by Wendy Lawton
An Unusual Friendship
Chey? Are you all right?” A girl’s voice.
“I am fine. My brother ran off to watch a dancing bear and forgot all about me.”
“I watched.” The voice had an interesting sound, as if the tongue lingered on the roof of the mouth and then drew out the last syllable. The w sounded almost like v.
“You called me Chey, but my name is Mary.” She sat down right where she had fallen.
“My name is Sofia, and I already know who you are. You are the blind daughter of the Elstow tinker, Bunyan. My father also is a tinker.” Sofia seemed to pause. “We are Rom.” When she said Rom, the r rumbled ever so slightly. The intensity of her words as they rolled around her mouth made her words so different from the plain talk Mary was used to.
“Rom?” Mary asked.
“You gadje call us gypsies. We speak Romani. Chey is our word for girl.” Sofia was very still. “Do you want me to get you some help and then leave?”
“I do not need help,” Mary answered automatically, missing the hesitation in Sofia’s voice.
“I understand. It is hard to be pitied, no?” said Sofia matter-of-factly.
“How do you know about pity? Are you infirm?” Mary was intrigued.
“No, worse. We are Rom.”
“I do not understand.”
“Many gadje despise the Rom. Since you do not despise Sofia, then let me show you the way to my kumpania. There we can sit while we talk. I will ask my brothers to look for your Jake.” Sofia’s touch was tentative on Mary’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Sofia. Let me get up and shake off this dirt.”
Mary stood and brushed off as much of her dress as she could reach. Sofia brushed off the rest, then took Mary’s hand and gently guided her around the obstacle course that was the St. Andrew’s Day Fair in Bedford.
The air bristled with excitement. Now that she felt safe, Mary could smell savory tarts and hear rhythmic tinkling metal sounds. It reminded her of the man’s ribbons. “Sofia, what is the jingling sound?”
“That,” said Sofia, “is part of my kumpania—my family. Those are the boria, my sisters-in-law, Aziza and Jamila. They are dancing.”
“Dancing?” Mary wasn’t sure dancing was the kind of activity Papa would approve.
“Not the kind of dancing you think, Gadje.” Sofia laughed. “This is not dancing with men. This is the borias’ job. They lay a red silken scarf on the ground, and if their dances please, people throw pennies or perhaps a half-groat on the scarf.”
“Sofia, help me see it!” The request slipped out before Mary could stop herself. She hated to ask for help, but she hungered for word pictures. She also wanted to know about the pennies. After all, that was why she had come to the fair. She had to come up with some kind of plan to earn money!
“Of course, Gadje Chey. A gypsy likes nothing better than to tell a story. First you must sit here, and then—”
“But wait.” Mary held up her hand. “What is gadje and what is kumpania? You told me that chey meant girl; what do the other words mean?”
Sofia laughed again. Mary loved to hear Sofia’s laugh. It was full of gentle humor and good nature, and made her realize that laughs could mean all kinds of things. Some people laughed when they were nervous, a kind of tittering laugh. There was the kind of laughter that exploded out of people in a loud guffaw of happiness. Others laughed from evilness, like Gifre when he was tormenting her. She imagined his wicked snickering every time she felt frightened and unprotected.
“Mary, didn’t you just ask me a question?” Sofia laughed again.
“I am sorry.” Mary blushed. “My mind went wandering.”
“Gadje means someone who is not Rom. It means you are not a gypsy. Kumpania means my family.”
“How many people in your family, Sofia?”
“Hundreds.” Sofia laughed her wonderful laugh again. “Kumpania really means bands of families who travel together across the countryside.” Sofia guided Mary to an upturned wooden crate. “Sit here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Mary heard a jumble of sounds. Slowly she picked out familiar sounds—the cackle of chickens flapping against a crate and the fishmonger singing out his wares in a melodious singsong: “Eels, fresh eels. Haddock too. Sprat ‘n’ cod ‘n’ pike for you!”
The mournful sound of a violin reminded her of Papa. Papa loved music so much that when Mary was small he made a violin out of iron. It took him most of a year to finish. Mary loved the coolness of the metal, the delicate cutwork scrolls, and the intricate fretwork of the bridge. Papa was such a talented tinker, such a gifted metalsmith, that Mary could run her hands over the entire violin without ever feeling a rough spot or sharpness.
Friends laughed when Papa brought out this instrument, thinking he had fashioned it only as an oddity. But when he drew the bow across the strings the sound made Mary’s heart ache. Papa said it was only an earthly substitute for the music of the angels, but it made Mary want to catch the sound in her hands and throw it to the winds. Other times she wanted to gather the swirling music and keep it forever.
Today the sound of the violin just made Mary sad. Oh, Papa. I must not forget what I came to do. I must find some way to feed our family until you come home. Come home. Those words sound so good, but seem so impossible. Papa, I miss you.
“I’m back, Mary.” Sofia sat down on the crate next to Mary. “Here, I brought you a treat.” She placed a twist of paper in Mary’s hand. “Open it.”
Mary untwisted the end of the paper. She could tell by the shape and stickiness that Sofia had brought her a piece of marchpane and two suckets. “Oh, Sofia. Candy! I have not had candy in ever so long.”
“I Puri Daj, the old mother, sent these for you. She will talk stories to you later.”
“I shall thank her,” said Mary. “Please take one of the suckets and we’ll share the marchpane.” Mary broke the piece in two and gave half to Sofia. Biting off a small piece of marchpane, she let the sweetness of almonds sit on her tongue. “Now tell me about your family and about the fair, please.”
Sofia sucked on her candy as she talked. “My family are travelers. We have no home, but go from place to place in our caravans.”
It reminded Mary of a verse her father read to her from the Bible—The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath nowhere to lay his head.
“I wish you could see our wagons. They are much more beautiful than houses. Ours is painted red like the color that drips off summer strawberries.”
Mary could taste the sweetness and warmth of that color. “Oh, Sofia, I love red.”
“I Puri Daj is the best artist in our kumpania. She takes colors—the cool winter sky, bittersweet, saffron, the pink of the musk rose—and swirls them into the most beautiful designs. O Puro Dad, my grandfather, makes a varnish from the resin of trees and linseed oil. He cooks it over the fires for days until it is clear like water, then adds turpentine. Every year he paints this over our wagon to protect I Puri Daj’s decoration. It shines so clear, it sparkles in the sunlight.”
“I can almost see it.” Mary could feel the chill air; the crispness had a strong bite to it. She pulled her cloak tighter. “The blue must be strong against the delicate musk rose.”
“Oh, Mary! You can see it.”
Mary was thankful that Sofia had found her. Here was someone who could make word pictures like Papa. “Don’t stop, Sofia. I want to hear everything.”
Sofia’s bubbling laughter filled the air around Mary. “My kumpania’s caravan follows the fairs all over the isle of Britain. My uncle is master of the dancing bear. My daj—I mean my mother—sells lanterns my dad makes. I told you that he is a tinker like your father.”
“My Papa stopped his metalsmith work about four years ago,” Mary said. “He is in Bedford Gaol now.” Her stomach got that tight, lonely feeling again. “He is waiting for his trial. They arrested him for preaching without a license.” Why was she tel
ling all this to a stranger? “They say they will banish him.”
“We know this, Chey. My dad hears the story of Friend Bunyan on the Lungo Drom.”
“The lungo drom?” asked Mary.
“I forget you do not know Romani. O Longo Drom means the long road. It is the journey we make, the traveling of our kumpania.” Sofia continued, “Uncle Timoz, he tells us about these sad events. He says that the gadje churchmen do not like mechanick preachers.”
Mary had heard all this before. “They are angry that men who work with their hands six days a week think they can preach on Sunday.”
“Timoz says they are angry that so many people listen to your father. Uncle Timoz himself has heard your father preach and he says it makes him glad to hear about Yeshua ben Miriam from the lips of one who is Yeshua’s friend.”
“Yeshua?” asked Mary.
“You call him Jesus,” Sofia explained. “Timoz says to see if we can help the Tinker’s family.”
“We don’t need any help.” Mary bit out the words almost before Sofia could finish her thought.
“Oh, so we are back to that, Gadje Chey.” Sofia laughed once again. “That’s what’s wrong with your people. You try to do everything alone.” Mary started to protest, but this time Sofia kept right on talking. “The Rom know that we must depend on our kumpania. We must help each other.” Sofia laughed, lightly tapping her index finger against Mary’s cheek as she said, “You gadje …”
Mary caught the other girl’s scent as she moved. It smelled exotic somehow, a faint blend of wood smoke and dried herbs.
“You are right, Sofia,” Mary admitted. “I do hate to depend on other people for help. All my life it has been so.”
“Timoz says—”
“Ouch!” Mary interrupted Sofia with a startled cry. Something stung her face. She reached up to rub the spot and felt a sticky wetness. Putting her fingers in her mouth, she recognized the metallic taste of blood. She felt another sharp sting catch the edge of her ear. What was it?
“Mary?” Sofia sounded puzzled.
“Ow!” This time something hit Mary’s shoulder. She felt Sofia jump off the crate at the same time she heard a sound she would recognize anywhere—Gifre’s evil snickering. Before she could say anything, she heard something that completely unsettled her—the muffled slap of a loose sole on the soft dirt.
Gypsies, Beggars, and Tinkers
Stop it, Gadjo!” Sofia screamed, moving in front of Mary.
“Stop right now. Why do you shoot gravel at Mary Bunyan?”
“Are you talking to me, Gypsy scum?”
Mary was surprised by the transformation of her new friend as she stood, rigid with anger, between Mary and the voice that belonged to Gifre.
“Answer me, Gadjo-boy!”
Mary could hear a crowd begin to gather. “Sofia,” she whispered, “leave him alone. He is dangerous.” She didn’t think Sofia heard her.
“Does it make you feel powerful, this tormenting of someone who doesn’t fight back?” Sofia did not back down. “What has Mary ever done to harm you?”
Mary knew better than to goad Gifre. He was mean spirited in the best of times. What would he do now? She didn’t have long to wonder.
“You keep out of it, Gypsy spawn!” Gifre spat the words into the air with as much force as the gravel he had earlier fired at Mary. “I’ll not have the likes of you talking to me.”
“I’ll do more than talk if you torment Mary.” Sofia was screaming as loudly as Gifre.
“Sofia, no!” Mary wished she could get them to stop. “Leave him be.”
“That’s right, Mary,” Gifre yelled, “call your snarling dog off me.”
“You leave Mary out of this!” Sofia yelled right back at him.
“You and Mary make a perfect pair—tinkers’ daughters, the both of you,” Gifre sneered. “Come to the fair to beg pennies? Shame, shame to you, Mary Bunyan! At least you picked another beggar to teach you how.”
“Gifre, stop!” Mary covered her ears. She knew a crowd had gathered, and she was humiliated to be the center of such a scene. Could Jake be part of this crowd? No. Her brother would not stand idle while Gifre tormented them. Would he?
“What would your jailbird father think, Mary Bunyan, if he knew you were running with Christ-killers?” Gifre’s voice took on a taunting tone. “Christ-killers, Christ-killers, begging, thieving Christ-killers.” The singsong words faded as he ran away.
Mary heard the crowd slowly move off. She leaned forward to place her hands on Sofia’s shoulders and felt a shudder go through the girl. “Sofia? Are you all right?”
Sofia didn’t answer.
“Don’t feel bad. He always says evil things. I don’t know why he does this, but everyone knows they are not true,” Mary reassured her friend.
Sofia seemed shaken by the things Gifre said. Mary felt the tenseness of her friend’s shoulders. Why was Sofia so quiet? This silence was more menacing than her earlier anger.
Finally, Sofia exhaled a sigh that seemed to come from deep within. “What if the words of that gadjo are true, Mary?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not the beggar part or the charge of thievery. Long have we Rom learned to ignore those accusations.” Sofia didn’t seem bothered in the least by these. “And the only reason people look down on tinkers is because Roma have long practiced the profession. Tinkers, like your father, only share the scorn aimed at our people.”
Mary didn’t understand. “If you don’t mind the things he said, why are you dismayed?”
“One accusation he made may very well be true, to our everlasting shame.” Sofia’s voice was barely audible. “I think we are Christ-killers.”
Before Mary could respond, Sofia pulled her off the crate. “Come, Mary. Come see I Puri Daj. She will tell you the story while we wait for the men to find your brother.”
“So you are the tinker’s daughter?”
Mary loved the deep rumble in the old woman’s voice. Well-worn hands enveloped Mary’s fingers. Calluses and a network of fine cracks told Mary that I Puri Daj had spent a lifetime working with her hands. Mary could tell that Sofia’s baba—grandmother—was no longer as robust as she had once been. The blood pulsing in her wrist had not the rhythmic beat of youth, but her touch was light and sensitive. Mary knew that I Puri Daj could tell as much from Mary’s hands as she was learning from the old woman’s hands.
“I am honored you haf come to visit Sofia’s old grandmama.” I Puri Daj seemed happy to meet Mary. “Sofia.” She clapped her hands as if to summon a servant. “Bring a stool for Mary Bunyan.” When she said Mary’s name, it sounded like Meady Boonyan.
Bringing Mary’s hands up to her face, she said, “Vould you like to see vhat I look like?” She laughed. “You haf ten eyes at the ends of your fingers. Never be afraid to use them.” Instead of the w sound in would and what, she used a v. It sounded interesting to Mary’s ears.
“Thank you, I Puri Daj. Sofia told me about you. I am honored to meet you.” Mary delicately read the planes of the old woman’s face with her hands. From the crinkles in the corners of her eyes, she knew that I Puri Daj laughed often. Missing were the worry lines and frown furrows that usually marked the forehead. The skin was dry, but not chapped by the cold November air. Mary liked this face. Her sensitive fingers told her that this face belonged to someone she could trust. “Thank you for letting me see you with my fingers as well.”
“You, Mary Bunyan, know God’s secret,” I Puri Daj announced.
“I don’t know any secret.” Mary was puzzled.
“Never forget that you already know the secret … things ve see vith our eyes, they are temporal, they vill fade away. It is unseen things that vill last.” She laughed.
Mary loved the sound of her laughter. “What does temporal mean?”
“Temporary, like dust under our vagons. It blows avay.” She laughed again. “Vhen I paint my pictures, I try to capture the unseen things vith my brush. I do not do
such a good job, I think.”
Sofia was back with a stool for Mary. Sofia helped Mary sit, then plopped down on the ground next to her.
“So, tell me, Mary Bunyan, vhat can I do to help you?” I Puri Daj asked.
“Sofia says that her brothers can help me find Jake.”
“Of course, of course.” She flicked her fingers against Mary’s hand in a dismissive gesture. “They already look for the boy. I mean, vhat can ve do to help vith problem that makes you look like you are pulling our whole caravan?”
Mary laughed at that picture. Her problems often seemed as weighty as the Gypsy caravans she’d felt pass by. Mary laughed so hard she ended up falling against the old woman. I Puri Daj put an arm around Mary. It felt so comforting that Mary told Sofia’s grandmother about Elizabeth and the baby, about Papa and about dwindling coins. She even told of her worries about Jake. I Puri Daj and Sofia were still—only making murmuring sounds to let Mary know they were listening.
When Mary finished, all the old woman said was, “So, ve haf a lot to think about, Mary Bunyan, no?”
“I Puri Daj always comes up with the answers, Mary.” Sofia’s voice was filled with confidence.
“I know that I cannot do anything about my father. Elizabeth is going to go to the assizes and do everything she can to get the magistrates to free him, but Papa says that is in God’s hands.” Mary sighed. “’Tis not so easy for me to accept.”
“It is not easy for your Papa to accept, either, Mary Bunyan. It is his faith that makes him accept.” I Puri Daj marked the last words with emphatic thumps of her finger on the back of Mary’s hand.
“What is faith?” Sofia asked.
“Mary Bunyan knows about faith,” said I Puri Daj.
“I don’t,” said Mary. “My father is the one with faith in God.”
“Vhat about vhen you call for your sister? Do you haf faith that she vill come?”