by Kristy Tate
“That’s harsh. It’s not like the Earl would carry food.” Petra looked around and imagined the old woman in the moonlight, standing in the center of the road, demanding a snack. “He was an earl, not a baker or a farmer.”
“He might have given her a coin,” Emory said. He sent her a sideways look. “The Earl is not the hero of the story. You mustn’t sympathize with him.”
“Is this Kyle’s father?”
“No, a long-ago predecessor.”
“Still, I’m not going to sympathize with a witch throwing out curses.”
Emory coughed over what could have been a laugh.
“I’m sorry I’m ruining your story, go on.”
“The witch said that for every fallen branch of the Old Oak Tree, a member of the Earl’s family will die.”
“That’s why we have to tiptoe past the tree, in case our thunderous footsteps send a branch to the ground?”
Emory, now a good distance from the chained oak, stopped and put a finger to her lips. “Like you, the Earl didn’t take heed. In truth, he laughed and continued on his way, but moments later, a violent storm hit. Rain, thunder. A single bolt of lightning struck a branch of the oak. It burst into flames and fell to the ground.” Emory’s finger fell away from her lips, and he continued down the road.
Petra shook her head and muttered, “How tragic. A branch fell.”
“When the Earl arrived home, he found his wife weeping over the loss of their only son. To prevent any further deaths the Earl ordered his servants to chain every branch of the tree.”
“You can’t believe in curses.”
Emory looked grave. “A year later the Earl was out riding and as he passed the old oak a branch fell on him, knocked him from his horse, and killed him instantly.”
“Here?” Petra asked.
Emory pointed to a spot on the dusty road. “Just there. Some say you can still see the blood.”
Petra squinted. “I think that’s a shadow.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
Afraid that she’d been insensitive, Petra asked, “Did you know the Earl or his son?” She thought for a moment and then asked, “Or the old woman?”
“This was many, many years ago.” He continued looking at her with dark, unreadable eyes.
“That’s a horrible story,” she said.
“You don’t believe in legends.”
“Or curses.”
Emory considered. “Then why did you venture to the gypsy camp?”
Petra opened her mouth and then closed it.
“You said you last saw your sister at the fortuneteller’s tent. I assume you went to have your fortune read. Yet if you don’t believe in curses, it stands to reason you would not believe in fortune.”
“Oh, I believe in fortune,” Petra said, thinking of her home and everything she loved and missed. “I’m a fan of fortune.” Good fortune, fortune cookies. Not misfortune.
His eyes swept over her gown. “Yes, I can see that.”
She put her hands on her hips, suspecting she’d been insulted. “What does that mean?”
He smiled softly. “Pray tell, my lady—”
“Please don’t call me that.” Her peevish tone surprised her. “I mean, why would you call me a lady?”
His gaze again swept over her clothes, resting on the tiara she clutched. “Are you not?” he asked, sounding skeptical.
Petra flushed and came to a decision. She couldn’t tell him she walked into a 2014 fortuneteller’s tent and exited into 1610, so she’d need a story, but one not too complicated. Something close to the truth. “I don’t know what or who I am. I don’t know where I’m from or how I got here.”
A crease appeared between Emory’s eyebrows. “I thought you said you were from Royal Oaks.”
“Have you ever heard of Royal Oaks?” Panic tinged her voice. When he looked at her blankly, she continued, “Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe I don’t exist.”
“And yet, here you are.”
She nodded. “With you. Do you exist?”
“It is, perhaps a chance of fate, but am I to assume you don’t believe in fate?”
When she shook her head, he said, “I thought as much. Then, please tell me why a gentlewoman such as yourself would venture into the gypsy camp alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“Ah, yes, you had taken a child.”
She opened her mouth, but couldn’t find a proper response. Nothing she said would make any sense to him.
“What did she tell you?” Emory pressed.
“Who?”
“The chovihanis.”
“The what?”
“The fortuneteller. That is the Roma title.”
“Well, the Chovi I met didn’t tell me anything.”
“A chovihanis tells not only the future, but also the past.”
“I met a dude named Fester.” She tried to think about Fester and his tarot cards. He had called her a fool…a fool on a journey. If you think your life is here and now, you are mistaken. Indeed, there is no time or space.
“A dude? Is that a bad thing?”
Petra smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Because he may have arranged the kidnapping of your sister?”
Kidnapping. Petra hadn’t considered that. She slowed. “No one would steal my sister. I don’t think.”
“How did you become separated?”
Overcome by guilt, she couldn’t make herself tell him she’d left her sister sitting on a stump outside the tent.
“Just because something seems improbable doesn’t mean it is not true,” Emory said, his voice kind. “Curse or no.”
“I’m hoping Zoe is at home,” Petra said.
“Then we must find your home.”
Petra sighed. She read nearly everything that came in the house, so sure, she’d heard of wormholes and time machines. When she was young she’d read AWrinkle in Time. She’d even seen the old Back to the Future movies from the eighties. “Don’t mess up the time continuum” had been a common mantra. Until she found a way back home, she should interact with as few people as possible and look for a way to be struck by lightning. She needed to find a witch conveniently dead and wearing a pair of magical ruby slippers. Ruby slippers seemed much safer than a bolt of lightning.
She followed Emory’s broad back through the woods, trusting him more than either one. The moon flickered through branches as a breeze tossed the leaves. Despite the dark she saw ferns and wild lilies along the path. Even the air smelled differently in 1610. She recognized pine, wood-smoke, and a pungent scent she associated with mushrooms.
They came to a turnstile and a wooden sign, much like one in The Wizard of Oz that told Jane to turn back, only this sign pointed in two directions, Dorrington and Leicester.
Wishing there was a sign that said Royal Oaks, Petra tramped after Emory past black and white timbered cottages with thatched roofs, millponds and barns. They arrived on a bluff that overlooked a meadow filled with brightly colored caravans. The whole world slept it seemed except for the gypsies.
Emory took her hand, drew her to a large stone and sat down, pulling her beside him. Again she had a sensation of comfort and familiarity as he held her hand.
“We should have done this earlier,” Emory said as he pulled out a small knife. “The tinkers can be cunning.”
“How cunning are you?” Petra asked, watching the blade glint in the moonlight.
He smiled gently. “We’ve had this discussion. Your crown, my lady.”
She held the tiara, one of her last possessions. “Why?”
“With the Romas, nothing is without price.”
After a few minutes of watching him pry the jewels from the tiara, she blurted, “They’re worthless. Fake.”
Emory raised his eyebrows. “Since they look real to me, they’ll look real enough to them.” He cocked his head at the caravans. “So they are not worthless, Petra.”
It was the first time anyone had said her name since she’d arr
ived in this strange place and time. She liked the way it reminded her of who she was. “I can’t repay you.”
He looked up from his work. “You’re frowning. Have I upset you by taking the jewels from your crown? Everything has a value or a cost.” He sounded serious.
She snorted.
“You disbelieve me?”
Petra thought of the Royal city dump, heaps of trash swarming with sea gulls and rodents.
Emory continued, “The Roma believe that all things are alive, that even the trees and rocks possess souls.”
“Should I apologize to this stone for sitting on it?”
“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.”
He sounded like Doctor Birch, her science teacher, talking about atoms, molecules, and germs.
Below them, brightly colored caravans clustered around smoldering camp fires. Raggedy, smiling children darted through the camp laughing. Above the bleating of goats, she heard a tune on a flute, reminding her of the Renaissance fair. She swallowed hard and stood.
“How will we find the fortuneteller?” she asked, although she knew the chivo-whatever wouldn’t be Festus.
Emory rose also, folded his knife and returned it to his pocket. “She has already found us.” He nodded at a group of men appeared through a thicket of trees. They arrived without sound, their faces impassive and shuttered.
The one in the middle seemed to be the leader, as he stood slightly ahead of the men on each side. He had an earring in his left ear and a ring on each finger. Gold chains draped around his neck and like Fester he wore red bloomers. His companions, one smaller and one larger, wore similar jewelry. Petra wondered how they had approached without jingling.
Emory greeted them in a strange language.
The leader returned the greeting without a smile. Their gazes flickered over her dress and then rested on her face.
Emory took a defensive step in front of her, shielding her from the gypsies, and opened his palm to reveal one tiny, shining stone. The spokesman didn’t flinch, but the small man on the right stepped in for a closer look.
The gypsies seemed to reach a silent agreement. The middle man replied in the strange, lilting tongue and then motioned for Emory and Petra to follow.
“Is gypsy like French?” Petra whispered to Emory as they followed the men.
“They call it the old language. It’s unwritten.” He placed a hand on her waist, drawing her against him.
“Did you ask about Zoe?”
“They denied seeing her, or you, for that matter.”
“Well, of course they’d say that.”
He chuckled. “Do you remember being here?”
“No.”
“Please stay close. Romany value their women but have little regard for the Gaje fairer sex.”
“Am I Gaje?” she asked.
His breath fanned her neck. “Yes.”
“Are you Gaje too?”
He nodded. “But not nearly as fair.”
As they entered the camp, Petra noticed the gypsies were small and dark, had curly hair and wore bright colored clothing. Petra looked away from their curious gazes as their escorts led them through the camp. A child clutching a rag doll ran forward to touch Petra’s blue skirt. Petra smiled at the little girl, and the child grinned back, revealing crooked and brown teeth. A dog with a festering ear limped by, and an old man with one leg leered at her from a rug near a fire. Petra instinctively reached for Emory’s hand.
He squeezed her hand. “Who is Mark Baron?”
She sent him a puzzled look and nearly tripped over a speckled goat. The goat bleated a complaint. “So sorry,” she said to a young boy leading the creature by a knotty rope. “My father. Why?” She wondered how he knew her father’s name, but then she remembered she carried an insurance card in her purse.
Emory stepped in front of her and leaned forward so his forehead nearly touched hers. “Not your husband?”
She shook her head, a nervous laugh bubbling in her throat as she looked into his dark eyes. “I’m not married.”
A smile lit his face. He fingered a small gold band that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “Now you are,” he said, slipping the ring onto her finger.
Chapter Eight
A wedding band is a symbol of:
Love
Commitment
Fidelity
Eternity
Honor
A wedding band is not a protection against kidnapping.
—Petra’s notes
“By my faith, my lady, this is the safest way,” he said, taking her hands in one of his, hampering her futile efforts to remove his ring.
“I don’t believe in your faith,” Petra whispered as they moved through the camp.
One of their guides sent her a dark look over his shoulder and Petra stopped wrestling with Emory’s hand and his ring. Emory chuckled softly. “Your beliefs are irrelevant against the truth.”
“We are not married,” she whispered in his ear. “That is the truth and we both know it.” She suspecting that he referred to a larger, more universal truth, but with the gold ring weighing down her finger, she wasn’t interested in metaphysics.
“Yes, thank the Almighty, we are not married. But for tonight, for your safety, we are.”
Realization of her dependence on Emory started to sink in as their escorts paused in front of a caravan no bigger than her horses’ trailer at home. Each of its four wooden side panels had a scene painted on it, the closest depicting lovers entwined in a dark forest, a doe and buck watching the pair from behind a pine while a flock of birds flew into a faded blue sky. On the next screen brightly speckled fish swimming in a bubbling sea.
“Each depicts an earthly element,” Emory told her. “The Roma worship nature, the spirits of the sun, moon, air, earth, wind and fire.”
When Earring Dude rapped on the caravan, a panel slid to the side and a gray-haired woman stuck out her head. The two conversed for a moment and then the panel slammed shut.
Emory whispered in her ear, “Is this your dude?”
Petra shook her head. She’d known she wouldn’t find Fester—despite managing to find a Kyle look-a-like and Hot Horse Guy—yet disappointment still settled in the pit of her stomach.
The guides looked at Emory with a shrug and then all sat down on logs surrounding a fire. The small one drew a flask from his pocket, uncorked and took a swallow. After a moment, he passed his bottle to his companions.
Petra watched. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. “What did they say? What just happened?”
Emory leaned close. “Our chovihanis is preparing for a healing. That takes precedence. We may as well sit.” He settled on another log and one of the men offered him the flask. Emory held it out to Petra as she sat beside him.
She gave him her most disgusted look, one she’d perfected in middle school when she’d been assigned to sit by Lenny Jorgensen. Lenny was a paper chewer, tearing off bits of his assignments and masticating them into oozy tiny wads. He didn’t do anything with his wads. He didn’t throw them -- that Petra would have understood, even if she wouldn’t have approved. No, Lenny collected his spit balls on top of his desk like a minuscule, useless munitions pile. Although Emory looked nothing like the concave- chested, slobbery Lenny, Petra felt a familiar frustration.
“We can’t just sit here,” she said so sharply their chaperones glared at her from beneath their thick eyebrows.
Emory frowned. “We’re guests here, my lady. This is their land, not yours.”
Petra placed her hands on her hips. “But it’s not their land, right?” She glanced around, wondering if any of the gypsies understood English. She spoke quickly and quietly. “Isn’t that the point of being a gypsy? Vagabondness?”
“Vagabondness? Is there such a word in even Royal Oaks?”A smile curved his lips and she wondered if he was laughing at her. “Tell me, my lady Petra, if you were given the choice to shun the captivity
of walls and ceilings and roam the earth, unburdened by possessions as the spirits direct, would you choose to stay at home?”
Petra swallowed a lump in her throat. She thought of her home, her dad. How since her mother’s death, the walls and ceiling had stayed the same but the home itself had changed. Same house, same walls, same furniture, but the home had changed. Too large and too empty. Until Laurel and Zoe came. Since her dad’s remarriage, the walls had shrunk and the volume had increased. Same house, different home.
Emory leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “A midnight ride across the earth? A sailing across the ocean at twilight?”
If she moved just an inch, her skin would touch his and she knew it would tingle, as it had before.
Whatever adventure she was on, she needed it to end so that she could continue with her life in Royal. Prom, AP classes, graduation, college, a career, marriage, two children, poodles, a house in the suburbs. No, not a house, a home.
Emory looked at her with intense steadiness. His gaze passed over her face, to her throat, to her waist, before rising back up to settle on her lips.
Petra felt woozy because she saw a life she never could have imagined, a life that defied time or space.
One of the men had lit a pipe, and its smoke curled with the revived campfire. Flames shot into the darkening sky. Embers popped midair. The stars, though faint, winked in the purpling haze. The night was fading. Where would she sleep? Did it matter?
Life in Royal had been perfectly arranged. There she knew exactly what she wanted, what was next on the agenda. As a freshman, she’d mapped out her high school schedule and had never deviated. Classes, clubs, service hours, she had everything she needed for graduation and UCLA. Here she knew next to nothing and had no idea what she needed other than a ticket back to her real life.
Emory picked up Petra’s hand and held it in his lap. Nearby, a fiddler began to play, and someone beat a rhythm on a tambourine. Someone added drums. Through the wheels of the caravans she saw other fires burning. Women, barefoot and laughing danced. Their clothes, loose and flowing, billowed, their jewelry glinting.
