Gypsy in Black: The Romance of Gypsy Travelers Read online

  GYPSY IN BLACK

  By Sarah Price

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Price.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  Other Books by Sarah Price

  Fields of Corn: The Amish of Lancaster Series

  A Small Dog Named Peek-a-boo: The Adventures of a Family Dog Series #1

  Peek-a-boo Runs Away: The Adventures of a Family Dog Series #2

  Coming Soon: Fields of Wheat: The Amish of Lancaster Series

  Chapter One 5

  Chapter Two 15

  Chapter Three 29

  Chapter Four 42

  Chapter Five 60

  Chapter Six 73

  Chapter Seven 84

  Chapter Eight 96

  Chapter Nine 110

  Chapter Ten 122

  Chapter Eleven 131

  Chapter Twelve 143

  Chapter Thirteen 158

  Chapter Fourteen 167

  Chapter Fifteen 181

  Chapter Sixteen 193

  Chapter Seventeen 205

  Chapter Eighteen 212

  Chapter Nineteen 222

  Chapter Twenty 232

  Chapter Twenty-One 241

  Chapter Twenty Two 249

  Chapter Twenty-Three 259

  Chapter Twenty-Four 267

  Chapter Twenty-Five 278

  Chapter One

  The silver coin clattered against the tabletop, the metallic sound hollow in the silence. It spun several times before hitting the tin mug. With a sharp clack, the coin slid backwards, resting in the center of the table. The old gypsy man, his dark eyes gleaming in the orange glow of the lanterns, stared intently at the Irishman seated across the table from him. The gypsy's leathered skin stretched tightly across his face with deep wrinkles under his eyes. He had seen many seasons in the sun, his face showing the hardship of the years traveling in all types of weather. But it was his eyes that gleamed, displaying wisdom of many years of hard travel filled with worldly knowledge and dangerous adventure. He tapped a crooked finger on the top of his dirty and ripped playing cards. Once, twice. Finally, he laid the cards face down on the dry, oak table as he leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. He wasn’t a large man but the chair felt the weight of his years. Folding his hands behind his neck, the gypsy tilted his head to the side. A soft sucking sound escaped his parched lips. His mischievous eyes never left the Irishman's face.

  The Irishman, chewing on the end of a soggy cigar, looked up every so often. His face was stark white and his bloodshot eyes pale sky-blue. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, the Irishman exhaled a grey cloud of smoke. He quickly glanced at the dark skinned gypsy before diverting his eyes again as the smoke cleared, the pungent odor of stale tobacco staining the air. The Irishman, oblivious to the smell, rearranged his cards once, twice, then back again. With a pale, sun spotted hand, he reached for the tin mug next to his elbow. The yellow liquid poured effortlessly into his mouth as he raised the mug. Biting back the bitter taste of the ale, the pale man set the mug back down on the table with a loud thud. He raised his eyes again, meeting the coal black ones that stared back with a deep intensity that even her, the seasoned Irishman, felt was intimidating.

  The gypsy waited until the Irishman was once again absorbed in his cards before slamming the legs of his chair on the dusty oak floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence. All eyes fell upon his face but the gypsy pretended not to notice. It was a well-performed act on his part. “Well gadjo!” Craggy and thick with a crisp, foreign accent, his voice startled the Irishman. The old gypsy leaned forward, his graying black hair brushing against his face. “Gadjo,” he repeated to the Irishman. “Are we playing the game or ought I to guess the cards that grace your hand?” Several of the younger gypsies hovering near the table chuckled out loud, one patting the older gypsy's shoulder. “Do you wish to continue?”

  The Irishman frowned. Already he had lost so much. Too much. Hesitating, the Irishman knew he had no choice but to continue. He had to win back what he had lost. Reluctantly, he tossed his last coin beside the silver coin the gypsy had already thrown on the table. The Irishman shook his head, waiting for the darker man to spread his cards fan-like on the table. Four tens stared up for the crowd around the gypsy to cheer and the Irishman to curse. Damn gypsies, he thought. Disgusted, he threw his cards onto the table, standing up as he spoke with his Irish accent. “Aye, done wiped me out. I dudn't know how you do it.” The crowd separated, letting the Irishman walk behind the bar, refilling his tin mug with ale. Resting his hand on the counter, the Irishman met the old gypsy's victorious gaze.

  The gypsy raised one eyebrow, feigning pity for the Irish tavern owner. “Gadjo, you must have something more. Such luck cannot stay so poor.” Two of the taller gypsies leaning against the wall snickered as his words. The older gypsy seated at the table raised his hand to silence them. The room was immediately still as the gypsy stood, his hand resting on the back of his chair. Not once did his eyes tear away from the Irish tavern owner's. “Perhaps we could...” He smiled out of the corner of his eye, glancing at a younger gypsy standing nearby. “…wager something else?”

  The Irishman glanced at the large pile of silver coins and paper bills on the corner of the table. Over a hundred dollars, he thought with a grimace. Three months earnings. As he raised the mug to his mouth, he noticed the slight movement from the top of the staircase. He squinted, suddenly aware of his eighteen-year-old daughter. He hadn’t noticed her earlier. Now, he felt the weight of her presence. She was spying on the game again. She would be displeased and was certain to bitch to him later. If only he could win the money back, he thought, that would keep her quiet. Grunting to himself, the Irishman met the gypsy's eyes again. “I tell ye, gypsy. I have nothing.”

  The younger man standing next to the old gypsy drew the Irishman's attention as he impatiently shuffled his feet. He was a large man with a freshly shaven face and long wavy black hair tied behind his neck with a piece of dirty leather. His grungy blue blouse with flared sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, and black pants tucked into his black shiny high topped boots announced that he, too, was part of this gypsy band. The tavern owner watched as the man leaned over, whispering something in the older gypsy's ear. The older gypsy hesitated before giving a stiff nod, waving the younger man aside with his hand. The gleam in the gambling gypsy's eyes grew even brighter as he enticed the tavern owner toward the table again. “I think, gadjo, we work something out if you sit again.”

  Curious, the Irishman downed his ale, refilling it one last time before slowly walking back to the table. An older man standing nearby put his arm on the Irishman’s and whispered, “Don’t do it.” But the Irishman, made bold by an evening of drinking and gambling, merely shook the hand off of his arm and sat back down at the table.

  The gypsies crowded around the table, pushing the excited townsmen aside. The Irishman looked up at their eager faces as he repeated softly, mostly to himself, “I have nothing, I tell you.”

  The gypsy gave the Irishman the deck of cards. Without speaking, the man took the cards, shuffling them carefully. He handed them back to the gypsy. Quickly, the gypsy dealt two hands of five cards, letting the Irishman pick whichever hand he desired. Setting the unused cards off to the side, the gypsy leaned forward, his one hand on the edge of the table while his other rested on the knee of his thin leather trousers. “I will bet this entire pile of money...�
�� He motioned absentmindedly to the small pile of money to his right. “You look at those cards and tell me whether you wish to play by my rules, gadjo.”

  The man lifted his five cards up, staring intently for several long, silent minutes. His face grew long as he memorized each card. Finally, he set the cards down on the table, raising his eyes to meet the gypsy's. Clearing his throat, the man took a deep breath. “And what are these rules? What is me wager?”

  The old gypsy sat back in his chair and shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  The Irish man gave a drunken chortle. “Tis too easy!”

  “Is your hand good?”

  The man sobered and leaned forward. “Is yours?”

  The gypsy shrugged again, moving his eyes away from the Irishman's face for the first time. “I suppose.”

  Gathering up his confidence, the Irishman pounded on his cards. The dull thudding of his fist against the table echoed in the silence. “Me hand is better!”

  For the third time, the gypsy shrugged. “How do I know?” His accent made his words slur together. No one spoke as they waited for the old gypsy to make the next move. Looking up, the gypsy met the tavern owner's flashing eyes. “I will add a gold chain to this pile of money if your cards are better than mine.” He pulled the neck of his dirty and ripped blouse away from his neck, exposing a thick, ugly scar that ran from his shoulder down his chest. Hanging over the scar was a single strand of gold that glimmered in the lantern light.

  The Irishman caught his breath. “That gold must be worth at least seventy five, if not more!” He lifted his eyes off the chain, suddenly aware of the challenge at stake. What did he own worthy of such a wager? “Only thing I have worth that much is me tavern!” Several people gasped at his announcement. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his daughter stepping slightly out of the shadows. He was surprised she hadn't raced down the stairs, making a scene in front of these men. But, for the first time, she behaved, keeping to the shadows in order to remain unseen by the gypsies.

  “You offer your tavern as a wager?”

  The Irishman picked up his five cards, staring at them for another minute. His heart raced as he realized what he was doing. Finishing his ale as if searching for strength, he handed the mug to the man standing next to him. He waited until the mug was returned to him. Another large swallow and a loud thud set the mug back on the table. Looking up, he met the black opals gazing at him. “Aye, I offer me tavern.”

  Silently the gypsy sat and waited. The room was tense and the air stagnant. At the bottom of the stairs, someone coughed. The Irishman ignored the noise as his mind reeled at winning back all he had lost as well as profiting from the chain. His blood boiled and his hands sweated. Rubbing them on his pants, he felt his throat dry up. He took another swallow of his ale, feeling his head begin to swoon from the intensity. Finally, the gypsy answered. “I do not accept.”

  The Irishman's eyes widened as the crowd began to murmur. “You don’t accept?” he asked, incredulous to what he had heard. The voices of the townspeople blended together, growing into a loud buzzing. The Irishman frowned, rubbing his stubbly face. “What is it ye want? I have nothing more to offer you, gypsy.” There was desperation in his voice, a pleading that gave away not only his hand but also the desire to win.

  The old gypsy glanced over his shoulder at the tall, young gypsy standing behind him. They both smiled. The old gypsy turned around, tapping his finger against the table. “Ah, but you do.”

  The Irishman narrowed his eyes, studying his opponent carefully before he shook his head as if clearing away unwanted thoughts. “Then tell me, gypsy. What is it ye want?”

  “Your daughter,” the old gypsy hissed.

  The crowd began to talk at once. The girl, standing in the shadows, cried out, “No Papa!” She started to race down the stairs, hoping to stop her father from gambling her away to the gypsy tribe. Two large gypsies met her at the foot of the stairs. They blocked her escape. The girl stood there, at first cowering away from the gypsies and retreating back into the shadows. When she realized that she couldn’t get through, she quickly turned her attention back to the crowded table, mesmerized by her father.

  The Irishman did not spare his daughter a glance as he stared at his cards, contemplating the deal. “Ye want me Sahara? She is more a nuisance than a help,” he said quietly as though thinking outloud, thought aloud. “But me hand, never in my life...” Finally, he looked up. “Me Sahara for that money and chain.” The hesitation was but a moment before he whispered, “I accept.”

  “Show your hand, gadjo,” the gypsy ordered.

  Delighted, the Irishman rocked back and forth as he fanned his five cards across the splintering surface of the table. “Beat that, gypsy man. Straight flush, king high.” The diamond suited sequenced cards showing on the table proved his claim. Stretching his arm across the table, he swept the money into his one hand as he reached with his other for the Rom Baro's neck. But one of the larger gypsies snatched the Irishman's eager wrist, clutching it forcefully between his golden brown fingers.

  The Rom Baro raised his hand to silence the crowd. “Wait!” The Irishman paled, his forehead dotted with beads of sweat as he stared at the Rom Baro. “I have a chance to show my hand, yes?”

  Without looking, the gypsy leader laid his cards down on the table, overlapping the Irishman's cards. There was a collective gasp from the on-lookers and a meek cry from the Irishman. But the gypsies did not delay for the reality to sink in. Quickly, the Rom Baro snapped his fingers and motioned towards the stairs. Two gypsies jumped to help the tall one with the `prize' as she tried to race back upstairs. They grabbed her, dragging her down the stairs. She screamed and yelled, beating at their faces with her fist. One gypsy finally lifted her up, trying to carry her down the remaining stairs.

  The Rom Baro watched her father's shocked reaction. “You lose, gadjo.” Gathering the silver coins from the Irishman's stunned grasp, the Rom Baro turned away from the broken man. His eyes traveled to the staircase where the girl struggled in the grasp of the three gypsies.

  She fought hard, wriggling in the one man's arms, biting at his shoulders and arms, and clawing to free herself. Her long black hair wrapped around her face as she tried to turn, a failed effort to run back up the stairs. When a gypsy finally lifted her, she scratched at his eyes. He raised his hand to slap her but a tall, dark haired gypsy stood forward and grabbed at the man. “Do not hurt the shey-bari!” he shouted. He watched the girl, protectiveness in both his gaze and stance. Immediately, the two other gypsies softened their approach with detaining the girl, despite the use of force.

  The Irishman ignored his daughter and her captors as he gathered the gypsy's cards, staring at them in shock. “A royal flush. Aye, the bastard had a royal flush and I bet me own daughter.” He let the cards flutter out of his fingers onto the ground. For a moment, just a brief second, his eyes looked at the band of gypsies and a look crossed his face. It was a dark look, one of regard. “I wonder…” he started, mostly to himself but he stopped, his words trailing off as though a moment of clarity struck him but it was suddenly gone.

  Sensing the change in the Irishman, the Rom Baro turned back and paused. His eyes gleamed and his mouth curled into a mocking smile as he flipped a silver coin through the air. It sailed expertly and landed on the table in front of the defeated Irishman. “Unlike you, I almost forgot the daro, gadjo.” Hisses of laughter snaked out of his throat as he opened his mouth, his head tilted back. No one heard as the gypsies dragged the screaming girl out of the tavern and into the night.

   

  The ship had left port only five days ago when the pain started. It started as a discomfort that increased in duration and intensity. She knew that her time had come and, in just a few hours, her life would never be the same. She knelt behind some crates in the dark hull of the ship, quietly accepting the pain. She knew that she had to finally tell someone but she wanted to push that moment as far away as possib
le. She could do this by herself, she thought for a moment, but she knew that it wouldn’t change anything. They would know afterward and it would begin.

  She struggled to her feet and, after taking a deep breath, she moved through the darkness to seek help. She clutched at her stomach, which, while larger than it had been, was barely visible under her layers of heavy skirts and wraps. She had made sure of that, thankful that the journey was taken during the cooler months. That had made it easier to hide. But, she could hide it no more. The time is now, she thought.

  She approached two sleeping figures and leaned down, reaching out a hand to gently prod one of them. “Rom Baro,” she whispered. She nudged him again. “Rom Baro, I need you.”

  The man rolled over and rubbed at his eyes. “What is it, child?”

  She stood up and embraced her stomach. “My time has come and I need your help.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For my baby to be born,” she whispered.

  For a long moment, he did not speak. She wondered if he thought he was dreaming. He stared at her in the dark, barely visible in the shadows. There were no lanterns hung in the dark hull where the passengers slept. He leaned over to find a match and struck it, the golden flame flickering just long enough for him to see her clearly. In fact, it was the first time he has seen her clearly in months. Standing with her hands wrapped around her protruding girth, he realized what she said and what it meant. There were no further words but he nudged his companion, spoke a few words under his breath, and the wheels were in motion. When the dawn broke over the horizon, glistening in the waters surrounding the boat, her baby was finally born.

  Chapter Two

  Sunlight streamed through the top of the stretched canvas over her head, blinding Sahara’s tired eyes to the new day. It took her a moment to focus. She recognized nothing and it took a moment to register that she wasn’t in her own room with cracked plank walls and torn yellow curtains fluttering from a breeze through the broken windowpane. Instead, she was here, awakening in a tent after what seemed like days of hard travel in a dark wagon. The sights, the sounds, even the smells were so different. Outside, she could hear the laughter of children as they ran past the tent, chasing each other. Their chatter slowly disappeared. A dog barked in the distance, shortly followed by another. The chilly April morning air carried amazingly pungent foreign smells to her nose. Spices mixed with burning wood. Sahara frowned. Her head hurt and her body ached. Her fingers gently touched her forehead as she shut her eyes, not wanting to remember but not daring to forget what had happened over the past few days.