“It wasn’t my fault,” I whimpered. “I swear to you, it wasn’t my fault! And I avenged his crime!”
I was really saying the words that I would use with Django, but Seth Garrett said, “I know it wasn’t your fault. Nobody’s blaming you. He got no more than he deserved. Rinse off now.” He pushed me down in the water again and walked away from the tub.
“Django will not want me now,” I said sadly. “I am not pure.”
“Who’s Django?” He brought over a heavy wool robe. “Stand up.”
I was too unhappy and dejected to care any more if he saw me, and I stood. He wrapped the robe around me and lifted me out of the tub and carried me to the fire.
“Django is my betrothed,” I told him. “We were to have been married last fall.”
“Married? You’re only a child.” He set me down and before he let me go he sniffed my hair. “Now that’s the way a girl should smell. Dry yourself off. I’ll send your supper in here. The landlady will hang your things behind the big stove to dry. They should be all right by morning.”
He left me alone. I wriggled around inside the robe, pushing my arms through the sleeves, tying the belt around my middle. There was a lot of robe and not too much of me, and it nearly went around me twice. It smelled good, like the man himself. I remembered that I wanted to be angry with him, and I tried half-heartedly to work up a good rage, but too many other things were spinning around inside my head, distracting me. I remembered how his arms had felt around me. I blushed and wrinkled my nose. He had been rough, but he had not been brutal and vicious like my uncle. I began to perceive that all men were not the same, and that a woman may hate it when one man puts his hands on her, and not mind so much when another does it.
A woman. That’s what I was now, even though I didn’t look much like a woman yet. And for the first time I understood that growing up brings its own special problems and concerns, things that children aren’t even aware of—like love and dishonor and coming together with a man in the darkness. But there was so much I didn’t know yet, so much I had to learn. I thought about what my uncle had done to me, and I thought about the stranger. And I felt a little afraid.
As the days passed Seth’s moods grew worse. I guessed that long hours of riding in the troika in the cold were hard on his leg. His limp was more pronounced, and if anyone so much as bumped his bad knee, he let loose with a string of curses in Russian that would have done credit to a whole platoon of Cossacks. On the fifth night of our journey we stayed in the little town of Pinsk. The posting station there had no private rooms, and Seth Garrett had to sleep on the floor like everyone else.
As I settled myself down for sleep I looked over and saw him sitting on a crude log bench, rubbing his left leg. I debated, should I help him or should I let him suffer? My pride was still smarting from that bath business. But I would show him that Gypsies were good-hearted people who could rise above petty disagreements.
I went over to him and crouched in front of him. “Let me help you,“ I said. As usual his right boot came off without difficulty, but when I touched his left leg he sucked in his breath. “Hurts bad tonight, eh?“ I said. “Do not worry. I will help you. I know how to fix the pain.“ I eased the boot off and removed his sock as well. I pushed the leg of his breeches as high as it would go over his knee.
“What do you think you’re doing?“ he demanded angrily. He jerked his breeches down but a stab of pain in his leg made him stop and bite his lip.
“No, no,” I said soothingly. I pushed his hands away and uncovered his knee again. “I will not hurt you. I want to see, that is all. Ah, it is as I thought.” A jagged purple scar started midway up his thigh, zigged over his kneecap, and ran down the outside of his leg. “This,” I said, reaching up to touch his cheek, “is from the sword. But this,” I traced the scar on his leg very lightly, “is from a horse.” He jumped when I touched him. “How did you know that?” he asked through clenched teeth.
I shrugged. “Simple. Django has one like it. He limps, too. He was in a race once with a gorgio peasant boy. Django won, of course. The peasant was very angry because his friends had lost a lot of money on the race and he was humiliated. When the race was over, Django led his horse around the field to calm him. He was walking, you see. Then suddenly the peasant’s horse reared up. And the peasant boy rode towards Django and trapped him against a board fence. He said later that it wasn’t his fault, that the wind had blown a Gypsy girl’s skirts and spooked his horse, but everyone knew it was a lie. Anyway, Django couldn’t get away. The horse knocked him down, and reared up and came down on him again. Not on his head, thank God! But his leg was broken and very bloody, torn in lots of places. He fainted. The pain must have been very great to make him do that, because Django is a brave boy. But he did not cry out, not even once. I was very proud of him.”
Seth was silent during this recital. I sensed that he was thinking about his own accident, and how he became lame. After a minute I stood up and searched through my eiderdown. I found what I was looking for, a small brown pottery jar not much bigger than my closed fist. I carried it back and crouched down once more.
“I held his hand and gave him strength while the doctor was fixing his leg,” I went on. “But his mother came after a while and made me leave him. She does not like me very much. She says I am bewitched because I like to sing in the rain and dance under the moon. What’s wrong with that? But we will learn to live together after Django and I are married. If we marry.”
I uncorked the jar and held it under his nose. He started. “Not bad, eh?” I said with satisfaction. “I made it myself, at the Grandfather’s. I threw in some perfume that belonged to Olga Ivanovna, my uncle’s wife.”
“What is it?” Seth asked doubtfully.
“Some beeswax, some lard. A few herbs and other things. It is not important. You trust me? I will try not to hurt you.” I dipped my fingertips into the jar and applied a little ointment to the scar tissue. “Your leg did not break, is that right?” I looked up at him. He gave an infinitesimal nod. “So. The muscles and the flesh were cut apart, and where they have healed they are stiff and hard. And when they are tired and cold, they do not bend easily. And that makes you as cross as a black Russian bear.” I rubbed the ointment into his skin, using the gentlest pressure.
“I am not cross,” the bear growled.
“No? Then why do you act like a snarling dog all the time? Because you are cold? No, for you have rich furs to keep you warm. And you have plenty of food and drink to fill your belly. Or maybe you are cross because you do not like me and you cannot wait to be rid of me.” I looked up slyly while I worked. “You think I cannot tell? You have called me dirty Gypsy and even though I have had a bath you do not like me to be close to you. I think you would rather eat in the stable with the horses than sit at the table with me. I am no fool. You are a gorgio and I am Gypsy. We can never understand each other’s ways. So?” I shrugged and tossed my braids. “We are together now. And I can see that you have pain. The pain makes you angry. I understand. And even though I do not like you and you do not like me, I know that I can help you. And because I am Gypsy and have a good heart, I will do this for you.”
“You talk too much,” he said in his rumbling voice.
I grinned at him and spread more ointment on his wound. I rubbed and rubbed, covering an increasingly wider area. I could see that his pain was subsiding. I could feel his relaxing, and the white, pinched look on his face disappeared. I continued to massage and knead the bunched muscles, occasionally rubbing in some more ointment to lubricate and to soothe.
I looked up. “Feels better?”
He nodded grudgingly. “Did you do this for Django?”
“Oh, no! That would be most improper and dangerous. His mother would not allow it.”
“And you don’t consider me dangerous?” A smile lurked behind his eyes.
I felt a quick blush come to my cheeks and my hands faltered in their rhythm. “You?” I said incredulously.
“Bah. You are only a gorgio, and an ugly one at that. Besides, I would do as much for any animal.”
“Is this what they call Gypsy magic?” he asked facetiously.
“No magic,” I said. “You will see.” I sat back on my heels and corked the jar. “Now try to walk,” I commanded him. “The pain will be gone.”
He stood up and put all his weight on his left leg. An amazed look came over his face. He walked gingerly across the floor. His limp was barely noticeable.
He came back to me and flexed his knee. “Incredible,” he said, shaking his head. “I would never have believed it. Remarkable. Thank you, Rhawnie.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket for a coin.
“No,” I said firmly, standing up and shaking out my skirts. “I said that I would pay you, did I not? But I have no money left and you will not let me beg or steal or tell fortunes. So you must let me do this for you. When I leave you at Bryansk, I will give you the rest of the ointment in this jar as a gift.” I slid the jar into my pocket. “And I will teach you to do this magic for yourself. But you must do it every night without fail. The muscles in your leg will never be perfect again, but if you keep them soft and loose they will not hurt you. A good bargain? You agree?”
“Good. Fair payment.” He gave me a strange look that made the blood rush to my face again. “Good-night, Rhawnie.”
Good-night,” I whispered.
I went back to my quilt and wrapped myself up. The room was cold but I felt hot all over. I tried to sleep but I could not. I was aware of him, wrapped up in his furs on the other side of the room, breathing deeply. What was the matter with me?
3
Gypsy No More
THE NEXT NIGHT we arrived in the town of Klimjukovici. The inn was already packed to the rafters because the local wheat festival had begun the day before. Seth Garrett bribed the old, half-blind innkeeper, however, and the old man gave up his own room and said that he and his pretty young wife would sleep in the loft.
After supper I spread my eiderdown out behind the stove in the main room. A couple of other fat peasants were already snoring a few feet away from me. No sooner had I fallen asleep than I felt a nudge. I opened my eyes to see a bearded merchant in a long kaftan standing over me. He poked me with his toe again.
“Hello, Gypsy,” he grinned. “Want some company in there?”
He sat heavily on the floor beside me and put his hands on my chest. His breath reeked of cheap vodka. I cursed him soundly but he was too drunk to hear. I scrambled up and gave him a stiff kick in the stomach, and he gave a loud snore and fell into a drunken sleep.
I managed to yank my eiderdown out from under him and I went to look for another place to sleep. But a few more guests had arrived and all the good places around the warm stove were taken. I decided that I would creep into Seth’s room. I could roll out my eiderdown in front of his fire without disturbing him.
The room was just on the other side of the kitchen. The door had no lock and I pushed it open noiselessly. I stopped, startled, and clutched my eiderdown to my chest. My mouth dropped open.
A single candle flickered on the floor beside the low bed. Seth Garrett was not alone. A woman—the landlord’s plump, dark haired young wife—knelt on the edge of the bed, her face buried in the sheets and her knees tucked up under her body. She was fully dressed, but her skirts were thrown up over her back and her naked buttocks rose out of the garments like twin moons.
Garrett was stark naked. The orange glow from the small fire in the grate shone on his broad back and on his muscular thighs and arms and tight buttocks. He stood on the floor directly behind the woman, grasping her hips in his powerful hands. He was thrusting, pounding at her. And he was breathing hard.
The woman made whimpering noises and I wondered if she was in pain But every so often she would giggle softly like an idiot girl I had once seen in a marketplace. As I watched, unable to tear my eyes away, Seth gave a final, convulsive jerk. The woman sighed ecstatically and stretched forward on the bed, and the man collapsed on top of her.
I backed swiftly out of the room and closed the door. Neither of them had seen me, I was sure. I thought that if the floor had opened up and the Devil himself had come into the room, they wouldn’t have noticed him. I sat down on the kitchen floor and wrapped the quilt around my shoulders. My heart was pounding so strongly that I could feel the vibrations in every part of my body, even in the soles of my feet. I felt nauseous, I felt frightened, I felt excited and repulsed and angry.
I thought it was disgusting. I could still hear the echoes of pounding and breathing and whimpering in my ears, and the sounds brought back vivid recollections of that horrible night when my uncle—and yet there the resemblance between that occasion and the frantic scene I had just witnessed ended. I had hated it, every ugly moment. And yet the innkeeper’s wife seemed to enjoy it. Seth Garrett was certainly every bit as brutal and violent as Alexei had been, and yet this woman had laughed and made sounds of pain that were really sounds of pleasure. I tried to remember if I had ever felt a sensation that was so pleasurable that it made me want to whimper, like a baby at the breast. I couldn’t think of one. Yes, she certainly seemed to enjoy what was happening to her. And Seth was a stranger to her. Not even a relative, like an uncle or a husband. But a stranger! It really was disgusting.
I had never seen a man naked before. Gypsies are very modest and they guard their privacy closely: only little children are permitted to run around without any clothes on. I shivered as I remembered his massive muscles bunching and twisting and—
I closed my eyes and told myself sternly that I must sleep. But I felt confused and frustrated, and annoyed because there was still so much I did not know about life. Would I like it when Django and I came together in the dark? We had hardly ever touched. Our marriage had been arranged when we were small, still babies. I wondered if he would be gentle, not like that animal, Seth Garrett. I tried to picture Django in my mind: dark and slender and so quiet. Oh, Django. But the image of Seth Garrett as I had seen him just a few minutes ago kept crowding out all other thoughts. That man was as broad as a bull, as strong as a stallion, and possessed by a devil. I was thankful that I would be rid of him soon.
We reached Bryansk on the evening of the seventh day of travel, as Ivor Andreivitch had predicted in Moscow. We rode out of town to the field where the Gypsies had been camped in the springtime. The field was empty and the smooth snow was marred only by tracks of deer and wolves.
“Well?” Seth said. “Where are they?”
I shrugged. “They have gone. Moved to a new place. It was the springtime when I saw them last, and now it is winter. They would not stay in one place for such a long time. They are Gypsies, remember?”
“You’re sure this is the right field?” Ivor asked.
“Of course I am sure! I remember that birch grove very well. And that stream over there is where the horses drank. Only farther down, past those trees. We used the part up here for drinking and—”
“Ivor,” Seth growled, “take us back to town. To Bryansk.”
“What are you going to do with her?” Ivor asked. “Leave her there. This is as far as we can take her.”
“But—” Ivor started to protest.
“No.” I threw off my lap robes and climbed down from the troika. “He is right, Ivor Andreivitch. I said as far as Bryansk and here we are. You do not have to take me further. I can find the signs they always leave along the road and I will follow them myself. Do not worry about me.
“Don’t be a little fool,” Ivor said gruffly. “You will freeze the first night, if wolves don’t get you first. Can’t you see those tracks?"
“Any wolf would crack his teeth on her," Seth remarked.
Ivor ignored him. “Where are these Gypsies of yours? How far?"
I lifted my shoulders. “How should I know? April is a long time ago. They might be in Paris now!" I gave Seth a sly look. “But I can find them. I will travel no further with this man. He hates me. Everyone
hates the Gypsies! He is in a hurry, like all gorgio who think if they hurry they can find happiness before it runs away. And you, Ivor Andreivitch, you are interested only in the gold he will pay you when you get to Brest. Good-bye, Ivor Andreivitch. Good-bye, Monsieur Seth. Do not forget to use the ointment, the way I told you. Every night without fail." I lifted my chin and said solemnly and courteously, “May God go with you. Both of you.” Then I turned and trudged away through the deep snow, towards the road that led away from Bryansk. Darkness was beginning to fall. Somewhere an owl hooted. A wolf howled mournfully. He was hungry and he wanted his dinner. Me.
After a few minutes—the time it took for them to agree that they couldn’t abandon me—I heard the scrape of sled runners on the snow. The troika pulled up alongside me and I jumped in.
“Ah, my friends!” I greeted them joyously.
“Shut up,” Seth growled.
“Do not worry,” I said cheerfully. “They have left signs for me to follow and their caravans will not be hard to find. And then, Monsieur Seth, you can go west, to Paris!”
Another week’s journeying through heavy snows and deep cold brought us to Novgorod Severskij, about eighty-four versts north of Kiev. We had little difficulty following the Gypsies’ trail. Every so often I would spot a strip of brightly-colored cloth tied to a tree limb, at eye-level to one who would be driving a caravan. Gypsies always mark a trail so that other Gypsies may follow them. Sometimes I saw branches twisted in a certain unnatural fashion, or a loose fence rail pointing the way. And we stopped frequently to inquire of villagers and farmers when the Gypsies had passed their way. The tribe had been delayed for almost six weeks in one good-sized town because of some trouble with the police. I rejoiced, because I knew that such a long delay meant that they were not so far away.
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