Lady Gypsy

by Crooks, Pam

  He turned, obviously expecting her to follow. Hanzi went to Mama's side and curled his arm about her shoulder, urging her back to their wagon in a quiet voice. Nanosh joined him, and they lifted her, sniffling and exhausted, to her feet. Not giving Liza a backward glance, they made their way back to the kumpania .

  Only her siblings remained, silent and haunted by all they had seen. Even little Tekla, perched on Paprika's hip, did not squirm or howl with her usual two-year-old enthusiasm.

  “What will you do?” Paprika asked softly, her eyes wide and sorrowful.

  Liza could not speak past the huge lump in her throat. Tears threatened, and she angled her face from the children, that they would not see her torment, the agony that threatened to tear her apart.

  She blinked furiously and focused a longing gaze on Reese's house--her house. Gay-colored asters and brilliant clematis waved cheerfully in the breeze. The well-trimmed lawn, the white clapboard siding, the spacious porch lining the entire front of the structure. Her garden, with its well-tended rows and thriving vegetables. In a flash, she relived all the memories sheltered within the walls of her new home.

  Her home.

  She envisioned the kitchen and the cast-iron stove where she had learned to cook Reese's meals. She thought of his magnificent bed, of the pie she intended to bake for him that afternoon.

  Putzi tugged on her skirts, his angelic face in need of a washing, his tousled locks begging for a comb.

  “Are you coming, Liza? Are you?” he demanded. His pudgy fist grasped the red fabric in a tight grip, as if he refused to take no for an answer, as if this time, he would not leave her behind.

  In the weeks she had been away, his front teeth had grown back in, and he lost the endearing lisp. He seemed taller, more grown-up. A little man. Her heart ached with love.

  She drew in a long breath and wavered beneath the awful weight sagging on her shoulders.

  She had a price to pay. She owed Mama for the hurt. She must account for the decision she made at the cost of Reese's love and the happiness he had given her. Her people expected little else. It was the Gypsy way.

  A part of her died accepting it.

  She smoothed Putzi's hair and reached for Tekla, settling her on her own hip, relieving Paprika of the responsibility. With all the strength she possessed, every ounce and shred, she turned toward the endless line of wagons and the stern, disapproving faces staring back at her.

  Putzi's hand slipped inside hers. He peered up at her hopefully, the unanswered question shining in his eyes.

  For his sake, Liza managed a tiny smile. “Yes, little one. I am coming.”

  Several fires blazed in the camp and sent hazy tendrils of smoke twisting into the black night. Listless and uneasy, wild-haired mongrel dogs roamed and paced, low growls in their throats. Barefoot children hovered close to their mothers. Subdued voices rose and fell, gripped by the somber mood of the kumpania s.

  Eighteen battered wagons curved around the encampment in a protective half-circle, shielding the Gypsies from inquisitive Gaje and opening onto the banks of the Niobrara River. Tethered by long ropes, a large herd of horses grazed at the edge of camp. Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted in song.

  A tautness hung in the air. Nerves stretched tight from the waiting . . ..

  Liza huddled on a fallen log and wrapped her arms about her knees. She endured the wait with thoughts of Reese, filling her head with memories of him. Did he work late, not yet knowing she rejoined her people? Or did he search frantically, tortured with worry and guilt, any place she might be? The kitchen, the barn, Maudeen's? Had he found the pail of gooseberries she left behind?

  Would he understand?

  He would not tolerate her decision. That Liza knew with grave certainty. She knew, too, he would come in search of her, and he would find her. More than once, he had vowed it.

  But would it be too late?

  Near her, sprawled on the ground, Hanzi tossed chunks of red meat to Rollo, chained to the back of Nanosh's wagon. The tame brown bear gobbled every morsel and sniffed out more.

  Hanzi's gaze lifted, meeting Liza's. Compassion flickered in the dark depths, and she sensed his longing to spare her the kris. It seemed his disapproval had filtered into grim acceptance of what she had done, and she derived great comfort that he still loved her, despite her dishonor.

  Mama's hurt would not go away so easily. Surrounded by several other women, she squatted in a small clearing by their wagon and wept softly. Liza knew she must grieve in front of the entire kumpania to show them she did not approve of what Liza had done, yet the display stung deeply. Did Mama not know Liza never meant to cause her such pain? Surely, she did. But her hate for the Gaje would close her eyes to reason.

  Paprika tiptoed out from inside Nanosh's wagon, pausing on the wide board that sewed as a porch, closing the door with a gentle click. The task had fallen to her to see that Tekla and Putzi slept peacefully beneath their eiderdowns, and Liza was glad they would be spared the grim proceedings ahead. She could only imagine the terrible punishment the kris would hand down to her.

  Paprika skittered down the wagon step and sat next to her on the old log.

  “Is it true you married the handsome Gajo? The one we saw at the train depot?” she demanded without fanfare. Keeping her voice low, she wiggled close, for this had been the first opportunity they had to speak alone.

  “Yes, Paprika. I have married him.”

  Her dark brows furrowed. “But he already had a wife. And a daughter, too.”

  Liza blinked. Then, she remembered Margaret Michelle on that fateful afternoon, her infatuation with the small yucca basket, and Rebecca Ann who had said all the hurtful things about her people.

  How long ago it seemed! A lifetime. And yet only a short while.

  “No, Paprika. We were both mistaken that day.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Reese has never been married. I am the only wife he has ever had.”

  Paprika pressed a hand to her small bosom and heaved a solemn sigh of relief. “I did not think it would be proper to have more than one wife, even for the Gaje, but I did not know for sure.”

  “The Gaje are not as terrible as the Gypsies think,” Liza said quietly. “I have learned this for myself.”

  “Perhaps not.” Paprika regarded her seriously. “Do you love him?”

  Emotion clogged Liza's throat.

  “Very much,” she whispered.

  “Then you are very lucky.”

  Dear Paprika. So adult-like. How could she know the terrible price that must be paid for the decision to wed Reese? Did she not understand the awful shame and disgrace that had been heaped upon Mama and Nanosh?

  “I do not feel so lucky,” Liza murmured and swept a nervous glance toward the men stirring across the flickering campfire.

  “You are.” Paprika hooked her arm through Liza's and whispered confidentially. “Mama tells me Spiro has offered to marry me. I cannot think of a worse husband. He smells.”

  “Spiro comes from a respectable family.” Liza tried to be tactful.

  “So? I do not love him. I want to choose my own husband. Like you.”

  “It is not easy, Paprika. But you are only twelve. You have several years to get to know him.”

  Her glance strayed again to the members of the kris, smoking quietly and sharing bottles of whiskey. A few rose from the ground and found makeshift seats from whatever oddities they could find on hand--an overturned pot, a tree stump, an unwieldy bale of hay. Finally, Uncle Pepe himself rose and produced an abandoned chair, one leg shorter than the other three. Nanosh hurried forward with a chunk of wood to bolster the troublesome lean, and after a brief testing, Uncle Pepe nodded his approval.

  Liza's stomach flip-flopped. “Saints in heaven, Paprika. It is time.”

  “Yes. Have trust, Liza.” Her black eyes pools of sympathy, Paprika's arms tightened around her in a quick hug before she scurried away to join Mama and the other Gypsy women.

  Liza stood, her leg
s far less steady than Uncle Pepe's rickety chair. Behind her, Mama rasped her name and hurried forward with a jangle of necklaces and bracelets. Her brown cheeks were stained with tears. An amulet hung from her neck, smelling of red and black pepper, salt and vinegar spices, and she clasped Liza tightly with her strong arms.

  “God give you luck, my child,” she whispered. She removed the amulet and draped it over Liza's head; the little drawstring bag dangled between her breasts. “I would lay down my life to keep you from this,” she said, her voice quavery. “I was not much younger than you when I had to stand before the kris. They have great power. They hold your honor in their hands.”

  “I am not afraid,” Liza said, as much for Mama's sake as her own.

  “I am afraid for you.” As if she realized they tarried too long at the expense of the court's patience, she kissed each of Liza's cheeks. Choking back a sob, she ran back to the women and squatted, hiding her face in her palms.

  “Liza. Daughter of Pesha, my sister. Come forward,” Uncle Pepe commanded.

  She drew a breath; her heart pounded and raced. But she obeyed, standing before them, a semicircle of men who earned their place on the kris with their wisdom and experience over the years. She knew them all: Yojo, a master metalsmith; Stevan, a musician; Dominic, a skilled horseman, Tinya, an artisan; and of course, Uncle Pepe.

  Ordinary men with extraordinary power. They dressed no differently than the rest of the Rom, wore no jewelry or special robes. They acted without arrogance. But they carried a dignity about them that held them apart, a solemnity that inspired respect and total allegiance.

  Uncle Pepe leaned forward and fastened a stern gaze on her.

  “Do you promise to answer the questions we put before you with truth, Liza?” he demanded.

  She bowed her head. “May my mother die a horrible death if I mock you with lies.”

  He nodded. “Bater. May it be so.”

  Likewise, the court responded with rumbles of agreement. It seemed forever before Uncle Pepe spoke again, so long that Liza clasped her hands tightly before her, keeping her head lowered. Starkly alone, she stood, living the nightmare, the reality of the kris, with scores of black-eyed gazes centered on her, none of whom would trade places with her for all the gold in the world.

  Nausea rolled in her belly. That she could prevent this from happening . . ..

  “You have shamed the Gypsies by marrying a Gajo,” Uncle Pepe said finally, startling Liza with the sound of his voice. “You have brought great disgrace to your family. There are few worse things you could have done.”

  Her chin lifted. She swallowed hard.

  “What do you have to say to this?” he asked gravely. She garnered her courage and willed herself not to shake like a leaf in the wind.

  “There is a saying among us,” she began. “’Which is greater, the oak or the dandelion’?”

  “Yes,” he murmured and stroked a fingertip along his thin mustache.

  “The answer is ponderous and wise. Whichever one achieves fulfillment.” She drew a breath. “By the accident of my birth, I have been a dandelion among my people. A weed to be stepped on or cast aside. Because the blood of my natural father flows in my veins, I am not a true Gypsy. I do not belong among the sturdy oaks--the Rom.”

  The entire camp was silent; even the children listened.

  “When I married Reese Carrison, I knew the cost. I knew the shame,” she said. “But I married him, anyway.”

  “Why?” Yojo asked.

  “Because I had fallen in love with him. Even now, as I stand before you with great respect, the sight of him never leaves my eyes. The smell, the taste of him never leaves my senses. The strength of our love never leaves my heart.”

  In the golden glow of the firelight, members of the kris stared, their expressions thoughtful.

  “I am nothing but a dandelion, Uncle Pepe, but I have achieved fulfillment with my husband. I have learned his ways. His people accept me. I have more honor with the Gaje than I do the Gypsy.”

  “You feel this to be true, with your soul and your mind?” he said, frowning.

  “I do.”

  “Have you had such a terrible life with our people? Have we not fed you and protected you? Have you not been included in the celebrations and happiness shared by the kumpania s?”

  “Yes, all those things.” She drew courage from the keen interest shown by the entire court. “I do not seek pity for myself, but in truth, consider my mother, my brothers and sisters.” Her mouth pursed. She chose her words with care. “Twenty winters ago, Mama made a mistake. Adultery, as you know. But she was very young, and since then, Nanosh, her husband, has forgiven her.”

  She ventured a glance toward him, hunkered near a tree. A cigarette burned, forgotten, between his fingers. No movement came from him, as if he, too, listened with sharp interest.

  “For many years, we have lived by the harsh judgment handed down to her by the kris,” she said. “It is a part of our lives. But how long must we endure the shame from the past?”

  Tinya rested an elbow on his knee and propped his chin in his hand. He considered her for one long, agonizing moment. “Tell us of the shame, Liza.”

  She detected a hint of challenge in his tone, as if she dared to defy their wisdom all those years ago. She met that challenge.

  “Already Paprika speaks of a husband of her own.” Liza thought of Spiro and managed not to grimace. “But those who want her for a wife are few, and not, perhaps, her first choice. And there is Hanzi.”

  With the eyes of all the Gypsies upon him, he met Liza's gaze, proud and erect.

  “See him?” Her heart swelled with love. “So strong and honorable, yet because he has not yet taken a wife, he cannot be called Rom. He hesitates to take his rightful place in the community. He does not want to shame his wife and children, as he has been shamed, and Nanosh, his father, before him.”

  Finally, she gestured toward her mother, sweating with anguish, her bosom heaving with deep, heavy breaths.

  “Of all of us, Mama has suffered the most,” Liza said softly. She faced the kris once more. “Do you realize I have never seen her with hair? Nanosh told me once she had beautiful hair that shined in the sun, with curls that grew wild and thick beneath her kerchief.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Pepe murmured. In the flickering flames, a hint of moisture shimmered in his eyes. “I remember, too.”

  In the sea of bodies that surrounded the campfires, several women sniffed. Mama wept openly. Even Nanosh hid his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking in silent torment.

  Liza struggled with the emotion lodged in her own throat. “I am only a dandelion among the oaks. Yes, I have married a Gajo. Cast me aside like an unwanted weed, if you must. But spare the children the shame, I beg of you. Hanzi and Paprika, Tekla and Putzi, they are innocents. Do not punish them for what I have done.”

  Dominic cleared his throat. Stevan studied the toes of his battered boots. Pensive, Uncle Pepe rubbed his jaw and opened his mouth to speak.

  A rustle in the brush halted the words on his tongue. The mongrel dogs bolted to their feet, growling viciously, running as a pack into the shadows. The men rose in unison, their alarm obvious, their gazes riveted to the unseen intruder.

  The mood of the court had been shattered. Heart hammering, Liza peered into the darkness and clutched a hand to her breast.

  A horse emerged. A stallion. Black and gleaming and magnificent.

  Zor.

  She gasped.

  Reese swept an impassive glance over her people, then touched on her for a cool, brief moment. He gripped a long-barreled rifle in his hand, clearly ready to use force should her people refuse him entrance. The stallion stepped easily, casually, around the campfires and drew to a stop in front of the entire kris.

  They eyed one another suspiciously.

  Reese's mouth quirked.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “But I've come for my wife.”

  Chapter 17

 
Their hostility was a volatile thing.

  It buzzed around Reese like bees on clover, and he braced for its sting. He didn’t immediately dismount from the stallion but kept his eyes open and senses primed. How far would they go in their refusal to relinquish Liza?

  He detected no weapons around them. Not a pistol or rifle or knife could be seen. Their attack would be in the strength of their contempt rather than physical violence, and in that regard, he decided he'd be safe enough.

  He returned the Winchester to its scabbard. A few of the younger men inched closer, their admiring gazes riveted to his horse. Reese let them look and dismounted.

  His glance sought out Liza. He soaked in the sight of her, for the scare she'd given him, for the agony and worry he'd endured. He wanted to throttle her and hold her, all at the same time.

  She kept her eyes downcast, her face angled away from him, her body stiff and straight. Humiliation emanated from her.

  Cast me aside like an unwanted weed, if you must.

  Her words haunted him. He hadn't reached her in time. She stood before the ominous kris, heart-wrenchingly alone, forced to account for their marriage without him.

  Spare the children the shame, I beg of you.

  She hadn't wanted him to see her raw and exposed, pleading in front of everyone, her own shame suffocating, her dishonor crippling.

  Do not punish them for what I have done.

  . . . for what I have done.

  The words rippled in his brain. God, that she had to go through this, that he couldn't keep her from it, that he was helpless and inept and, worse, a total outsider.

  The Gypsies swarmed closer, keeping him from her, preventing any hope of private conversation. The women wore flowing, layered skirts and loose, low-cut blouses. Gold necklaces and bracelets abounded, and heavy earrings dangled from elongated lobes. The men faced him with sharp, piercing eyes, unshaven cheeks, and fierce mustaches. The whole group of them, proud, defiant, and noble.

  Liza's people. They carried the power to pamper her with love or destroy her with rejection.