Those dark eyes watched the fox sneak underneath the arching, gnarled root of a giant oak, watched it settle into the coolness of its shallow den, hidden by underbrush. They watched the red-tailed hawk float quietly into a canopy of trees, an ocean of green where it nested somewhere off in the heart of the Blue Forest.
“They have their prey,” a deep, sweetly nauseous voice hissed from a forked tongue through poisoned teeth, “now it’s my turn.”
A shadow fell upon those eyes. Thin, knobby-knuckled fingers pulled the cowl of a heavy, gray cloak down over a thin, shallow-cheeked face. A dark form, a black ghost no more than a wisp of dust or a strand of smoke, floated silently through the forest, under low hanging branches and over brush and leaf. It followed the train from a distance, watching its prey, studying them, planning. Two more shadows followed the first, and then others until a dozen or more ghosts slipped through the Blue Forest, under cover of thick oak and elm and sycamore branches. Animals—prey and predator—remained quiet, totally silent, as these specters passed.
Chapter 11
THE JERKING HALT OF THE wagon awoke Befel, and he pulled his blanket tightly around his shoulders as he sat up. As other carriages stopped and sheep bleated, it reminded Befel of home. Then pigs snorted, and it reminded him of Venton. Both made him cringe. He stretched and then slid off the back of the wagon, sidestepping to avoid several children as they ran and played.
“They’re probably happier than I am to stretch their legs,” Befel mused with a smile.
He looked about the caravan, a small smattering of people from diverse backgrounds and, yet, as segregated as any city, each group of people clumped together in different areas of the camp, including miners traveling to Aga Kona.
“I wonder if I should be over there with them,” Befel muttered to himself.
“Finally awake, eh?”
Befel turned to see Bo. The yellow vest the gypsy wore was a stark contrast to his almost black curly hair and thick, dark beard.
“I’m sorry I overslept,” Befel said, yawning away sleep.
“What is there to do?” Bo asked. “Go back to sleep if you wish. We are only stopping for a stretch. The little ones can go stir crazy, being cramped for so long.”
Befel nodded with a smile. He remembered his two little sisters when they took the day-long trip to Bull’s Run as a family, how stir-crazy they would get.
“You know, I didn’t see it before, but you could be your brother’s twin,” Bo said with a smile.
“More like he looks like me,” Befel muttered.
“Ah, yes.” Bo laughed and slapped Befel on the shoulder. “The plight of an elder brother. Always compared to his little brother. You came first after all, eh?”
Bo bent down and picked up a good-sized piece of a dry and broken branch and inspected it before he drew a small knife from his belt and began whittling at the wood.
“Do you do any woodworking?” Bo asked.
“No, not really,” Befel replied, shaking his head.
“I suppose you wouldn’t really have time, being a farmer and all,” Bo replied.
“How did you know I was a farmer?” Befel asked suspiciously.
“Maybe I read your mind.” Bo’s face seemed to darken, but then he laughed again. “Or maybe your brother told me.”
“Damn Erik, always telling people our business,” Befel muttered.
“There’s little to do but talk when you’re traveling at night,” Bo replied. “It’s no matter. I care not for where you come from, nor do I care much for where you’re going—although, from what Erik said, you haven’t quite figured out where you’re going.”
“Erik has a big mouth,” Befel said. “I’ve figured out where I’m going. It’s the others that haven’t.”
Bo shrugged.
“Stop pestering the boy.” The woman’s voice cut Bo off.
“Ah, my boy, if you want to meet a gypsy that can read minds and charm people,” Bo said with a smile, sweeping an arm out wide toward a short woman with thick, dark ringlets in her hair, “meet my wife, Dika. Why do you think I married her?”
To that, the woman punched Bo in the shoulder.
Now that’s a punch any farmwife would be proud of, Befel thought. Bo grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it vigorously where she struck him.
“Dika, that hurts,” he pouted. “How many times do I have to tell you that? Now, boy, don’t look her in the eyes.”
Dika meant to punch her husband again, but Bo sidestepped and ducked. She shook her head with an unconvincing smile.
Befel stepped back.
Can she charm me? he thought.
“Don’t listen to him,” Dika said, the smallest hint of a chuckle in her voice. “Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?”
Befel ran a hand across his stubbly cheek.
“A razor perhaps?” Befel asked politely. “And some soap and water?”
“Well.” Dika wiped her dirty hands on her dress. “You can see that most of our men don’t shave. However, I do have soap and water and probably a sharp knife. Will that work?”
“Yes,” Befel replied with a short bow. “Thank you.”
Dika rifled through several sacks that sat in the back of Bo’s wagon. She produced a small jar of white powder.
“Soap,” she said, handing it to Befel. “It’s the soap we use for our clothes, but it should work.”
Then she walked to the front of the wagon and retrieved a long knife. She handed that to Befel as well.
“Here is the water,” she said, patting a tall barrel with a spout that sat at the edge of the wagon. “It’ll be cold, but I don’t think we have enough time to heat it.”
The water was indeed cold, but Befel lathered the soap nonetheless. The knife was certainly sharp enough, and it was good to feel smooth skin on his cheeks again.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re so trusting of gypsies?”
The deep voice startled Befel, and the knife slipped, nicking his chin. Soon he could feel blood from the cut trickling down his neck. He turned to see Bryon standing behind him, smiling wryly.
“You could go for a good shave,” Befel said, pressing a hand against the cut on his chin.
“I think I like the beard,” Bryon replied, brushing the whiskers on his chin with his hand. “I think I’ll keep it.”
“It’ll just end up splotchy like your father’s,” Befel replied.
“I love how you are so wise, cousin.” Bryon turned and began to walk away.
“Bryon,” Befel called, “I didn’t mean . . . I just meant I think you look better without a beard.”
Bryon stopped, looking at Befel over his shoulder with a rueful, condescending glance. “You best get a clean shirt.”
Befel looked down. Blood had escaped his fingers, and a red stain grew around the collar of his worn shirt. Befel pulled it over his head, trying to avoid getting any more bloodstains on it.
“I hope that comes out,” he muttered, looking at the shirt bundled up in his hands, “I liked that shirt.”
He heard several giggles from behind him and turned to see three gypsy girls no older than his eldest sister—perhaps twelve or thirteen summers—cupping their mouths with hands and half-hiding behind a wagon. Suddenly, he was aware of his near nakedness, and his cheeks grew hot.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” said a low, gruff voice. “They only laugh because you have less hair than the men they are used to seeing.”
Befel turned to see a giant of a man standing before him. His open vest made of brown leather showed a chest carved from stone and covered in curly, kinked knots of fur. The man’s thick beard crawled up his face, disappearing into his black mane of hair.
“That’s certainly the first time I’ve heard that,” Befel replied as he ran a hand through his own chest hair, a somewhat thick carpet of blondish-brown curls. “The noble women of Hámon—Venton—found my hairiness barbaric. They would laugh at me when I worked, shirtless, in the sties.”
“That sounds like Hámon,” the giant gypsy said. “What do the nobles of Venton know anyway? You must hail from the northwest of Háthgolthane, with a man’s chest such that you have and hair that color—and those broad shoulders. Farm country I would guess.”
“My brother opened his big mouth to you as well,” Befel said raising an eyebrow and taking a step back.
“Aye.” The large man laughed. “I have spoken with young Erik on several occasions.”
Befel stared at the big man for a moment.
“I am Marcus.” The giant of a man extended a hand. “We haven’t met yet, but I am responsible, the leader if you will, of this pleasant little caravan.”
Befel gingerly took Marcus’ hand. He looked around the caravan, men and women packing things back onto their wagons and carriages, ready to move on again after their short break.
“Pleasant, yes,” Befel agreed. “Little—anything but.”
“Well,” Marcus said with a smile, “when we are not taking travelers into our company and ensuring them a bit of civility while they travel, we are not so large.”
“You certainly are generous with those you allow in your train,” Befel said.
“We try to be a generous people,” Marcus replied. “People need safety, shelter, just some civil company, so we offer it.”
Befel frowned. His brows curling into a thoughtful scowl.
“That look on your face speaks volumes,” Marcus said. “It speaks of confusion and irritation.”
Befel shrugged. “It’s just that the tales people tell and hear about gypsies are so different. They speak of a people who would steal and cheat a person over helping them.”
Marcus’ smile slowly faded, and his brows cast a brooding shadow.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Befel took a step back. “I . . .”
Marcus put up a hand.
“An unfortunate stereotype many of my kin have earned. Our goal is to dispel those myths, so hopefully, your short time with us will help change your mind about who we are.”
Befel felt foolish and dropped his eyes to his shirt.
“Do you see that carriage over there?” Marcus said, breaking the silence. He pointed to a carriage made of dark wood and carved swirling, wavy lines. A simple cloth covered the carriage in a high arch. Befel nodded.
“That is one of my carriages. My wife, Nadya, will give you a new shirt in exchange for that one.” A small smile appeared under his bushy mustache as Marcus reached out and turned Befel’s face, examining his chin. “She’ll clean that up for you too. The Creator knows she’s had to clean my wounds too many times to remember, and not from shaving either.”
Befel tried to smile, but when he thought of what thing could possibly create a wound on this man’s body, he swallowed hard.
Marcus turned and walked away, and within only a few steps he raised his arms and roared playfully at a group of little children. The children startled with a combination of fear and jollity as they ran, giggling. Within another few steps, Marcus held at least four of them in one arm, pretending to eat them, gnawing gently at their ribs. Finally, when Marcus set them down with a bellowing chuckle, all the children collapsed with exhaustion, huge smiles on their faces.
Befel chuckled to himself as he walked toward Marcus’ carriage. A woman moved about the carriage, folding clothes and packing things away. Her tanned skin seemed to glow in the midmorning sun, just as her dark hair ate up the light. She had a strong face—a farmwife’s face—but where the typical farm wife might look worn and ruddy, this woman looked beautiful, with a rounded chin and pouting lips.
“Nadya.” Befel mouthed the name, and it seemed to enchant him.
Marcus seemed serious about dispelling the stereotypes of his people, but if all of his grandmother’s superstitions were true, a gypsy woman would have no need for witchcraft or magic. She could simply use her beauty.
“Yes, young man?” she asked.
“Marcus . . . your husband . . . said you would have a clean shirt,” Befel replied, gingerly holding out the soiled garment.
“Aye, I would. And I’ll fix that cut too. Now don’t just stand and stare,” said Nadya as she waved him over to her carriage. When Befel didn’t move, she walked over to him and wrapped her arm around his.
“Will you come over here you silly boy, or do I have to drag you?”
Befel didn’t doubt she could have. She stood almost as tall as him, and a sleeveless vest and blouse showed well-toned muscles in her arms.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, finally reaching her carriage.
“Now sit,” she said, pointing to the wooden step.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied as she reached into the carriage for something.
“Hold still,” Nadya said, “this might sting a bit.”
It might have stung, some sort of rub that washed away old, dried blood, and a creamy salve that stunk sweet like mint and pig urine mixed together, but Befel would have never noticed. All he felt was the soft touch of Nadya.
Chapter 12
BRYON LEANED AGAINST A WAGON, arms crossed over his chest, watching people mill about during the caravan’s break in travel.
Despite the sun’s warmth, the weather along this road was cooler, full of gentle breezes and shade from tall oaks and elms. Back home, he would have been working his father’s fields, planting beans or corn, sweating and burning. Or he might have been in his mother’s garden, especially on the days when her back bothered her. Whatever it was, it would have been hot, uncomfortable, and laborious.
He laughed as he watched Befel walk timidly toward a beautiful, exotic woman with long, curled, black hair that shrouded a tanned face and pouting lips.
“Don’t stare, cousin.” Bryon smiled, putting his face in one hand and shaking his head. “You’ve never been any good with women.”
“What makes you laugh, friend?”
Bryon turned hard on his heels, facing whoever had spoken to him. He expected another annoying, prying gypsy and found himself opposite a slight man, shorter then Bryon, with shaggy, red hair that glared in the almost-noon sun.
That freckled, pale face would surely burn on the farm, thought Bryon as he wonde
red where the man was from. This was a hobby of his lately, trying to figure out from where people came, to see what he could learn about them for his potential later advantage.
Away from the farm, Bryon realized the world was an ocean of different people, different languages, and different religions. His cursed father had hidden so much from him, leading Bryon to believe that farming and their people were all there was to the world.
Bryon stared at the red-headed man, thinking that of the ocean of people he had met, this one seemed a smattering of all of them.
“You are a true mutt, aren’t you?” Bryon muttered.
“What was that friend?” the red-haired man asked.
“Nothing,” Bryon replied sternly, not realizing the man had heard him. He pretended he didn’t care. “Why do you call me friend?” asked Bryon, unfolding his arms.
The redheaded man shrugged. “I don’t know, friend. It’s just something I normally say.”
“Well, don’t,” Bryon spat. “I’m not your friend. I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, that’s easily remedied isn’t?” The man smiled. “The name’s Ren, my friend, but most people call me Fox. I bet you can’t tell why!”
Bryon rolled his eyes when the man pointed to his hair. Wanting to ignore the annoying man, instead, he looked around at some of the other people in the caravan as they threw packs back into their wagons and removed their horses’ feed baskets. He turned his head again, and the slight man named Fox still just stood there with a stupid smile on his face, staring at Bryon with those bright, blue eyes.
A Chance Beginning Page 6
