Treacherous Rose
By Proserpine
My name is Mozol. It means
"black currant" in the Romany tongue, though I am neither, at least
fruit-wise. It is my eyes that are black, black and as bottomless as one of
Gitana's big cooking cauldrons, perhaps more. But I am no Gypsy. That much is apparent, for my hair is a
lustrous dark, fiery red, and my skin pale as the gaji's.
I used to deny that fact
furiously, rub my face raw with dirt and mud, blacken it with coal dust,
anything to blend in, make myself inconspicuous. To no avail, of course. There
is no hiding the cygnet among ducklings, or the wolf among sheep. Nay, nor the gaji amongst Gypsies.
My Roma mother's name was also Mozol (making for some hilarious confusion, let
me assure you) –I say was, for she is not with us
anymore. She departed in the winter of '86, the worst winter I can remember,
though true there have been worse still--if not physically, then emotionally.
She was forty then, not a frail woman by any means, strapping and boisterous
with the rest of them, and they loved her for it. Some say she went out
a-purpose, with a wild look in her eyes, and none could stop her—but no one
talks about that anymore, and if they do, they say it was I who killed her,
however inadvertently. But I choose not to remember that, if it was true. So
instead, I remember the good things—her eyes mostly, I think, because they were
as walnut-brown as my own, and always mischievous. But it was Bexhet who had
the firm hand in their relationship, though he was fifteen years her junior but
no less her equal. He took her death hard, and sometimes I think he, my Rom
father, was more miserable than I, the cuckoo's child. My father? Hah! I spit
on the word! For I have none.
My parents. Who were they? Ghost and demon, Minotaur
and angel, elf and succubus? At times Bexhet spoke of my mother, my blood
mother, my true mother, but only after a good, hot meal and far too much to
drink. I used to live for those moments, when her memory rose out of the fire,
flame of hair and gargantuan of height. But it is not what I live for anymore.
Nay, why, should I mourn for a woman who does not exist? Why curry for the
favor of a mother one has never met? Those very questions, torn from my veriest
core, would return to haunt me later in life. But spoken from the heart of a
disillusioned child, I had no foreshadowing of the future, nor did I care to. I
suppose my natural curiosity in regards to the two of them had been stifled by
the fact that I was denied even the tiniest step outside the Court--and I never
questioned such judgement. How could it be mine to give? Nae, it was the command
of Clopin, King of Thunes, Clopin whom I adored even as a young child. I
imagine I would have grown to visit his bed, had not the gods possessed a cruel
sense of irony…
* * *
I dodged Bexhet's drunken swipes
with a practiced ease, throwing small obstacles in his path, like pebbles, and
wincing as the latter ricocheted off Mozol the Deceased's precious pottery. I
would not lose this battle, I promised myself. I was fifteen now, and sure of
my hard-won independence, however small the victory had been. My world was the
Court of Miracles; my home was the tent in which I now scuttled from the heavy
hands of my guardian and master. I made sure not to brush against the walls of
the tent with any part of my body, lest the rustling alert any other to the
turmoil within. Bexhet liked to keep up appearances, and I indulged him, for I
knew worse would come if I even hinted at disobedience. I sidestepped a
particularly large vase—hard to do in all the clutter, but by this time I was
adept at it—and was caught unawares as Bexhet grabbed me from behind. His
breath hot on the back of my neck, I closed my eyes as he twisted my arm behind
me, blocking out the pain.
"Mozol..." he enunciated
roughly, and I knew I would sooner die than beg. "Are you sorry, my little
Rakli ? " I shook my head
violently, and he cuffed me. "Bring me the drink. " He commanded
thickly, shoving me away from him, and I crashed into the vase, sending it to
the cobblestones with a clatter, and cracks spreading down its side like
spiderwebs. Nervously, I righted the vase, hoping he had not glimpsed the proof
of my accident, and commenced to rifle through the tent, but with a growing
apprehension realized that there was no more ale, nor wine, nor mead--anywhere!
I would have to go out (how I cringed at the thought, but which was
worse--here--or there?) and ask around for more.
"Bexhet? " I whispered,
eyes downcast. "There is none. "
He swore vehemently at me, striking me and tossing
a few coins my way. I caught them gingerly, for fifteen years with him had
taught me much. He could change his mind in an instant, and then where would I
be? Quickly I darted out of the tent, giving him a wide berth. Out in the alley
created by the chaotic maze of tents, my country and my city, my fields and my
streams, dared I to exhale a breath of relief. Gingerly I touched my arm,
pulling up my ragged sleeve to inspect the darkening bruise. I did not have to
touch the newest bruise, just under my neckline, to know it was there. I only
thanked the powers that be that it did not sting like those before it had.
Bexhet always did know how to hit so the marks barely showed. I let the sleeve
drop then, and hurried market-wards without a single glance back to what—and
whom—I had left behind.
* *
*
I scurried behind the various
stalls and booths that made up the heart of the Court, my head bowed, my eyes
downcast. So I did not see him before it was too late, before we both toppled
to the cobblestones in sea of red hair and jangling bells. Surely he mistook me
for another, for there were many gajes in the Court, though few with red hair.
"My liege!" I cried, panic-stricken, brushing him off and keeping my
head bowed in respect.
"Do I know you?" he
asked, hand under my chin, and his eyes met mine, searchingly, even
reproachfully. Clopin whom I adored, reproachful? I almost wept with the pain
of it.
"I am Mozol, sla--er, foster
daughter of Bexhet Honin." The label was false upon my tongue. "I beg
your pardon for my clumsiness, your majesty."
"Oh. You." His voice is
dismissive. No doubt he had been bored to death with the rumors Bexhet allowed
to spread about my supposed disobedience and my wild, wayward, wicked ways.
"Run along, girl." His voice was distracted, and I could see his
hunger to put a distance between us. "I trust this will not happen
again?" His words were foolhardy, and I was clumsy.
"You
trust aright." But I was lying, and both of us knew it.
* *
*
I lingered, as I was apt to do, to
listen to the gossip of the other girls, who excluded me apurpose. One, my
enemy Luminitsa, a beauty with long dark hair and rich brown eyes like cocoa,
was cooing over the boys, one in particular, whose face was hidden from my
view. The rest were largely being ignored, and as soon as they saw me their
sullen expressions melted away.
This time, however, with one jug
balanced upon my head and another under my arm, suspiciously solicitous boys
suddenly surrounded me. But I recalled with some relaxation that if my only way
out of slavery was marriage, Clopin could not save me from Bexhet, no matter
how much I wished it. No, these boys were the keys to that, and I was quite--quite--willing to be unlocked.
"Bolde tut. " [Please you pass] I said, eyes flicking over
them, dismissing one or the other, comparing them to the only man I dreamed of.
But they did not move as they were supposed to, instead closed in, grinning at
each other and at me. One put a hand on my arm, and I had to grit my teeth,
forcing myself not to wince.
"You should not have to carry
that alone," he said, and smiled. He was not blindingly handsome, but
passable. He was thick and muscular like an ox, with golden-brown eyes, and he
took the jug under my arm easily, companionably, daring the other boys with his
actions to mock us. None did. In fact, it was like he had some sort of
supremacy over them, their leader in a way. "Where to?"
"Why, the tent of Bexhet
Honin." I replied. "Do you not know me, then?" I swept a mocking
hand down before my being. His Rakli
slave?
"No..." he grinned, and
he let his accent thicken considerably. "For I fear I am a stranger in the
Court. You, a Rakli, are also a
stranger. So now we can be strangers together, and not feel so much
alone."
"But...but I have lived here
all my life!" I protested, fighting to ignore the snickers of the other
boys, who had followed us. He silenced them with a glare, and they scattered.
"Yet you are not one of them." He began to hurry off, and I
increased my pace to stay abreast of him. He kept at a brisk trot, moving
swiftly towards the scaffold, a fact which I largely ignored until it was too
late. We kept up a lively conversation--he of half-truths shadowed by symbolism
and dripping with deep imagination, I of none except the deliberate secret of
my slavery. He, too, was fifteen, a fact I found harder to accept than his
proven intelligence, yet he was not as inquisitive as he must have been on the
inside, kindly keeping his questions at bay. "You're the nicest person
I've met since I arrived," he confessed, and I hid a smile. Me! Nice! That
was a new one!
"Where are you from, monsieur?" I
demurred, setting the jugs down with an intent to wipe my brow. That was when
he caught me by the waist, and kissed me full upon the mouth. "Oh…Oh dear."
"Didn't you like it?" he whispered
huskily, and kissed me again, tongue delving, hands moving slowly and surely
between my legs.
"Too much, monsieur." I replied, struggling to get ahold of
my breath. But I did not push him away.
Much
to my folly. And oh, how that folly, sweet folly, would cost me!
Author's Notes: This is the sequel to my piece, La Fille
de Joie, which can be found under the name Lourdes on FFN. I am she and she
is me and we are all together—Jocetta, Lourdes, Proserpine. The Hunchback of
Notre Dame is a Disney movie, and also a book by Victor Hugo. I will be
incorporating elements from both in this piece. Enjoy! J
