Chapter #24
Spirits and Voices
I was sure I could live with the bruises on my thighs, but the ones blossoming on my rear were another matter. They weren't particularly painful on their own, but the persistent nudge in that area each time Averroës took a fresh step was dampening my joy in riding him considerably.
"Christine, get off that horse. What will I do if you get sick?" Ever since my initiation and the engagement, Jal had been taking her new role as my adoptive mother very seriously.
Memories of my real mother were more of an image, a vague idea, than a physical being. Jal was a corporeal mammoth, moving into my life with a searing presence that made her reasons for pressing on me so, impossible to ignore.
I would, after all, be married any day now.
"I feel fine, Jal, really. I'll come down to help you in a little while." For a moment, it seemed that she wasn't going to let me go so easily, but the demands of baskets and babies were more important than me at the moment, and she disappeared back into the side of the caravan.
I sighed and rubbed my nose. The skin was red and tender after days of riding under the open sky, yet the pain was nothing compared to the itch.
No one seemed to suffer this ailment except me; Jal, Djano, all their children, and the rest of our whittled band of Gypsies all sported a healthy golden glow. Djano's children huddled on the back ledge of the caravan, under the cool shade of the overhang, sitting on a much more forgiving surface than a thin blanket and a horse's bony back.
Dika caught my longing gaze and shoved one of her brothers farther down the bench. She smiled and patted the space beside her.
The dense, rocky ground of Brittany never let you forget where you were. A shaky step over the craggy rocks jolted my seat and my resolve, and nearly sent my polite refusal from my mind.
I knew I should join Jal in basket-making, or keep Dika company and let her play with my hair, but I had to keep riding. My stubborn insistence on riding Averroës had little to do with any question of my ability. Rather, by staying atop Averroës, I was telling everyone in no uncertain terms, that he belonged to me.
The first three days after the split at Huelgoat, a single-minded determination encompassed us all, so that nothing mattered so much as putting as much distance between us and Huelgoat as possible. I had sat with Dika, Calmo and Tas on that bench, with our legs dangling over the ledge. The boys threw clumps of dirt at the road behind us, and laughed when they exploded under the hooves of the lead horse in the preceding caravan. But, as is often the case with young boys forced to stay still for too long, they soon began to pick on each other as well as the horses. A small disagreement between them quickly morphed into a full-blown confrontation where one knocked the other off the ledge, and nearly right under the front feet of that same lead horse.
It was decided then that too many people were occupying the small space, and some would have to change their seating arrangement: Tas rode in the front of the caravan with his father, and I was to ride a horse.
At first, I was thrilled! I sat straight and proud on my mount, looking down at everyone as if I were a queen. Yet one day turned into another, and another, and another, until finally I was slumped and bruised in the saddle. I would have given up long ago, if not for the occasional sideways glances Brishen threw my way.
"Christine, come inside!" I started so quickly that I accidentally tugged back on Averroës' reins. The horse slowed considerably, and it was only luck that I had not been in front of another caravan.
Aishe leaned out the side of the caravan as it slowly inced away from me, and grinned.
"The baskets can't be so important," I said, kicking the horse's sides, "I'll come help in a while. I promise."
Despite my sore nether regions, it really was a lovely day. The air was clean, the sun was light on my face and warm in my mouth. If the weather continued as beautiful and crisp as it was now, I might never go inside, despite my burnt nose.
"Actually, they are. They're for your dowry, and if your in-laws don't receive gifts in return, you'll be shaming the family."
I turned in my saddle and glanced behind me. Most of future in-laws were three caravans behind us. Luca and Mariela sat in front, with her father, Emilian. The only thickness on that poor young woman was her pregnant belly: the rest of her was painfully thin and ghostly pale. There were probably more important things in their lives than the quality of baskets in my dowry.
Still, it would be nice to rest out of the saddle for a while… So, making an appearance of a gesture…
"Will you help me?"
Aishe humphed, but did not go inside. I rode Averroës as close to the caravan as I dared and brought him to a reluctant halt. It would be world's easier if I launched myself from the horse straight into the caravan, yet the prospect of Aishe's helping arms, and my own tormented body, called for a much humbler trick.
I had to move quickly, or risk holding up the troupe. With a wince, I swung my leg over the side of Averroës' back and slid to the ground. I kept a firm grip on the bridle to keep myself from sliding all the way down, but I did not have time to waste. The caravan was still moving. Scrambling on shaky feet, I led my horse to the back ledge. The children were watching me, and I imagined I was quite entertaining as I attempted to keep up with the caravan, lead my horse, and secure his reins amongst the rattling bouquet of hanging pots.
My legs were failing fast. With one last pull, I tightened the leather strap. I moved abruptly to the side, out of the way of the horse, and saw Aishe, still waiting for me, albeit impatiently. I forced myself to run towards her and if it had not been for an extended hand and a good catch on her part, I might have fallen by the wayside. She pulled me in, and left before I had a chance to thank her.
There was hardly a square inch of space in the caravan unoccupied by box, basket, or tool. It was quite a feat that Aishe was able to catch and drag me inside when there was barely enough room for herself.
Even so, Jal's caravan had become something of a meeting place for the older women of the troupe. They sat on boxes, shoved the tools out of the way, and huddled together without any apparent care for comfort.
"Ah! Christine! Come here." My future grandmother-in-law patted a pile of blankets beside her expectantly.
"Oh no you don't!" Jal countered. "I need her to hold the baby. And until that damn Mulani shows up, she's still mine!"
Several of the women laughed; I shuddered and saw Aishe frown. I carefully tip-toed over the equipment and assembled women to make my way towards Jal, and no sooner had I gotten close, than Jal shoved Chivali into my arms.
"Jal, I really don't think…"
"Just hold her until I finish. She's cutting her teeth and she'll wail if someone isn't holding her."
"Takes after her mother!" Someone called, and the room exploded in another fit of laughter.
"Keep it up, Rizka, and you'll be the one crying."
I sat down as gently as possible without jostling the baby or hurting myself. Chivali stared up at me with her wide, dark eyes, as equally shocked to be held by me as I was to find her in my arms. I could not remember the last time I had held a child, and that familiar stab of shame I expected from a baby was curiously absent. I looked down at the little round face, utterly fascinated.
The pudgy features held brown eyes darting here and there, occasionally moving in response to sounds from her clan. There was a keen intelligence there, and I found myself wondering how much she understood without being able to say a word.
"I hope you have a strong charm for the night of your wedding, Christine."
"Excuse me?" I croaked, looking up from the baby to see a merry glint in my grand-mother-in-law's eyes.
"Have babies as soon as possible and your husband will leave you alone. The more the better! Tsura here has five of her own and her husband barely notices her. Ask him and he couldn't even tell you she's a woman!"
I felt Jal put her free-hand on my arm, "Quit trying to frighten the poor child. Don't you remember what it was like for you? I swear, on my wedding night I was afraid to let Djano breathe, let alone touch me."
"I wouldn't let Emilian anywhere near me. Only time I did touch him was to slice his hand and wipe it on the sheets. If you ask me, it's better she learns from us than some other way." The laughter and merriment stopped suddenly, and the air grew cold. Everyone turned a critical eye my way as Jofranko leaned forward and asked, "Have you ever known a man before, Gadjí?"
On his lower back, Raoul had a birthmark shaped like a hazy sun. With his golden skin, his hair like rays of light, he was always summer to me. I remembered running my fingertips over the mark as he slept, in those warm, safe hours in our bed. I suddenly inhaled so sharply, I choked on my own saliva.
Jal slapped me on the back and the baby started to cry. I started rocking her in my arms as a distraction, but everyone was still watching, still waiting, when the baby's cries had subsided.
"Not one," I managed.
Relief seemed to washed over the entire party. Jal went back to her basket, several of the other women engaged each other in smaller, trivial conversation, and Jofranko smiled at me.
"Don't look so stricken, Christine, I'm sure he will be kind to you. Let him do what he will and you'll be used to it in time."
"God willing," I said wryly. As if he would want to be anywhere near me.
A good wife does what her husband wants. She goes to him when he calls her, she looks the other way when he seeks someone else. Aishe sat silently in the corner, watching me, her needle disappearing through the threat with each violent stab.
The baby was sleeping quietly in my arms, and the chatter lessened to a gentle buzzing. Jal's hands still worked furiously at the basket, and Aishe appeared to be sewing herself a new skirt from blue linen. The atmosphere was calming and I soon found myself blinking away mid-afternoon exhaustion; When it happened, I hardly noticed that the caravan had stopped completely.
No one else seemed to realize it either, until Djano stuck his head in through the side and commanded his wife outside. The urgency in his voice was enough to drive everyone else to follow. I would have gone myself, but my body was enjoying the cushion of the pile of blankets far too much to allow me to move.
The back door opened, and again, Djano stuck his head inside. This time, though, he was looking for me.
He never spoken to me directly, outside of my meeting before the Kris, and it seemed he didn't know how to now. He looked between me and the baby in my arms before finally speaking.
"Christine, I need you to take the children."
"Oh? I-" I never knew what was appropriate to call him. Jal did not mind me using her given name, but it did not feel right to do the same for him. And I would never use 'father' for anyone other than my own. "I don't speak Romany. If something happens, they won't understand me. Wouldn't Aishe be a better choice?"
He shook his head. "She's needed now. You're the only one we can spare."
"Monsieur, what's going on?"
"It's…it's Mariela: the baby's coming."
"That's wonderful news!"
He climbed into the caravan and paced, wringing his hands. "It's too early and we don't have the right people with us." He ran his hand through his graying hair and I saw that his jaw was as tight as a clenched fist. "The children need to be shielded from this. Take them and play in the hills until my niece is out of danger."
"Certainly," I said. I had been fearful he would ask me to assist in the birthing process, and I knew I did not have the stomach for it. "But, monsieur-"
He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a small smile. "Don't worry. Child's play doesn't need any language. Just keep them safe."
I could not argue with such a show of confidence. Djano climbed out the back and I went out the side. As I did, I found eight pairs of large, brown eyes staring up at me eagerly.
It was difficult to climb out of the caravan with a baby in my arms, but I managed. One little girl chewed on her braid, and Jal's twin boys were already shoving one another. Taking a deep breath, I smiled and prepared my best 'matronly' voice.
"Well, children, what shall we do?"
The boys immediately took off in the direction of the hills. The girls looked at one another, and did the same.
When I called after them, the little girls slowed their pace slightly to accommodate me, the boys were long gone.
My slim, womanly figure, while once a source of great pride, was not doing me any favors at the moment as I scrambled after them. Hardly a five minute run, and already I was out of breath. The girls laughed and skipped far ahead of me, while the baby felt as if she was getting heavier by the minute.
We came to a small, steep hill, and the children sprinted up it like little mountain goats. I stood at the foot of it.
"Christine! Come," Dika was already halfway up the hill and waving at me to hurry. I looked at Chivali, still staring straight back with her wide, trusting eyes.
I sighed and tightening my hold on the child, I started my climb.
My legs were shaking and my lungs ached. Chivali began to cry and I held her tighter, lest I drop her. I began counting, only to distract myself from the climb. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen… and at seventeen, I reached the top.
I sunk in a dead sprawl onto the grass and put the baby on my stomach. The sun became cooler and my erratic breathing slowed, my body eventually relaxing into its normal rhythm. I would have fallen asleep, but I felt a tiny mouth, sans any teeth, began to gnaw on my chin.
I lifted her above me and Chivali chortled with laughter.
"Like that, don't you? Would you like to marry Erik too?" Apparently, this was not a completely loathsome idea, because she continued to laugh, until a butterfly passed over my head and stole her attention from me completely.
I lay the baby on my stomach again and let her amuse herself with the scenery, the loose folds of my clothing, even the signet right that she managed to pluck out from the safety of my bodice. My eyes were growing heavy, and right before I gave up the fight and closed them, three little girly faces bent over me.
"Up!" Dika commanded, and I obeyed. My greatest wish at the moment was that I wouldn't be invited to join the boys in their game of 'chase one another with large pointed sticks'; instead, I felt tiny hands on my head, untying and loosening my braids.
Living as rough as I had, without luxurious creams, or maids, to bring my curls to their full glory, my hair had gone limp, alternating between half-hearted curls and messy waves. It was longer now, and just reached my lower back. The weight of it was unbearable in this heat, but it was easier to leave it long and wild, rather than attempting a shorter and more fashionable style.
It was perfect for the girl's play, as I found when Dika and the other two girls combed and braided my hair with their tiny hands with the tenderness only a child is capable of. I sighed, and felt the cares leave my body and float away like dandelions' down in the afternoon sun
"What's your name?" I asked one of the girls. The little thing blushed and tried to move behind me where I could not see her. "It's alright. I'm Christine. Christine."
I patted my chest, much the same way Dika had when she first introduced herself to me, and the little girl finally smiled and said, "Mala."
"Mala," I repeated. "Hello. And you?"
The other girl, looked similar enough in age and appearance to be Mala's twin, yet she had more confidence in herself, suggesting a later age.
"Violca," she said, not bothering to stop her braiding.
I did not say any more, and left the girls to play with my hair to their hearts' content. Djano was right: this was easy. The children knew well enough not to go far, and they were quite apt at entertaining themselves. Hours, or maybe just minutes, seem to slip away without our notice.
I hoped Mariela was doing well. Childbirth, from what I understood, was never easy even at the best of times. If that old healer woman were with us, everything would be under control, but she had gone off with a different segment of the troupe, leaving us all alone. Erik, while I wasn't sure was versed in childbirth, might have at least been able to give her something for the pain.
The girls had run out of hair to play with and now lay around me, napping or watching the sky with drooping eyes. The boys' game seemed to calm: instead of chasing each other across the peak of the hill, they settled for throwing stones. The baby finally fell asleep in my lap, and Dika began to sing a Gypsy song with a lovely pure voice, unthreatening in the lazy summer afternoon.
We couldn't stay much longer. If we waited for someone to come fetch us, the sun might set before anyone came, and we'd be trapped in the dark away from camp. The sun was now so hot, it was nearly impossible to move as I nudged Dika, Mala, and Violca awake.
"Kumpania?" I said, hoping the word was close enough to "camp" for them to understand.
Dika rubbed her eyes and nodded. She called over to the boys, now napping too, and roused everyone for the journey back.
We found the camp the same as before, only now, the fear had changed to an impending sense of doom. A hastily made tent stood inelegantly at the center, the main support pole leaning to the left. I was accustomed to organization when it came to the camps. Men all sat near Djano's caravan, muttering into their beards and smoking pipes. Poor Luca was with them, red-faced and distraught, and our strong leader, Djano, had wrung his hands raw. When he saw us, he took his daughter from me and made to lead the other children back to their respective caravans. Before he left, he spoke to me.
"They'll need extra hands, go to them." He said quietly, gesturing towards the tent. A soft cry was heard and Luca clutched the arm of the man next to him.
"Is it certain?" I whispered. The shadow that passed over his face was answer enough.
Muffled sobs, and groans of pain grew louder as I approached. Blood and tears assaulted my senses as I parted the flap and entered the lop-sided tent. An urn burned near the entrance as a means to mask the overpowering scent, but it failed to do more than add a tinge of incense to the terrifying smell of blood.
Young Mariela, only fifteen-years old, was white enough to pass for dead already. She lay in the middle of the tent surrounded on all sides by weeping, wailing women. Every few moments, her body would convulse, a weak, primeval groan escaped her mouth, and the room was assaulted with another sharp tang of copper-like sweetness.
Jal's Romany encouragements were useless, anyone could see, but she kept them up as she worked furiously to save the girl, promising all manner of happy endings and fine children. No child, not even with evince protection, can survive outside the womb three months early and the growing scent of blood attested to Mariela's own chances of living another day.
I turned to leave. I had no place here, and I certainly did not want to witness what seemed inevitable, but Aishe stopped me before I could leave the tent.
"You can help," she said. On her arm was a fresh bucket of boiled water and a bloodied rag. She looked exhausted herself.
"I can't do anything," I whispered. "I'm not a healer."
"No," she agreed, "but maybe you can comfort her. It won't be long now. Hold her hand, talk to her."
It was not that I did not want to help, but "Wouldn't she rather have her mother?"
Aishe looked down at the bloody rag on her arm.
"Do you think she has the strength? Look at her, the woman is already half-dead with grief." Poor Jofranko. The same woman who took such delight in my embarrassment just that afternoon. She was near fainting herself, and it would probably the best thing for her if she did not have to suffer this.
"Please, Christine," Aishe begged, "do something for her. Just help her forget… none of us have the strength anymore."
What person with a beating heart could have said no?
I took my place near the pillows cushioning Mariela's head. Another spasm wretched her body and her eyes opened, capturing mine with a look of unimaginable anguish. I was nearly afraid to touch her, lest this ghost of death invade me as well.
"Another push, Mariela! Come on now, you're almost done and you'll have a healthy son!"
Jal handed me a wet rag and I used it to sponge the sweat from the poor girl's brow. She raised her hand and batted the thing away, the effort pathetically weak as a new contraction came upon her.
When it passed, she closed her eyes and a thick silence descended on us all.
I did not know any poignant biblical passages, and I was not good at weaving comforting words, especially at desperate times, and yet there was only one thing I knew I could do better than anyone. And if I could not ease her pain, perhaps I could make her forget, at least for a little while.
I calmed my thoughts and sought a place in my mind I had closed years ago. I found a beautiful place, but dusty with age and it was surprisingly easy to open my voice and sing:
"Kyrie Eleison, Christe eleison…"
Several eyes glazed, those that hadn't already closed in grief, and a few held their breath from the beauty of my song.
"Kyrie Eleison…"
I felt as if I were a vessel, a mere instrument from which the sound came. It had been years, and to a critical ear, there was much wanting in my voice, but I felt it rise unbidden from my body and throughout the walls of the tent.
"Christe eleison."
My voice trembled and rose with each note as if I held the power to keep her alive. But she was fading. With each new second, there was a little less of Mariela shining in the depths of her brown eyes.
Gypsies are not Christian unless it suits them. I did not know why I had chosen this song. Perhaps a part of me was asking for God to grant mercy on a non-believer. Yet this girl, so young, with insurmountable promises waiting for her if she just live, how could a God condemn her for an accident of birth? How could that same loving God condemn her child?
An innocent heart, a life unfulfilled, the pain of it weighed on my chest and stretched inside until I thought I might suffocate. There was no space to think about why I had not sung for years until this moment. In the burden of uncertainty, there is hope but in the shadow of death, there are only tears.
I touched her upturned hand, her fingering twitched, then stilled.
Holy angel in heaven blessed…
Mariela opened her eyes, and they were clear and bright as a new morning. Her hand reached for something only she could see and with a voice full of light called, "Luca!"
Then, with a sigh, Mariela lay down again. She covered the swell of her belly with both her hands, and died.
Gypsies do not bury their dead.
The spirit is what endures, and what remains when the body expires.
Mariela was cleaned, blessed with ointments and spices and laid out among dry wood and wild hay. They dressed her in her favorite skirt, one of a yellow hue, and her fingers were adorned with golden rings. Tiny Romany markings, lovingly made by her mother were painted on her temples and arms. All her treasured possessions were placed around her body to accompany her into the next life. She held a small doll from her childhood, her hair was swept back from her brow with a silver comb, and her body covered with a half-knitted baby blanket.
A message went out to other factions of the troupe, but farewells would be with only us. Time was merciless, and if we waited the possible days for the others to join us, Mariela would soon be beyond recognition. At least this way she would always be remembered as beautiful.
We gathered around the body when the sun went down while Brishen strummed a simple tune on a guitar. Her husband, inconsolable, tore at his thick hair while the parents clutched one another under the enormity of their loss. My own cheeks were damp and Aishe seemed barely able to stand, having lost what she considered a true and dear friend.
It was her husband's duty to send her away. He was given a crackling torch, and it was shook in his hand. I was surprised that the task of lighting the fire should fall to him. Collective cries rose as he approached his wife; mine was not among them.
Reluctantly, Luca pressed the torch near her feet. Sticks smoldered and gradually, the heat crawled its way through the kindling until a proper fire burst into life. Flames grew higher and higher, yet they did not touch Mariela. The rose of her cheeks returned, and for a moment, it looked as if she was simply in the grip of a peaceful sleep.
Would that she could stay this way, I might have looked back on this moment with a bittersweet fondness. Ashes to ashes… dust to dust… Kyrie Eleison... but the flames eventually did find her. When the scent of burning flesh grew strong, I had to go.
I asked Jal if I might leave and she nodded my dismissal. A harsh, sudden breeze threw off my step and sent the fire in a new direction. The heat licked at my back and I heard the family's vocal chants of their grief.
I took several steps, and stopped when I saw a dark figure just on the edge of the camp.
The horse was spent, shaking and lathered in sweat, still bridled from its journey. I expected a more dramatic staging for when I saw Erik again, yet he was wiping the horse down, and looking almost normal, if rather ragged in appearance.
He stopped when he saw me. He did not speak, and neither did I. I should have known he would reappear like this.
I raised my hand to wave, more out of an awkward reflex, and he returned the gesture with an easy grace. A fresh breeze brought that same horrid smell back to my attention. I fled to the dark safety of my caravan, mindful of the yellow eyes watching me. At least inside, I could escape the smell, the song, and now Erik, because his arrival meant only one thing.
A time for sorrow, and then a time for joy. What better to erase the pain of a death, than with the joy of a wedding?
A/N: Kumpania- band of families