The Hollow Girl Page 2

  I had no interest in such boys.

  Seeing him standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and a lopsided sneer on his face, my gripes about going to town disappeared, and I lifted my skirt a few inches to walk faster. As I ducked behind one of the vardos, there was a shrill whistle, followed by a chorus of masculine laughter. When Silas laughed, his friends laughed, like a pack of jackals. They did everything together and had since they were babies, all born within two years of each other, the oldest then eighteen, the youngest sixteen. They were so inseparable, I’d mused before that the five of them shared a single twisted mind.

  “Bethan, why so fast? Slow down and say hello. It’s a beautiful day.”

  I disagreed; the morning air carried a chill that shredded through my clothes, but saying so would engage him in conversation, and that was akin to letting the devil into one’s home. Instead, I made for the road at almost a trot, the basket swinging by my side. I had a ways to go. Our camp bordered fields of barley and wheat, and the local farmers had built crude wooden fences to mark property lines. The only way to get around them was to walk until there was a break.

  I contemplated vaulting the pasture fence by my side, but our customs dictated that I comport myself as a lady at all times, never showing anything above the ankle to a man other than my husband, and leaping a fence would lift my skirt past my knees. If Silas followed me, he might interpret the gesture as an invitation, and he was handsy enough already.

  I heard footsteps approaching as someone—a few someones—trailed me: two behind, two alongside, and one at the front. I spotted a break in the fence ten yards ahead, and I darted for it, but Silas leaped out from behind one of the goods wagons to block my path. I stumbled back, my heart pounding, but a pair of hands pressed against my shoulders to shove me forward again. I spun my head to see who was there. Mander and Cam stood shoulder to shoulder behind me, a wall preventing my retreat.

  Mander was tall and thin with dark hair worn to his shoulders, his cheek bulging with the tobacco he always chewed. Cam was bigger, broader, and fairer of skin, with dark hair shorn short and gray eyes he’d inherited from his diddicoy mother.

  If I peeked around the vardo to my left, I was sure I’d see skinny, befreckled Tomašis and stout, dark Brishen, both jackals awaiting Silas’s instructions. Growing up, they hadn’t been bad boys, but as Silas poisoned the well, they drank from his waters until they, too, were sick.

  “I was talking to you.” Silas closed the gap between us. He dipped his head to look at me from beneath the dark arches of his brows. To most girls he was handsome, with hair so black it shined blue in the sun; a long, hooked nose; wide lips; and high-sculpted cheekbones, but my distaste for him made me think of a crow, his hair too glossy, his eyes too dark, his chin too pointed. Crows were eaters of death. I could not and would not like anything of their ilk.

  I hoisted the basket in his direction, counting on the woven reeds to keep a respectful distance between our bodies. “I have to get to town. The market day is starting soon, and Gran wants…”

  “Soon. Relax. Be sweet for me.”

  When Silas stepped forward, I took another step back, and the other boys tittered with sinister joy. Mander pushed me straight at Silas and Silas batted the basket aside, his arm looping around my waist to pull me close, until I was pressed against him. Some of my poultices spilled onto the grass below, and he stepped on them, oblivious to their importance, his hand stroking my back in far too intimate a gesture.

  “Smile for me. You’re so pretty when you smile.”

  I slapped at his hands with my free one, a wail bubbling in my throat. I was afraid, but not in the same way I’d been at market. In town, I feared for my person at the hands of an angry mob, feared physical blows that would bruise or bleed. In camp, I dreaded the disdain of my people. I dreaded someone discovering Silas’s hands below my waist, or my skirt touching his legs. I did not want to go before the council. I did not want to pay reparations for deeds that were not my choice, or to bring shame or annoyance to Gran’s doorstep.

  “Let me go. I’ll tell Gran, and you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

  “And I’ll tell my father that you propositioned me. Who do you think the chieftain will believe? His son and four witnesses? Or a single girl with no one to stand for her?” His face shifted from smiling prankster to vile predator before he reached up and jerked the scarf away from my face.

  My breakfast churned in my guts, leaving me faint and nauseated. Calling for help could paint me a harlot, especially with Silas’s band willing to side against me. I had to think of a way to extricate myself before the matter worsened.

  Only one thing I knew scared outsiders and Roma alike.

  Gran.

  I had to invoke Gran.

  “Loma greeeecia tana faroo!” I shouted in his face, wadding a ball of spit and lobbing it at his cheek. This was how all of Gran’s magic ended—with spit and some loud, declarative words in a language I didn’t understand—so I did the same, except my words were nonsense and made of desperation, while hers were a true other tongue.

  The spit was real enough, though. It dribbled down Silas’s cheek to pool onto his white shirt.

  Silas staggered away from me to slap his cheek, eyes wide. “What did you do to me, Witch? What did you do? I burn. I burn!”

  I glowered at him, my fingers tightening on the handle of the basket so he wouldn’t see how badly they trembled. I’d never confess to Silas that I knew no curses. If my spit burned, it was because he imagined it. The only power I could claim was the knowledge that I was far cleverer than the chieftain’s son. “What do you think I did, Silas?”

  No answer. He scampered away from me so quickly he skidded over the dew-laden grass, landing on his knees and then his bottom before running toward the great fire. His friends followed, their boots pounding the earth. I wasted no time gathering my dropped poultices and returning them to my basket. I tugged the scarf back into place and jogged for the road, casting cursory glances over my shoulder every few feet to ensure I wasn’t being followed.

  It wasn’t until the caravan was a tiny speck on the horizon that I relaxed, turning my attention to the market and the coin I must make, for myself and for Gran. Our people took care of our own, and our kin had been more than happy to provide for us, but we always settled our debts.

  Anwen’s Crossing was unlike other towns in that the gadjos welcomed all manner of tradesmen, homegrown and outside alike, and provided them with ample room to conduct their business. Vendors who made money in Anwen’s Crossing were more apt to spend it there, after all, and such a philosophy had turned an inconsequential port town into a bustling hub of commerce my people visited for two months every autumn.

  People started their setups early so they could claim the most prominent positions near the front and back entrances and directly across from the well. Thanks to Silas’s nonsense, I arrived in town later than the other vendors, so I was relegated to leftover space. The previous week, I’d been positioned next to the well—everyone had to pass me to get somewhere else. If I’d been allowed to see my day through, I’d have sold out in a matter of hours. That day I found a small table tucked between two larger stands at the back of the square. It would be slow going, but at least I ran a smaller risk of being spotted by the Crossing’s henchmen. There was also shade beneath the brightly colored awnings along the perimeter, so when the sun burned hot at midday, I’d be comfortable.

  I laid out the herb bags, displaying them in neat, appealing rows. When other vendors strolled by to inspect the competition’s wares, I shook my sleeve down so no one spied the dappled, freckly effect my birthmark had on my fingers. Silas once commented that it reminded him of mud splatters on the side of a vardo after heavy rains.

  But that hadn’t stopped him from holding my hand against my will, had it?

  I’d just gotten the love charms lined up beside the hex charms when I heard the hissing. I glanced up to see a grimy-looking man staring at
me from the market path. He was as old as the dirt beneath his boots. He wore big clothes over lean bones, and his face was worn with wrinkles, his cheeks riddled with red spots and a few days’ worth of unshaved grizzle. Crusts of dried food soiled the deep crevices near his mouth.

  “You must be the witchling. I heard you wear devil’s stain.” He tottered toward me, one of his calloused fingers motioning at my face. His nearness clearly unnerved me, yet closer he came, smelling of sweat and liquor and manure.

  I glanced around, uneasy. Had other people heard him? This was how last week had started, too. One woman had seen my markings and told two others, who then told two others. Before long, there had been a dozen gadjos all poking and jeering at me like they wanted to string me up and burn me in the middle of the square.

  I fidgeted with the scarf, winding it tighter around my neck so it wouldn’t shift out of place. My stomach flipped like a fish washed ashore, and I squeezed the handle of my basket so hard, the dried reeds crackled in my grasp.

  Deep breaths helped quell my rabbit-beating heart. Channeling Gran did, too. “Do not borrow problems, idiot child,” she’d say. “Some will be ignorant of our ways and distrustful of things they do not bother to understand, but most will appreciate the jingle of your coin.” If my birthmark was offensive, Gran’s ghost eye surely was, and she’d survived ignorant villagers for more summers than I could count. Of course, she’d had the benefit of her frightening scowl to ward off people—she looked every part the storybook witch with her wrinkles, straight teeth, and toe-curling grimaces. I was a normal girl so I couldn’t inspire the same kind of fear. Still, I set my jaw and looked the man in the eye.

  “I want to do my business. I’m no affront to you,” I said.

  “Let me see it. Let me see your sin.” He leaned over the table, swiping at me. His fist found my shirtsleeve and gave it a solid tug, and I felt his fingers pinching my skin through the thin fabric. I skittered back until the wooden fence pressed against my back, but it wasn’t far enough. I tried to squirm away so he wouldn’t touch me with his unclean hands.

  “Garth! Leave the girl alone or I’ll call the constable.” A voice boomed from the farm stand beside me.

  I looked over, my heart in my throat. A broad-shouldered young man with yellow hair and blue eyes stood behind the counter, an apple clenched in one big hand, a stack of thick paper with a crude sketch of the square in the other. His fingers were dusted with charcoal, his nails stained black from drawing. “Are you in your cups again, old man?”

  Garth’s nostrils flared. “Haven’t touched a bottle since last night.”

  “Well, that’s a first. Leave her alone. She’s trying to sell medicine. Maybe if you stopped being an arsehole, she’d give you something for your gout.”

  “Or maybe she’ll turn me into a toad! Witches can do that sort of thing, I heard!” Garth squinted at me as if he could ascertain my toad-turning ability simply by staring hard enough. I jerked my arm away from him and patted at my sleeve, my teeth biting the sides of my tongue so my jaw wouldn’t shudder. I was scared, but I didn’t want to show it; once a bully smelled fear, he kept dipping into the pool for more.

  “I know no magic. These are cures and charms my grandmother made, nothing more,” I snapped.

  Garth bounced in his boots and flattened his hand on top of his head as if holding it were the only way to keep it attached to his scrawny neck. “You heard her! Her grandmother made mystical charms. She’s got witch blood!”

  “And you’ve got idiot blood.” The blond man with the big voice let out a shrill whistle that shredded the din of chattering vendors and early shoppers. Faces turned his way, some curious, some concerned. The blond scanned them all, I assumed to search for the aforementioned constable.

  Which wasn’t good for me.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Please. Just make him go away.”

  I wouldn’t explain myself to him, but law enforcement rarely treated my people fairly, and I didn’t trust that Garth’s pestering wouldn’t somehow be twisted into my wrongdoing.

  The young man nodded despite his obvious confusion. “As you like. You heard her, Garth. Go home to sleep it off.”

  “Fine, fine. I’m going, but if I get boils, I’m coming back for her, Woodard.”

  The blond smirked. “If you get boils, it’s from the dock whores. Leave before the constable patrols this way. He’s due any minute now.”

  Garth’s head swiveled and his lean shoulders hunched in an effort to make himself appear smaller. He scuttled off into the market, weaving his way through the manmade alleyways of carts, tables, and stands to disappear from view.

  I glanced at the young man with the apple and the sketch pad. He smiled at me, his teeth a line of white against sun-kissed skin. He was a full head taller than me and built like a bull, with a straw-colored shirt that stretched across a work-thick chest and dark-blue trousers held up by black suspenders.

  “I’m Martyn Woodard. A pleasure,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Sorry about Garth. He haunts these parts after dawn. Spends his nights drinking and then stumbles through town to get home, drunk as a skunk. He’s usually harmless. I don’t know what got into him today.”

  I walked back to the table to rearrange my bags. Garth had knocked half of them askew with his fumbling, and I wanted them neat for my shoppers. “Thank you for the help,” I murmured. “I’ve had trouble here.”

  “You’re the girl from last week? Mrs. Hughes was going on about it at Sunday service. We all damn near wanted to drown her in the baptismal water.” He dropped his papers onto the counter and put a crate atop them to keep them from blowing away. I glanced over, but seeing him still smiling at me while tossing the apple back and forth between his palms, I jerked my face away. “Are you living in Cotter’s Field for the season?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You are, aren’t you? I saw your wagons pull in. Our farm backs up to the field you’re in. That big barn at the back that some of you are sleeping in is our old one. My father likes that you come at harvest time, says your people do good work in the fields.”

  I smiled politely but said nothing. I tended not to engage outsiders unless absolutely necessary; too many near misses with my birthmark and too many people prejudiced against Roma made me shy of them.

  “At night I can hear your music. It’s good. Festive. I keep hoping your fiddlers will make their way over to the pub soon. Better than anything we’ve got local, I’ll tell you that. Angus is a terror on his pipe whistle.”

  Had Martyn been a customer, I’d have managed pleasantries because his coin purse was full—but beyond that, no. The blond had helped me, but I’d thanked him already. My social obligation was fulfilled. I continued to arrange my goods in silence.

  Either Martyn was obtuse or he was annoyingly persistent, because he leaned over his counter to offer me the apple. It was shiny and red, a good bloodred, with a twisty stem and a too-green leaf drooping to the side. “It’s from my father’s orchard. Take it. Consider it a welcome to Anwen’s Crossing.”

  I eyed the fruit, my mouth watering for a bite. I’d had breakfast, but the apple looked crisp and fresh and all things an apple ought to be. That didn’t stop me from shaking my head and shuffling behind my table, though, my gaze fixed on the market square. For one, Martyn’s hands were dirty, and for another, I didn’t want to encourage his attentions. Gift giving could be considered courtship.

  Martyn let himself out of his stand and came to stand before my table anyway, studying my bags with that same bright smile stretching across his mouth.

  “How much?”

  “For what?”

  “Anything.”

  I tapped the nearest charm bags with my fingertip. “A halfpenny, unless you want the bags for sour stomach. Those are a full penny. Fennel is rare and we grow our own.”

  He looked where I pointed, his lips pursed in thought. As his brow furrowed, his bangs cascaded over his forehead, the wispy ends brushing t
he tips of his lashes when he blinked. “They’ll sell quick enough.” Before I could object, he deposited the apple onto the edge of my table and returned to his stand, his hands sinking deep into his pockets. The swinging half door closed behind him and he leaned against a stack of potato crates, his right leg crossed over his left while he surveyed the townscape, his eyes narrowed against the sun.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a hard time. People lose their heads about the stupidest things around here, pretty girls in particular.”

  My eyes widened at the gadjo’s gall. Ignoring caution, I tore the scarf away so he could see my birthmark, thinking perhaps he wouldn’t find me so very pretty when presented with my half-face. Maybe it would be as effective a deterrent as Gran’s scowl. “I don’t want your apple or your compliments, gadjo. I’m here to do business, not make conversation.”

  “What’s a gadjo?” he asked, looking my way. “I’ve heard my mother say it before.”

  The question—the way he asked it, the curious tone and the tilt of his head, his disinterest in my birthmark—robbed me of my fire. I slumped onto my stool, tugging the scarf back over my nose. “A gadjo is an outsider—a man not of my people.”

  “Oh, so a non-gypsy.”

  I hissed and shook my head. We Roma could refer to ourselves as such, but from the mouths of outsiders it was a slur. It was a caricature of our truths—dancing women in revealing outfits or our men seducing innocent gadjos. It meant liars and vagrants and stealers of babies. Uneducated, unwashed, lesser. We were a strong, moral people. Just like any people, we had bad individuals—Silas and his band came to mind—but they were the exception, not the rule. Yet we endured persecution and hardship. Our people had to behave that much better so we wouldn’t be punished that much worse for the simple crime of existing.