Gypsy in Black: The Romance of Gypsy Travelers (2 page)

“
You offer your tavern as a wager?
”

The Irishman picked up his
five cards, staring at them for
another minute.  His heart r
aced as he realized what he was
doing.  Finishing his ale as if se
arching for strength, he handed
the mug to the man standing next t
o him.  He waited until the mug
was returned to him.  Another la
rge swallow and a loud thud set
the mug back on the table.  Loo
king up, he met the black opals
gazing at him. 
“
Aye, I offer me tavern.
”

Silently the gypsy sat and
waited.  The room was tense and
the air stagnant.  At the bottom o
f the stairs, someone coughed. 
The Irishman ignored the noise as
his mind reeled at winning back
all he had lost as well as profi
ting from the chain.  His blood
boiled and his hands sweated.  Rub
bing them on his pants, he felt
his throat dry up.  He took another swall
ow of his ale, feeling
his head begin to swoon from the
intensity.  Finally, the gypsy
answered. 
“
I do not accept.
”

The Irishman's eyes widened
as the crowd began to murmur. 
“
You don’t accept?
”
he asked, incredulous to what he had heard.  The
voices
of the townspeople
blended together, gr
owing into a loud buzzing.  The
Irishman frowned, rubbing his
stubbly
face. 
“
What is it ye
want?  I have nothing more to offer you, gypsy.
”
  There was
desperation
in his voice, a pleading that gave away not only his hand
but also
the desire to win.

The old gypsy glanced over
his shoulder at the tall, young
gypsy standing behind him.  They both smiled.  The old gypsy
turned around,
tapping his finger agai
nst the table. 
“
Ah, but
you do.
”

The Irishman narrowed his ey
es, studying his opponent carefully before
he shook his head as if clearing
away unwanted thoughts. 
“
Then
tell me, gypsy.  What is it ye want?
”

“
Your daughter,
”
the old gypsy hissed. 

The crowd began to talk at o
nce.  The girl, standing in the
shadows, cried out,
“
No Pa
pa!
”
  She started to race down the
stairs, hoping to stop her fathe
r from gambling her away to the
gypsy tribe.  Two large gyp
sies met her at the foot of the
stairs.  They blocked her e
scape.  The girl stood there,
at
first cowering away from the
gypsies
and retreating back into the shadows.  When she realized that she couldn’t get through, she quickly turned
her
attention
back
to the crowded table, mesmerized by her father. 

The Irishman did not sp
are his daughter a glance as he
stared at his cards, contemplating the deal.
 
“
Ye want me Sahara? 
She is more a nuisance than a he
lp,
”
he
said quietly  as though thinking outloud,
thought aloud. 
“
But me
hand, never in my life...
”
  Fin
ally, he looked up. 
“
Me Sahara
for that money and chain.
”
  The hesitation was but a moment before he whispered,
“
I accept.
”

“
Show your hand, gadjo,
”
the gypsy ordered.

Delighted, the Irishman roc
ked back and forth as he fanned
his five cards across the spl
intering surface of the table. 
“
Beat that, gypsy man.  Straight flush,
king high.
”
  The diamond
suited
sequenced cards showing
on the table proved his claim. 
Stretching his arm across the tab
le, he swept the money into his
one hand as he reached with his
other for the
Rom Baro
's neck. 
But one of the larger gypsies snatched the Irishman's eager wrist, clutching it forcefully between his golden
brown fingers.

The
Rom Baro
raised his hand t
o silence the crowd. 
“
Wait!
”
 
The Irishman paled, his forehead d
otted with beads of sweat as he
stared at the
Rom Baro
. 
“
I have a
chance to show my hand, yes?
”
 

Without looking, the gypsy le
ader laid his cards down on the
table, overlapping the Irishman'
s cards. 
There was a collective gasp from the on-lookers and a meek cry from the Irishman.  But the gypsies did not delay for the reality to sink in. 
Quickly, the
Rom Baro
snapped his fingers and motioned t
owards the stairs.  Two gypsies
jumped to help the tall one with t
he `prize' as she tried to race
back upstairs.  They grabbed her
, dragging her down the stairs.
She screamed and
yelled, beating
at their
faces with her fist.  One gypsy
finally lifted her up, trying
to carry her down the remaining
stairs. 

The
Rom Baro
watched her
father's shocked reaction.
“
You
lose, gadjo.
”
  Gathering the s
ilver coins from the Irishman's
stunned grasp, the
Rom Baro
turned
away from the broken man.  His
eyes trave
led to the staircase
where the girl struggled in the
grasp of the three gypsies. 

She fought hard, wriggling
in the one man's arms,
biting at his shoulders and arms
,
and
clawing to free herself
.
Her long black hair wrapped around her face as she tried to turn
, a failed
effort to run back up the stairs.  When a gypsy finally lifted her, she scratched at his eyes.  He r
aised his hand to
slap her but
a tall, dark haired gypsy stood forward and grabbed at the man. 
“
Do not
hurt the
shey
-
bari!
”
he shouted.  He watched the girl,
protectiveness
in both his gaze and stance. 
Immediately, the two other gypsies softened their approach with detaining the girl, despite the use of force.

The Irishman ignored his
daughter and her captors as he
gathered the gypsy's cards, star
ing at them in shock. 
“
A royal
flush.  Aye, the bastard
had a royal flush and I bet me
own
daughter.
”
  He let the cards flut
ter out of his fingers onto the
ground. 
For a moment, just a brief second, his eyes looked at the band of gypsies and a look crossed his face.
It was a dark look, one of regard. 
“
I wonder…
”
he started, mostly to himself
but he stopped, his words trailing off as though
a moment of clarity struck him but it was suddenly gone.

Sensing the change in the Irishman, the
Rom Baro
turned back and paused.  His eyes gleamed and h
is mouth curled into a mocking sm
ile as he flipped a silver coin
through the air.  It sailed expe
rtly and landed on the table in
front of the defeated Irishm
an.
“
Unlike you,
I almost forgot the daro,
gadjo.
”
  Hisses of laughter snaked
out of his throat as he opened
his mouth, his head tilted back.  N
o one heard as the gypsies
dragged
the sc
reaming girl out of the tavern and into the night.




   




The ship had left port only five days ago when the pain started.  It started a
s
a discomfort that increased in duration and intensity.  She knew that her time had come and, in just a few hours, her life would never be the same.  She knelt behind some crates in the dark hull of the ship, quietly accepting the pain.  She knew that she had to finally tell someone but she wanted to push that moment as far away as possible.  She could do this by herself, she thought for a moment, but she knew that it wouldn’t change anything.  They would know afterward and it would begin.

She struggled to her feet and, after taking a deep breath, she moved through the darkness to seek help.  She clutched at her stomach, which, while larger than it had been, was barely visible under her layers of heavy skirts and wraps.  She had made sure of that, thankful that the journey was taken during the cooler months.  That had made it easier to hide.  But, she could hide it no more.  The time is now, she thought. 

She approached two sleeping figures
and leaned down, reaching out a hand to gently prod one of them.  “Rom Baro,” she whispered.  She nudged him again.  “Rom Baro, I need you.”

The man rolled over and rubbed at his eyes.  “What is it, child?”

She stood up and embraced her stomach.  “My time has come and I need your help.”

“Time for what?”

“For my baby to be born,” she whispered.

For a long moment, he did not speak.  She wondered if he thought he was dreaming.  He stared at her in the dark, barely visible in the shadows.  There were no lanterns hung in the dark hull where the passengers slept. He leaned over to find a match and struck it, the golden flame flickering just long enough for him to see her clearly.  In fact, it was the first time he has seen her clearly in months.  Standing with her hands wrapped around her protruding girth, he realized what she said and what it meant.  There were no further words but he nudged his companion, spoke a few words under his breath, and the wheels were in motion.  When the dawn broke over the horizon, glistening in the waters surrounding the boat, her baby was finally born.

Sunli
ght streamed through the top of
the stretched canvas over her h
ead, blinding Sahara’s
tired eyes to
the new day. 
It took her a moment to focus. 
She recognized nothing and it
took a moment to
register
that she wasn’t in her own room with cracked plank walls and torn yellow curtains fluttering from a breeze through the
broken windowpane
.  Instead, she was here,
awakening in a tent after what seemed like
days of hard travel in a dark wagon.
  The sights, the sounds, even the smells were so different. 
Outside,
she could hear
the laughter of
childr
en
as they ran past the
tent, chasing each other.  Their chatter slow
ly disappeared.  A
dog barked
in the distance, sh
ortly followed by another.  The
chilly April morning air carri
ed
amazingly pungent
foreign smells to her nose. 
Spices mixed with burning wood. 
Sahara frowned.  Her head hurt a
nd her body ached.  Her fingers
gently touched her forehead as s
he shut her eyes,
not wanting to remember but not daring to forget what had happened over the past few days
. 

Sitting upright on the scr
atchy blankets and soft pillows
she had slept on, h
er silky, long
black hair swept over her bare sh
oulders.
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 i
nside a tent
with strange sounds and smells
.  S
he 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 reste
d on its side while the other
stood up straight, a clear li
quid 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 reach
ed over and picked it up.  Upon close
inspection, she not
iced the torn sleeve and ripped
shoulder. 
It was filthy and it was ruined but it
was all she had to wear. 
Sahara cursed aloud a
nd tossed the worthless garment
aside. 

She reme
mbered it all now, how they had
dragged her out of her father's
tavern, laughing and jeering as
she fought back,
desperately
try
ing to escape.  But one man had
thrown her over his horse, mount
ing 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
sing
ing in a strange language
.  They must have knocked her
unconscious during the ride.  Th
e 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 ar
ound her
body, Sahara listened to the de
ep voice, straining to make out
what he was saying.  But his wor
ds 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 f
ace as
she cringed behind the blanket, bashful of her bare body.  Her dark eyes, large and fright
ened, watched the tent opening,
waiting for someone to enter.  H
er 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 formidabl
e 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.  S
he
recognized h
im 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.  S
he had thought
him good looking
when the gypsies had first entered the saloon
.  Now, as she saw him watching her with equal
curio
sit
y, 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, sh
ey
-
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 vo
ice 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.  H
er long black hair hung over
her shoulders in loose, sweepin
g curls.  The white streak over
her ear caught his attentio
n. 
For a moment, he stared
, his eyes meeting her own almond shaped dark ones.  But, after a brief moment,
he diverted his eye
s
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 di
sgust 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 regal
ly before turning
around and disappearing.  Sahara
sighed, surprised to find that
she had been holding her breat
h 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 gyp
sy.  Ignoring the pain from her
sore body, she held the blac
k 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 r
obust bosom and showing off her
tiny waist.  She
frowned at t
he 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 he
r
bare
ankles
as she walked over to her crump
led
and ripped
blue cotton dress.  Lifting
it, she found her stockings and shoes. 

Sahara pushed aside the ca
nvas, feeling the warmth of the
sun on her face.  She stood o
utside the tent, staring at the
strange surroundings.  Several ten
ts 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 drop
ped 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
wag
ons had chimes hanging from the
rear corners of the wagon roof.
  They sang gentle songs in the
warm summer breeze.