by Ann Treacy
To make matters worse, with Pa gone to work at the lumber camps, Martin had no horse. He missed Finn and Marshall, his father’s workhorses, and also the light team they had owned before Dan’s accident. If they still had them, he could ride to school like the other boys. Martin ate lunch alone and walked home alone. Since they had no way to get to town, their food supply had dwindled, and he had nothing but boiled potatoes and hardtack in his lunch pail.
On a typically cold but sunny morning in late March, Miss Abrams finally rang the lunch bell. As usual, the boys scrambled out to eat where their horses were hitched. Frank Barker, Dale’s brother, punched Martin from behind and said, “Think you’re smart knowing all the answers, city boy?”
Martin wanted to hit him back, but it was better not to call attention to himself. He pretended to go to the privy, then slipped away and made for the deep lake at the back of the Perrys’ side forty.
Hang school. He would spend the day fishing and damn the consequences. Who would find out anyway? Or care?
In his pocket he carried a cork with a hook stuck in it and line wrapped around, just as he and his friends had done in Stillwater. Near the rock dump at the edge of the field, he stopped to pry up several large stones. He scoured the exposed earth until he found pale grub worms, their little legs working, some moist fat slugs, and one june bug. Years of living with Aunt Ida had convinced him that june bugs brought good luck. Whenever a june bug made its way inside she’d say, “You daresn’t kill one,” and then ceremoniously sweep it out to the garden. Martin grabbed the hard-shelled beetle that was the size of a pecan and thrust the spoils into his jacket pocket.
At the lake he lanced the wiggly june bug onto his hook with the same care his mother took threading a needle. Next he attached the line to a stick. Deeper water was best for fishing, and the only way to get out over it was to carefully walk along the trunk of an oak that had fallen into the lake. He settled against the largest branch, which pointed straight up from the horizontal trunk, and lowered the madly dancing june bug into the water.
It didn’t take long to get results. Waving the plump insect over fish was like calling field hands to a threshers’ breakfast. Martin stood half upright against the branch, working the line, letting it play. He stared hard at the water, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sun’s reflection so he could see underneath the surface.
A cloud passing screened the sun’s glare. He saw two things move at the same time: a large gray fish and black grass waving farther out under the trunk in deeper water. He trained his gaze on the spot while his hands wrapped the line several times around a branch. He spider-walked his way farther up the sloping tree trunk until he looked directly down at the curious, undulating black mass.
Martin firmly grabbed two branches and lowered his face close to the water’s cold surface. He saw an arm and hand at the same instant that he recognized it was hair, not grass, floating deep beneath the surface of the lake.
Human hair. There was a body down there. A dead body. His grip slipped. One foot shot down for support but plunged into the water. He clambered back up, scraping his hands and ripping his jacket sleeve as he scratched and hugged the tree trunk.
He considered what to do. Town was miles away. He could go and tell Mr. Perry. But Pa said Mr. Perry’s health was ailing, and what could Mr. Perry do anyway? Martin let go with one hand and sculled the water in an effort to clearly see the face.
The head faced downward so he couldn’t make out features. He hadn’t heard anyone was missing, but his family had no way to get to town.
Sooner or later, someone had to pull out the body. Martin figured it might as well be him. Was there even a county sheriff here—or any law? He yanked off his shoes and jacket, tied them in a tight bundle using the sleeves, then hurled it to shore. With one hand he swung out and lowered his legs half into the water. He caught his breath with the initial cold shock, released the branch, and let himself drop the rest of the way.
The full jolt of the icy water petrified his muscles. Martin dragged himself to the surface to refill his lungs, then dove downward with his arms. He could see well underwater. Back home, he, Chet, and Stan had often thrown things to the bottom of the St. Croix River, then raced each other to retrieve them.
He explored the silent reedy bottom until he came face-to-face with the large, unblinking brown eyes of a boy who appeared to have several sticks in his mouth. Martin knew people sometimes died with their eyes open. He knew firsthand. Probably that was the case in drowning, too. He grabbed one of the corpse’s elbows.
Bubbles spewed from the dead boy’s mouth just as an arm released a submerged branch and swung toward Martin.
What! Martin heard himself gasp despite being underwater.
The dislodged body grabbed at him. Martin lurched back and fought upward. Cold swallowed water burned down his core. He sucked air and swam to the safety of the fallen tree’s branches. Then he twisted around.
A head bobbed up. Teeth flashed in the sun. Arms windmilled. The head went under.
Martin spat icy water and hooked an arm into the branch to rest from the shock.
Again the head churned to the surface. “Ga!”
Why the hell would a person be play-drowning out—
The flying arms brought the boy up, farther out this time.
Look at him. How’d he know I’d come along anyway?
Thrashing. A weak “Help.”
Fool me once. He’s half fish to hold his breath underwater so long.
Twenty feet away the churning slowed.
Maybe he wasn’t fooling now. Martin pushed off the tree trunk, sliced across the water, and grabbed a fistful of hair. With one hand he dragged the impostor back to the tree.
“Hey!” He pulled the face up by the fistful of hair.
Still the boy played dead.
“Cut it out!” Martin’s toes found an underwater branch for support, freeing his other hand. “You.” He slapped the boy’s face.
Nothing.
“Knock it off!” With energy fueled by the Barkers’ teasing and anger over losing his friends, home, and brother all merging into hatred, he pulled back and punched the boy. Hot tears mixed with icy water on Martin’s cheeks. He clutched a fistful of shirt. “Hey! What were you doing?”
The boy’s head lolled. He gagged, opened his eyes, closed them, and vomited.
“You crazy?” Martin coughed and shivered. The false spring sunshine failed to warm him as he pulled up on the tree.
The boy didn’t follow. His skin had been brown but now it looked gray. Both of his hands were white from clutching branches. Martin heaved him up and saw he wore only a shirt and woolen underwear, cut off at the knees. “I thought you were dead under there.”
The boy lay across the trunk, his mouth still dripping water. He appeared shorter than Martin but it was hard to tell with him rolled over the log. He was bigger around, and even his back seemed pudgy, all cinched in by the top of his underwear. He turned his head. “I am thankful you.”
“What?”
“I am thankful you. I am Samson. Sam.”
Water dripped from the boy’s several chins. He had long hair, so black it looked blue. Martin had never known anyone named Samson and blurted, “Like in the Bible?”
Samson shrugged. “Who are you?”
“Martin Gunnarsson. Who are you? I haven’t seen you at school.”
“I don’t go.” The boy looked away. “We are new here.”
Martin jerked a thumb at the lake. “What were you doing down there?”
“Practicing my magic.” Samson sat up and started crawling down the tree toward shore. He grabbed a hidden bundle of clothes and dressed as quickly as frozen hands allowed. “It is an Indian trick. I climb down the branches. I stay under by breathing through reeds. I can’t swim. I’m sorry I scare you.”
“I’m sorry I hit you.” At least the boy had dry pants to put on. Martin was in a fine fix: he was freezing, his clothes were soaked, and h
e couldn’t return home until school was out. “Where do you live?”
The boy pointed across the lake. “Over there in the meadow.”
Martin had passed the meadow where traveling preachers held revival meetings. There were no homes there. The boy was pulling on bright pants and an odd jacket. Instead of a belt he tied a sash at his waist. All at once Martin knew. Gypsy.
Samson motioned. “Come with me. Dry your clothes.”
Trembling, Martin crossed his dripping arms. His jaw hurt from shivering uncontrollably. The homestead was much farther away than the meadow.
His delay caused the boy to look hurt. “I go now.”
Martin blew on his hands. He thought of the hook and line far out on the tree but was too stiff to climb out and retrieve them. Was it possible to die from being this cold and wet? He grabbed his city shoes and followed Samson.
Chapter 3
Martin and Sam hurried out of the dark forest into the clearing. Caravans of various colors and styles were scattered around the meadow. Martin couldn’t take his eyes off the well-groomed horses. He was so fascinated by his surroundings that he forgot to be afraid of this forbidden place. Aunt Ida would boil him in the laundry cauldron if she knew where he was.
At first he didn’t notice that Samson was walking him around the camp, not through it.
Samson knocked on the door of a green and orange wagon and motioned Martin to follow him inside. Martin had anticipated darkness, but the wagon was parked to catch the sun through its one generous window. Samson rummaged in a drawer. Handing clothes to Martin he stepped back through the wagon’s door. “Put these on and throw your clothes out to me.”
Left alone, Martin studied the cozy traveling home. Everything was, as Aunt Ida would say, “spit spot,” although some things were smaller than Martin considered usual, like the pallet beds. The room was uncluttered; he’d seen many things stored on the ground under the wagon.
He changed into pants that were huge and a shirt that bloused generously. As he lifted his head from tucking in the shirt, he realized someone had been watching through a slat in the shutter. He heard a commotion outdoors.
Samson was arguing with a beautiful girl. Their language was odd but that they were disagreeing was unmistakable. He stopped yelling and gestured to the girl when Martin approached. “This is Ruby, my cousin. We live here with our grandmother.”
Martin was surprised that Ruby had green eyes. Her hair was less dark than her cousin’s, and she was taller. She wore a loosely gathered skirt and emerald blouse that was not tucked in. Over both was knotted a crimson sash. Martin felt himself redden as he wondered what Gypsy women wore under their clothes. She looked round and soft, not hard and tight like corseted women.
“Why did you bring him here?” she asked in English but added something for emphasis in words Martin couldn’t understand. One word sounded like gorgeous.
Samson didn’t answer her and motioned Martin to follow. As Samson led him through the camp, Martin felt the prick of eyes on him. A black wire was stretched between trees at the forest’s edge. There the boy hung Martin’s clothes to dry. “They dry faster near fire, but then you smell of smoke and people ask why no school today.”
The boys sat on a bench away from the collection of wagons.
“My baba—I think you say ‘grandmother’—will be back soon,” Samson said, kicking at the dirt. “I should not have brought you here.”
“Why not?”
“My people don’t like it. We live among the gorgios, but we don’t bring outsiders into camp. We are Roma people. You call us Gypsies. We keep to ourselves.”
Martin remembered Aunt Ida referring to Gypsies as heathen Egyptians. “Are you people Egyptian?”
Samson shook his head. “We got that name long ago. Folks thought we started out in Egypt.”
“What does gorgeous mean?”
“Gorgios. Non-Gypsies. Like you.”
“Where is your grandmother?”
“In town. For Gypsies, men do the work with horses and such, but women earn the money. Grandmother sells her sewing and charms and also tells fortunes.”
“Fortunes? Like reading palms?”
Samson nodded. “Like that. She does the palms because people expect it, but Grandmother has the sight.”
“The what?” Martin asked.
“Second sight. She just knows about people. All people. Always.”
Martin couldn’t believe he was in the midst of a true Gypsy encampment, discussing soothsayers. Doubt must have shown on his face because Samson continued.
“You don’t believe.” Samson searched for words with his hands. “I want choose a different life. These are my people, but I don’t fit here. Everywhere we go I study people. You have one place, go to school, have real home. My life? I am called thief.”
Martin thought of Aunt Ida and was embarrassed. “Let me tell you—living on a farm isn’t that great. We just moved here from the town I grew up in. My parents are broke.” He held his hands flat and shook them. “No money.” He didn’t mention Dan and the fancy funeral. “They spent everything trying to get back the homestead my pa was born on. So now there’s no money to even buy me a horse.”
“Where do you want live?”
“I want to go back home, to Stillwater. I’m counting on it.”
“We live always on other people’s property. We’re chased out and made fun of. I would like farm. To me, land is many hope.” He looked uncertain about what he’d said, then tried again. “Land is hopes.” Samson broke off a fat blade of grass, clasped it between his thumbs, and placed his mouth over his hands. Blowing produced a loud, shrill call, which was immediately answered by a blackbird, then two. If he blew twice, the birds responded twice; if he blasted once, they answered with one long call.
“That’s amazing,” Martin said.
“Just one of my tricks.” The boy beamed. “I love magic.”
No longer getting an answer, the large birds called more loudly from the tall pines behind the boys. It was deafening.
“Not songbirds,” Samson grimaced, dropping the blade of grass.
“Horrible scavengers and thieves.” It occurred to Martin that Samson might think he was referring to Gypsies, so he rushed on, “My pa says they’ve ruined many a farmer, taking over corn and oat fields and diving at people like they’d peck your eyes out.”
“Good eating though,” Samson said. Martin tried to not look shocked. After an awkward silence Samson held his hand up, palm out to show it was empty. Then he reached behind Martin’s ear and pulled out a coin. He handed over the buffalo nickel.
“How’d you do that?”
“My magic.”
An older woman approached. Her beautiful gray hair was wound in loops at the back of her head in a way different from the Swedish braids Martin was accustomed to seeing. Her body looked old, lumpy, and stoop shouldered, but she still had a smooth face and young eyes.
She grinned at Samson and hugged him. They exchanged many words in their own tongue. Samson gestured at his clothes, which fit Martin generously, and to Martin’s own clothes drying on the wire. Then Samson’s grandmother turned and walked to Martin, picked up his hands in hers, and said in a heavily accented voice, “Thanks you to help my Samson from lake.”
“It really wasn’t necessary, ma’am.” After all, Sam hadn’t been drowning until he came along.
“Is the intention that matters—this I see.” She squeezed Martin’s hands. “Come. You eat.”
Grandmother led them back into her wagon where she explained through Samson that she would set a small table inside for their lunch. Martin appreciated the chance to escape the probing eyes outside that watched his every movement. But inside was Ruby. Her set lip. Her constant staring at him. Her refusal to speak when he thanked her for setting a dish before them. She spoke only to the older woman, and although Martin didn’t understand one word, the meaning was clear. Grandmother went about her tasks, replying calmly, “Is friend, is f
riend.”
Chapter 4
Martin couldn’t help but wish Pa could see this fine collection of horseflesh up close. He left in the late afternoon with dry clothes and a full belly. Samson’s grandmother had done an odd thing when Martin said good-bye. She took his hands again and said, “I see you need help someday. We help you.”
“She’s just like that,” Samson tried to explain as he walked with Martin back toward the lake. “Sometimes she tells people what she sees.”
“She never turned my hands over to look at my palms,” Martin said.
“She just knows; it’s the second sight.” Samson might long for a different life, but his trust in his grandmother’s abilities was genuine.
Martin felt relief when Samson turned down an invitation to come to the farm and meet his family. The boy’s eyes widened in fright. “I cannot go to your home.”
“Not today, or they’d know I skipped school.” Martin added half-heartedly, “But . . . maybe . . . another day.”
“Not this day or any other.” Samson shook his head. “I know where is school. I watch for you in the afternoons.” He tugged a leather thong out from the neck of his shirt. “You I am giving this.”
Martin held out his hand for the reverently offered necklace. It was tied around a small but perfect wooden horse.
“My grandfather cut it.”
“He carved it.” Martin offered it back. “I can’t take this.” Likely Samson’s grandfather was dead if he and his cousin lived only with their grandmother. This might be his only keepsake.
The boy’s face clouded over just as it had earlier when Martin had tried politely to claim he wasn’t hungry. He sensed he had to accept, that he would be violating a code of manners if he didn’t. “Thank you very much. I carve too. It’s very special.”
Since he wasn’t hungry Martin went straight to the barn. Not that it was possible to discuss school problems with Ma or Aunt Ida anyway. He missed his friends. He missed Stan’s mother who always talked to the boys as she fed them pie or biscuits with jam and who had told Martin many times, “You’re family.” He knew he could live with them in Stillwater, if only he and Pa could get this farm paying in one season.
