The Route

HILDA AND THE GYPSIES

 

I count five horse drawn wagons, tailed by carts, plodding down the dirt road to Gadonya The sounds that come thru the canvas tops sometimes give me stomach cramps. Babies cry incessantly. They screech like banshees. Whips slash at the struggling mules, skinny dogs that follow along the sides of our ever-hopeful  gypsies longing for a place to settle down. Toilets are holes in the ground. Shovels don't get washed. Once, maybe twice a day, when that is done we move onward, ever onward, not knowing what will be at the next road.

 

For many miles we ride beside a slow moving muddy river. Our brave men manage to wade in, snare as many fish as they can. Petrie stands and waits on shore, his scimitar ready to slash off the heads, toss the remaining, still moving parts, in the fire. Before they can become charcoal, small tree branches pierce them, are divided among us, become our meal.  Poor Michaella, one of our beautiful dark haired women, whose skin is the darkest of all of us, burns the palm of her hand. Hilda comforts her, stays with her for three days and nights, reciting magical words. She stops only long enough to eat a little, take a few sips of Romany wine from a community tin cup. Few notice that Michaella's hand is healed without the slightest scar. She wants to give Hilda a few coins, has none,  but does have a small unadorned silver ring and gladly gives it to her.

 

'Everybody look, there is Gadonya. See the lights?' There is dancing in the road, twirling, spinning, falling to the earth. We are all hungry for action, badly need to tell fortunes again. The bravest (or dumbest) may pick a few pockets. New Tarot cards are still in their boxes. We will gladden hearts, bring tears and fears to those who have never met real gypsies from Egypt and Romania. There will be believers and doubters, fools who mock us. I, myself, have been astounded as words, strange words, slide like a slimy snake from my mouth, or could they be from  Cleopatra's?

 

Only I am a true gypsy, born in Egypt, very near the huge Sphinx, I was told. My great, great, great–many great grandfathers ago, labored in the broiling sun, tasted the sand between his teeth. The story of the millions who died so that King Tut could reach eternity must be a fairy tale but I, a believer, must soon make the people in Gadonya into believing in us, in me.

 

If they do, we stay a while. If not, we move on to Hariscoja and get rich.