Among the Romani
When Belle and I reached the circus wagons, it was
nearing dusk and the wagons had camped for the night alongside a quick flowing creek so
they could easily water their animals and themselves. The Flynns Rom upbringing insisted
on this, for no Rom will take a bath in a tub, only in running water. Water in a bath is
considered unclean, since it sits stagnant. The Rom have many taboos regarding water, not
the least is that water used for cooking and washing must be kept separate, and this extends
to separate buckets for the washing of men and women's clothing too. So much for the old
superstition that Romani are unclean, dirty folk.
I'd signed a contract with Matthew regarding my services and the money I'd be
paid—it amounted to about three dollars a week, including food and the use of a wagon for
our room, which was a decent wage for those times. Of course I didn't need the money, but
I took it, since it would have seemed odd not to. Once that matter was settled and our names
entered in the big ledger under the parsimonious eye of Mr. Tims, Mr. Turner told me to go
around and introduce myself to the rest of the company.
Half of them had already come to see the newest recruits to Turner's Traveling
Circus, but the Flynns were busy gathering water for their supper and picketing their shaggy
Vanner horses for the night. The Flynns mostly preferred to eat by themselves, since some
of the troupe bore resentment towards the Rom, namely Mr. Tims and Dr. Boswell.
I beckoned to Belle and we approached the vardo, which is the name the Rom give
to their wheeled houses, a large roomy conveyance painted with brightly colored flowers and
twining vines. The two shaggy Vanner horses were already grazing on picket lines nearby.
They were medium sized draft horses with huge liquid eyes and extra long manes and tails.
Their hooves bore long silky feathers on them and they were most often a pinto color, that
is white with black splotches or brown. The Vanner breed is known chiefly for its strength,
hardiness, and gentle temperament. A Vanner is expected to pull the family's wagon
throughout the day, yet be calm enough to use as a mount for the children at the day's end.
The Rom bred for tolerance and calmness in their horses, a horse that was too aggressive or
skittish was usually sold. Despite their calm temperament, the Vanner were intelligent, and
the Rom often used them as "watchdogs", training them to guard the vardo at night and snort
or whinny if a stranger came by.
A boy with hair the black of a crow's wing was carefully picking out a hoof the size
of a saucer, and the horse was grazing calmly, totally unruffled by the procedure. He was
small and wiry, with skin the color of copper and he was dressed in a loose chambray shirt
and worn buckskin leggings and moccasins. His hair was pulled back in a tail and he spoke
softly to the big horse as he worked, muttering endearments in Romani. The Rom cherished
their animals and considered it a sin to hurt one, especially horses.
The Vanner stallion, whose name was Merrow, after an Irish water sprite, merely
snorted softly and lifted his head as we walked up. The boy, ever alert to the horse's signals,
dropped the hoof and straightened, eyeing us with blatant curiosity, tucking the hoof pick in
his breeches' pocket.
He gave us an elaborate bow, such as one might an honored guest, and smiling
charmingly said, "Sastipe to you fair strangers and welcome to the Flynn vardo. I'm Hawk,
at your service."
I returned the greeting. "Sastipe to you and yours, young man. My name is Loki
Sigurdson and this is my daughter Belle. We're the new magician and assistant to Turner's
circus." The greeting I'd just exchanged with him means simply, good luck and good health
in Romani.
"You speak Romani?" he asked, his eyes widening. "That's rare for a gadje to know
the language of the People."
"Very little," I grinned, bowing in return. "Only a few phrases here and there."
Belle bowed too, then turned to me and said, "What's this, Father? A language you
don't know? How amazing."
"There are many languages I don't know, cara," I said, calling her the Italian for
darling.
"How many languages do you speak?" the boy asked boldly.
"Ah, close to fourteen, I think, last time I counted."
He whistled loudly. "Saint Brigid and all her angels! You're a regular professor." He
scratched his head. "How d'you keep them all straight? I've got enough trouble with learning
English and Romani."
"That's because you've got the mind of a chikria bird, little grandson, easily
distracted," came a woman's soft voice from the entrance to the vardo. "Where's your
manners, boy? Not to tell me we've got guests so I can put an extra plate at the table."
The boy ducked his head in apology, then he flashed her a grin that would have
melted a heart of stone. "I was just getting to that, Granny. Honest."
"Sure you were," she said with a small laugh. Then she turned to us. "Welcome to
our vardo, sir. Won't you come in and share supper with us, you and your lovely daughter
both? I'm Esmerelda Flynn and this scalawag here is my grandson, Hawk."
Esmerelda was around the same age as Matthew Turner, though her hair was still the
black of a rook's feathers. She wore it piled atop her head in a neat bun and covered with a
diklo of cardinal red, since a mature Romani woman is never seen in public without a head
scarf. She had a ruffled blouse of deep saffron and a skirt with layered ruffles in yellow, blue
and red and a blue sash about her waist. Leather moccasins peeped from beneath her full
hem, decorated with colorful beads. The Rom love colors, especially on clothing.
She also had several bracelets of gold and silver on each wrist and earrings and three
chains as well, since they love jewelry.
"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, ma'am," I said, bowing to her and removing
my hat. "My name is Loki Sigurson and this is Belle, my daughter."
"And a fine looking one she is too," Esmerelda beamed. "Welcome, child, to my
vardo. Sastipe!"
Belle smiled back, it was impossible not to like Esmerelda, she had the same
charming manner as her rascal of a grandson. "You are most kind, ma'am."
"And whyever shouldn't I be?" Esmerelda snorted, waving us up the wooden stairs
and inside the wagon. "'Tis only proper to feed a hungry traveler, though you aren't travelers
if I know Matthew Turner, but new troupe members."
"That's so, mistress," I said, walking into the roomy dining area which had a table that
folded into the side of the wagon when not in use and several chairs and stools about it. The
place was neat and clean and the smell of some kind of savory stew set in the middle of the
table was making my mouth water. "I'm a magician by trade and my daughter is my
assistant."
"Indeed, and a worthy trade it is," Esmerelda said approvingly. Unlike most other
folk, the Rom have no fear of magic. In fact they revere and respect those who practice it,
provided the magic done is white and not black. "We've been needing a magician for a long
time now." She gestured at the chairs. "Sit you down now and soon enough we can eat, once
my husband and my son and daughter come in."
Hawk came bounding into the wagon, his dark eyes twinkling. Esmerelda frowned
and said, "Best you change that shirt before supper, lad, you smell like horse."
"And what else would I be smelling of, seeing as I've just groomed Merrow and
Shannon?" her grandson replied impudently.
"Off with you now, you wretched imp, and none of your mouth," Esmerelda ordered,
but she was smiling as she shooed the boy away behind the heavy red curtain where the
family sleeping quarters were.
The imp returned in a few minutes with a clean shirt and new breeches. He
obediently held out his hands for his grandmother's eagle-eyed inspection, she eyed them and
his face critically before proclaiming him fit to sit at the table. In due course we heard the
others splashing away at the wash pails and then coming inside to greet us and sit down to
supper.
Marco was a slender man, but his muscles were whipcord over steel and he had the
compact build of a classic acrobat. Like his grandson, he had wavy black hair, but it had
reddish highlights in it. He was classic Black Irish, dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and creamy
golden skin.
He kissed his wife on his way to the table, saying, "We had ourselves a good practice
today, my darling. No major mistakes and no missed catches." He was wearing trousers and
a shirt much like my own.
His son Nicco was dressed similarly and looked much like him, save for being an inch
or so taller. "Guests for supper now, is it?" he raised an eyebrow and came forward to shake
my hand and bow over Belle's. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Nicco Flynn."
Introductions were made all around and we sat down to eat, with little Rowena next
to Belle and Hawk. Rowena was a smaller version of her mother, with large eyes with long
lashes and gentle smile. She was wearing tights and a one-piece body suit, for she was an
acrobat like her father, brother, and nephew. She would continue to perform until she was
officially a woman, after that she would have to be regulated to wearing a woman's long
skirts as was proper for a Romani female. She wore her sleek black hair braided about her
head and tied with colorful ribbons of red and blue.
Supper consisted of sarmi—a stuffed cabbage dish which contained ground beef, rice,
egg, and spicy peppers in a red sauce. This was a Romani specialty and it was delicious. We
also had fresh baked bread, a crumbly soft cheese, and peas and onions in a creamy sauce.
In honor of our arrival, Marco produced a bottle of fruity wine, and we drank a toast and
afterwards finished off the meal with spring water. Despite popular belief, most Romani do
not drink alcohol regularly.
Conversation about the table was spoken in English for our benefit, though a few
times the children lapsed into Romani and were promptly scolded by their father. "Mind your
manners, 'tis impolite to speak a tongue your guest can't understand."
This drew blushes from Nicco and Rowena, though Hawk simply shrugged, though
thereafter they were careful to speak in English, which all of them spoke fluently.
"Belle is an unusual name," Nicco said, eyeing my daughter appreciatively. "Does
it mean something?"
"It does. It means beautiful in French," Belle answered with a faint smile.
"It fits you then," Hawk spoke up. "Isn't that so, Uncle Nicco?"
Poor Nicco went bright red and glared at his nephew. "Hush your trap, Hawk!" he
hissed, nudging the boy in the ribs.
"I think it's a lovely name," his mother said, coming to his rescue. "Who chose it,
you or your wife?"
"I did," I answered. "Though my wife approved of it too, before she went to meet her
Maker."
"You've not got a mother either?" Hawk asked. "Mine died too, of a fever, and so
did my dad, but I was just a baby and can't remember them."
"Our oldest daughter, Maura, and her husband White Owl, took sick some seven years
past," Marco explained, his voice soft with sorrow.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, for I could only imagine the pain he must have felt at
losing a child. "It is a hard thing to lose a child."
"Aye. But at least we have her son left of her," the man said, and he winked at his
grandson. "Tis a great comfort, as I'm sure you'll agree."
I nodded and smiled at Belle. "No doubt of that, my friend. I thank God daily for
Belle."
"Rowena, Hawk, help me clear the table, then we'll have coffee and dessert,"
Esmerelda ordered and the two youngest members of the household rose and began gathering
up plates and utensils without protest. All Rom learn the meaning of work at a young age,
boys as well as girls.
We chatted amiably with Marco and Nicco, telling them about our home in Norway
and how long the voyage was to get here. Belle can embroidered a story as well as I can, and
she took her cues from me, and we managed to keep our fictional voyage believable.
By the time we'd reached the end of that story, Esmerelda was ready with a pot of
freshly brewed coffee, which they drank heavily sugared and with lots of milk for the younger
members and the women, black for the men and myself. Dessert was galushki—a delicious
confection of sweet dumplings stuffed with almonds and sugar boiled in milk and served with
a thin cream syrup.
Apparently all of her family had a sweet tooth, for Esmerelda had made enough of
them to feed the entire troupe, and all of us stuffed ourselves.
"I've never tasted anything so good in my life," Belle exclaimed, eating her third
galush. "Please, would you show me how to make them, Mrs. Flynn?"
"Esmerelda, child," the older woman corrected. "And of course I'd be happy to.
We'll exchange recipes tomorrow, I'm sure you know how to make some Norwegian dishes
I've never had. Rowena and I always enjoy learning new ways to cook, don't we, lass?"
Rowena smiled shyly and nodded.
We ended the evening by going outside and telling stories by the roaring fire Marco
had lit, swapping tall tales of Romani and Scandinavian origin until Hawk and Rowena were
sleepy and then we bid our new friends goodnight and made our way back to our own wagon.
The wagon was equipped with a straw and feather ticking and I slept better on that
mattress than I had since leaving Asgard.
* * * * * *
Despite the friendliness shown by the Flynns, the Rom family was not made welcome
by all of the troupe. Only Matthew and Marissa were regular guests at the Flynn wagon,
though none save the doctor and Mr. Tims were openly disdainful of them. Everyone else
was polite, if not particularly welcoming.
"They are gadje," Marco snorted. "What can you expect?" Then he colored faintly
and said, "That does not include you or Belle, Loki, nor the Turners. You are friends and
Matthew and Rissa are like members of my family. The rest are gajikane, without manners,
as you see."
"Bunch of bigoted idiots," I muttered and Marco chuckled.
"It has always been the lot of the Romani to be misunderstood and persecuted. It is
the burden God gave us to carry and we can but bear it with grace, even as He did so long
ago. Come, my friend, watch this next tumbling run and tell me if it looks good."
Marco and his family were superb acrobats and tightrope walkers, even little Hawk,
graceful as cats and utterly fearless. They practiced for hours in the mornings and late
afternoons, revising and refining their routine until each member knew his or her part
instinctively. They were consummate artists as well as incredible athletes.
Marco told me that one learns acrobatics very young among the Rom, for the child's
body is the most flexible, especially at four and five, when he taught both his daughters,
Nicco, Marissa, and now Hawk how to tumble and do back handsprings and cartwheels.
Even so, the acrobat did occasionally suffer strained muscles and other injuries from landing
wrong or mistiming a jump.
All the Flynns, save for Hawk, had suffered sprains, cuts, bruises, and strained tendons
during their career, such was a hazard of their profession. They had avoided more serious
injuries because Marco insisted on total concentration and focus when doing a routine, for
it was when an acrobat lost focus or was playing about that the serious injuries such as broken
bones or death, occurred.
Hawk, I can only assume, knew the value of concentration when doing a routine, that
was something I'd seen and heard Marco stress repeatedly during the practices I'd watched.
The boy was smart, he understood the reasons behind his grandfather's dictates. But like all
boys, there was a need in him to test those same dictates. That was what he did that fateful
morning, when his family was not there to caution him.
Esmerelda and Rowena had gone into the market close by where we'd picketed our
wagons, probably to buy supplies for their household and to engage in that favorite of all a
woman's past times, shopping. Marco had taken Nicco away as well, to trade for something,
I can't recall what now. In any case, they'd left Hawk back at the vardo. Such was not
unusual, the boy was old enough not to stray outside of the camp and to be trusted not to get
into any mischief. Then too, neither of the adults probably intended to be gone for more than
a few hours, having departed early in the morning, and left the boy sleeping. Had he been
like more boys his age, he'd have remained so till his family returned.
But Hawk was restless and impetuous, and preferred being awake to being asleep.
He awoke barely an hour after the rest of the Flynns had departed, he told me later, and fixed
himself a light breakfast of toast with melted cheese, fruit, and a glass of water. Then, bored
with being in the confines of the wagon, and being a naturally active child, he left and went
towards the practice tent, which was where he and other members of the troupe went to hone
their routines.
He said he'd only meant to practice a few tumbling passes, but when he got there
Marissa was exercising Rocket, her splendid silver horse, and working out a new set of
balancing routines. He had always admired the way the young woman could do flips on top
of her horse, though Marco had made him promise never to try it without his permission.
Hawk, being Hawk, chose to forget about that promise.
He went back to the vardo and untethered the young gelding Banner from the picket
line. Banner was not a draft horse, but a cross between a warm-blooded Standardbred and
a gypsy cob. He was sleeker and smaller than his Vanner cousins, though like them, he was
gentle and even-tempered and not prone to shy at loud noises or little boys climbing on his
back.
Hawk rode Banner back into the practice ring just as Marissa was leaving it. I don't
know what he told her, but she started to lead her tired Rocket back to his picket for a drink
and a grooming, leaving the daring boy alone with Banner.
Hawk admitted later to me and his grandfather that he tried a double somersault off
the back of his patient mount, a trick he'd done a dozen times before with a spotter to catch
him. This time, however, there was no adult there.
And the boy misjudged the speed of his fall and landed awkwardly, breaking his left
arm.