by Sarah Price
Sitting upright on the scratchy blankets and soft pillows she had slept on, her silky, long black hair swept over her bare shoulders. It was cool in the tent, especially as she slept only in her undergarments. She hadn’t remembered changing out of her dress but she did remember the gamble and her father’s losing hand. For a moment, she stifled a sob in her throat. It was easy enough to swallow it back…she had cried the first two days while locked in the wagon as it lurched across the dusty roads. Only at night had anyone shoved food and water at her through the door. She quickly realized that she was a prisoner and the only respite was sleep. So she slept.
Now, she was inside a tent with strange sounds and smells. She didn’t remember how she had arrived here. A metal lantern hung from a thick wooden post in the center of the tent. One wooden chair leaned against the post, a pair of grey trousers tossed carelessly over the back. She frowned. Trousers? She clutched the blanket under her chin for protection as she continued taking in her environment. A shiny knife was laid upon a wooden box on the other side of the tent. Several clay bowls sat in the grass next to the box. Two empty glass bottles caught her attention near the bowls. One rested on its side while the other stood up straight, a clear liquid filling half of it. Dear Lord, she thought, where am I?
Next to the pile of blankets, Sahara noticed her blue cotton dress neatly folded. She reached over and picked it up. Upon close inspection, she noticed the torn sleeve and ripped shoulder. It was filthy and it was ruined but it was all she had to wear. Sahara cursed aloud and tossed the worthless garment aside.
She remembered it all now, how they had dragged her out of her father's tavern, laughing and jeering as she fought back, desperately trying to escape. But one man had thrown her over his horse, mounting behind her before she could slide off. The entire group of twenty or more (she hadn't been able to count) rode off, quietly at first but later singing in a strange language. They must have knocked her unconscious during the ride. The throbbing bump on the back of her head convinced her of that. She woke later to find herself in the wagon, the creaking of the wheels and strange voices from outside were the only noises as the sun rose and the streamed through the cracks in the boards. She could not open the door and no one responded to her cries. Eventually, she had just given up. What else could she do?
A male voice neared the tent, talking quietly from directly outside the canvas flap. Pulling one of the wool blankets around her body, Sahara listened to the deep voice, straining to make out what he was saying. But his words were too muffled and what she could make out sounded foreign. Abruptly, the conversation ended and the tent canvas roared in Sahara's ears as it was pulled aside. The color drained from her face as she cringed behind the blanket, bashful of her bare body. Her dark eyes, large and frightened, watched the tent opening, waiting for someone to enter. Her heart pounded as the seconds dragged. Finally, to both her dismay and anticipation, a large man slipped through the tent opening. The sun blocked him from her view. She could only make out his silhouette. Yet she could tell that he was strong, too formidable an opponent for her to fight if she had been inclined. But she wasn’t. She was too frightened to fight or, for that matter, even to move.
The man stepped into the tent and approached her. An older woman stood in the opening, quiet and watching. She did not enter. As for the man, he paused a few feet from her and waited as if expecting a reaction from Sahara. She recognized him from her father's saloon. He was the one who stopped the man from striking out at her. He was the man who watched them, almost protectively, when they carried her out of the saloon. She would recognize him anywhere for he was a large man with golden brown skin and long dark hair that was pulled back from his face, bound in two places so that it hung like a thick rope down his back. His almond shaped eyes were dark with thick lashes. He wore a light white shirt, opened at the neck but tucked neatly into his breeches. His dark boots were dusty but gave him the look of a man in charge. She had thought him good looking when the gypsies had first entered the saloon. Now, as she saw him watching her with equal curiosity, she thought him a monster.
“Go away!” The steadiness of her voice startled her. Hiding behind the blanket, she glared at the intruder. A smile crept onto his perfectly chiseled lips as he crossed his thick arms over his muscular chest. “Don't you understand me? I said go away!”
“Aye, I understand.” That hint of a smile remained on his lips. “But where am I to go, shey-bari? This is my tent, you see.” His deep and husky voice was thick with an accent Sahara could not identify.
Sahara frowned at him, trying to act braver than she felt. “Have you no manners? I am not properly dressed!” Her voice was shrill, on the verge of hysteria.
“Perhaps that is why I come, shey-bari.” He hesitated, watching her for a long moment. This gaze made her uncomfortable. She was too aware that he was studying her. Her long black hair hung over her shoulders in loose, sweeping curls. The white streak over her ear caught his attention. For a moment, he stared, his eyes meeting her own almond shaped dark ones. But, after a brief moment, he diverted his eyes and cleared his throat, opening a sack that he held in his hand. He reached in and pulled out a black skirt and shirt. “This is for you.” He held it out to her. She refused to take it but he persisted. Finally, Sahara reached out with her tanned arm and snatched the clothing from him. She stared at the dark material in disgust as he explained, “It was all we could find.”
“It'll do fine, thank you. Now, please leave while I dress!” To her relief, the dark man bowed regally before turning around and disappearing. Sahara sighed, surprised to find that she had been holding her breath during the entire encounter. First things first, she thought, as she dropped the blanket that had shielded her body from the stranger's eyes. I will get dressed then find that old gypsy. Ignoring the pain from her sore body, she held the black clothing up at arms length. The material was soft, almost like silk but heavier than cotton. Knowing she couldn't walk around in her undergarments, Sahara reluctantly slid the ugly black shirt over her head. It fitted her snuggly, hugging her robust bosom and showing off her tiny waist. She frowned at the low-cut neckline. She wasn’t used to wearing something so…provocative. When she stepped into the skirt, it billowed about her ankles. Her dresses had always been shorter, perhaps too short since she had no woman to help guide her in the sense of fashion. But she knew that this was inappropriate and worthy of a bar whore or, worse yet, a gypsy woman. The skirt brushed against her bare ankles as she walked over to her crumpled and ripped blue cotton dress. Lifting it, she found her stockings and shoes.
Sahara pushed aside the canvas, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. She stood outside the tent, staring at the strange surroundings. Several tents were pitched around the tent she had emerged from. Each tent seemed to exude life. There were pots and pans outside of them, occasionally a wooden trunk. From one tent hung a thin rope, which was stretched out, the other end tied to a tall stick that was pitched in the ground. From the rope hung clothing, freshly washed and drying in the sun. In front of several tents, tall back chairs sat near the entrance. They were roughly crafted, obviously hand-made by the gypsies.
Beyond the tents, there were wagons lined up in a semi-circle. From the sides of the wagons, large metal washtubs, wooden buckets, and cleaning boards hung from thick wooden pegs. Several coarse wooden steps dropped from the back of the wagons to the ground. Some of the wagons were painted in faded colors while others were plain wood, worn and splintered. All of them had seen many miles of travel and most likely better days. But clearly they had served their owners well, transporting the people and their goods safely from town to town miles of dusty roads throughout the years. Several of the wagons had chimes hanging from the rear corners of the wagon roof. They sang gentle songs in the warm summer breeze.
Curiously, Sahara walked away from the tents and toward the wagons. She hadn’t heard any wagon wheels during their travels, just the pounding of the horses’ hooves along the road. Where had the
wagons come from, she wondered. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat. More questions began to flood through her mind. How far were they from her town? Why would the old gypsy have wanted her? Perhaps a better question still was how had he known she was there, peering from the shadows at the top of the stairs? Was it true that gypsies had that sixth sense, she asked herself, a chill traveling down her spine.
Horses grazed from pickets on the other side of the wagons while mules grazed freely further away. No one seemed to fear they would wander from the camp. Several small cooking fires burned at a distance from the wagons. Chickens scratched and pecked at the ground, never leaving the safety of the wagons in case a brazen hawk flew overhead. Women dressed in sleeveless peasant type blouses with long skirts and scarves over their heads stood around the fires. Some stirred the large black cooking pots hanging over the open flames. Others lounged on the ground or seated in those rickety wooden chairs, talking rapidly with the other women as they sewed colorful clothes. A child ran by, tripping too close to a fire for his mother's comfort. Grabbing the child's arm, the mother boxed his ear. A low whine escaped his mouth as the mother dragged him toward a tent. The little boy disappeared inside and the mother reemerged, returning to her friends without a word about the scene.
Sahara held her head high as she started walking toward the small group of women, her heart still pounding. She had to find the old gypsy that had gambled with her father. The old gypsy had won her, true. But Sahara was not about to abide by some silly gambling rule. She would be no man’s property. Chewing nervously on her bottom lip as she neared the gypsy women, Sahara realized how precious her father's horrible saloon actually had been to her all these years. As much as she had thought that she hated it, now she wanted only to return. It was the only home she had ever known and her father was her only family. Certainly, she thought, the old gypsy cannot expect me to travel and live with these people.
One by one, the women slowly looked up, noticing the strange non-gypsy girl. Her long black hair flew wild in the summer breeze. As the sun beat down on her, the thick white streak over her right ear caught the rays. Her creamy gold skin, free of any blemishes, amazed the permanently brown women. This was the girl that the Rom Baro, their leader, had won. She was the reason the men had left camp, leaving the women and children for several days. She was the reason they had camped here, anxiously awaiting the return of the men with such a powerful and important bounty. When the men had returned, the women had expected something wonderful and rich. Instead, now the women stared at the girl as she stood on the edge of the group, wondering about the change that was to befall their traveling band of family.
The girl stared back with equal curiosity. They wore colorful clothing, most in the same style as the clothing that man had given to her. Many of the women wore scarves over their heads. All of them were dark skinned and had thick, black hair. Sahara noticed that several of the older women wore gold chains around their necks and rings among their fingers. Immediately, Sahara remembered the old gypsy and his thick gold chain that her father had craved so dearly he had gambled his own daughter away. “Where's the old gypsy?” Sahara demanded, directing the question at a heavy set woman standing next to the fire with a ladle in her hand. Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.
All of the women stared at Sahara, their mouths gaping as if ignorant of her words. Then, they glanced at the woman Sahara addressed. After several long seconds, the large gypsy woman cleared her throat. With a heavier accent than the man in the tent, she asked Sahara, “Rom Baro?” Sahara shrugged, not understanding exactly what the woman was asking, although the word sounded familiar from the poker game last night. “He is gone.”
“What do you mean he's gone? Where did he go?”
The woman shrugged. “The men...eh...they went away.”
Sahara shook her head, angry that this Rom Baro was not available. “Not all the men. There was a man in my tent less than ten minutes ago! Where is he?”
Several women gasped at her announcement. One whispered a strange word, “Mahrime,” under her breath. Children hid behind the wagons, peeking around the corner to stare at the strange girl. It was rare that a gadjo moved into a gypsy kumpania. Certainly unheard of in the lives of most gypsies. Gypsies tended to avoid gadjo, not wanting any infiltration of the outside world to change their culture. But as the children watched the woman with the white streak and golden skin, standing with her head held high and staring down the offended old gypsy women, the children sensed there was something different about this gadjo. As they spied on the newcomer, one of them noticed the man walking around one of the tents. Elbowing the other children and sshing them quiet, the child pointed toward the man. He stood behind the feisty woman, a hint of a smile on his lips as he watched her.
“I don’t know what that means,” she said sharply. “But I do know that there was a man here, in this camp, just a few moments ago. I insist upon speaking with him!”
One woman raised an eyebrow, never taking her eyes off the gadjo woman standing before her. “A man, yes? Perhaps you mean him.” She gestured with her head then, without another word, the women quickly went back to cooking, ignoring the gadjo girl.
Sahara turned quickly, hardly surprised to see the man from the tent. This man does not intimidate me, she told herself, although she wasn't sure if she believed it. His steady gaze unnerved her. She had seen men look at her before, often through the smoky air at the saloon. But as the night fell, her father always insisted that she retire to her room. The drunken look in the eyes of his patrons hinted at more than a desire for another drink. Yet, this gypsy was different. His dark gypsy eyes looked through her as if he had known her for years. Indeed, there was something familiar and it unsettled her. Taking a deep breath, Sahara tried to hide her discomfort. “Where's the old gypsy?”
The man stepped forward, taking her arm gently as he led her away from where the women could hear but within view. They knew not to openly listen to a man's conversation but he was familiar with their eavesdropping ways. The man released her arm when they reached a safe distance by an empty wagon. He faced her, his eyes gleaming as he spoke. “Rom Baro is out with the other men. He will return soon.”
Impatiently, Sahara demanded, “How soon?”
The man shook his head, trying to hide his pleasure at her feistiness. “You must learn patience, shey-bari.”
“Stop calling me that! My name is Sahara.”
“S'hara?” he repeated as if tasting the word. “S’hara…”
Sahara frowned at his accented version of her name. “Something like that.” Her eyes roamed, looking around at the strange environment again. The camp was in the middle of a large meadow. Barely could she make out the timber-grown bluffs bordering the prairie grass in the distance. She raised her eyes, suddenly more frighten than angry. “Where are we? I don't recognize this place.”
“We are...” He paused. They had traveled for almost two days to catch up with the kumpania. Rom Baro had left the women and children in the small valley so that the men could ride faster and free from the wagons. It was only earlier that morning when they had returned. The man shrugged, uncertain of their exact whereabouts. “We are here, yes?”
She glared at him. “What do you mean 'here'? Where are we? Where is here?” she insisted.
He shrugged, uncaring. “I do not know. Just here.”
Sahara stared at the handsome man in front of her. His indifference toward her dilemma amazed her. In all her life, Sahara had never stepped two feet out of the town where she had been raised. Her entire youth had been centered on her father's saloon. She had helped him run it ever since her mother died. Now, suddenly, she was torn away from the only family she had, which, Sahara reluctantly admitted, was better than nothing if faced to live with these gypsies. “Who are you?”
Proudly, he straightened his back as he towered over her. “I am Nicolae, son of the Rom Baro of this Machwaiya vista's kumpania.” He seemed proud of what he said, as if sh
e should be impressed, but his announcement meant nothing to her. When he saw that, Nicolae took a deep breath and leaned against the wagon again. Idly, his fingers moved toward with the edge of a washboard hanging nearby. Quietly, he fingered the rough wood. A splinter caught under his nail. Wincing, he sucked it out. “Why do you wish to see Rom Baro?”
“I want to go home.”
His laughter echoed throughout the camp at her innocent confession. Several people glanced at the Rom Baro's son. They smiled to themselves and returned to their work. When Nicolae's amused laughter finally ceased, he stared at her, a somber expression on his face. “You want to go home, yes?”
She sensed the sarcasm in his question. Glaring at him, Sahara put her hands on her hips, too aware that the clothing she wore hugged her body, showing off her petite waist and full bosom. “I see nothing entertaining about that!”
Nicolae sobered up, crossing his arms over his chest again. “You wish to go home? To what?” His eyes met hers, immediately sending a chill down her spine. There was something dark and serious in his gaze. When he looked at her, he stared through her. His eyes were almost black and she felt as if he could see her soul. She wondered if he could read her thoughts and it further unnerved her to suspect that he could.
