The Kingdom / Chapter 01.05 - "The Gypsies"
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
The horse's hooves struck in a clomping cadence that carried on ahead of him, announcing to any on the road the approach of an urgent rider. The young man astride the mount held its reins in both hands, knuckles white as he leaned forward, the air rushing past him full of ozone and gloom. His employer, the stable master at Franklin Palace, would no doubt be enraged at what Robert had done, but the teen truly believed he had no choice; everyone knew about the Rikti invasion twenty years before, everyone had heard the stories, everyone was told how they arrived. And now they were back. Leaving a wagon full of twisted horseshoes for an old French smith to handle was about to become the least of everyone's worries.
Robert's mind raced: Why Bristol? There were other places, other towns, other cities that seemed to have better strategic value, and random attacks on quiet villages made very little sense. Still, if the invaders were focusing on an out of the way berg like Bristol, perhaps Philadelphia remained untouched – and unaware. It was his duty, as a patriot and a subject of the Kingdom of America, to warn them as quickly as possible.
“Go!”, he cried, horse and rider tearing down the road, dust filling his wake. He flew through stands of trees, echoed over bridges, splashed through small creeks, but as he rounded a corner in a copse of wood, he yanked back on the reins, his steed coming to such an abrupt halt it reared back to keep from losing its rider. There, in the middle of the road, stood a woman, slight and exotic, dressed in flowing silks and gold chains. He caught her gaze for a split second and was captivated by the depth of her azure eyes, and only came out of his sudden thrall when his rump hit the ground. “Ow!”
The woman covered her mouth to hide a laugh, but he could hear it, the musical lilt making him forget, for a moment, the horror of the Rikti now miles behind him. Moving nearer to him, each step agile and precise, she gracefully crouched down to him, offering her hand. “Come on now, chavvy; get to your feet. What be makin' you ride so swift?”
Robert took her hand, but relied on his own strength and balance to stand, holding on to her more as a matter of politeness than anything. Dusting himself off, he muttered something abut being needed in Philadelphia, then adjusted his cap and turned back to his horse.
“Don't be goin' off quick, chavvy,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We could use help from a strong gaujo like you, see; 'sides, it's near to dark, and you don't want to be wearin' out that glasso after nightfall. Not with there bein' demons about.”
“D-demons?”
“Come, help with vardo,” she said, eyes glimmering in the afternoon sun. “Then enjoy our hospitality.”
He wrinkled his nose. Gypsy hospitality? Oh, he had certainly heard stories – what teenage boy had not? Loud music, plenty to eat, even more to drink! And the women – were they all like this one, with sapphire eyes and a voice of honey? Could he be so fortunate as to have stumbled upon this group, a caravan full of everything someone his age craved, all the trappings of adulthood and none of the responsibilities, and all he had to do to be given this chance of a thousand adolescent dreams was to help fix a... a vardo?
“Ma'am?” He asked cautiously. “What's a vardo?”
She giggled, and spun to his side, her laughter like a dozen tiny, tinkling bells ringing playfully in his ears. One arm slipped around his waist, and the other arced out in a wide, sweeping motion. He followed her gaze and was shocked to find the entire road blocked off by a caravan of wagons, at least a dozen of them, all of different shapes, styles, and decorations. In the middle of it all, the gypsy men – large, swarthy fellows with thick beards and serpentine arms – were setting up camp, hauling tattered furniture, blankets, and crates from their traveling homes while children ran about gathering wood for a bonfire. The women were already starting to prepare food for what could be nothing less than a feast. Older men were already seated, reminiscing with one another or starting to tune odd stringed instruments and fiddle with lutes, piping out light melodies in practice for a night of music and dance. Off to the side, a few men were balancing a wagon on two wheels and a pair of stumps, a broken wheel hanging from one of its axles.
“Oh. A wagon. Why didn't you say so?”
“Is what I say, chavvy,” she said simply. “Will you help?”
Robert considered for a few moments. He had an important message to deliver, did he not? He should be back on his horse and speeding off toward Philadelphia as quickly as he could, not stopping to help gypsies – cutpurses and vagabonds! - with their wagons. But the notion of the experience, a night spent in hedonistic revelry that could end in the soft arms of this very woman, he could not deny it was an intriguing thought. And help? He certainly could – he worked in a stable house, after all, and replacing a wagon wheel, with the help of a couple strong men, of course, would be simple. Besides, he reasoned, he would be doing a good deed, like the Good Samaritan of the Bible, stopping to help someone who would normally be shunned or even mocked. And so, with a sudden sense of moral justification, he nodded. “Sure,” he replied. “I can help.”
The afternoon passed; first Robert attended to the “vardo”, changing out its wheel - the gypsies were wise enough to have a wagon full of spare bits and tools used for repairs, an extra wheel amongst them. Dusk began to settle in as he was led to the circle at the center of camp, given a seat in a comfortable, if worn, chair, and handed a large teak stein with silver trim. He flipped the lid up and sniffed at the mug's contents tentatively, the thick, heady odor of beer filling his nostrils, then tilted his head back and drew a swallow. In the background the music was starting to become more organized, pipes and strings and percussion falling into cadence with each other, high melodies weaving in and around the camp, inspiring the young gypsy women to dance.
He watched the dance at first, reclining into the tattered cushions and nursing his beer, until the girls began to pull partners from among the young men of the group, and one grabbed hold of his hand, tugging him from his relaxed comfort and out to the road, skipping and wheeling about the bonfire. He danced, delighting in her smile, the way her fingertips lightly brushed against his, the virginal ring of her laughter. The music never ceased; when one player took a break from piping or strumming or pounding on drums, the others filled in for him, altering the mood and the harmonics ever so slightly. The melodies evolved, patterns folding over on themselves to form new patterns, each shift seeming to invigorate the dancers all the more, and when Robert finally took a moment to drop back into his chair, a fresh stein of beer in his hands, he was worn out.
The bards continued their songs and the revelry carried on, the young stable boy watched unabashedly as the dance became more intimate, the music slowing as couples drifted from the circle, finding the quiet console of their couches – the young girl with whom he'd danced falling limply into his lap, curling up against him. The musicians dropped one by one from the enchanted tune until there was only a single drummer remaining, and a strange hush, a muted veil, enshrouded the camp, and when there was nothing left but the regular beat of the tom, a voice – that of the woman Robert had first met in the road – broke the silence.
“Come, Papo. Speak to us.”
All eyes shifted to the far end of the circle, to an ornate, wooden chair, host to a frail man with skin the texture and hue of dried apricots and dull, blue eyes that darted here and there, searching his audience. Thin lips parted, and his voice began as a tremulous whisper, yet somehow potent enough to be heard throughout the camp. “We have always wandered,” he said, the sound hitting Robert's ear as if the ancient storyteller were sitting beside him. Robert jumped, startled at the sudden nearness, but settled back into his chair when those nearby gave him odd looks.
“We have always wandered, but we have not always been hated,” Papo continued. “During the time of the demons, we were guardians, safe-keepers of the roadways. Our song meant warmth and comfort to the traveler, and the escape from the demons of the green sky.” And so he continued, with Robert drinking from his stein and listening intently, the words spinning out a story that seemed to surround him, wisps of history and liturgy and memory that wove the pattern of the tale of the Gypsy families and the world as they perceived it, of the time of the demons – which he quickly recognized as the Rikti. Battles won, skirmishes lost, heroes both victorious and fallen, the tales wore on through the night, and Robert would later never quite be able to give a definitive answer to the question of when the stories ended and his torpid dreams began, lazily dragging him through the first Rikti invasion all over again, from the perspective of a Gypsy fencer, mostly because he never knew he had fallen asleep.
At least until someone woke him.
“Wake up, chavvy.” A foot nudged his ribs. “S'time we go.”
His eyes slowly flickered open, squinting out the sunlight filtering through the trees to blind him. He stretched, shifting his body a little to get his bearings. He was off to the side of the road, laying against something warm – a rock, he assumed. Walking away from him was the gypsy woman, the one from the road, who convinced him to help her clan, but instead of being dressed in wispy silk and precious jewelry, she was buckled into a suit of leather armor, a longsword hanging from her hip. Beyond her stood three horses; his own quarter horse, a magnificent Arabian, and a mare who seemed more interested in the prickly weeds along side the road than much of anything else.
“We?”
“Me Papo has sent me with you, to deliver your message to the Merican king, an' to keep you safe.”
“Okay, look, I do appreciate it, but what makes you think you can do any better than me at, um, defending me?”
The woman turned on him, her voice teetering between indignation and amusement. “I am Jessika of the Clan When, the People Out of Time, chavvy. I am warrior and blademistress. D'not question my skill.”
Robert bit his upper lip. “Well, okay then. And who's the third horse for?”
“Your romni, buba,” she smirked.
“Romni? What's a... er...” He rolled to his other shoulder and gasped. The girl who had curled up in his lap was sharing a blanket with him.
“Is your wife, chavvy. Now wake Beleth and let's be goin'.”
