Provenance Black

In the First Person

   I was born on a dirt floor. Not much of a beginning, but we all must start somewhere. My first memories are of the travelling my people did, the grey towns and grass against the backdrop of a grey sky. Our flamboyant carts bought a cheerfulness to the lives of society's dregs, we were always ostracized for our visits although it didn't stop them from coming to our camps. We were an ensemble of misfits and miscreants, our cards could reveal the future, our ointments heal any laceration, our magic entertain them for hours, our people mistrusted and abused.

   Travelling with us was a Phuro -an elder of our people- we named Del Tshor. He didn't look old enough to be Phuro, yet our healer (who was sixty then) said that he had been with my sect since his grandfather was a lad. No one is quite sure when Del Tshor came, he just seemed to be living in the shadows of our fires, he never gave us his true name. He was one of the main acts of our troupe with his red battered theatre on wheels, crooked crank on one side which would play music, causing the figures to dance, bringing in the most coin at any event.

   When I was thirteen, we came to a town now known as Lavenham. It had less than a thousand people, all who despised us being there. It was a town of Tudor Houses that clashed in colour, an attempt at individuality that somehow failed. The first night we were there was a clear one, the stars of Taurus and Virgo a little brighter than normal, the moon fuller than a crescent, the breeze moist and soft on my face. The fortune-teller's caravan already had a line as long as six horses, the healer had made more than three fistfuls of silver and was still being visited by the townsfolk. Del Tshor hadn't been seen since we had arrived. It had shocked us all when twilight fell and we hadn't heard the clicks and twangs of the mobile theatre.

   I strolled to the outer edge of the gypsy firelight, looking out onto Levenham's fields. My young comrades had vanished into the night much earlier than I - having been caught being idle earlier in the day, I was to work later at night. So here I was, looking into the distance, away from the merry lights, laughter, music and dance of my Familia, when the first stone clipped my ear.

   It whizzed past, grazing my face lightly as it landed outside the glow of the firelight. I looked around, at first seeing none, then seeing the crowd of town boys. I knew I had done nothing to them, but this was the treatment all of us got in 'civilised, modern' towns, especially from the youths. We were seen as lower than a snake because our most important lessons were taught on the road amidst the beauty of life, whereas they sat in molding schoolrooms with stale teachers. Normally though it was just name jeering we got and at first I thought that the stone had simply been to get my attention so their fun could begin. Then I noticed something different about these boys; all of them were armed. All desperate to fight. All desperate to have a shot at the Gippo. A quick scan told me that a hare would have a better chance eluding a cast of hawks than I had of escaping. With all the Romani courage I could muster, I struck a pose as though about to cast a spell that made the boys jitter back, I saw the shame when they realised they'd fallen for a feint. A cocky smile danced on my lips, my heart beat a tattoo as I took a mocking bow, before I spun on my heel and sprinted like the dead were after me.

   The stones and insults rained down. To my dismay, they kept pace with me. It was a good chase, I give those Raklo's that. I managed to reach the crossroads before I was brought down by a particularly large stone crashing against the back of my knee, another hitting my head a second before. I scrambled to get up, when they fell on me harder than the stones. For every time I caught one with fist or feet, I received three blows for my trouble.

   "Gods, you settlers fight like a chavi." I'm fairly certain they had no idea what a chavi is, although the blow that caused the skin above my eye to split suggested differently. I remember taste of blood and spit. The sound of wheezing breath. Smiles like nails.

   They played a game where if they tired they would let me stand up, let me start to shamble away, see the glow of safety before pouncing on me. It was after the fourth time they "let me go" that I first heard the noise. A lyrical quality, flowing over the wind and dancing about our heads, hollow notes plunked like a heartbeat yet decorated with pitches that reminded me of fairybells, somehow familiar. The boys looked around, faces contorted with confusion, their grip tightening on my rag-shirt, beady eyes asking the question their voices could not form.

   From over by a line of trees, a small rectangle of candle light was suspended from the ground. There was enough starlight to reveal the figure of a man swathed in shadow beside it, features indistinguishable even by the light from the theatre.

   Inside the glow, we could see silhouettes moving. I was released from the boys hold, landing heavily on the road. The boys moved towards the light, curiosity overcoming anger and I was forgotten. I should have ran then, back to the safety of the Familia. I had grown up with stories of the creatures we can meet at the crossroad, those that take your soul whilst breath was still in your body and leave the shell of you behind. I didn't care. I skulked behind them, as enthralled as they were, towards what I could now see to be a dazzling theatre on wheels that would have put Del Tshor's to shame.

   The side of the box-theatre with the hunched figure had a crank which was turned to the beat of the music, the figure as still as the trees around us. The dancing puppets on the small stage were the most lifelike I have ever seen, movements unhindered by the strings attached at their joints, the resigned expressions on the faces heartbreaking, an unseen barrier betwixt them. For a moment I know I saw a tear on the male puppet's cheek as his fingers attempted to touch the woman's, my heart froze as I realized the story being performed. A fable told by parents to bad children. A truth long forgotten.

   A gypsy-wife had once plotted to gain her husband's fortune and elope with his brother. The husband was a good man. The wife burned him in his caravan, fled into the night with lover in tow. They were pursued by torches and the sharp curved knives of their sect when on the road they met one of the Nights Spirits'. The couple tried to appeal to the spirit, begging for it to help them flee so they may dance for all eternity, the highest compliment of love a Traveller can give. The fae granted this wish, but knowing their black hearts and the deeds they'd done that night, he trapped them in a musical box, turning their flesh to wood, puppets to be laughed at. A warning to all that spirits do not tolerate deceit. That spirits do not tolerate unjust violence.

   A suffocating mist was surrounding me, the music speeding up. If I hadn't believed this story already then the hypnotized townies, the discovery of my stone legs would have converted me to trust in folklore. 

   I was a gypsy, what few situations I could not escape from I did not cower from. The light was glowing ever brighter, engulfing the townies like a hungry beast. I could not shout for help, and though I tried not to a whimper swelled up in my throat as that light came for me. It was like a hand on my chest, a vice on my heart, pushing me backwards. The world fell away so that all I could see were stars, Taurus and Virgo a little brighter than usual.

   I awoke at dawn to find myself lying under a chestnut tree, a horse with bells to my left, a fire at my feet. Beside me, Del Tshor was standing with a pan that was steaming, eating with a spoon that looked as though the horse had stood on it. My head hurt and I thought I would vomit. Del Tshor approached me with his flattened spoon to give me some of the concoction he had made. It was bitter and just made me feel worse.

   Eventually, we rode back to a red sky, crows flittering overhead. There was a sweet song in the air when we arrived back at Lavenham to find most of our possessions already packed. Del Tshor helped me off the steed, before launching into a tirade at a lad two years my senior, who was mounting Del Tshor's battered and ancient theatre onto the back of wagon, the box perilously close to the edge. As he scolded the boy, I was able to see the theatre up close. The paint was chipped, the metal frame rusting, nothing like the shining theatre last night. On the side of the wagon he hung his puppets, and I couldn't help but notice that six had been added to the collection. All were male, with expressions of dread and shock to different degrees playing on their faces, one so lifelike it looked like he had a black eye, another had a spot of blood on its mouth. As I watched, I saw the spot get bigger and trail down the chin.