Jingo Django

by Sid Fleischman

  “I would like you to tell me what has happened,” I answered.

  “The Grasshopper? What is there to tell? He left.”

  “But why?” I asked desperately.

  “We are gypsies, Django. We don’t ask questions.”

  “You don’t answer them, either,” I declared sharply.

  He laughed, showing me his gold teeth again. “You are safe with us. We will turn you into a fine romany chal — a gypsy lad, eh? Come and eat.”

  By this time others of the tribe had gathered around, gazing curiously at a gypsy who could not speak their puro jib. They appeared friendly enough, but I was in no temper to make friends. I felt fiercely wounded. A scaresome thought went streaking through my mind. What if Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had sold me to these gypsies? I’d heard of such things.

  I turned from the pack of them. I’d find out soon enough where I stood. I untied my hammock and rolled it up tight and slung it over my shoulder.

  Tornapo opened his hands in a gesture of deep regret. “You will not even share a meal with us?”

  “I’m clearing out,” I said.

  “But where will you go?”

  I glared at him. “I thought you said gypsies didn’t ask questions.” Then I held my breath and started walking through them. I didn’t expect to get very far. They murmured in their puro jib, but no one made the slightest move to stop me. By the time I reached the road I was so surprised I almost turned back. They didn’t mean to keep me if I didn’t want to stay.

  “Look for Chawhoktamengro’s signs in the road!” Tornapo shouted. “Avali! Yes! You will find him.”

  I turned and gazed at them among the pecan trees. I think I was mortally close to tears. “I won’t be looking for him!” I shouted back. I had been buffle-brained to think I had a proper friend in Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. He had abandoned me in a burnt hurry, like my pa.

  Tornapo gave me a sad shrug and a final shout. “Kushto bah, chavo! Good luck, boy!”

  I turned away and headed south along the river. I would know better than to trust anyone again. Well, I had the pin. I’d go after that posthole treasure myself.

  15

  THE PIN

  I walked all morning long. The road was infernally hot and dusty and I stopped now and again to cool off my feet in the river. I was hungry.

  Well, I’d been hungry before. And I’d been on my own before. I calculated I’d make out somehow, but I knew it was a dreadful long way to Mexico.

  Of course, I saw the coach’s fresh wheel tracks in the dust. At first they riled me, but the longer I walked the less I cared a hoot about Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. He’d gone his way and I’d go mine, and it would be first rate if our paths never crossed again. First rate and a half. He might at least have told me good-bye, I thought, instead of sneaking off like a thief.

  I was trying to find some wild berries to eat when I heard goats and saw the gypsy caravan along the road. I had to admit those tall wagons looked grand, carved like palaces and every inch painted blue or green or yellow or red. Even the wheels. I recognized Tornapo driving the first wagon, with a stovepipe sticking up through the roof, and he gave me a wave.

  “Sar shan?” he called. “How are you, eh?”

  I turned away without answering. I wasn’t finding any berries, but I pretended I was and after a while the caravan passed me by.

  I watched it disappear in its own dust, leaving me behind. I had never felt so desperately alone. I stood there telling myself that I was a gypsy too, even if I couldn’t speak the puro jib, and I wished Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had sold me to Tornapo and his tribe. At least I’d be sitting in one of those fine carved wagons instead of standing in the dust. And I wouldn’t be hungry.

  I gave up trying to find berries and plodded on down the road. Maybe I’d come to another stand of wild pecan trees. If I hadn’t been so high-headed in the morning I might have at least stuffed my pockets with nuts.

  The afternoon wore on, still and hot and buzzing with flies. And then I thought of all the fish in the river and stopped short. Wasn’t my hammock fishnet? And wasn’t I the greatest muddle-head you ever saw?

  I slipped to the water’s edge and unrolled the hammock and waded out up to my knees. I gave the net a hurl and watched it settle on the water like a cobweb. It sank slowly and I waited a while, and then hauled it in.

  I must have done that a dozen times before I decided there was more to fishing with a net than met the eye. For a moment I considered making a fishhook out of the pin snugged in my pocket. I was hungry enough to try, but not that muddle-headed. No, sir!

  I threw out the net again and caught a fish.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. It flipped and flapped about like a mirror in the sunlight and I wasted no time hauling it in. I caught it under the gills and reckoned I had a three-pounder, at least!

  I hurried back up the bank to look for some shade and to build a fire. I was so excited I put together some dry sticks before I realized I had no matches.

  I stared at those sticks and I stared at that fish. I would have eaten it raw, but couldn’t bring myself to take the first bite.

  I rolled up my hammock again, caught the fish under the gills again and started along the road again. I might come to a farmhouse or meet another traveler able to strike fire for me.

  But that stretch of road might as well have had a curse on it. I appeared to be the only traveler out in the heat of the day.

  There was nothing to do but keep walking. That fish of mine seemed to grow heavier by the mile. The sun was lowering when I thought I heard fiddle music up ahead. I began to run.

  The tune grew louder. I was sure now that I would come upon a village or a farmhouse around the bend in the road. But no, sir! I found the gypsy caravan camped in a shimmering thicket of willow trees, and I saw Tornapo sitting on a stump and scraping away on a fiddle.

  I stopped short. My pride rose up and I wanted to walk past them. But I couldn’t. My stomach felt monstrous empty. I was road weary and dispirited. I took a deep breath, swallowing my pride, and marched into their camp.

  Tornapo lowered his fiddle and the others looked up from their chores.

  “Sar shan?” I said. “Hello.”

  Tornapo’s face lit up. “What have you got there, chavo?”

  “A fish. It must be a three-pounder at least. I thought you folks might be hungry.”

  He wasn’t fooled. He laughed, brushing his great moustaches to either side. “Didn’t Bibi Mizella — there with the goats — read signs and say a fine three-pound fish would leap into our stewpot, eh? Can anyone dukker the future like Aunt Mizella, I ask you? And wasn’t I just getting up to make a fire ready?”

  “No hurry,” I lied.

  “But can’t you see? Tornapo is hungry!” He got to his feet and called to the old gypsy woman. “Bibi! Fetch us that goat’s milk, eh? Sacki! Wild grapes to peck at while this kushto fish is cooking. And a few nuts to crack, eh, little Matchka?”

  Food came my way from all sides while Tornapo returned to his wagon. It was all I could do to keep from stuffing my mouth. But I held back.

  “Eat!” Bibi Mizella said, raising her hands to her hips and looking me over. “I have seen fatter scarecrows.”

  “Maybe a grape,” I answered, plucking one from the bunch.

  But it was no use pretending. They knew I hadn’t eaten all day. I stuffed my mouth and finished off a cup of goat’s milk. Then they smiled and chattered among themselves and I felt I had been welcomed into the tribe.

  Tornapo returned from his wagon with a reading glass, cocked an eye at the sun and set to work.

  “You like my vardo, eh?” he asked, scraping dry leaves together.

  “Your what, sir?” I muttered, crushing a whole mouthful of grapes.

  “My wagon.” He pointed a finger at a boy with a checked handkerchief tied around his neck. “Sacki, why do you stand there like a stork, eh? Haven’t you ever seen a gypsy before? Take Django’s fish and clean it,
eh?”

  Then Tornapo began focusing the sun on the leaves.

  Meanwhile, gesturing with his free hand, he began introducing me to his clan, and the air was full of sar shans.

  “Sar shan, Matchka?” I answered. She was about ten years old with two black braids hanging down her back. “Sar shan, Artaros? Sar shan, Orlenda?” I tried to fix names in my head, but soon lost track.

  The pinpoint of sunlight through the glass soon raised smoke among the leaves. Tornapo fanned the spot gently until flames started up and before long he had a cook fire going. He pounded an iron hook into the ground, Bibi Mizella hung a stewpot on it and my fish went into the stew.

  It was a grand feast. But by the time everyone sat around the fire I was so full of goat’s milk and nuts and wild grapes that I had almost lost interest in the stew.

  Everyone praised my fish. It was just what the pot needed, Tornapo insisted. I knew they could get along fine without me, but I was glad to have done a share. I hadn’t come into their camp like a beggar.

  They had seven horses and Sacki told me the men were all horse traders, and he would grow up to be a horse trader, too.

  When the meal was finished Tornapo said, “Listen! Am I not the best fiddler traveling the roads, eh? Django! Go to my vardo and bring my fiddle.”

  I got up. The sun had finally set, but it was a glowing, lingering dusk. I was curious to look inside a gypsy wagon and it wouldn’t surprise me if Tornapo had read my mind.

  I walked up the steps and opened the half door. I entered a snug room as gaily carved and painted as the outside. There was a wood stove on the left and clothes hanging up and a bunk across the back with the violin propped against the corner.

  I started for it when I saw Tornapo’s reading glass hanging from a hook on the wall.

  I took it down and fingered the pin out of my pocket and bent toward the fading light at a window. I meant to examine my treasure map at last.

  I held the glass almost to my eye and brought the pin-head into sharp focus.

  It was blank.

  16

  THE FETCHING STICK

  Gypsies clapped hands to Tornapo’s fiddle and a woman in a yellow skirt began to dance around the campfire. I sat in the shadows, wrathy and dejected.

  I cussed myself for a fool. There never was a map engraved on the head of the pin. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had lied to me.

  He had been up to some devilish mischief all along. It wouldn’t surprise me now if he had planned to sniggle that treasure for himself. He might have cut and run for New Orleans, hoping to throw in with Mrs. Daggatt and General Dirty-Face Jim Scurlock. They had the whale’s tooth. All I had to cipher the treasure spot was a worthless pin.

  I bent it between my fingers and tossed it away into the leaves.

  No wonder he had palmed me off on the gypsies, I told myself. Oh, he was a thumping rogue, with his string of traveling names and his uncommon tricksy ways. I was well shed of him.

  After a while I could feel a pair of eyes on me. I looked up and saw the boy with the bright cloth knotted around his neck. Sacki.

  His lips parted in a hesitant smile. He edged closer and finally sat beside me. He was silent a long time. Then he took out a painted stick with stout twine wrapped around it. “You want my kidda-kosh?” he asked, offering it to me.

  “What?”

  “My fetching stick. Watch.” He unwrapped the twine and then flicked it toward an empty berry basket standing a few feet away. The blob of lead at the tip of the twine whipped itself around the handle and he jerked the basket to our feet.

  “I have caught rabbits with my kidda-kosh,” he said. “My old granddad taught me how. You want to try it?”

  It looked easy enough. But I whipped that kidda-kosh again and again without fetching anything. He never once laughed at me.

  “It takes practice,” he said solemnly.

  I nodded and offered it back.

  But he threw up his hands and smiled again. “No. From me, Sacki.”

  “You’ll need it yourself, more’n likely,” I said.

  “I can make myself another one. Keep it.”

  I looked at the stick, carved and painted bright gypsy colors like the wagons. I could tell he valued it. But finally I cleared my throat and told him I was obliged.

  His smile widened. “You like it here with us?”

  I gazed at the gypsies clapping to the fiddle and at the high wagons reflecting the firelight. I nodded.

  “You want Bibi Mizella to fix a ring in your ear?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “I don’t fancy myself with a ring in my ear.”

  “But you are a romany. A gypsy. Tornapo said so. See, I have a fine gold ring in my ear. Doesn’t it shine even here in the dark?”

  I didn’t say anything. I remembered the large gold rings dangling from my mother’s ears.

  “Ah, you miss your friend,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  “He’s not my friend,” I answered sharply, and flicked out the kìdda-kosh.

  He nodded with quick understanding. “Tornapo says he’s a gorgio.”

  I stared at him. “What’s a gorgio?”

  “An outsider. No gypsy blood. A gorgio cannot be trusted. All the traveling people know that.” Then he took the fetching stick from my hand and picked up a fallen twig off the ground, to show me again how it was done.

  Suddenly, as if I had been struck deaf, there wasn’t a sound around the gypsy fire. Tornapo’s fiddle stopped short, clapping hands froze in midair and the dancers began fading back into the shadows.

  Three creatures loomed up, glowering at us, with muskets cradled in their arms.

  They were great, hairy men, and in the firelight their round faces glowed like pumpkins.

  Finally, one of them spoke up, after they all took a moment to spit tobacco juice.

  “Any of you chicken thieves talk English?”

  Tornapo got to his feet, and he was as big as any of them. “We are not chicken thieves, sir gentlemen.”

  “You’re gypsy-people ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re chicken thieves.” He spit again. “Clear out.”

  I thought certain we were in for a fight. Didn’t Tornapo say that he could straighten a horseshoe with his bare hands? But he only smiled as if they were making polite conversation. “Now, sir gentlemen, you can see that we are not bothering anyone.”

  “You’re a-botherin’ us.”

  “But even birds of passage must stop to rest.”

  “Not in our neck of the woods, you ain’t,” the man said. “Ain’t none of you foreigners goin’ to neighbor up to us. Now git!”

  I was surprised to see that the gypsies had already begun to hitch up their wagons. It appeared nothing uncommon for them to be ordered to move on. But it was uncommon to me, and my blood began to simmer. Even Sacki was gone from my side, busy in the shadows of his wagon.

  “As you wish,” Tornapo said, unruffled. “As you wish, sir gentlemen.”

  It didn’t take five minutes before the wagons and the goats and the horses were moving out. I felt riled, but powerless. Then Tornapo came by, driving his vardo, and yanked me up by the arm to the seat beside him.

  “Keep silent, chavo,” he whispered.

  “But they had no right!” I protested.

  He shrugged.

  I looked at his bare, blacksmith’s arms and felt sorely disappointed in him. “You could have knocked their heads together, couldn’t you?”

  “Avali. Yes. And sent them running with their muskets wrapped around their necks. But why bother? We don’t fight over a patch of ground. We leave that to the gorgies. The world is wide, eh, Django? There is always another patch of ground.”

  I could hear the three men laughing at us. Finally I said, “I’ll never trust a gorgio again.”

  Tornapo looked at me and didn’t seem pleased by my remark. “Listen to me, chavo. Some gorgies are w
orse than others. Some are better. Don’t put them into the same pot.”

  We reached the road and I fell silent. It appeared to me that gypsies were not much different from orphans. No one really wanted them about, and they had to make their way as best they could.

  For the first time I began to feel like a gypsy through and through. I didn’t want a ring in my ear, but I did admire the bright silken cloths Sacki and Tornapo and the other men wore about their necks.

  “Ah, you mean a diklo,” Tornapo said. “Look inside the wagon. Behind the door. Choose any color you want. It doesn’t matter. I have only green ones.”

  I returned with a green diklo knotted around my neck, and Tornapo nodded. “Don’t you look like a real romany-chal now, eh, Django?” I nodded and he laughed. “You would like to travel the roads with us? You have other plans?”

  “No,” I muttered.

  “Mishto!” he said. “Then it is settled.”

  I had already noticed that we had turned north up the road, back toward Natchez. Well, it didn’t matter to me. One direction was as good as another.

  But we hadn’t gone more than a mile when Tornapo halted the caravan. He ordered it about and we retraced our steps.

  We were soon camped again. Under the same willow trees we had left an hour before. “Will those sir gentlemen think to find us here?” Tornapo laughed quietly. “Kek! No!”

  I looked about and smiled. Tornapo had his pride and meant to camp where he pleased. And those sir gentlemen be hanged!

  17

  THE HORSE TRADE

  Dawn was hardly aglow through the trees when we took to the road again and headed south. I sat on the wagon beside Tornapo and practiced whipping out the kidda-kosh. I aimed at everything loose beside the road, and once succeeded in fetching a broken gourd.

  “Bravo!” Tornapo roared.

  “I reckon I’m getting the hang of it,” I said.

  Then my eye caught a freshly broken willow stick poked in the ground. I was about to try for it when I stopped short. I recognized it for what it was — one of Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’s markers.

  I’m sure Tornapo saw it, too, but you’d never guess from his face.