by Sarah Price
“New Year!” The word stuck in her throat. “There's going to be some changes around here. I'll leave before I live the next five months in silence!”
Emilian tried to calm Sahara down. He knew from past experience this was one tradition no one would overlook for the gadjo-gypsy girl. Not even Nicolae. “You must understand, S'hara. They are very strict about a woman with child.”
She lifted her head defiantly, refusing to meet his gaze as she tried to regain her dignity. A man, her brother-in-law, had been the one to tell her. How could she have been so ignorant? Perhaps, she thought, if my mother hadn't died and my father had talked to me of such things. “I've changed past traditions. I will change this one, too.” This time when Sahara turned to leave, Emilian let her go. He watched her bend down to lift her package into her arms. Her figure was still slender, no hint of her pregnancy, most likely because of her morning sickness. As if aware of Emilian's thoughts, Sahara spared him a glance before she hurried across the field toward the camp.
Her angry stride caused several people to look up as Sahara stormed through the center of the gathering area. A small crowd of younger woman moved out of her way, their mouths hanging open as their eyes followed Sahara's back. She refused to acknowledge their curious stares. Instead, Sahara walked up to an unsuspecting Bossa. Sahara stamped her foot impatiently until the woman looked up from her two nose-running children. Bossa glanced around quickly, uncertain of Sahara's intentions. The two women had avoided each other since their first and only confrontation several months ago. Hoarding her children behind her full skirts, Bossa met Sahara's fierce eyes. “What do you want, bori?”
Sahara responded with a curt question. “Where is my husband, romni?”
Bossa glanced toward one of the wagons but quickly returned her gaze to Sahara's furious stare. “I do not know, bori.”
A satisfied smile turned Sahara's lips up at the corners. “Your eyes to not lie as well as your tongue, romni.” Without another word, Sahara turned on her heels, walking straight to the wagon and Nicolae's location that Bossa had carelessly given away with a stolen glance.
Sahara thought she recognized the wagon as the one belonging to the Rom Baro's but she wasn't sure nor did she care at that particular moment. Her dry feet stomped up the wooden stairs and her knuckles rapped sharply against the shut door. She stepped back, waiting for someone to answer the door. When no one responded to her knock, she flung the door open, bursting into the wagon. The air was steamy and stale. The two men, squatting on the floor, looked up at Sahara's unexpected intrusion. They wore expressions of surprise. No one ever interrupted the Rom Baro meeting with his son.
Nicolae started to jump to his feet but Sahara blocked him. Her blood boiled under her skin. Standing over Nicolae, Sahara tried to open her mouth to speak but her rage held her tongue. Both men stared at her, their mouths hanging open. Sahara's body began to shake until she finally exploded. “How dare you!” She leaned forward, shaking her finger in his shocked face. “You've known for weeks now, haven't you? Haven't you?” Her voice grew shriller and her face redder. “All along you knew why I was being shunned!” She shook her fist in the air. “Well, God as my witness! If you don't lift this mahrime off my head, I'll run and you'll never see this baby!”
Spinning around, Sahara raced out of the wagon, tears staining her dusty cheeks. She fled past the women. Sahara didn't care what they thought of her. Nor did she care if Nicolae let her run off. She'd take her baby and raise it the gadjo way. Any way, she thought, just as long as it wasn't the gypsy way. Swallowing a sob that crept into her throat, Sahara realized how emotionally starved she was. The gypsy way had drained her both physically and mentally. No longer would she be the dutiful wife. No, she thought with tears in her eyes. I will leave and raise this child on my own.
The canvas almost ripped as she threw it roughly aside and hurried inside. She had to escape before Nicolae tried to stop her. Slamming the trunk open, she began to gather her clothes, throwing them in a pile on a spread blanket. Practically leaping upon it, she tied the corners, making a sloppy sack. Cursing as she lifted it over her shoulder, she managed to get out of the tent before Nicolae appeared, shoving her back inside. Furious, he eyed the large bundle in her hands. “Where do you believe you are going?”
To Sahara's dismay, Nicolae blocked the only exit out of the tent. If she tried to crawl underneath, she knew he'd be on top of her in a minute. Her thoughts rambled on irrationally, quickly analyzing the scenario. Nicolae had trapped her. Again. “Let me by!”
“Sahara!” His voice boomed in her ears. Cringing, Sahara kept her shoulders straight, acting strong. But he frightened her. The slant of his eyes and the way his chest rose so rapidly terrified her like he had so many other times. But this time was different. His eyes had grown darker and his hair was disarrayed. Murder was written across Nicolae's face as his jaw trembled, restraining himself from striking his wife. He had to think of the unborn child. “You answer me, S'hara! You think you can leave?”
His anger evoked the slightest satisfaction from Sahara. At least he was paying attention to her. “What do you care anyway?” With an indigent toss of her shoulders, she walked away from him, stopping in front of the center post. With her back to him, she traced her finger over the soot stained glass in the lantern. “You haven't spoken two kind words to me in a month!” She glanced over her shoulder, eager to see his reaction. His face remained stone cold. Disappointed, she dropped her hand and narrowed her eyes. “You could have at least told me!”
Nicolae met her glare with his own. Once again, Sahara had humiliated him in front of the other gypsies. Already there was talk about whether a man that bowed to a woman was fit to lead the kumpania. His father had been concerned, chastising him for his weakness when Sahara had burst into the wagon. She was making this difficult, too difficult, and creating too many problems for him. “It is not a man's place to tell a woman!”
“That's what your brother said fifteen minutes ago when he told me!”
The mention of Emilian angered Nicolae. Always, Nicolae thought bitterly, he is trying to take away what is mine! But Nicolae redeemed some satisfaction knowing Emilian was aware of Sahara's condition. Never could, or would, Emilian try to steal her away again. No man would want a woman with child. No man could see anything desirable in a pregnant woman. But as Nicolae faced his fiery wife, he felt his own groin start to burn. It frustrated him that he must wait two months after the child was born before he could bed her again. “I did not tell you because it is the way, S'hara!”
Snapping her head forward, Sahara gushed, “That's your father speaking! You aren't that cruel, Nicolae!”
Nicolae's expression remained cold and heartless. “Perhaps I am, S'hara.”
“And to think that I had fallen in-love with you,” she snapped. “Silly fool that I am!” She shoved past him and started for the tent opening.
“You will not leave, S’hara!” he said, his voice low and deep as he grabbed her arm.
“You cannot stop me, Nicolae!” She yanked her arm free. “Besides,” she said, the sarcasm thick in her words. “Isn’t it mahrime to touch a pregnant woman?”
She left the tent but Nicolae was close on her heels. Once outside, Sahara began walking toward away from the camp. For a long moment, Nicolae didn't know what to do. As usual, a crowd had gathered, trying to politely keep their distance while watching the unfolding scene. If he went after her, Nicolae knew that they would believe that he was too weak to lead them. But if he let her go, she would be lost forever. He had no doubt that she would disappear, just like her mother had done so long ago. Wrestling within himself, Nicolae finally sighed, ignoring the gossiping stares as he followed her, reaching out to touch her arm. When she turned around, he merely gave a simple node of his head. “Yes, S’hara, it is mahrime to touch a pregnant gypsy women but it will not be mahrime to touch you.” To his personal pleasure, she let him take her into his arms. She clung to him, a sob escaping her th
roat and tears spilling from her eyes. The stress and confusion from the past few weeks dissipated for her but, unbeknownst to her, shifted to him. He held her tightly, hating himself for weakening to her every time. Just once, he had vowed over and over again, I will stand up against my love for her. Once again he had failed. And he knew it would not be the last time.
Emilian had heard that his father was to wed Amaya from the other boys. It was whispered among the people who saw the Rom Baro take her in his arms and kiss her. It was unprecedented to have such public displays of emotion. But he was their leader and they were glad to know that he was happy again. It had been a long year since his wife had died. But Emilian did not greet the news with so much joy. It meant that he would have no choice but to marry the baby, Sahara. She was walking now but still an infant in his eyes. He could not look at her and see anything other than a baby. There was no wife there and he did not want to wait.
“I don’t understand Father, “ he complained to his brother. “He will wed that woman and I her child. If the two kumpanias will be joined through their marriage, why should I still marry that baby?”
Nicolae shrugged his shoulders. “That is what was promised.”
Emilian threw a rock as far as he could. “I don’t want to wait another ten or so years. I’ll be an old man by then.”
Nicolae laughed. “Being in your twenties is not that old!”
Emilian turned around and shoved his brother. Nicolae fell onto the ground. “Then you marry the baby,” he snapped. “You wait until you are twenty to marry and be a real man!” He stormed away, his anger and rage blinding his vision until all he saw was black. His future, he realized, was the same color. Black.
Chapter Sixteen
Sahara stood on the grassy hill, overlooking the giant fortress. Her loose hair blew in her face as she faced the sharp stinging September wind. The grey, fall sky darkened by the minute, threatening a nasty storm. The darkness created a foreboding shadow over the fortress. Shivering, Sahara wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and continued to stare uneasily at the magnificent structure. Barely could she see over the top of the fortress' walls. Several men paced slowly, their heads just visible. They carried large rifles over their shoulders as they walked. Several cannons poke out of holes in the wall just above the entrance. The fortress' massive wooden gates frightened her. Each perpendicular log reminded her that the fortress locked out danger. Lock out danger, she thought, on my side. She started to turn away. The wind ripped through her, this time chilling her to the bone.
The gypsy encampment was quieter than usual. The men had travelled down to the fort, gambling, trading horses, or selling their rakiya to the bored soldiers. The gypsies had been camped just above the fort for little under a week. As had been their luck recently, heavy fall rain had held them up longer than they had expected and desired. The soldiers had welcomed the gypsies as a break in the monotony of their weary lives. The gypsies had welcomed the soldiers as a break in their bad luck. For the past two months, most of the towns had run the gypsies away, refusing to attend the nightly slavas or trade horses. Miserably, the gypsies had travelled during the nights, hoping to stumble upon a town that would welcome them with eager arms and open pockets. Fort Niobrara had answered their prayers.
Sahara pulled her black shawl over her shoulders again as she neared the camp. The fires were low. It didn't surprise her anymore to notice the older women hibernating in their wagons instead of gossiping around the fires. Only on the nicest of days did they venture to the river to wash clothing. It was getting too cold. They were eager to camp for the winter in north Texas. But it would take them at least another two months to get there. Two months that frightened the gypsies. On occasion, Sahara had overheard the gypsies whispering among themselves that the Rom Baro was never going to get them to the camp. The gypsies claimed their concern was for the children. But Sahara knew the older gypsies were restless and scared of the cold winter that lay ahead. Already they were getting a taste of it.
“S'hara!” Sahara stopped walking and turned around, smiling her greeting at Bossa. The tired woman pulled at her grey shawl as she hurried toward Sahara. The smile faded from Sahara's face as Bossa pulled at her arm desperately. “You must come at once!” The urgency of Bossa's voice frightened her. Quickly, Sahara followed the woman. “What is it?”
“The little one!”
All the gypsy children were “little ones”. But Sahara knew at once the child Bossa referred to. A small boy named Lee had recently come down with a cold as had many of the gypsies. His mother, a fine woman named Rubba that Sahara was quite fond of, had sent him to bed, bringing him hot broth and stew to nurse him back to health. But to everyone's horror, Lee's health had deteriorated. Sahara hurried after Montesa, curious about the reasons she, a semi-mahrimed pregnant woman, had been called.
“What is wrong with the shav?” Her black skirt snapped in the wind. It's getting colder, she thought. That's what's wrong.
Bossa glanced over her shoulder at Sahara. Sahara's beauty and courage warmed Bossa's insides. Where there once may have been envy, there was only admiration now. “His fever has risen. He does not respond. Rubba fears E Martya will appear soon.”
“E Martya!” Shocked, Sahara repeated the name. The angel of death. Images conjured in Sahara's mind. In the six months she had been Nicolae's wife, she had never “seen” E Martya. No one had died. “Lee will recover!” Resting her hand on her enlarged stomach, Sahara said a quick prayer before entering the tent.
The older women sat around a pale child dripping with sweat. Each woman wore black, their eyes squeezed tight as their mouths moved silently in a Romani prayer. Sahara frowned, wondering why they were acknowledging the child as deceased. From where she stood, she could see Lee's chest rise and fall slowly. Perhaps he was alive, but just barely. There were several lanterns lit, hanging from the post and situated on a trunk and table. Sahara squinted in the dim light, noticing the child was laying on several blankets and pillows. His body shook with sickness. The mother, crouched protectively by his side, slowly raised her eyes to Sahara. The dark pools that gazed at the pregnant gadjo-gypsy were large and sorrowful. “You will pray for him, yes?”
Sahara frowned. Prayers would not help this child anymore. He was going to die. “No.” The other women gasped, their prayers broken as they looked up. “Prayers are not always enough,” Sahara quickly finished. “We will save him.” She shoved her way through the crowd of women, kneeling beside the child. She reached beneath the blanket for his hand. It was ice cold. Almost corpse-like. Tucking his hand back under the blanket, Sahara looked up at Bossa. “Go to my tent. Take another with you. The mattress. Bring that to the Rom Baro's wagon. Lay it inside. I want him off the cold, hard ground. Hurry!”
Rubba clutched her hands together to pray silently again. Sahara wanted to tell her to gather more blankets but one look at the distraught mother and she knew Rubba was gone. Instead, Sahara looked at Bossa. “Get more blankets. Bring them to the Rom Baro's wagon. It's too drafty in here for this child.” Her last statement was more to herself than to anyone else. Concerned, Sahara touched the boy's head. Certainly his fever was too high. She had to lower it somehow. “You!” She pointed to a younger woman, perhaps twenty, named Ingra. The woman jumped, startled that Sahara had acknowledged her. “Stir up the fires. I want a large pot of broth made.”
Ingra stuttered. “But the storm...”
The growing anger in her voice startled Ingra. Sahara glanced at the unconscious child. In her mind, she pretended Lee was her own unborn child. If he was, she thought, no one would fear a storm. Instead they would fear my wraith at their slowness. Rising to her feet, Sahara started toward Ingra. “You do as I tell you, romni!” Quickly, the frightened girl raced out of the tent, frantically crying out in Romani that Sahara was insane.
Bossa and Slena reappeared, breathlessly informing Sahara they had moved the mattress into the Rom Baro's wagon. They
eyed the limp Rubba, hopelessly praying. “Listen to me.” Sahara waited until they met her gaze. “The men aren't here, curse them. But we must carry Lee to the Rom Baro's. It'll be warmer and less drafty from the storm. You two must carry him.”
They nodded eagerly. Following Sahara's instructions, they carried the boy out of the tent and to the Rom Baro's wagon. Sahara helped them ease the child onto the mattress, quickly replacing his old, damp blankets with fresh ones. Piling as many blankets on as possible, Sahara ordered Bossa and Slena to hang blankets on the walls. Obediently, they did as they were told. Sahara stood up, steadying herself against the wall before squeezing past the women to go outside. The wind was blowing harder now. Sahara stared into the sky, wondering when Nicolae would return. Her heart pounded harder as she thought about the stories they had heard of recent Indian attacks. When the gypsy caravan had passed through the last town, they had seen Indians. The solemn faced Indians had frightened Sahara. She had never actually seen an Indian before. Their tents staked in the meadows and their children playing while the women cooked struck her as familiar. Their lifestyles were so similar to the gypsies that, in a way, Sahara felt as though they were her brethren. Several Indians had stopped what they were doing, looking up to watch the gypsies pass. She wondered if they knew what the caravan was. Certainly they must have believed the gypsies to be more pioneers taking away their land. But the Rom Baro had ignored the red men, directing his kumpania past the Indian camp.
Ingra greeted Sahara with a timid smile. Her eyes darted quickly to Sahara's growing stomach. It had taken time for the kumpania to accept Sahara's condition. Nicolae had spoken to the women, telling them to ignore Sahara's pregnancy. Once again, the mysterious gadjo-gypsy had changed tradition to include her gadjo ways. “The broth is ready, bori.”
Sahara took the ladle from Ingra, leaning over the pot to stir the thin liquid. The aroma struck her as peculiar. Frowning, she tasted some of it. Ingra winced, holding back from throwing the pot's contents onto the ground. Any other pregnant woman would never be allowed to touch food. It was mahrime. But Ingra stifled her instinct. Sahara made a face of disgust, thrusting the ladle at Ingra. “What is in here? It tastes horrible!” Already the rain was falling. Thunder rocked in the near distance. The storm was closing in on them.