“Mrs. Lovel, I know your daughter.”
In all her years as a choovihni, she had never been surprised by what the human mind was capable of. Nor had she been surprised by the actions or words of man. This young man, however, had left her breathless. She knew he spoke the truth.
Before she could say anything, he continued. “You see, I love your daughter. I want to marry her. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.”
Lyuba listened. “I hear what you want; what does my daughter want?”
Larry glanced away for a moment. “She wants to find out who she is, who you are, and the meaning of her inheritance. For without that knowledge, she can’t be whole. She can’t live a fulfilled life. These questions haunt her.”
Lyuba’s eyes glistened. Her precious child. Now a grown woman. “Tell me about my daughter,” her words barely a whisper.
And Larry did. He told the gypsy woman how they had met, all the things they shared, the strong bond they had, the respect, the love. He told her about all that Carolina had accomplished, the FIGs and Wood Rose. And he told her about the wonderful woman her daughter had become; her intelligence, her love for all things, her strong instincts especially when it involved people, and her understanding of nature. “She has inherited the gift,” said Larry. “She hasn’t learned how to use it because she doesn’t realize she even has it. But, like you, she is a choovihni.”
Lyuba was surprised that this man knew the term. “And how do you know this?”
“Because I am the son of a Gypsy King.”
The statement was without false pride; it was merely to inform.
Lyuba reached for his hand and searched the palm. The star was present. She touched it with her index finger. He told the truth.
“Unlike Carolina, I chose to leave the tribe. Carolina wasn’t allowed to make that choice. That is what needs to be resolved.”
Lyuba nodded. This was part of the reason for the conflicting signs.
The two of them spent the morning together—the gypsy woman and the man who loved her daughter. There was much to say.
Chapter 17
Bakro was small for his age, but what he lacked in size he made up for with a loving nature and determination. An only child, he wished to please. His reward was knowing that his actions gave others happiness. His mother was proud of her little boy. He was a good child, even tempered and obedient. So when Bakro suddenly began to behave in wicked ways, she became concerned. Never had Bakro tried to hurt the animals, yet he had been caught whipping a dog for no apparent reason. Mean spirited. He was also seen dumping the container of milk that had been put aside for cooking. Wasteful. Always polite, he was now argumentative and hurtful with his words.
Other mothers were complaining about their children’s bad deeds as well. At first whispers passed between friends; then warnings spread throughout the camp. Something evil was taking over the souls of the Kaulo Camio children. The choovihni needed to be made aware so she could protect them.
After two days of putting up with her son’s foul mouth and misconduct, Rupa had enough. Only one person could be responsible for influencing her son in such a negative way, and that person was Milosh.
Djidjo had stayed behind that morning, deciding not to go into the village with the other women. Rupa waited until she was sure Djidjo was alone, then went to the trailer. This would be the last time she would appeal to Djidjo. If she didn’t do something about her son, then Rupa would go directly to the Bandoleer.
* * *
“Do Italians always eat so much?” Carolina stared in amazement at the luncheon that had been prepared for them—and at such short notice.
The rector laughed. “This is a special occasion. Not often do we have such distinguished visitors at the villa.”
They were in the main dining room. The rector had thoughtfully arranged for Signor Guido Fabiani and Carolina to be seated next to one another. An elderly gentleman, the retired Jesuit priest with soft white hair spoke with a surprisingly strong voice. His pleasure at being invited to the villa for lunch was obvious.
After the initial introductions and polite comments of triviality were behind them, they began the discussion that was foremost in the minds of Carolina and the FIGs. Signor Fabiani was more than willing to tell them everything he remembered.
“Back then, of course, there weren’t that many who could both read and write,” he explained. “The priests could manage adequately, but once the fund belonging to the Collegio Romano was transferred to the villa, the work became overwhelming.”
“‘Fund’ is what the private library collections were called,” explained the rector, “and the Voynich Manuscript was included in that fund.”
“That was when we started looking for additional help outside the villa. There were some people who came each day to work a few hours sorting and cataloging.”
“Did you ever hire gypsies?” asked Dara, who was always the first to bring to light the topic that was foremost in their minds.
The priest cocked his head in thought, trying to remember. “Strange you should ask.” He had remembered.
Carolina could hardly breathe. The FIGs sat motionless waiting. Only the rector continued to eat.
“There was a gypsy who traveled this way with his tribe usually in the spring—about this time of the year. Such a smart man. His name was…let me think. Balo! That’s it. His name was Balo Lovel.” Oblivious to the mounting emotions surrounding him, he continued. “Balo was like a scribe for his tribe, the Kaulo Camioes, the Black Comelies. A kind, thoughtful man, and well educated. He was responsible for cataloging all of the materials in the Bibliotheca Secreta and recording the information. He always signed his name to each record so that if a question were to arise, we would know where the information had come from. In fact, most of what was completed, he was responsible for. He helped us a great deal over the years until he suddenly died. There was a flu epidemic that year, you see.”
Carolina gasped. Her father was dead. She didn’t even remember him, yet knowing that he was dead left her feeling sad and emotionally drained. Jennifer reached across the table and poured more wine into Carolina’s glass. “Sip that, Carolina.” Dara and Mackenzie watched her with concern.
Signor Fabiani stopped talking long enough to refill his plate. It had been a while since he had enjoyed being the center of attention. Most people found his stories tiring.
Carolina took several deep breaths and several sips of wine. Both helped calm her nerves. She removed one of the sheets they had discovered in the library and handed it to the retired rector. “Do you recognize this?”
Signor Fabiani adjusted his glasses and examined the single page. After a while, he pointed to the small initials at the bottom of one corner. “Yes, this is something Balo wrote, although I don’t recognize the document. It has his initials, though, and it is in his handwriting.”
Rector Cantoni, sensing that something significant was happening but not knowing exactly what, refilled his guests’ wine glasses. The priest nodded in appreciation and continued to talk.
“He brought his young daughter to meet us one time.” The priest smiled, remembering. “Such a pretty little thing—nothing like her father. He was dark-skinned, you see. All of the Kaulo Camioes were. She was fair-skinned, with great big green eyes. And so smart. I’ll never forget, she carried on a conversation like an adult would. We spent some time in the garden, and I was amazed that she knew the names of all the plants. Such a little thing, and such big words coming out of her mouth. Balo said her mother had taught her. She was the choovihni for the tribe, which is someone much like the shaman in your native American Indian tribes.”
Signor Fabiani glanced over at Carolina and paused, then adjusted his eye glasses. “Dei Mater alma!” He adjusted his glasses again as the reality of the situation presented itself. “You are that child! You are the child of Balo, aren’t you!?”
But Carolina didn’t answer. She didn’t hear the question. She only
felt the heat, and then not even that. Losing consciousness, she slumped over into the arms of the startled elderly priest.
* * *
Mrs. Lovel had been able to tell him most of the things that he needed to know. All of the pieces of Carolina’s past were in place except for one: the special page that had been given to her in her parik-til. “That was a gift to Carolina from her Da,” Mrs. Lovel told Larry. “I don’t know its significance other than it was something he wanted her to have.” If Larry could find out what it was—he prayed it wasn’t something stolen—then Carolina would finally be free from her past.
He dressed in full britches, the full-sleeved white blouse, and boots. As a final touch, he tied the scarf around his neck, the red one, indicating an occasion of celebration. It had been a long time since he had seen him, but he knew he would be expecting him. He would receive Larry, and Larry would again respectfully ask for his help.
Chapter 18
Lyuba returned on the road to camp, her heart overflowing with joy. At last she knew her precious daughter was all right after all this time. Her daughter’s young man, Larry, had told her so many things—things that made her happy. Now, no matter what, she could live her life in peace knowing that her daughter was well, that she was loved, and that she was cared for.
A single magpie landed on a tree branch above her head—a warning. Just outside the camp, she paused, listening. The women were angry. Something had happened.
She approached the clearing and joined the group of women where Rupa was shouting accusations against Milosh. “He is the cause of our trouble.” Several other women, all mothers of young children, agreed. “I have warned Djidjo, but she chooses not to listen. I have warned the Bandoleer, but he chooses not to listen. Now we have no choice but to call the kris.”
Lyuba stepped forward. “What has happened?”
Several women began speaking at once. Lyuba understood, even though the confusion of their words made no sense. They believed that Milosh had deliberately caused harm to other gypsies, the young children of the Kaulo Camioes.
“There can be no kris unless you have proof,” she explained. “Do you have proof?”
“Of course not.” Milosh stepped forward out of the shadows where he had been lurking. “There is no proof because I haven’t done anything. Just ask the kids.”
Lyuba heard the falsehood in his words, she saw the blackness of his heart, and it pained her. What the women were saying was true. He had tried to harm the young ones. Still, until one of the children stepped forward and admitted it, they would not be able to hold the kris.
“I will speak to the Bandoleer,” said Lyuba. “Now, all of you must go and tend to your own business.”
One by one the women returned to their homes. After all, Lyuba was the choovihni, the wise woman. She knew what was best.
* * *
The sweet and gentle disposition of Mother Granchelli suddenly turned to that of a foreign dictator when Rector Catoni and Alfonso showed up carrying Carolina, the FIGs flitting around their friend like frightened chicks.
“Papa, call that doctor in the village,” she ordered, as she scurried ahead of the others to prepare Carolina’s bed. “I knew she should stay here today and rest,” she said to no one in particular. Clucking her tongue, she expertly pulled down the spreads and sheets where the two men could lay the unconscious woman. “Mackenzie, get a pot from the kitchen and fill it with the ice from the freezer in the basement. Jennifer, go to the bathroom and wet a clean cloth. Use cold water. Dara, you check on Papa; make sure he tells the doctor to come quickly.” Everyone scattered.
Not knowing what else to do, the rector and Alfonso went back downstairs to wait for the doctor. They had never seen a woman faint before—neither of them—and the entire ordeal had frightened them. Signor Fabiani practically had a heart attack when he suddenly found himself holding Carolina. He quickly left, so as not to be in the way, but not before securing the promise from both Rector Catoni and Alfonso that they would let him know how the poor young woman got along.
Dr. Troyano appeared within minutes since he had been lunching nearby. With both Papa and Dara answering his questions, he had a fairly good picture of what had taken place before his arrival. What he didn’t know was the reason for Carolina’s collapse. Probably, the young woman had just gotten a little overly heated.
The first thing he did was tell everyone to leave the room, except for Mother Granchelli. After all, it was her home, and he might need her assistance. She explained how Carolina had appeared pale for the past couple of days, being off her feed, feeling a little warm, and looking generally run down. No, she didn’t think it was something she ate, “certainly nothing that I have cooked,” she told him with a little more firmness than she intended when he asked. She had been cooking since ever since she was a young girl, and never had anyone gotten sick over anything she had cooked. The very idea!
The doctor did all of the usual things, checking her blood pressure, pulse, and temperature—which was extremely high. He immediately ordered that bags of ice be put around her in an attempt to get her body cooled. A fan would help. He also took a small sample of blood which he would get tested back at the lab. Other than that, and until the results came back from the lab, there was nothing else he could do.
“There, there,” he cajoled Mother Granchelli who was wringing her hands in her apron. “It will be all right. She is a young, strong woman. It is probably just a virus of some sort.”
But Mother Granchelli knew better. She had raised five children and eleven grandchildren. She herself had been the oldest in a large family of nine. She knew all the signs and symptoms of illnesses, and what to do for them. This was different, however. It was much more insidious. And it frightened her. It also frightened the FIGs.
* * *
Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer took turns throughout the remainder of the day and night putting fresh icepacks around Carolina’s body and adjusting the small fan Papa had found hidden away in the attic. It didn’t seem to be doing any good. The doctor called early the next morning to say that nothing unusual showed up in the lab results. He would come out later that morning to check on his patient. When he did come, he took another sample of blood for additional tests. In the meantime, all he could do was suggest more icepacks. “If she doesn’t get better by tomorrow, we’ll have to move her to the hospital,” he said on the way out.
After he left, Mother Granchelli insisted that the FIGs eat breakfast. She wasn’t about to let them loose their strength and get sick as well.
“We need to do something,” said Dara as they sat staring at the mountain of scrambled eggs, copicollo ham, toast, and, of course, her grape jelly Mother Granchelli placed in front of them.
Mackenzie, quick at solving problems, agreed. “I think we need to go visit that gypsy camp and see if anyone there knows Carolina’s mother. The priest said she was a choovihni. That means she might know how to cure Carolina.”
“And if no one knows her, then maybe there is someone else who will help,” suggested Jennifer. “Maybe there will be another choovihni around.”
The girls quickly finished breakfast and cleaned up afterwards. After checking on Carolina and making sure there was plenty of ice around her, and that the fan was turning just so, they left the farmhouse and walked across the field toward the gypsy camp. Within minutes they came to the clearing. Dogs barked at them and young children ran up to stare. The camp itself consisted of several small trailers, a few tents, and some huts. One of the huts was larger than the others, and it had a lean-to. They looked around for an adult, but only saw a boy who looked to be about their age. He had come from one of the trailers and looked like he had just gotten out of bed. “It’s still early; maybe gypsies sleep late,” said Mackenzie.
Dara, being the most outspoken of the three FIGs, went over to where the boy was standing. His hands were on his hips, and his dark eyes showed distrust.
“I was wondering if you could help u
s,” said Dara.
He glared at her, then at Mackenzie and Jennifer. “What do you want?”
The resentment was obvious. They were intruders.
“We are looking for Mrs. Lovel.”
“She’s a choovihni,” said Mackenzie trying to be helpful. Her lisp was pronounced.
“Is that so? And what do you want with Mrs. Lovel?”
Dara didn’t like his attitude or his tone of voice, and she, for one, wasn’t going to put up with it, gypsy or not.
“Listen, punk, just tell us if Mrs. Lovel is here.” She raised her form to its full height of 5 feet 8 inches, a good three inches taller than the surly boy, and her dark eyes locked onto his.
He clenched his fists. How dare this stranger come into his camp and demand information. “Do you know who you are talking to?”
“I know that you either got up on the wrong side of the bed, or you are just naturally rude.”
Hearing voices in disharmony, Lyuba opened her door and stepped out into the soft morning light. She was startled to see three young women—strangers—in confrontation with Milosh. After a brief moment, she also realized who they were. They were the three FIGs Larry had spoken of the day before. The smart young women her daughter was teaching.
She hurried to them. Something was wrong for them to come into the camp. “I am Lyuba. Can I help you?”
Dara frowned at the boy with the bad case of ill manners and turned her attention to the woman. “We are sorry to intrude like this, but we are looking for Mrs. Lovel. It really is important.” Jennifer and Mackenzie nodded.
“Come.” Lyuba led the three girls to her hut, the one with the lean-to, away from Milosh and other prying eyes.
The hut was small, but comfortable and clean. There was a strong fresh scent of herbs. “It smells a little like Carolina’s bungalow,” whispered Jennifer. The FIGs sat close to each other on a day bed covered with a spread not saying anything and watched the woman, supposedly Carolina’s mother, prepare a pot of hot herbal tea. They had only seen the one photograph that Carolina had, and it had been taken years earlier. But this gypsy was definitely the woman in that photograph. They could tell by the high cheek bones and especially the eyes. And she wore her hair in the same way—pulled straight back off her face and twisted in a bun at the nape of her neck.
The Cadence of Gypsies Page 13