“Marhime? How is it marhime?”
“The thing has touched the lower part of your body. It is therefore polluted, unclean—marhime.”
After kicking dirt over the burned tunic with her bare foot Rupa strode off with a determined gait; an affronted Kristiana stared after her. Had she heard wrong, or had the woman just implied that Kristiana lacked proper grooming skills? Snapping her mouth shut, she rushed after Rupa.
“I will have you know I bathe myself daily. I am not marhime, as you stated.”
Rupa kept her eyes forward. “Cleansing yourself has no bearing on your being polluted. You are a woman. Your monthly flow makes you marhime.”
Kristiana frowned. “Why? It is a natural part of a woman’s life.”
“Blood flows from you without obvious injury. Therefore, below the waist you are considered marhime. If Balo wears the same tunic you wore, he will be contaminated by it.”
The two women stopped in front of another wagon. Intent on their discussion, Kristiana ignored their new location. “How can you accept such foolishness as truth?” she asked, showing no regard for Rupa’s beliefs. The woman did not answer. “Tell me, Rupa, if a woman is marhime below her waist, and a man runs the risk of being contaminated by her, then why are there so many children running wild through this camp?” Kristiana’s fine brow arched as she awaited an answer.
“Since you do not know how a woman gets herself with child, you are the foolish one, Gajo.”
“But I do know how, Rupa. Or at least I have been instructed on what to expect. But you seem to be unable to answer the query I have posed to you.”
Rupa’s dark eyes narrowed, then she spat at the newcomer’s feet, “Stupid one! Only a woman’s husband can view her below the waist, touch her as it is his right. Balo is not your husband. He is no woman’s husband. He is still a Shav. You will not contaminate my nephew with the clothing you have worn.”
Kristiana frowned. The memory of how he had pinned her to the ground, his hips nestled tightly against her own, filled the field of her mind. And his hand! It had settled on her rounded bottom, boosting her up into the cart. If he was truly a Gypsy, he would be most fearful of being contaminated by her. Why, then, had he touched her below the waist—the area considered marhime? Another thought struck her. Although Balo, as he was called, was obviously darker in complexion than she, his skin coloring was far lighter than that of those he said were his people. Then there was the hidden claymore, plus the deadly dagger. Adding everything together, Kristiana wondered if Balo was actually the person he claimed to be.
Afraid to delve into the matter, for she knew her newly formed queries would only be answered with more hostility, she asked instead, “What is Shav?”
Rupa glared her discontent. “I do not have time for your stupid Gajo questions, so be silent. Sidi is inside.”
Kristiana noticed they were outside another wagon. She heard Rupa call out to the person called Sidi; a husky whisper of a voice answered in Romani. Rupa entered the wagon, instructing Kristiana to stay behind. After a few moments she withdrew. “Sidi awaits you. Tonight I will serve your meal, but tomorrow you will cook for Sidi and yourself.” The woman turned on her heel and marched back to her own wagon, leaving a frightened Kristiana to fend for herself.
“Come!” the husky voice ordered through the open doorway, and Kristiana slowly ascended the wooden steps.
Inside sat an old woman. Her hair was the color of tarnished silver; her dusky face, deeply lined. Her skin appeared much the same as aged parchment. A gold-coin necklace draped from her wrinkled neck. The lobes of her ears were also laden with gold. As Kristiana moved slowly toward the one called Sidi she considered whether the jewelry was genuine. Aided by the dim light coming through the doorway, she at last noted a white film covered the woman’s irises. It was then she realized Sidi was blind.
“So Balo has brought a Gajo into our midst. Kneel by me, girl, and let my hands see your face.”
Her knees quivering, Kristiana knelt by the woman, then she allowed Sidi’s gnarled fingers to explore her face at will. A violent protest nearly erupted through her lips when the woman’s hands left her face to smooth over her full breasts, then down to her slim waist. Yet somehow the words died in her throat, for she knew Sidi meant her no harm.
“Eh! A beauty, I fear. Ripe and womanly, too. Balo was unwise to bring you here, for there will soon be trouble. And you will be the one who suffers.”
Kristiana grasped that she had understood every word the woman had said. “How do you know my language?” she asked, but her question was ignored.
“And with a voice like the warm winds of summer. It caresses a man’s ears and bewitches his heart, making him forget who he is.” Sidi shook her head despondently. “Yes, there will be much trouble.” Her hands fell away from Kristiana’s face, where they had resettled. “Rise, girl, and sit on that stool.” Sidi waited, and when Kristiana had done as requested she said, “My mother was Gajo. That is why I know your tongue and why Rupa brought you to me. Her nephew, Balo, requested it. Since he is Shav—an unmarried boy—it is impossible for you to live with Yokka and Rupa. Balo felt you would be received more kindly by me than by any of the others. That is why Rupa brought you to me. Are you now satisfied?”
“Somewhat,” Kristiana said, aware Sidi had heard the words that had passed between Rupa and herself. Perhaps she had missed it before, but upon hearing her handsome Gypsy was still unattached a feeling of elation had rippled through her. “But I would hardly call Balo a boy.”
Sidi chuckled. “No, he is certainly not—at least, not in the physical sense. But to the Rom he will not be considered a man until he marries. Therefore he is still a Shav and not a Romoro—a little man. You have much to learn of our ways. Be patient… watch and listen. And for the time being, keep yourself close to my side. No one will harm you as long as you are with me.”
Kristiana wondered if the word “harm” meant physical brutality. She received her answer.
“It is their tongues you should fear, not their fists,” Sidi said, and Kristiana mused whether the woman had read her mind. The woman chuckled again. “There is not much I do not know. There are other ways to see, child, just as there are other ways to hear. The eyes and ears are only two such methods. Come now.” She rose from the small wooden table where she sat. “Hand me my staff. It is time we sup.”
Kristiana retrieved the long walking stick from its position against the wall. She handed the implement to Sidi. Afterward she stepped through the open door and assisted the woman down the steps. “Thank you, girl,” Sidi said. With the aid of her staff she struck a steady course toward the women’s campfire. If Kristiana hadn’t known better, she would have sworn Sidi was sighted. “Do you have a name?” she asked her charge, who walked beside her.
“Kristiana.”
“Fair Christian, is it?” Sidi stopped her forward motion; Kristiana found the woman staring into her eyes. “Indeed, it will be your faith that sustains you, Kristiana. But the one you call the Almighty is not the only one in whom you must place your trust. Remember, not all is what it appears to be.”
As Kristiana followed close behind Sidi, the woman having set a course for the campfire again, she considered her guardian’s words. Faith and trust—such simple concepts, but so difficult to retain in one’s heart. Especially when one felt one had been betrayed. Did Sidi refer to Balo? Perhaps the woman, with her inner sight, had discerned Kristiana’s emotional upheaval over being abandoned by her handsome Gypsy. Now, knowing he had arranged for her care, selecting the wizened Sidi as her new protector, she felt somewhat relieved, and her anger was mollified. But his cool manner still troubled her. Now that she was with Sidi, did he intend to desert her altogether? The thought of his doing so did not appeal to her. Just why, she was unable to fathom.
“Kristiana—sit, watch, and listen,” Sidi said, drawing the girl’s attention. “Remember to keep your mind where it belongs and your tongue silent.”
Gazing down at
the old woman, who had already seated herself on a pallet that had previously been made ready for her, Kristiana settled onto the ground. Tucking her legs to the side, she made sure they were covered.
“Good,” Sidi said. “You are already learning.”
Kristiana blinked. “What am I learning?”
“You sat in the proper fashion. No woman must ever expose her legs to anyone except her husband. You have no husband, so your legs must always be kept secreted away. Otherwise you will offend the Rom.”
Exactly how Sidi knew her charge had sat in the proper fashion, Kristiana was unable to say, but she was beginning to believe the woman could see, if not with her eyes, then with her mind. Her awe of Sidi grew.
“As we wait for our food you may watch… and watch closely.”
Kristiana did watch, for her eyes had caught sight of Balo. He stood across the way at the perimeter of another campfire where an assemblage of men reclined, their meals being served to them by the women. The same man she had seen earlier—the one whose words had dismissed the taunting group, saving Kristiana from their hateful barbs—motioned for Balo to join him. Rupa served the man, and Kristiana decided he was Rupa’s husband, Yokka. Rupa then served Balo, handing his plate to him over his shoulder. In fact, Kristiana noticed all the women kept themselves behind the men, never once passing between them or in front of them, and she said as much to Sidi.
“It is forbidden to pass in front of a man, even one who is a woman’s husband. If you do, he will become infected. And you must never pass between two men for the same reason. If you have no other choice, you must ask their permission. If it is given, they will turn their backs to you. Then you may pass.”
Confused by these strange rules, Kristiana accepted them nevertheless. “I shall remember,” she stated, her eyes turning back to where Balo sat.
“Because of his return, you may expect much celebration tonight,” Sidi remarked, startling Kristiana again. “Truly there will be much merriment and much sorrow.”
Sidi did not elaborate, and Kristiana did not ask her to do so.
Once the men were all served, the women returned to their own fire. Sidi was the first to be served; Kristiana the last. As Rupa thrust the plate at her it almost slipped through Kristiana’s hands to land in her lap. Luckily, Kristiana caught it before it did. Now, as she stared at the fatty vegetable stew, its spicy aroma filling her nostrils, she considered whether she should attempt to swallow it.
“Despite its appearance,” Sidi said in her whispery voice, “it is quite tasty, and it will sustain you through the night.”
Once Kristiana’s palate adjusted to the strong garlic flavor, she ate heartily. Her hunger satisfied, she gazed around the segregated campfire. Her eyes were instantly drawn to a young Gypsy woman, her beauty unsurpassed. Dark sloe eyes stared back at Kristiana, assessing her in return. Then, with a toss of her dark head, the young woman rose and left the circle.
After the plates were cleared away, Kristiana thought Sidi would want to return to her wagon. “Stay,” she commanded when Kristiana started to rise. “The festivities will soon begin.”
True to Sidi’s word, the strings of a lute sent their musical tones into the air. Men’s voices rose in song, and one by one the women and children left their own campfire to circle around the men’s. As Kristiana helped the stiff Sidi toward the lamenting sounds she noted the song had changed from one of melancholy to one of joy.
Sidi’s gnarled fingers gripped Kristiana’s hand, and together the pair walked through the gathering of women and children, where Sidi positioned them at the forefront. They stood not more than several yards away from Balo, his cup being filled with a dark, heavy ale. Kristiana watched as he toasted the Rom, then the cup settled at his lips. In one long swallow he emptied it.
Cheers rose from the Rom, and Balo’s cup was filled again. Three times he drank the heavy brew, shouts from the spectators encouraging him, his laughter filling the air after he’d drained the last drop. When he had finished the final cup, all became quiet. Then the lute began to strum again, the strings moving ever faster under the hands of the man playing it. From nowhere the sloe-eyed beauty appeared, and Kristiana realized she had been invited to dance.
“It is to honor Balo’s return,” Sidi explained, and Kristiana’s eyes gravitated toward the man to whom Sidi had referred.
Golden eyes watched the provocative movements of the beautiful Gypsy woman, whose name, Kristiana learned, was Liza. Her full, firm breasts strained against her linen top while her rounded hips undulated enticingly beneath her colorful skirt. To Kristiana, Balo’s eyes burned with an intensity that could be construed only as desire. The music escalated in momentum, as did Liza’s dancing feet. Her sloe eyes held a come-hither look as her hips swayed even more seductively; her graceful hands appeared to invite Balo into her waiting arms.
At her noticing the hot lust in Balo’s eyes, which had deepened in color to a dark, rich amber, Kristiana’s heart compressed. He wanted the beautiful Liza, desired her for his own. Certain her handsome Gypsy loved another, she lost all hope. He truly had abandoned her, and her heart ached knowing he had. A lone tear slipped from her eye; her fingers quickly swept it away. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the music stopped.
Cheers erupted, along with applause, and Kristiana saw that Balo’s smiles were only for Liza. He rose and saluted her with a bow, then the beautiful Liza turned. By way of a seductive roll of her hips she passed between two men, their backs turned toward her. As she left the circle Balo’s heated gaze watched her each step of the way.
“We must leave now.” Sidi urged Kristiana to follow her.
Hesitating, Kristiana glanced at her handsome Gypsy. His emotionless gaze beheld her for a moment, then he looked away, his attention drawn to his uncle.
Her head bent, Kristiana trailed after Sidi. When they reached the wagon the woman instructed Kristiana on the placement of their sleeping mats, which she’d gathered from inside. Afterward she handed the Gajo girl a light cover. “You are losing faith, Kristiana,” Sidi said after she’d lowered herself to the fresh-smelling earth. “And once it is gone, it will be hard to recover.” The woman fell silent. Soon her snores filled the night air.
Lying on her own pallet, situated a good ten feet from Sidi’s, Kristiana stared at the dark heavens; the stars seemed to dip close enough for her to reach. In the distance the music played while laughter chimed, but she was unaware of it. Visions of Balo’s emotionless eyes and of how they had raked over her claimed her thoughts. Time and again she tried to erase their presence, but they continued to torment her.
Other images leapt into her mind—a great sword falling; her father’s body quivering; Edward’s vicious countenance turning itself upon her; black eyes condemning while golden orbs remained cool, uncaring. All wove themselves into one large tapestry, becoming a far too real picture of her despair. No longer able to contain her tears, Kristiana let them flow.
Not far from where Kristiana lay, Logan leaned his shoulder against the trunk of a sturdy oak, watching his goddess cry herself to sleep. Long lashes closed over his troubled golden eyes; a soft curse rolled from his lips. His lungs drew in a cleansing breath, then released it. Viewing her silhouetted form once more, he turned and slipped into the woods, a vivid portrait of his goddess’s crestfallen face, as he’d last remembered seeing it, etched in his mind.
3
Under the light of a full moon Logan cautiously dodged the low-lying branches as he wove his way through the night wood. His thoughts still centered on Kristiana, he nearly missed the overgrown pathway leading him to Sebastian Doyle, his companion in revenge.
Upon Logan’s return Yokka had informed him that the man called Doyle had left word he would await Logan at the cave. The Rom had used their present campsite many times before, and Logan was familiar with the place his uncle had mentioned. As he reached the end of the trail he stopped near a dwarf oak. Golden orbs searched through the darkness, seeking out the c
ave’s entrance, a small slice cut into the craggy hillside beyond a shallow stream. No hint of a fire burned inside the prearranged meeting place, and he wondered if Sebastian had grown weary of waiting.
Hoping his friend merely idled away his time in the darkened hole, Logan pursed his lips and let loose the call of an owl. He waited for a response to his signal, but none came forth, and Logan’s lips released the lamenting call anew.
“Have ye toppled from your perch?” a deep voice questioned.
Startled, Logan nearly shot from his skin; he spun around.
“Or could it be,” the voice continued, “ye’ve come to the deep wood in search of a mate—one with feathers?”
“Damn your eyes, Sebastian!” Logan hissed, his narrowed gaze pinpointing the burly man who stood in the shadows. “You’ve severed a dozen years from my life—perhaps twice that sum! Why are you prowling about in the forest like some nocturnal predator ready to pounce upon its unsuspecting prey? We were to meet at the cave.”
Sebastian cleared his throat. “When nature calls, I have found it best to travel as far from my abode as possible, lest the wind carry its unappealin’ fragrance back to my door.”
A deep chuckle rolled through Logan’s lips, and the two men grasped each other’s forearms in a congenial greeting. Then the pair began wending their way toward the stream and the cave. “A wise decision, my friend,” Logan commented. “And because of it, our brief time together should be most agreeable.”
Sebastian draped a sinewy arm across his companion’s shoulders. With an amicable tug he pulled Logan against his side. “I thought ye’d see the wisdom of it, my young friend.” The man chortled, his mirth twinkling in his blue eyes. Then, withdrawing from its embrace, a solid hand thumped Logan’s back. The blow nearly toppled Logan, but Sebastian promptly steadied him. “Had I been expectin’ another visitor, I might not have been as considerate,” he continued. “Reputedly it keeps the riffraff from congregatin’ too freely at one’s doorstep.”
Deeper Than Roses Page 5
