FIRE AND BLOOD
1.
She was a rare gem, as rare as she could be, even for the Romanies. A red-haired child born to this auspicious clan, the likes having never occurred before, could have been taken as a token from the gods, but not to those in the here and now, not this time. The tribe members mourned the death of the patriarch's wife, taken as she was while giving birth. Gathered inside the birthing tent, those allowed in, comforted the man, who moaned and cried bitterly cradling in arms the newborn.
'There's evilness in that baby Django ...' The man glared over at the fortune teller as she broke into the tent open to just a few, clinking a bag of seashells and already speaking. 'She has taken her mother's life and soul to make her own way into this world. And so many lives she'll snatch to suffix her hunger, to quench her thirst for blood.'
'Stop mad woman! A wicked witch you are Ágata!' Django stood up onto his feet, still carrying the weeping creature in arms.
'Wicked you say? Witch you call me? Wicked is that little demon you hold in arms, no scattered star, so she'll grow to be a dark witch!'
'How dare you! Take her out! Strip her robes off and whip her in bare backs! Drag her out into the woods and never let her come back!'
'You have heard my warning ... do not close your ears to it ...'
As ordered by the Voivode, three men haul at the woman, throwing her out the tent. There, they did as instructed, having the entire Kumpania witnessing the brutal reprimand.
'She's doomed! Mark my words! That baby is doomed!' was Ágata's last sentence before she'd be dragged, half dressed, covered in blood out the camp.
By himself, the loving father raised little Calista, always beneath his protective wing. The patriarch's daughter was different to the rest of the kids. Unlike the bronzed skin of those in her kin, hers was as white as lily petals and her hair was a flaming summer sunset. Sapphire eyes pierced everyone she looked at, alone with the silence of her tiny rosebud lips, as the girl hardly ever spoke a word in company ...
Quiet Calista only hummed when dancing by herself inside her tent, her speech often limited to nodding and short phrases. She was never interested in playing games with other children in the tribe, as they were not fond of her either, often calling her strange. Never truly alone either, and she knew this to be true whether or she knew the ins and outs of the why or how.
Calista was seven years old when the day came for Django to have cause in marking the witch's words. While brushing his mare, he watched the girl playing in the water, when he noticed fish floating dead around her. Fearing an animal in the river had killed the fish, he hurried to take Calista out the shallow creek. His eyes ... they are open and clear.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he saw the moment when his daughter reached downwards to a meandering golden fish, only to touch it with her index finger. The creature stopped moving and then emerged to the surface to float away with the rest, dead as dead can be.
Heart plundering in his chest, he lifted Calista in arms and placed her on a rock. 'Did you kill the fish?' Looking straight into her eyes, his tone both suggesting the question to be rhetorically certain and hopefully untrue.
A tear rolled down the lass' small rosy cheek while nodding in affirmation.
'Since when can you do this? Tell me please, Calista!'
Perhaps unaware of what exactly she had done, with a glowing and genuine innocence on her face, she shrugged shoulders and just wept. She is what she is and if this be true then he must find her another path.
