Paramitsha
(Faerie Tale)
John
Michael Hurt
I wasn’t afraid of the
gypsies. I went right up to the wagon and said hello. Over dinner the night
before, my father had told my mother and my sister and me that they were there
on the west side of the orchard, and that he had told them they could camp
there for a week if they wanted, but no more. My mother didn’t like that, and
she made that little twisty disapproving face. “Just a week,” My father said
flatly. “They ain’t going to hurt nothing in a week.” My ma shrugged and said
nothing. I decided I would go over and have a look at them. I had just finished
my final year of secondary school and the summer was in full swing. I still had
to figure out what I was going to do. I had thought about college. With government
help I might be able to afford it. Or there was the army. In the meantime I was
drifting in that world of indecision, and there was always a funny feeling in
my stomach like when you have had a strange dream and you’re not sure you’re
awake yet. Sometimes I would look at myself long and hard in the mirror as if I
might see some clue there to who I really was, where I was going; as though
there would be a map on my face to guide me to the future.
The wagon was
green with flowers painted on it. It had wood panels on the sides and a curved
roof with a little metal chimney sticking out. The chimney had a conical
pointed cap on it, and a little smoke came from it and was pulled away on the
breeze. The wheels were painted red and yellow. A kind of awning was extended
out from one side of the wagon and there were chairs and a table and some other
things under it on a rug. Two horses were grazing absently under a big oak
tree. They looked like really fine horses, big and strong.
As I walked up, a
girl about my age came around the corner. She stopped abruptly until she saw
that I was smiling and that I was alone. When I said hello, she smiled and said
hello, too. Of course, I noticed immediately how pretty she was. Her hair and
her eyes were shiny and her skin was smooth and golden.
“My name’s Tolly,”
I said, holding out my hand. “Tolly Ransom. This is our farm here.” I gestured
around us. For a moment she looked concerned. I think she thought I was going
to ask them to leave. Then I realized she might not speak English, but she came
forward and shook my hand and said, “My name is Djidjo.”
“I’m pleased to
meet you.”
She bowed a little
curtsey. “Will you come sit by the vurdon – the wagon - and have some
tea?” Of course, I said yes.
About this time,
her father came around the wagon. I guess he had heard voices. He wasn’t a big
man, but he had a kind of muscularity, a kind of solidness. His dark hair was
curly, not straight like Djidjo’s was. He had a black mustache, which, along
with his brown face made the smile he wore flash white in the shade of the
orchard. He walked over and looked at me curiously for a second then said “I am
Veshengo, you are welcome to our camp young raklo.
“Excuse me sir, but my name
is Tolly,” I said.
He smiled. “Oh
yes, raklo is only the word for a young man. A young man who is not a
gypsy. Chey,” he said looking at the girl, “Can you get some tea for
us?” She smiled and nodded and went up the wooden steps into the wagon. “I hope
everything is well,” he said with a concerned look as we sat on the chairs
under the awning. “I spoke to the owner.”
“Yes, that was my
father. Everything’s okay. I just came to see you. To be honest, I’ve never
seen any gypsies before.”
“Well, we don’t
usually say gypsies. We call ourselves Rom or Romany. I am grateful to your
father. We are not welcomed by most people. The Rom have a culture that has,
well, different ways from most people these days. For instance, today
many of us live in cities and live like other city people do, but some of the
Rom follow the old ways and may … take things.” He shrugged. “I think, though,
most people had a culture like ours many centuries ago. You might say like
stealing, but I think many tribes used to take things from other tribes when
they could, like horses. Nowadays business people take money away from other
people. They charge interest or cheat and this culture says it is okay. So…” He
shrugged again and smiled, looking intently at me.
Djidjo came back
with the tea and we sat through the warm afternoon that was like a magic spell.
The sunlight made stained glass patterns through the orchard leaves, and the
breeze was fat and pleasant against my face. The feeling of dreaminess fitted
well with the strange unsettled feeling in my stomach, and the tea filtered
down like liquid amber into my body. I think they liked me, and I know I
thought Djidjo was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. We talked about
places they had traveled and about the times they had at the big meetings
- the Patshiva. When I left, they
asked me to come back tomorrow. Djidjo fluttered her big eyes at me, and
Veshengo smiled as he waved me on my way back to the world of chores and
expectations.
I had felt the
meeting with the gypsies was fine. Somehow, with them I had not felt any push
or pull from my own world - a world that was always expecting me to make
choices, do things, plan and know. With them, I had no role to play, no
promises to keep and I had just been me. It was heady and seductive.
The next day I did
my chores and got released from duty in the early afternoon. I cleaned up and
headed out toward the orchard. The orchard was on the far side of our farm and
it seemed to take much longer to get there than it had the day before. I
arrived at the wagon and helloed. For a while there was no response and I had
almost turned and headed back, when Djidjo came out of the wagon wiping her
hands on her apron and smiling. We sat on the ground underneath one of the
apple trees and talked. I asked her what Gypsy life was like, but she wasn’t
sure how to answer, as that was all she had ever known, so how can you compare.
I asked where her mother was.
“My mother was
named Dritta,” she said with a little sad smile. “She was very beautiful.”
Looking at Djidjo, I could easily believe it. “She was suddenly … very ill and
the hospital wouldn’t take her in, because…you know. We were camped alone, so
there was no help from the Kumpania – the family. She, um, passed away in the
vurdon. I was twelve years old. My father still grieves very much. He will not
take another wife. He says if he did, her ghost would not give him any peace so
why bother. It is his little joke.” Djidjo seemed flustered for a minute, but
then she smiled and the world was a little warmer.
Vashengo came
suddenly through the trees riding one of the horses. He dropped to the ground
with a lithe dismount. He looked at me with a very serious look on his face at
first, then at Djidjo for a second, then his expression softened. I think he
saw that we had not been doing anything improper.
“How are you
raklo,” he asked with a wink as he walked over to us.
I stood up. “Fine,
sir,” I said as he pulled over a chair and sat with us. “Oh, I brought some
things for you.” I pulled out the bag I had brought with some presents of food.
It was just some beans and potatoes, a bag of rice and some peaches and jam my
mother had canned. Suddenly, I thought the simple offerings might be an insult
to them. A huge cloudbank of embarrassment hovered near my heart. But they both
smiled and it dissipated.
“Thank you for
this kindness,” Vashengo said. “You know, I think you are almost like a Gypsy
in your heart.” He jumped up and went into the wagon and came back with a
bottle of wine and three glasses and poured one for each of us. “Let us toast
the full moon,” he laughed, “it is only a couple of days away,” and sure enough
there she was, rising above the orchard trees in the east. Her great gold face
beamed down in the summer evening as we talked about the place of a man in the
world, of sorrow and of Dritta, of the power of life and death. Djidjo and
Vashengo and I, all talking, and sometimes one of them singing part of a song
to emphasize a point. After we had finished the bottle, Vashengo leaned so
close that his face was almost touching mine.
“Because you have
been so kind and your father has been so kind to us, because I think maybe you
have the heart of a Rom, I will show you a special thing.” He looked over at
Djidjo who suddenly seemed a little nervous. “Wait,” he said with a sweeping
gesture of his hand, “And you will see something that will surprise you.”
Now the twilight
was upon us. Two lanterns were glowing under the awning by the wagon. I hadn’t
noticed anyone light them, but I thought Djidjo had done it while I was
transfixed by one of Vashengo’s stories.
Vashengo came out
of the wagon with a kind of box covered by a cloth. He set the box on the table
and pulled the cover away with a dramatic gesture. The box or case was very
elaborate like a gilded birdcage, but more complicated than one would expect a
birdcage to be. It was very beautifully decorated and seemed to give off some
kind of light. There was a little latch on the door that was arranged so that
it couldn’t be reached from inside.
“Come and see,”
Vashengo said, gesturing with his hand for me to come closer. I came to the
table and bent down to look into the cage. Inside was a tiny person, perfectly
shaped, but no more than twelve inches tall. She, for it was very obviously a
she, had small diaphanous wings like dragonfly wings. She stood in the cage and
once in a while the wings fluttered and she lifted into the air. I saw that the
light that emanated from the cage actually came from her. She glowed as from
some internal light and she looked almost translucent there in the twilight
evening. Most of all, she was beautiful. So tiny and perfect. It broke my heart
to look at her because she was so beautiful. Her glowing skin was perfect and
flawless. She looked out at me from the cage with a look that was both
imploring and sad. Her eyes spoke of a terrible loneliness – imploring but
afraid, apprehensive. They spoke of desire and of love, too. I felt that she
wanted me to stop the loneliness, as if only I could do this, but was afraid.
For a few seconds, her lips moved as though she were trying to talk to me, but
couldn’t.
“What is
she?” I asked breathlessly.
“She is a faerie.”
Vashengo said, looking from the cage to me.
“But …a faerie?”I
spluttered. “There are no …”
“What you see with
your own eyes, raklo, is true.” He nodded at the faerie.
“Why is she in the
cage?” I asked. “Can’t you let her out?”
“Oh, no!” He shook
his head. “Faeries, they are very dangerous.”
“Where did she
come from?” I asked, still stunned and transfixed by the sight. I couldn’t take
my eyes away.
“She was passed to
us from family, a Sumadji, a what? You might say an heirloom.”
“But what does she eat?” I
asked, suddenly concerned.
“She eats
sunlight, like a plant, and of course water,” Djidjo answered. “But in the
sunlight she is nearly invisible, like a shimmer in the air. I think it is
because she takes in the light. Only in the night can she be seen.”
“What is she
saying?” I asked Djidjo.
She shook her
head. “I don’t know. It is beyond our hearing”
I kept looking at
the faerie. Something in her perfect beauty filled me with desire. Something
about her rang in powerful harmony with the strange empty feeling that my life
had put into the pit of my stomach, my loins. My breath seemed to stop and I
realized that my heart was pounding. The tiny sad, but beautiful, face was
burned into my mind.
Sudenly, Vashengo
threw the cover back over the cage. I jumped back with a jolt and realized it
was later than I had thought. I excused myself, thanking them for their
hospitality and started back home. All that night and the next day, I couldn’t
get her out of my mind. The next evening I had promised to meet some friends in
the village. We went to the usual places, talked and ate at a little shop.
Afterwards, we went round to a pub and drank some toasts to the life we knew we
would soon be leaving behind. But the whole evening I was restless. Kira was
sitting across from me at the little table in the pub.
“Where are you Tolly? You’ve been so quiet all
evening. We depend on you for intelligent conversation, you know,” she said
with a cross face. “Josh only wants to talk about ale and food.” Josh made a
face and threw a pretzel at her.
I didn’t want to
tell them about the faerie. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I apologized for
being so distant, and said, “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I guess.” Soon, I
excused myself and headed for home. That night I tossed and turned feeling
every lump in the bed and hearing every sound, perspiring through long breaks
between strange dreams. The round moon, almost full, made a backlight in my
room to the phantasms in my head.
The next day I
went back to the camp. Vashengo was splitting wood and he paused to greet me as
I came up. I helped him stack the wood he was splitting, and we had some cool
juice he had brought. We sat under the awning and I told him about my confusion
about the future. Talking to him about all this wasn’t like talking to my
family or friends, it was more like thinking out loud. I asked him what Djidjo
would do in the future. He shrugged.
“We don’t have as
many choices as you,” he said wistfully. “And I am a man. Her mother would be
better to help her plan a life. A man, even a father, can’t advise a young
woman very well about things.” He looked disconsolate for a moment, and I
thought he might weep, but he recovered and looked at me in the strangest way. Just
then, Djidjo appeared from across the way with a two big pails of water hanging
on a staff across her shoulders. Of course, I ran right away to help her, and
despite my good intentions I caused her to spill a lot of the water from one of
the pails. This caused an exasperated expression from Djidjo, which caused a
contrite expression from me, which in turn caused laughter from Vashengo. In
the end we were all laughing.
Vashengo asked me
to stay for supper and since I had left a note saying I might not be home until
late, I accepted. Vashengo did the cooking, with Djidjo helping. A couple of
times over the dinner of lamb and vegetables, I caught Djidjo looking at me in
a solemn wistful way, but she smiled and I smiled back.
After supper, we
drank some sweet but fiery wine that Vashengo said was Hungarian. Then I asked
them the question that had been in my heart for two days. “Vashengo, can I see
the faerie again.”
He stopped and sat
back in his chair. “Listen to me Tolly, very carefully,” he said with look in
his eyes that demanded it. “She is dangerous, I have told you. If you want to
see her once more, I will let you, but you must not ask again. No more can I
say, and you have to accept it.” I nodded. He looked at Djidjo. She looked
upset and a little afraid. She shook her head slightly, but Vashengo only gave
a little shrug. “Very well,” he said and he rose and went into the wagon.
He returned with
the cage and looked at Djidjo for a few seconds before he pulled off the cover
and there she was.
The sight of the
faerie was like a knife thrust into my heart, but I welcomed the pain because
it felt good to hurt like this. I lowered myself to the level of the faerie and
gazed at her with tears forming in my eyes. Her beauty reached out like a beam
and hit me full in the middle of my being. My hands moved to the cage and her
features burned into my mind. A desire that didn’t make sense swept me like a
tidal wave. I felt Vashengo reach his powerful arm across and hold me back from
the cage. Djidjo threw the cover back over it, and I collapsed back, the
connection broken.
“You must not see
her any more,” Vashengo said with a lead gray voice. He looked at me cautiously
as if to see what I would do. I simply sat back in my chair and nodded. He
seemed relieved. We sat in silence for a few minutes and drank the rest of the
wine. Finally I pushed myself to my feet and after thanking them for the
dinner, I walked home.
The next day I
tried to act normal and to put the Romany, and everything that had happened out
of my mind, and for a time I was successful. The chores, lunch with friends in
the village, a stop at the library and the school and dinner with my family
flowed together as a seamless whole. I went to bed thinking about colleges. A
couple of hours later I was wide awake and sitting on the edge of my bed. I put
on my clothes as though it was morning, as though in a trance. I went out of
the cottage and made my way across the fields, silver in the light of the moon
that was now completely full at zenith in the sky above me, so bright that most
of the stars weren’t visible. The fields smelt of the earth and the grass. The
orchard wafted the perfume of its blossoms down on me as I moved quietly
between the trees. I reached the wagon and saw that Djidjo and Vashengo were
sleeping on cots under the awning.
I crept quietly up
to the door and the chirping of the crickets covered the sound of the creaking
steps. Inside, by the moonlight that
followed me through the door, I located the cage and set it out on the table in
the middle of the wagon. I took two long deep breaths and pulled the cover off.
My head rocked back with the force of her beauty as the glow from the faerie filled
the room. I was transfixed. The sounds of the night swelled and blended
together and rose into a maelstrom that swirled about me blocking out
everything except me and the faerie. My hand reached out as if with a mind of
its own and opened the twist lock in the door. I reached inside and the faerie
backed against the other side of the cage. My hand stopped, and then reached
out and touched her.
For an eternal
moment I cried out with a sound of a million heartaches that reached to the
full moon and back. Light filled me and my arms were flung wide. In my mouth I
tasted blood, earth, nectar, time, moonlight. I expanded balloon-like and then
suddenly I collapsed, rushing down a tunnel of night like the only burning lamp
in eternity. I felt a panic, not in my body, but in my very soul.
I lay on the floor
of the cage, thinking no thought. After a time, I struggled to my feet. There
was a buzzing and I rose a little off the floor. Dazed, I looked out through
the bars. The world looked different, as though it were made of quicksilver and
clouds, but I could see Djidjo and Vashengo tumbling through the door almost as
if in slow motion. They came across the room and Vashengo slammed the cage door
closed and locked it. Then they were picking someone up from the floor. For a
minute, I thought it was going to be me, but they were raising a woman with
dark straight hair from the floor, supporting her under her arms. Then they
were all three crying and hugging. Vashengo repeating, “Dritta, Dritta,
Dritta,” and Djidjo crying “Daja! Daja!”
And then I
understood it all. When Djidjo and Vashengo finally came to the cage, their
eyes red and swollen from crying, and their hands still holding the hands of
the beautiful woman sitting on the stool behind them. I knew what they had
done. I felt a strange calm, listening to their tearful apologies. I tried to
speak - to tell them that I understood, but they couldn’t hear the voice that
sounded even to me like the wind in a dream. Vashengo went out with Dritta, and
Djidjo stood by the cage crying and talking to me. “I really like you Tolly,”
she said, tears running down her face. “I didn’t want this, but it was you or
my mother. What else could I do? We’ll find someone, I promise, and set you
free again. Then it might even be you and me. Soon, I promise. I promise.”
Tonight I could smell the
sweet dusty incense of the full moon outside and I knew you would be back. Just
like I came back. Only the wise and strong don’t return. And now you’re here
with your face pressed close to the cage. And I know what you’re feeling. And
though I know you can’t hear my voice, I have been telling you my story. You
see my lips moving and I am telling you all this, but you can’t hear me. Your
beautiful young girl’s face is pressed so close to the cage. Can I stop you
from reaching inside to touch me? Do I really want to?
