The River Sings

by Sandra Leigh Price

  “Now, Patrin, hold the wand out from your body a little, just let it sit in your hands. Let it lead you.” I did as he said and took a tentative step, my breath like a wave in my head. My mind’s eye went blank and I felt the nausea rise but bid it be. The wand started to move in my hand, jerking me forwards, like a rein does its mistress.

  “Don’t hold so tight,” my father coaxed and I opened my eyes, but I was unable to loosen my grip, it was the only thing that stopped me from falling, this little fork of a branch, whittled by my father’s hand. Jupiter bounded around my feet, excited by the sudden movement, and his bark echoed repetitively across the fields, sending a pair of jackdaws skyward.

  “Patrin, slow down for goodness sake,” my father said, trotting beside me to keep up, but I couldn’t speak nor slow down. The wand hummed in my hand. I tripped over clods of earth, a stone, an old tree root, but the wand held me up, I was but a leaf on the wind. I don’t know how long I was pulled along with the promise of water, a thin line of sweat breaking out on my father’s lip and he a strong man. And all I craved was a drink of water from my father’s skin but couldn’t break my pace to drink from it.

  “Rockra, rockra, speak, speak,” my father began to shout, but I had no breath left for speaking. He tried to grab my elbow, but I was slippery as if my elbow was made of scales. I heard the water before I saw it and I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into it like into a lover’s arms and feel myself quenched, borne up, made new. The river sang my name. A rushing sound filling all my senses, just as my father snatched the divining rod from my hand. He snapped it over his knee and then snapped it again and again until there was nothing but tiny kindling and I stopped walking, the hum gone from my palms. “Prikasa,” he said underneath his breath and I stood blinking, the light suddenly too bright. Jupiter headed for the water but my father called him off, his face ashen.

  “What was that, Father?” I said and he shook his head, not wanting to repeat it, but I suddenly heard it again in my head, prikasa, an omen.

  “What do you mean, Father?” I looked around me and saw how close to the river we had come: the river was an hour away from Richards’s farm but hadn’t it only been moments that I held the wand in my hand?

  “Come along now, my darling,” he said and brought his arm around my shoulders. Yet as we walked away, the river still called my name, though I said nothing.

  By the time we got back to camp the rain had already set in, but Amberline was still at his makeshift forge, cursing the rain and the clouds.

  ELEVEN

  Patrin, 1819

  That winter was a wet one and the snow often turned to a grey slush, wedging the wheels of our vardo into muddy ruts. Father and Amberline had to put their shoulders to the back and push as Mother called the horse to pull. I was left in the unmanned vardo to wait, my hands resting on my growing belly. Sometimes a farmer would let us camp in a copse on his property and sometimes we kept to the back roads and wilder places and hoped that no one would come and move us on. Mother went from door to door selling besom brooms and pegs and baskets and telling a fortune or two for an extra coin. We spent more time inside the vardo with winter upon us, Amberline’s hands always moving – polishing whatever he had made, rings or horse brasses, earrings or charms, the supply of his metal I never questioned. When I asked what they were for, he’d bristle, “I’ll not be beholden to your father for much longer.”

  “How so?” I asked and he stopped moving and laid all he had made on the table. “Once I sell these and make more, I’ll have enough,” he said emphatically. But enough of what he wouldn’t say.

  Once the first daffodils pushed through the sodden loam, yellow promises of better weather, he began roaming at night again, his pockets jingling with coin as he stepped up into our vardo.

  “Amberline?” I said, feeling sleep pull at my limbs.

  “Hush,” he said and kissed my forehead, the smell of ale on his lips. I heard him pour the money into a jar, hide it beneath the bed and I resolved that I should trust him, that he was somehow selling at the closest inns the things he made, saving to repay my father, saving for our child to be.

  And come May she was born, spinning through my body like the pin in a compass, my little brightness, my little magpie, her eyes following all that shone, the sound of the river in our ears. When I first held her I was frightened, how could I love her, the risk of it, but then the love came crashing down on me, violent as a wave.

  Eglantine. Little Egg. Mine.

  Amberline made her a silver heart, my father made her a pair of tiny soft-soled boots and my mother made her a soft flannel gown embroidered with flowers, and she lit up our worlds.

  Little Egg was only a few months old when the shanglo, the constables, came for my father. He was cradling her in his arms and singing to her soft and low by the fire, her fingers tangling in the bobbing of his beard, her big fire-lit eyes following the shape of his mouth. Amberline was at the axe, cutting wood, and Mother was stitching the holes in my father’s linen. I was stirring the pot, the potatoes almost soft. They walked quietly into camp, Jupiter’s low whine drawing our eyes to them before they saw us. Little Egg turned her little eyes to the gleam of their brass buttons.

  My father stood up, Little Egg still in his arms, his shadow stretching out behind him, strong as a tree.

  “Josiah Scamp?” the older constable asked, stepping closer, noting Amberline’s hand on the axe, my hand near a knife and my mother’s scissors for mending as if he were expecting us to use them against him. The younger constable put his hand on his truncheon.

  “I am. State your name and business and be gone with you. This is common land, we have rights to camp here, but be assured we’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “You are to come with us, Josiah Scamp.”

  “On what grounds?” my father said, standing taller, Little Egg starting to grow restless in his arms, yanking at his beard like a rope.

  “For theft, you bleeding gypsy, now give the baby back to its mother and come along with us,” the constable said. My father didn’t move.

  “Josiah?” my mother said, the sewing abandoned on the ground.

  “On what proof?” Amberline stepped forward, the axe handle still gripped in his hand, but the constable still wouldn’t be intimidated.

  “On the proof we shall find soon enough,” he said and set off towards our vardo, his muddy boots leaving marks all over the inside. I rushed over but Amberline stopped me, he was going to find what he was going to find. My parents shared a glance, all our drawers were opened, their contents shed, but nothing was found. My mother watched as the constable did the same in their vardo, but still the constable found nothing.

  “Search under them,” the older constable said and the younger did as he was bid, feeling under the frames of the vardo, again finding nothing.

  Amberline stood beside me, his fingers closing and unclosing on the handle of the axe, and I willed him to put it down. Just as the constable was about to finish his search our horse began to grow skittish with the visitors, his feet sidestepping over the dirt; it was nothing, but it was enough to draw the constable’s attention. Jupiter started barking the same three barks over and over and Little Egg began to cry. The constable walked towards the baskets between the vardos and toppled them over with his foot, finding what he sought. Bright gold watch cases falling to the ground, their fob chains clanking tails behind. Smugly he gathered them up and waved them in front of my father’s face.

  “They are not mine,” my father said, his big arms around Little Egg as if they contained all the world.

  “Do you recall how these came to be in your possession? Or do you need to read lines on the palm of your hand to recall?” The constable laughed, putting the watches in his pocket.

  My father looked at all our faces, searchingly.

  “Josiah?” my mother said again. She knew as well as I did that the likelihood of my father having stolen the pocket watches was as likely as the su
n eclipsing the moon at that very moment.

  His eyes stopped at Amberline and he spat on the ground; he knew as well as I did who had taken the watches. But then my father looked at me and then at Little Egg, gathering her features to his memory, embracing the steady little weight of her before he handed her into my safekeeping.

  “If I’m not back in the morning, come and find me,” my father said, before walking towards the constables, wedging himself between them like a fugitive, and off they walked together, concealed by the darkness.

  We were up before dawn, my mother and I not speaking, but I knew what my mother wanted to say. All her questions she saved for Amberline but to no avail. He’d gone to ground as soon as the constables left, laying down the axe and disappearing into the woods without turning back. Not a word to me nor a glance at Little Egg. Part of me hoped that he’d already gone to right whatever wrong he had done, not thinking how.

  Mother and I made our way to the lockup, Little Egg sleeping strapped on my chest, oblivious to the hand that fate had thrown us. Mother was allowed in first, fresh bread and some meat from the night before wrapped up in a cloth that she was made to break open first to prove there was nothing concealed in there, and I was made to wait outside, watching my own breath and Little Egg’s cloud out of our mouths.

  Mother was down there for some time. When she walked straight out of there ignoring me, I didn’t know what I should do, run and keep up with her or stay until she returned. Would I be able to see my father?

  I watched my mother’s fierce walk and let her be before I knocked on the door and found myself admitted to the lockup.

  The cell my father was in was damp, the very walls seemed to be weeping, stone covered in the velvet of moss. My father was standing, his head in his hands. The only light came from between the bars, the shape of unlit candles on the floor.

  “I won’t have my mind changed, so there’s no point in arguing.” He looked up at me and I saw his face contort with emotion upon seeing me.

  “Papa?” I said, and Little Egg yawned on my chest, the sound of it so gentle and out of place.

  “You shouldn’t bring the little one here, ’tis no place for her.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll not change your mind?” I said.

  My father reached out a finger through the bars to stroke Little Egg’s downy head, but he wouldn’t be drawn into an answer.

  “Trust in me, my darling girl, and take care of your mother,” he said before ushering me away with his hand, “and take care of our dear little girl,” his voice stark and bare. I took his hand and held it. I was as powerless as a child.

  I walked back to camp, hearing shouting before I saw them. I clutched onto Little Egg and ran. Amberline was back and my mother had unleashed herself on him. Jupiter’s bark grew louder and louder, a rabid frothing at his mouth.

  “You let him be arrested, Amberline Stark. After everything he’s done for you. It was against my better judgment that we gave you shelter. And I certainly was against your match to our daughter. Once the baby was born I thought that would be the tie that binds, but no, nothing is sacred to you.” She swung back her hand and slapped him across the mouth. Amberline’s hand flew to his face and between his fingers was blood.

  Everything up to that moment had felt like I was asleep, but the sound of that slap woke me up. My days and nights had been parcelled up by Little Egg’s needs, divided between her feeding and sleeping, so that my own thoughts had become narrowed, starting and ending with the opening and closing of her eyes. Amberline had stolen the watches, for the metal for the things he was making. But why had he let them take my father away?

  “Amberline,” I cried, the weight of what was about to unfold pressing down on me. “Amberline, you must say something.”

  My mother spat on the ground. “He’ll not put out his own neck, Patrin, he’d rather your father’s be broken for his crime than his own.” She fell down sobbing in the grass, her skirt soaking up the dew as her blouse did her tears. Would it come to that? I wrapped my arms around Little Egg. Would it be either she lose a father or I?

  “Amberline?” I said. “Can’t you do something?”

  His eyes were stone. “What can I do? If I say I did it, I’ll hang. He’s not been tried yet. His best hope is that the witness will not recognise him. But they’d recognise me all right. All I can do for your father is to give this place as much distance as I can. It will be worse for us all if they identify me, he’ll be made my accomplice.” Amberline stepped up into the vardo and shrugged on his coat, stuffing apples into his pockets, a knife into his belt.

  “Believe me, Patrin, it’s the only way,” he said and jumped down from the vardo, kissing Little Egg on the head before squeezing my hand. My mother’s lips moved quietly, deftly, and I knew it was no prayer on her lips but a curse, true and strong.

  And like a tree split by lightning I was divided in two between the family that I was raised in and the family I had created, pulled apart by the strike of my husband. Whatever side I took, I would lose.

  While my father remained locked up, awaiting his sentence, Amberline remained in hiding in the woods, the trees his bars, becoming more ragged by the day. When I went to collect water or kindling, he would appear, stepping out of the shadows of the trees like a mulo, a spirit of the dead, making me spill or drop whatever I held, grateful for the weave of fabric that kept Little Egg secure to my chest.

  “My, she grows,” he said one day, lifting Little Egg out of the shawl and cradling her, her soft little hand tangling in the beginnings of his straggly beard. He folded me into his body with his spare arm, not wanting to let either of us go.

  “Amberline, you must do something,” I said, pulling away. I could feel my desperation seeping out of me. Little Egg cried and my breasts leaked milk onto my blouse, two damp stains, but Amberline wouldn’t return my daughter to my arms. The heat rose in me.

  “What would you have me do, Patrin? Surrender myself? Then what? I’d never know my daughter,” he said, his voice choked in his throat. He put his cheek against hers and she blinked back at me, her blue eyes the same as his.

  “And you’d deprive a daughter of her father,” I said emphatically, reaching out my arms for Little Egg to ease the flow of my milk. Amberline stood and stared at me, his eyes gripping mine, before he gently kissed Little Egg’s lips and handed her to me. My nipple went into her mouth and she gave a contented snuffle.

  “Which daughter, which father? It is the same weighted dice whichever way you throw it.” And I knew he was right. It was either my father or Little Egg’s father, but it wasn’t a choice at all.

  “Write a letter, confess your crime and flee, Amberline,” I said. “They’ll release him then.”

  “Flee to where? Where in this land doesn’t the law stretch, Patrin? Tell me that,” he said bitterly, and it struck me that when he arrived at our camp he’d probably already been on the run from the law.

  “Why did you take the watches, Amberline? For what purpose? My father has provided everything we need.”

  “Was I never to strike out and become my own man, provide for my own family? I want more, Patrin, for all of us.”

  “Does he have to give his life for your crime, Amberline? Does he have to give you that? Will that satisfy you?”

  “Would you rather us both dead?” His words hung in the air. He was right. There was no justice for the Rom. My father’s silence kept us safe.

  Little Egg kept suckling, my nipple cracked and aching, but I let her be.

  TWELVE

  Eglantine, 1833

  My brush with the swan made my father wary of taking me out into the miasma of the streets, but it didn’t stop my lessons, instead they doubled. I was his glittering thing, his jewel, his prize; being his apprentice had made me shine in a different light for him.

  He decided that whatever woman I should become it would be at his hands, shaped for the world as he saw it. We were self-reliant, we would prevail. My fath
er taught me the value of keeping a clean ledger, percentages, the principles of metal, the value of gold and silver. I learned the finger in the pocket, the lightness of the lift, the sign of a perfect mark. My fingers learned to be like small birds, in and out of his pocket with a bright catch between them. I was as clever a thief as I could be within the confines of our house, but I was yet untested.

  Each night before I fell asleep, after I ran my fingers across my throat, the raised flesh of my birthmark, knotty like a scar, I twirled the doll in my hands and looked at the world through her ruby-glass earrings, as if through the petals of a rose. How did I steal Miss Poppet? She’d be like stealing a breath. Was my father right? Was this the destiny of my hands? To take what wasn’t mine for us to live by? It had been my father’s speed and wit that had housed me and clothed me and it was expected that I’d contribute and help pay my way. But what of those stolen from? Were they in turn supposed to steal to keep themselves in bread and shelter? Would not my hands have a more prudent use than to be the net of plenty my father imagined?

  In the morning, while Makepeace stirred the porridge over the fire, my father had me practise my fingers dancing through his pockets, his face shaded by the growth of his beard, his eyes darkly watching each pass of my fingers, swatting them to his chest. Makepeace served up the porridge, her wooden spoon wiping the contents of her pot into our bowls. A large thick lump overreached my father’s bowl and spilled onto his clothes. Disgusted, he stood up and the porridge rolled to the floor, Makepeace’s eyes following it, before he left the kitchen, the telltale stamp of footsteps running up the stairs. My father’s moods were as changeable as the light from across the river. I hurriedly ate a few spoons of porridge, listening to his movements through the house before my father called for me. Makepeace leaned down and wiped up the spilled porridge with a cloth. I swallowed my tea. My father was waiting for me.