by Sally Watson
“That Bracken is a son of Satan,” she announced. “If he gives you any trouble, beat him, or call me to do it.” She looked pleased at the prospect. “Don’t ever hit Berry, though,” she added, nodding at the partridge-like child who squatted stolidly in the far corner, regarding them with solemn eyes and a mouth as small as a button. “She is our pet, and no one is allowed to hit her. I’m Willow, and I’ll help you to change.”
Lark, although a fairly strong-minded person herself, was quite overwhelmed for the moment by the forcefulness of Willow. In any case, she was at a disadvantage, being still sleepy and confused by her strange surroundings. It would be best to submit and then find James as soon as possible.
She studied Willow from the corner of her eyes as the girl helped her out of the crumpled brown dress and into the more crumpled violet skirt. She was, to be honest, beautiful—at least if one liked tawny smooth skin, luxurious black hair curling over back and shoulders, and black eyebrows like wings in a narrow, lovely boned face. She must be about sixteen, Lark decided, and for some reason she was not altogether sure she was going to like her.
This was odd, for Willow was disarmingly friendly. She pulled and tugged at the blouse, and tied a scarlet sash around Lark’s waist, being sure that it was artistically draped. And she exclaimed over the length and fineness of Lark’s hair, unbraiding it for a better look.
“But it could never look like Gypsy hair,” she decided, with a toss of her own. “Too straight and smooth and light. I could cut it, of course. No? Well, then, we will tangle the front a little and put a scarf over the rest.” She did so, while Berry went on watching from her corner like a small sphinx, and Bracken called an occasional insult from outside the wagon.
“Psammis says you and the young man may walk with us except on roads where Gorgios travel,” said Willow when she was satisfied with Lark’s appearance. She gave Lark a sideways look. “He is very beautiful, this young man you travel with. Is he yours? If you don’t even know his name, you can’t know him very well. I think I like him.” And grabbing Berry around her plump middle, she heaved her from the wagon and vanished around the side, Berry kicking and roaring at being torn from her new interest.
Lark frowned as she climbed down from the wagon. Now she knew why she didn’t much care for Willow. But she didn’t put it into words, even to herself.
Around the corner of the wagon was a busy scene. Thick blanket tents were being taken from the bent hazel sticks which had held them up, and all sorts of items were being piled into the gaily painted wagons. James came around the other end of the one where Lark had slept, gave her a casual glance, and then jumped and looked again.
“I didn’t know you!” he said.
He didn’t look much like himself, either, in colorful breeches and shirt of blue and faded crimson, and Lark said so, with spirit and a touch of tartness which surprised James.
“Don’t you want to travel with the Gypies for a bit?” he asked. “Really, Lark, it’s much the safest thing we could do.”
She nodded agreement, and he looked at her again, wondering what was wrong. “Psammis says we had better stay apart,” he went on. “Two Gorgios together might attract attention where one wouldn’t. I’m to walk among the grown-ups, and you’re to stay with the children. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Oh, just fine!” snapped Lark. “I’m sure Berry and Bracken and I will get along simply splendidly!”
8
Willow
She knew it! Craning her head, Lark could see Willow’s unmistakable green dress and black head walking outrageously close to James up ahead. Lark didn’t even hear Bracken’s running chatter of uncomplimentary remarks—much to that cheeky lad’s annoyance. She kept glaring ahead blackly until Willow threw a triumphant glance over her shoulder and moved even closer to James.
Lark set her teeth. Pride arose in her. Turning to Bracken, she flashed him a smile that caused him to blink and decide that there was perhaps more to some Gorgio girls than met the eye, and just possibly he would not put gorse and nettles in her bed quite yet, after all.
“Is Willow your sister, Bracken?” asked Lark.
Bracken made an extremely rude noise which Lark interpreted as yes. She looked at him, not without sympathy. “Don’t you like her?” she asked disarmingly.
“I hate her!” Bracken announced with all the earnestness of a small boy talking about his older sister. “I wish she would hurry and get married, so that instead of her beating me, she would have a husband to beat her. When I get big enough, I shall beat her every day, myself.”
Carried away by the prospect, he turned a somersault which hurtled him into the middle of the group of children in front. The entire group immediately turned into a violent battle. But before Lark had a chance to worry lest they might all be attacking Bracken at once, she saw that it was everyone against everyone else. Each child happily clawed, kicked, pummeled, and bit whoever was in reach. None of the grown-ups paid any attention at all until the fracas threatened to hold up the wagon behind. Then the darkly handsome man with the black mustache came forward, waded into the battle, and began kicking and tossing children out into the meadow off the path with cheerful impartiality. After the road was cleared, he wandered back to his own place, while the children picked themselves up with no apparent damage or resentment whatever, and went back to their places in the procession.
Bracken swaggered back to Lark with several more rips in his tattered shirt, a swelling lip, and the air of a conquerer. “I won that one, didn’t I?” he bragged.
“Did you?” asked Lark dubiously. It hadn’t seemed evident.
“Of course I did. If I hadn’t been winning, Neco would never have bothered to come rescue the others.”
Lark had her doubts about this, but she kept them to herself. “Is Neco your brother?” she asked, thinking that they were a great deal alike—both being swaggering, and wicked-eyed, and rather charming in a satanic way.
Bracken hooted at the idea. “No, dolt, he is the grandson of the brother of my mother’s mother, and also the son of the sister of the wife of the brother of my father.” Lark was silent for a moment, trying with very little success to sort out this complicated family tree. “He is the one,” added Bracken, cocking his black, bullet-shaped head at her, “whom I hope will marry Willow, for he will beat her more often than any of the other young men in the tribe.”
Lark, having caught another glimpse of the two heads up in front, was inclined to think this a very good idea. “Does he want to marry her?” she asked hopefully.
“Oh, yes, and I think she wants to marry him. But not yet. She is a wicked flirt, Willow is, and she is having a great deal of fun making eyes and wiggling her hips at all the other young men—especially other girls’ young men,” he added with a knowing sidelong glance at Lark. “She is flirting with your young man this very minute,” he informed her with glee.
Lark indicated elaborately that she could not possibly care, and although Bracken might not have believed her altogether, he seemed much impressed by her careless attitude. It even occurred to him that it was a pity she was a Gorgio.
For the rest of the day Lark chatted with Bracken and turned over a new idea in the back of her mind. She wondered how one went about flirting, and if she would be any good at it. For the first time, it occurred to her that a childish appearance might on some occasions be a distinct disadvantage. She still hadn’t made up her mind when they stopped to make camp . . . but another glimpse of Willow clinging to James’s arm helped.
For a while things looked better, while camp was being set up. James helped with the tents, proving quite experienced at bending and fastening the hazel rods, and pinning the coarse brown blankets over them with the long thorns of wild sloe. Willow, meanwhile, was captured by Sheba and put to work helping cook the meal. But Lark, feeling very inadequate, joined the children in fetching water and firewood. And Sheba gave her a knowing, mischievous look as if to say, “If you will play the rol
e of a child, then you must stay with the children.”
When the tribe sat down around the campfire to eat, there was Willow again, close against James’s side, even feeding him choice bits from her own plate. James, to do him justice, did have the grace to look highly uncomfortable, and to refuse her offerings as politely as possible. But Lark told herself angrily that if he had any strength of will whatever, he could do more than that—unless, of course he liked it! She stared at him intently. It was true that there did not seem to be any romance in the way he behaved toward Willow—but on the other hand, there was even less in the way he behaved toward Lark. At least he saw Willow as a young lady and not a mere child!
Willow at that point threw Lark another glance of laughing triumph. She had a shrewd idea of Lark’s true age, reflected Lark in exasperation, even if that noddle-skulled James didn’t. She smiled back at Willow benignly, and spent the rest of the meal studying the Gypsy girl’s technique.
At the end of the meal, Lark’s opportunity came. Neco strolled by and paused near her, still looking like Satan in a handsome disguise. Lark took a deep breath, and then gave him one swift melting glance from the corners of her eyes, up through her lashes, just as Willow had done with James.
Neco seemed for an instant not to take it in. Then he blinked and turned his full attention to the little Gorgio. He perceived at once that Sheba had been right in saying that she was no child. He also perceived that she was a charming little thing, and it occurred to him that this might be a splendid opportunity to teach that shameless flirt of a Willow a good lesson. It did not occur to him—for he was a conceited young man—that Lark might be doing exactly the same thing.
He smiled down at her, his white teeth flashing under the small black mustache, and his dark cheeks creasing. He sat down. “I have not yet been properly introduced to our charming young Gorgio guest,” he remarked. “My name is Neco; what is yours?”
Lark told him, half alarmed at the success of her plot, and not at all sure what to say or do next. To Neco, her confusion made her all the more delightful. He decided he was going to enjoy the process of punishing Willow.
James, across the campfire, was still patiently enduring the attentions of the Gypsy girl, which were becoming not only uncomfortable, but distinctly embarrassing. Moreover, he was aware of the hidden amusement of the other Gypsies. And yet, what could he do? Willow did not seem to take a hint at all well, and he didn’t want to do anything that might really offend her or her family. After all, he was their guest. She practically had her head on his shoulder by now, and he groaned mentally.
He was also beginning to feel a certain amount of pique at Lark. Why didn’t she come to his rescue? Her refreshing small self at this point would have made things much less awkward. But she didn’t seem interested in James’s company any more. She had scarcely spoken to him all day. Instead, she seemed perfectly happy with the company of that demonic little boy.
James glanced broodingly across the campfire, and suddenly jerked upright. The demonic little boy had been exchanged for an even more demonic young man, who was being a great deal too attentive to Lark—especially considering her tender years! For an instant, James found himself wondering once again just exactly how tender her years were—but that wasn’t the point. She was much too young for Neco to be flirting with. Besides, James discovered that he had mistrusted Neco from the very beginning, and now positively loathed him.
Lark chose that moment to give Neco an uncertain but quite enchanting smile. Neco smiled back possessively. James clenched his teeth and drew in his breath sharply.
Willow looked up to see what was wrong with James, and then she in turn stiffened to outraged attention. She glared across the fire. All conversation stopped for a moment, as the others surveyed the situation with considerable interest and waited to see what would happen next. Neco looked up and grinned fiendishly at Willow, while Lark managed to look brightly innocent.
Willow was not a girl to give up easily. Inspired by the unexpected competition, she wove her slim arms around James’s neck and definitely placed her curly black head on his chest.
With a muffled “Excuse me!” James abruptly detached the clinging hands, stood up, and strode out of the camp circle into the dark stretch of meadow behind.
A ripple of amusement went through the circle of Gypsies, who seemed to feel that Willow was getting what was coming to her. And Willow, doubly humiliated, sent a poisonous look after James. Lark stared after him, too, but with dismay. She had already begun to wonder if she had bitten off more than she could chew. Neco was threatening to get quite out of hand, and she had been fighting down rising panic with the certainty that James would surely come to her rescue. Now James was gone, and Neco’s tender words and melting eyes were distinctly unnerving. Lark had never felt so alone in her life.
She hadn’t time to feel that way long. With a furious hiss, Willow strode across to Lark and Neco and loosed a torrent of Romany that didn’t really need any translation. Then, quick as a snake, she jerked off Lark’s head scarf, flung it on the ground, and pulled her hair fiercely.
Lark squeaked with pain and surprise, and Neco’s hands shot out. One of them seized Willow’s wrist and the other gave her a resounding slap across the cheek. Bracken suddenly appeared on the scene, jumping up and down and shouting encouragement to Neco until Psammis reached out a massive hand of his own and tumbled the little boy to the ground. In any case, Neco seemed not to need any encouragement. With a perfectly diabolic smile he stood up, tucked Willow neatly under his arm, and strode out of the camp circle in the opposite direction to that which James had taken.
James had heard Lark’s cry from his solitude in the dark, and now came rushing back prepared to defend her with his life. He arrived just in time to see Neco exit with Willow, and he paused at the edge of the group, confused. Things were going on which he did not altogether understand. Lark seemed to be safe, after all.
While he hesitated, there came from the darkness nearby a series of thumps, of the kind which might easily have been made by a hazel wand, say, beating against the thickness of full skirts. These were accompanied by a series of shrill yelps. James blinked, but no one seemed to be paying much attention except Lark and Bracken, who looked at each other with great satisfaction.
“Now he will marry her at once,” said Bracken, pleased. “And you,” he added generously, “can have your Gorgio man.”
Lark blushed hotly and hoped James hadn’t heard. She also wished he would come and sit by her. Was he no longer even interested in being friends? Or was he so angry that he would never forgive her?
But James was not angry at all. On the contrary, he was no longer sure of anything concerning Lark—not even his own feelings, which seemed to be rather more complicated than he had thought. He looked at her. She was chatting with Bracken, not even looking his way. He could not just go on standing there. Diffidently he made his way through the small crowd of Gypsies, who were now laughing and talking just as if nothing had happened, and took the place beside Lark which Neco had left empty.
Just then Willow and Neco reappeared, looking flushed and very much pleased with themselves. “I have beat her soundly, and now we are going to be married,” announced Neco masterfully, once in Romany and again in English for the benefit of the Gorgio guests. “There will be no flirting from Willow—except with me, of course.”
Lark noticed that he didn’t say a thing about whether he would flirt or not, but Willow seemed not to notice this omission. She let Neco lead her back to where she and James had been sitting, looking quite lovely and radiant, and Lark found that she did not really hate her, after all. Even Neco seemed much less wicked—especially from across a blazing bonfire with his newly betrothed occupying all his attention. She smiled happily.
James noticed that she seemed to be perfectly delighted at this betrothal of Willow and Neco, and he breathed more easily. He must have mistaken her expression earlier when he thought she was trying to flirt w
ith Neco. He watched the pure line of her throat and cheek outlined by the firelight, transparently young and innocent and vulnerable. A mere child after all, he told himself firmly and with a sense of great relief—for with one thing and another, he felt his life was quite complicated enough for the moment as it was.
Leaning forward, he put his mouth very close to Lark’s small ear. “What a minx that Willow is!” he murmured. “I think she and Neco suit each other splendidly, and I hope they’ll keep each other very busy from now on.”
Lark turned a demure but impish eye upon him. “So do I,” she agreed. And James never suspected just how thoroughly she meant it.
9
Doll
Lark would have been happy to remain a Gypsy for a very long time. The freedom of such things as bare feet and doing very much what one liked was almost unbelievable after two years in a Puritan household. Still, she did see that even freedom could be carried too far. For instance, she could not really approve the Gypsy habit—almost a fine art—of acquiring things that did not belong to them.
But one cloudy day, just a few miles from Shrewsbury, this pleasant and casual way of life ended.
The caravan stopped, quite unexpectedly, and Lark, peering ahead, could see Psammis and Sheba staring at the ground.
“A pataran!” squeaked Bracken, darting forward. Lark stayed there, remembering vaguely that James had told her that a pataran was a special arrangement of rocks, twigs, and leaves which was a whole message to a Gypsy, but that no one else would even notice at all.
Presently Bracken was back, rubbing his shabby green breeches where he had been smacked for being in the way, but as irrepressible as ever. “It says to be cautious,” he announced gleefully. “There may be danger ahead.”
Lark’s eyes immediately searched the gathering Gypsies for James. “What will we do now?” she asked Bracken.
