by Sarah Price
The girl watched all of this, a distant stranger…a silent observer. Yet, deep down, she knew that this would change everything. She knew that with death came rebirth…and she wasn’t certain where she would fit into the changing tide to come.
Chapter Seven
Someone nudged her shoulder. “Wake up, S'hara. Wake up.” Opening her eyes, Sahara saw a young gypsy girl leaning over her. Her long, black hair hung in tangles over her shoulders. A piece of her hair draped through a large gold hoop she wore in her ear. Her face, smeared with dirt, looked tired and worn out. Yet, Sahara guessed her to be no more than fifteen years. “S'hara, you must get up. We are moving.” The girl stepped away from the bed, waiting impatiently for Sahara to arise. Already the other gypsies were tearing apart camp, ready to travel further down the road now that the abaiv ceremony had been performed and the marriage consummated.
Suppressing a yawn, Sahara slowly sat up. As she moved, she felt the tight skin on her side. It burned. Clenching her teeth as she fought the pain, she pulled the quilt around her bare chest. It hardly surprised her that Nicolae was gone. Why should he stick around now, she thought bitterly. “Moving? Where to?”
Indifferently, the girl shrugged. “The next campsite.”
A sigh escaped Sahara's throat. She had fallen asleep a few hours before dawn. But Sahara could tell by the little light that seeped through the canvas that the sun hadn't been given a full chance to rise. Tired and not quite awake, Sahara rubbed her eyes. Looking around the tent, she realized someone had already taken the trunk and chair while she slept. At least they had the decency not to wake me, she thought. “I have no clothes to wear.”
“I brought you some, see?”
The girl handed Sahara a black skirt. Taking it, Sahara examined it carefully. The ankle length, full-bottomed skirt was made from a soft cloth, probably cotton. Sahara stood up, slipping the skirt on in front of the strange gypsy girl. The girl did not notice as she laid a delicate and silky red blouse on the rumpled quilt. When Sahara turned around and saw it, she quickly snatched it up. “My God! This is so...” Shocked, Sahara looked at the girl. “So red! I can't wear this! Only prostitutes wear red!” The girl merely shrugged her shoulders again. Dropping the red blouse back onto the quilt, the gypsy girl turned and left the tent.
Staring at the empty space where the girl had stood, Sahara cursed under her breath. Her eyes moved to the blouse lying beside her. Curiously, Sahara's fingers reached out, stroking the sleek fabric. She had never touched something to luxurious to her fingers. It was soft and sheer, so light to the touch. It breathed air and would keep her cool. But the color! She had never seen any woman wear something of such a vibrant color. After a long minute, Sahara picked the blouse up and held it against her chest. Indecent as it was, Sahara reluctantly slid it over her head, knowing the gypsy girl was not coming back with more fashion options. Besides, she thought, perhaps it would do Nicolae some good to be embarrassed to see his new wife dressed like a whore.
Standing in the shadow of the tent, Sahara looked around at what had been the gypsies' camp only the night before. Most of the tents were already torn down and in the process of being stored in the wagons. The men were naked from the waist up, sweat glistening on their brown backs. The women hurried about, packing their cooking utensils and folding clean clothing, washed in a nearby river the previous day. A couple of the older teenage boys lounged near the horses. One tall boy with several gold earrings in his left ear reached out lazily and scratched a dirty white mare under the mane. When the horse reared, the boy fell backwards. The other boys laughed as he picked himself up from the ground. Wiping the dirt off his pants, the boy spat at his peers.
“You dare laugh at me? A son of the Kuneshti vista?”
One of the smaller boys laughed again. “Locke, you are not a knifer! But I would bet you are from the Khulare vista.”
Again, the boys laughed and turned their backs on the outsider. Sahara watched anxiously as Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. The anger in his face warned Sahara to keep far enough away and not get involved. Without the smaller boy knowing, Locke approached him from behind as the group continued sneering. Sahara held her breath as Locke swung his arm out, slashing at the back of the ridiculer's neck. To the smaller boy's horror, his long, black hair to fall to the ground. He raised his hand to his bare neck.
“Perhaps, Greggor, you will watch who you call a Khulare in the future.” Greggor's friends started forward but stopped abruptly when Locke waved his knife in their faces. He smiled, one of his front teeth missing. “I wouldn't try it. I am more apt with a knife than you are with your hands. You would be wise to remember that.” Walking backwards in a crouched position, Locke continued to swing the knife in front of him protectively until he was far enough away to turn and run for safety. Several of the boys started to follow him, anxious to appear brave although they were truly cowards. Greggor cursed out loud, watching as Locke outdistanced the boys chasing him.
Nervously, Sahara's hand drifted to her neck, fingering the necklace Nicolae had given her as she watched the boys suddenly disperse from their group. Emilian stood in the shadow of one of the few remaining tents, a witness to the entire scene. He looked over to where Sahara stood. Slowly, he approached her. In the daylight, Emilian was twice as handsome as she had suspected. His skin glowed a golden bronze. In the gentle breeze, his wavy black hair brushed against his bare neck. She wondered why he was not wearing any gold like the other gypsy men. He wore leather breeches, quite unlike the trousers of the other gypsy men. The dirty white blouse he wore was damp from sweat. Almost as if he read her mind, Emilian glanced down at Sahara's apparel. “I see they have found you suitable clothing.”
Ignoring his comment, Sahara asked, “When are we leaving?”
“I imagine soon.” His voice, so deep and husky, sent a shiver down her spine. But it was his eyes that frightened her. They were just as dark as her own, his boring deep into her soul. “You are ready to move now, yes?”
Unnerved by his steady gaze, Sahara shrugged her shoulders. “I have nothing to pack but myself.”
Emilian looked around at the busy men, packing the remaining tents. Several people had noticed Emilian's unexpected appearance in the middle of camp. Certainly by now, his brother knew and would be on his way to intervene. “And Nicolae? He is where?”
Her voice was edged with bitterness. “Why would I know?”
Studying the expression on her face, Emilian smiled to himself. “He is your husband, no?”
Sahara's mouth dropped. “You knew? Why didn't you tell me last night?”
“You didn't know?” He seemed equally surprised.
Her anger building, Sahara lifted her chin. “I'm not gypsy, Emilian. Everyone here knows that! What I thought was a simple ceremony to make me accepted by your people was a wedding ceremony. How was I to know? “
“But you are gypsy, Sahara.” His words were direct and strong. “You are…”
“S'hara! I have been looking for you!” Nicolae appeared behind his older brother and walked to Sahara. If he had heard their conversation, he gave no indication. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her away from Emilian. He spoke tenderly to her, his voice soft and kind as he caressed her shoulders underneath the silky red blouse. “You must come with me. The time is nearing when we will leave. I do not want you lost and left behind, my bori.” Gently, he started to lead her away.
The brilliant red blouse had not humiliated Nicolae but his rude behavior caused a blush from embarrassment to color Sahara's cheeks. Shaking her shoulder free from his touch, Sahara angrily reprimanded her husband. “I was talking with Emilian, Nicolae.” She turned around, ready to ask Emilian what his remark about her being gypsy meant. Where Emilian had stood, the ground was empty. She looked around, but he was gone. “Where...?” Confused, she looked up at Nicolae. “I don't understand. He was just there! Why would he have left?”
“Who?”
“Emil
ian. I was talking with Emilian!” Irritated with Nicolae, she clenched her hands into fists, resting them on her hips as she glared at her husband. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. “He said I was gypsy. What did he mean by that, Nicolae?”
“He said that?” Nicolae smiled at her, trying to cover up his own anger. “Emilian is mad, S'hara. He is crazy, yes? You must not listen to him. Ever.”
“He's crazy?” She softened her expression. “Is that why he sleeps in the woods, away from the others?”
“How do you know that?” The tenderness was gone from his voice. Taking her arm, he walked quickly toward the wagons. This time, his hold on her arm was rough. “You must not talk to him, S'hara. He is very, very dangerous.” He was angry, she could sense that. “He will harm you, my bori. Be wary of him.” The silence that followed cautioned Sahara to drop the subject before she roused Nicolae's anger once again.
The gypsies were gathering around the different wagons. The smaller children followed their mothers around, anxiously tugging at their skirts. One mother turned around, slapping her young daughter's face as she scolded her. Sahara watched the little girl start to cry, wondering why the gypsies were so prone to violence. Turning away, she looked up at Nicolae. He ignored the scene, looking around at the activity. The last of the tents came down quickly. The mothers began to hoard their children into the wagons, shutting the doors tightly before walking to the front of the wagons. They awaited their husbands then climbed up onto the front and sat down.
The younger men mounted their steeds. A couple of horses stood alone. Sahara wondered if she was to ride one of the horses. But she did not see the beautiful black stallion. Nor did she see Emilian. As she watched the gypsies getting ready to leave, she caught sight of Locke. He sat on top of a brown mare, apart from the others. He did not look at anyone, just stared at the rising sun. Sahara looked at the other boys his age. She noticed Greggor glare at Locke, his face contorted as he said something to one of his friends. His friend turned to look at Locke then nodded. Greggor's a dangerous one, she thought idly while waiting for Nicolae to give her instructions as to where to go.
The old Rom Baro emerged from his wagon and caught Nicolae's eye. There was a silent exchange between the two men. Sahara noticed that at once. She continued watching. No words were exchanged but, just from that look, the men had communicated their plan and actions. Motioning with his withered hand, the Rom Baro walked toward a horse, a large bay with colorful ribbons tied in its mane. The Rom Baro allowed a younger man to help him mount. The young man stepped aside, staring up at his Rom Baro with aged respect. Sahara watched as the Rom Baro nodded his head at the young man, acknowledging the assistance that was given. There was something stoic about the Rom Baro, despite the fact that he looked weary and aged. She watched as he kicked the horse’s side and move away to assess the caravans’ preparation.
She felt a pressure at her side. It was Nicolae who gently nudged his wife's arm. “Come S'hara. It is time. We must leave.” He led her to a wagon. Touching her elbow, Nicolae glanced at the seat in front of the wagon. “You will ride here, yes?”
“What about you?” She fought his effort to help her onto the wagon.
Nicolae sighed, dropping his hand from her tensed arm. “S'hara, I am future Rom Baro of this kumpania. I ride with the men on horses.”
“Why can't I ride with you?” She wasn't actually keen on spending time with Nicolae but the thought of being without someone she knew frightened her.
Laughing, Nicolae shook his head. “Women do not ride, my innocent bori.” He reached out again to help her climb onto the front seat of the wagon.
“Why ever not?” Her voice rose shrilly as she shook her arm free of his grasp. “I know how to ride just fine, Nicolae. It would be more comfortable than riding in a bumpy wagon.”
Nicolae's smile disappeared. There were people watching and, as she had noticed before, he seemed less inclined to explain things to her when others were around. “I am your husband. You will do as I say! Now get on the wagon before I have to put you there myself!” His hands spread, ready to reach for her waist and make good on his words.
Before he could reply, in words or action, Sahara climbed up the wagon steps, refusing his help. Angrily, she sat down on the hard slab of wood meant for a bench. She ignored the Nicolae’s glare. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, staring straight ahead with a scowl on her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw him walk away to the men holding his mount by the reins. They had been watching and seemed to nod their heads at Nicolae, supporting his harsh treatment of Sahara. She frowned. No wonder he couldn't find a wife among his own people, she thought. No woman in her right mind would willingly wed such a cold hearted, uncaring man.
The gypsy caravan began to move. To Sahara's dismay, an old man climbed next to her on the wagon seat. He wore dirty clothes and smelled musty. He gave her a stiff nod as he picked up the reins and slapped them against the horses' back. The wagon lurched forward, the wheels slowly rotating on the dry grass. Sahara sighed, leaning her head back against the front of the wagon. Her body swayed with each jerky pitch. She could hear the mellow marching of the horses and mules, almost in time. The wagons in front and behind her creaked and groaned, the wood settling and shifting as they moved. Most of the gypsies were quiet, ready to face a long day of travel. Behind Sahara's wagon, the laughter of children could be heard. They sang songs in a different language, some of them clapping their hands, others stomping their feet against the wagon's floorboards. To them, she realized, traveling was just another part of their wayward life.
The campsite had been about a mile from a long, dusty road. Sahara eagerly looked both ways, hoping she would recognize it. But the empty road, surrounded by trees was as strange to her as the gypsies. She had never visited outside of her small town. Rarely left the tavern after her father forced her to quit school. Disappointed, she settled back, wondering how long it would take to get to wherever they were going. Staring straight ahead, she watched the back of the wagon in front of her. Occasionally, she could hear a horse from behind amble a little faster than the rest. After a while, horse and rider passed her, continuing further up the line. She guessed there were twenty wagons in all, some carrying tents for other gypsies and their families.
“Romni!”
Sahara snapped out of her thoughts, turning to look at the old gypsy next to her. His graying hair hung down his back in a loose ponytail. Along his right cheek, a thick scar barely blended in with the rest of his face. Frowning, Sahara decided she didn't like the old gypsy. His squinty brown eyes looked deceitful. “Take da reins fer `while. I want ta rest.” His voice was thick with an accent. Sahara wondered if he was originally from Europe but she was too stubborn to ask. He thrust the reins at her, ignoring her pleas as he stood up, opening a large window to the wagon that Sahara had failed to notice. He crawled into the wagon, shutting the window carefully behind himself. She could hear him moving around inside, moving something heavy off the mattress and onto the floor. Then he was silent.
Bewildered, Sahara held the reins carelessly in her hands. The horses pulled on the bits, glad for the slack. Sahara held her breath, wondering what was going to happen. Would the horses run, knowing an inexperienced person was driving them, she wondered fearfully. Would they head off the dusty road, perhaps breaking a wheel, holding the rest of the caravan up and certainly sparking Nicolae's temper? To her relief, the horses continued walking without much guidance. She tightened the reigns a little, slowly getting use to the pulling. Her hands jumped around in time to their walking. But as they walked on, she relaxed. The horses kept moving and Sahara continued staring straight ahead at the wagon in front of her.
The old man rested in the back of the wagon until the sun rose high in the sky. Sahara guessed it was twelve o'clock. Her back ached and her arms were sore. She felt blisters on her hands and fought back the tears from the pain. Although the road had curved through the patches of trees, the horses obediently
followed the wagon ahead, needing little navigation from Sahara. Once, a large hill had threatened her lack of driving knowledge. But the team struggled up the hill without her help. The trees slowly vanished as the road opened into a wide, grassy plain. The sun beat down on her, causing beads of sweat to appear on her forehead. Holding both reins with her one hand, she wiped the sweat away and lifting her hair off the back of her neck. She almost wished she had a bonnet to keep the rays of sun off her face. Before long, she thought, I'll be as brown as the gypsies. Her stomach growled. Tired, hungry, and irritated, she banged on the door with her elbow. At first, there was no response. Angrily, she banged on it again, causing it to fly open.
“My arms are killing me.” She could hear him grumbling as he got out of bed. Certainly, she thought, it's hotter in there than out here. After several long minutes, the old man emerged and sat next to her. Taking the reins away, he cast her a dirty look. Sahara rubbed her aching arms, glaring back at him. “Don't complain,” she snapped. “I let you sleep for several hours!”
He was ready to snap back at her. But no words came from his throat. Finally, he smiled. His eyes misted over as he stared at her, one eye on the road. A laugh escaped his wrinkled throat and he nodded to himself. “Spirited lass, yes? Gist like anudder I once know.”
Ill-tempered from sitting for so long, Sahara's temper flared at his words. “What is that suppose to mean?”
The man kept smiling, staring straight ahead as he drove the horses on. “Gist like anudder...” His voice trailed off and he refused to speak for the rest of the afternoon.
“You will do as I say,” the man commanded her. He blocked her exit from the wagon. She had been sleeping when he barged in, not even bothering to announce himself or give her a moment to awake. He had made his demand before she had rubbed the sleep from her eyes. His loud voice had woken the baby who now cried from where she slept on a pile of rough, scratchy blankets.
