You find yourself walking along Gypsy Rowe early one evening.
The colored flags hang listless in the autumn air, and in place of the usual boisterous song, pipes, and drums, somewhere out of sight, somebody plays a mournful melody on a simple flute.
As you look, you realize the Rowe is not deserted, but the Romani are so unlike their typically boisterous selves that you had barely noticed them.
Some of the tents are being collapsed and rolled up.
From within one, dozens of skulls (many decorated), are being brought out into the long orange sunlight, and carefully packed into chests. meanwhile, other, unopened chests, heavy and mysterious, are brought out and laid among the other baggage. Finally, each of the chests is carefully laid within one of the brightly-colored vardas.
Countless bottles and barrels have been left by the one fire that's burning.
Working mostly by firelight in the gathering darkness, the wheels on the colorful wagons are carefully examined and greased, while horses and donkeys are brushed down and settled into harness; Long-deployed stairs are folded up into the wagon doors.
When this is done, the rom sit around the fire that remains, and begin to drink.
They talk quietly among themselves; from time to time they laugh joyously with great mirth, or else shake their heads as at a sad memory. Some of their cheeks are wet with tears.
They do not speak to you, but if you catch a Romani eye, they may raise a bottle to you with a wink.
When you have passed down the road further, the quiet romani voices behind you somehow drift away. It is only silent a brief time before the merry song of birds greeting the morning halts you, and bewildered, you look around at the trees, now bright in the misty yellow of dawn.
You walk back into Kupspar; along Gypsy Rowe , there are only flattened places where tents may have stood once, ruts of wheels, and long-cold fire rings, the soot and blackened ash long washed clean by the rain.
Where the road passes the old celestial guild, and turns toward town, you pass a boy and his father carrying pumpkins toward the tavern.
“Why do they call it Gypsy Rowe?” asks the boy.
The father shrugs and they walk on.
The colored flags hang listless in the autumn air, and in place of the usual boisterous song, pipes, and drums, somewhere out of sight, somebody plays a mournful melody on a simple flute.
As you look, you realize the Rowe is not deserted, but the Romani are so unlike their typically boisterous selves that you had barely noticed them.
Some of the tents are being collapsed and rolled up.
From within one, dozens of skulls (many decorated), are being brought out into the long orange sunlight, and carefully packed into chests. meanwhile, other, unopened chests, heavy and mysterious, are brought out and laid among the other baggage. Finally, each of the chests is carefully laid within one of the brightly-colored vardas.
Countless bottles and barrels have been left by the one fire that's burning.
Working mostly by firelight in the gathering darkness, the wheels on the colorful wagons are carefully examined and greased, while horses and donkeys are brushed down and settled into harness; Long-deployed stairs are folded up into the wagon doors.
When this is done, the rom sit around the fire that remains, and begin to drink.
They talk quietly among themselves; from time to time they laugh joyously with great mirth, or else shake their heads as at a sad memory. Some of their cheeks are wet with tears.
They do not speak to you, but if you catch a Romani eye, they may raise a bottle to you with a wink.
When you have passed down the road further, the quiet romani voices behind you somehow drift away. It is only silent a brief time before the merry song of birds greeting the morning halts you, and bewildered, you look around at the trees, now bright in the misty yellow of dawn.
You walk back into Kupspar; along Gypsy Rowe , there are only flattened places where tents may have stood once, ruts of wheels, and long-cold fire rings, the soot and blackened ash long washed clean by the rain.
Where the road passes the old celestial guild, and turns toward town, you pass a boy and his father carrying pumpkins toward the tavern.
“Why do they call it Gypsy Rowe?” asks the boy.
The father shrugs and they walk on.