The Hollow Girl Page 3

  Martyn must have realized his gaffe, because he stopped leaning against his potatoes and stood up straight, his hands smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. His red cheeks matched the apple gleaming on the edge of my table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that was offensive. I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t say a word, but swept the fruit off my table to send it rolling under a nearby jewelry cart. He uttered a third apology just as a cluster of buyers tromped our way. Anything else he might have said was lost to the clamor. I was grateful for the reprieve…until every one of those shoppers passed me by, going straight to his farm stand and rooting around in his bins like swine hunting truffles.

  It infuriated me that the insulting gadjo drew crowds while I sat there with a table full of respectable goods being passed over, but then the strangest thing happened. A woman walked over from Martyn’s stand with a squash in hand, exhibiting it like a pear-shaped trophy.

  “A halfpenny a bag, he said?”

  I started to nod, but then stopped, looking from the squash to the woman, and then over to the farm stand. I couldn’t see the blond man thanks to the people flocking at his counter, but I knew he was back there somewhere.

  “Which ‘he’?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Martyn Woodard. He’s giving a free squash to anyone who purchases from you. What do the bags with the red string do?”

  I was so surprised that Martyn would help sell my goods that I didn’t answer her, but stood gawking at the gadjo’s bustling stand. My customer didn’t notice. She nudged the satchel toward me and poked at the ones tied with green as if she could glean their purpose by touch. Watching her paw through my neat lines broke me from my stupor, and I cleared my throat, picking up a bag and displaying it against my palm. “This one’s a love charm. Sleep with it by your pillow and think of your love, and he will come in a dream. Dream often enough, and he will be yours forever.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take one home to my daughter. She’s ugly like her father. Any help is a blessing.” She slid the halfpenny across the table and snatched the bag from my grasp, only to slide it into her blouse and between her ample bosoms. I stared, incredulous, but then an elderly gentleman came over with a squash in hand and asked about stomach curatives. I helped him with a bag just as a pair of young women lined up behind him, leaning to the side to see what I had to hawk.

  It went on like that for hours. People bought from Martyn Woodard before presenting me with their golden squashes. It pricked my pride some; I didn’t need anyone to do my business for me, especially not rude farmer boys who were too loose with their tongues, but my annoyance dwindled in the face of so many customers.

  By midafternoon, all I had left were a few hex charms. I squeezed my full coin pouch and found a smile. Despite Silas’s impropriety, the drunken ramblings of a superstitious idiot, and Martyn’s boldness, the day was won. I glanced at the farm stand. Martyn was still there, though his stock looked like it had been picked over by locusts. He was working on consolidating his remaining vegetables, and seeing that he had my attention, he winked at me. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when another worker stepped behind the counter to take over for him, Martyn dunked a basket of berries into a barrel of water behind him and brought it, still dripping, to my table before sneaking back to his stand. I would have demanded he take them back, but I had a customer, and playing the shrew in public was bad business practice.

  I accepted the woman’s halfpenny with murmured thanks. As soon as she waddled off, I ogled the berries. My stomach mewled like a kitten—I’d last eaten at sunrise, having missed lunch in the face of needy customers. I debated with myself for a solid minute before plucking the juiciest fruit from the pile and stuffing it into my mouth. I was reaching for another berry when Martyn returned, two cups full of water in his hands, his smile ever present. I looked around the square, desperate for a customer to call away my attention, but without Martyn’s free squash offer, I was the tiny, ignorable table sandwiched between two prominent vendors.

  “I’ll grovel for forgiveness, if need be.” He slid one wooden cup my way, his hand hovering to catch it in case I thrust it away. “I’m truly sorry. My grandmother’s Welsh Kale, from Aberhosan. She doesn’t talk about it at all, says she wants an easier life for her family than she had, so I’m ignorant about most of it, I’ll admit.”

  “You’re diddicoy,” I said. His willingness to defend me from the town drunk made more sense knowing he was part Romani. Such kindness from a gadjo wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t typical either.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You have Romani blood. I’m diddicoy, too. My father was a gadjo.”

  “Oh! Yes, I’m that. My grandmother’s father was a professional harp player from the Wood family. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

  I smirked. Every Romani knew of the Wood family. They were one of the largest families traveling Wales and were at least distantly related to most of us.

  “Yes, I know who they are.” I peered at him, looking to see if his humility was a facade, but there was an honesty to his face that suggested perhaps he truly wanted to make amends for unintentional slights.

  I looked from the berries to the cup and up to Martyn’s face. His eyebrows lifted, his smile stretched even wider, and my resolve waivered.

  “Fine. I forgive you if it means you’ll stop being so…so…”

  “Apologetic?”

  “Yes. That.” I lowered my scarf so I could sip, my lips never touching the diddicoy’s cup because I did not know how he cared for his dishes. The water was cool and refreshing despite being out in a sun-warmed barrel all morning. I nodded at him like I’d seen Gran do whenever she was particularly pleased with someone.

  He drained his own cup and reached for mine when I’d emptied it. “Good. Then we have a deal. Well, we almost have a deal,” he said.

  I frowned. “What deal? There is no deal here. I agreed to nothing.”

  “Sit here again tomorrow. I’ll send more business your way. My father’s produce is the best, so we get long lines at harvest time. People want fresh vegetables before they can’t get them anymore. The imports are never as good.” He picked up one of the bags from my table, turning it over in his palm and sniffing it. He reared back as if he’d been struck. “What is this? It smells awful.”

  The hex bags were filled with stinkgrass.

  He tossed the bag between his palms much the way he had with the apple. A childish part of me wanted to see if I could use the diddicoy’s ignorance against him—I was feeling mischievous after such a good sales day. “It’s a hex bag. It brings ill will to those possessing it.” I leaned forward, dropping my voice so it sounded like I was sharing dark secrets. “There are stories. One girl grew whiskers on her chin like a porcupine, and a boy from Abertawe shrank to half his height.”

  Martyn eyed me and then the bag. He maintained his smile, but he did drop it back onto the table, as if touching it for too long could afflict him with a terrible malady. “Are you a witch, then?”

  I shrugged, letting him draw his own conclusions. As Gran said, a little fear went a long way.

  “I don’t believe it,” Martyn announced, stealing a berry from the basket he’d given me. He chewed slowly, as if mulling over a topic of great importance. “Everyone knows witches have warts on their chins.”

  “Gran has warts. Big ones with hairs growing out of them.”

  “You’re such a good witch that you make a defenseless old woman grow your hairy warts for you?”

  I snickered because I couldn’t help it. Oh, the things Gran would say to him for casting her as a defenseless old woman! But before I could relay them, a gentleman stopped by to browse my leftover goods. I tugged up my scarf so it wouldn’t slip past my mouth, while Martyn quietly slipped back behind the counter of his own stand.

  I didn’t like the diddicoy, but perhaps our acquaintance wouldn’t be so fraught after all.

  I sold my last bags an hour later. There was little
point to sitting behind an empty table, so I packed my things and headed toward the back gate of the market square. Before leaving, I glanced back at the farm stand, offering Martyn a wave to let him know I appreciated his help. When he winked back, my cheeks flushed and I dropped my gaze to the ground. Behind my scarf, though, I started to smile before I caught myself.

  True, Martyn was handsome, and pleasant in disposition. He was also forbidden. A man in my caravan could marry a woman from the outside. If his new wife adopted our ways—proving that she understood the delicate balance of purity and impurity and assimilating with her new family—she was eventually welcomed.

  The reverse, however, was not true. The women carried on our line, our blood, and if they polluted their wombs with outsider seed, they could be cast out. Banishment was a rare thing—we didn’t like to lose our own—but it sometimes happened, and this was one reason for it.

  Martyn wasn’t exactly a gadjo, but his Romani blood was thin. I assumed he was not for me.

  Gran would not allow me to wed in any case.

  My empty basket swung by my side as I walked. Gran would be suspicious of such an early homecoming, but my full pocket would tell my story. It would please her, and I wanted her in good spirits when I explained what happened with Silas. Despite its nefarious reputation, witchwork kept us safe when others would do us harm, and selling the service provided income that put food in our bellies. That didn’t mean Gran and I were above reproach, though. Knowing Silas, he’d already run to his father and told him all manner of lies about that morning, and I’d be painted a power-swollen trollop. Gran would tell them the right of it—that the curse was false and I could claim no magic—but then I’d be reprimanded for making a fool of the chieftain’s son.

  My enthusiasm for showing Gran my jingling profits faded, and I dragged my feet to make the walk last longer. Fluffy clouds floated across a perfect fall sky, though the storm-tinged ones to the east spoke of evening rains. There were crop fields to either side of me now, which meant I was far enough away from town that I could safely remove my scarf. I unwound it from my head and looped it around my waist, then tugged my braid over my shoulder.

  I followed the road, my fingertips gliding over the bumpy wooden boards of the fence at my side. There was no break in it as far as I could see, and after a quick look around to make sure I had no witnesses, I vaulted over the top rung to land in the soft, ankle-high grass of Cotter’s Field.

  I was about to head home when I spotted the scarecrow across the way. Normally a scarecrow wouldn’t call my attention, but this one was more unsettling than most. It was enormous—at least seven feet tall—and was tied to wooden beams by crisscrossing ropes and a pair of rusty hooks beneath its arms. It had a droopy red hat, a burlap sack head, and overalls riddled with faded patches. Straw poked out of its neck and wrists, with more clumps bursting through the seams at its sides. Someone had taken the time to give the thing a false face. Craggy red yarn formed a vicious smile, and its eyes were black cloth ovals. Each had a white X stitched through the middle.

  Looking at it too long gave me the shivers, and I hurried through the field toward our camp to put it behind me, glad the sun still shone. How terrifying the scarecrow must be by moonlight!

  Gran’s vardo was situated in the westernmost cluster of tents. We were fortunate to have a vardo at all, as they were something of a luxury, but her craft required storage space and shelter, and she’d earned the money to buy her own. I made my way to it quickly, hiking up my skirt so I could tromp through knee-high grass without trouble. I hung my head low to discourage conversation.

  Our vardo was parked at the back, farthest away from the camp, because our trade could be grisly. Gran’s contact with blood was minimal, but we had our traditions, and keeping away from others avoided spreading contamination. We cleaned fastidiously to keep our space welcoming and healthy.

  Gran had thrust open the shutters and propped open the door to invite the fresh air in. I was near enough that I heard her snort in derision. A man was speaking to her, his voice low and gravelly and familiar to me—the chieftain. I squatted in the grass beside the vardo to avoid detection, unhappy that he’d beaten me to my own explanation. Gran had the sight, but that didn’t mean she knew all things all the time. The sight was a fickle mistress, and wont to tell her not what she wanted to see, but what it wanted her to see. Now she was being fed Silas’s skewed version of the truth.

  Gran knows me and my truths. She’ll know lies when she hears them. She trusts me.

  I hope.

  “My son says she has been acting lovesick, and he believes she cursed him….”

  “Pretended to curse him,” Gran interjected. “There is a distinct difference between afflicting someone with the Evil Eye and actually giving it, Wen.”

  My brows shot to my hairline at Gran’s familiar use of the chieftain’s first name. It was a privilege reserved for immediate family and his closest advisers, all of whom were men, by our particular family’s tradition. Either Gran ignored the rules, or the drabarni had more freedoms than I’d realized.

  “It is the lesser point here. I understand she’s your apprentice, but if she’s so desperate for male attention…”

  “I do not believe she propositioned Silas any more than you do,” Gran spat. “I would not allow a strumpet to succeed me as drabarni. That boy of yours should be married off, and soon. His friends will be matched in the spring, and when he is bored, what will he do with so much free time? Do not look at me like that. You know I speak wisdom.”

  The chieftain’s sigh was weary. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I ought to see about finding him a wife to end this nonsense. Would Bethan be…?”

  “No. He is not in her stars. A foolish man makes for a foolish wife, and I will spare my girl such a fate.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you do not, because you are blinded by love for your son.” I heard Gran shuffling around inside the vardo before her voice burst from the window above my head. I huddled closer to the wheel, holding my breath in hopes she wouldn’t sense me. “I will talk to her about what happened and I trust you’ll talk to Silas. Do I have your assurance he will leave her alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because if you do not handle it, I will. I am not so blinded by love.”

  I winced, hoping the chieftain didn’t take her to task for the threat, but he simply sighed again and stomped down the narrow steps. “I understand, Drina. No need for anything drastic.” Again I found myself perplexed by the nature of their familiarity. Gran had consulted with the chieftain over the years, but they’d always maintained their propriety during those meetings. Not once had I heard them use familiar names.

  “I would not see the past repeat itself.”

  The chieftain paused to look behind him at my grandmother still inside the vardo, and I could see him clearly from my crouched position. He wore his usual forest-green jacket over a white button-down shirt, suspenders to hold up charcoal woolen pants, and a black hat with a short brim to cover his graying head. Only the expression on his face was out of character. It was taut with strain, and he looked uneasy. He reached up to worry at the pale pink scar that started at his eye and curved down to his neck. He’d had it for as long as I could remember, the reminder of an injury stark against his ruddy skin. When I’d asked him about it as a child, he told me he’d wrestled a bear to prove his strength to his people. I’d believed him then.

  I was not so gullible anymore.

  “I have heard you. I will talk to the boy and hope he is not so arrogant as to dismiss his father.”

  “I fear it is a wasted hope. You are lucky with your other sons—they are good boys—but that one has darkness inside of him. God bless you, Wen. You will need it talking to that child.”

  The chieftain had no reply to that. I stayed low, tracking his retreating boots until he turned the corner that would lead him back to the great fire. As soon as he disappeared, I slumped in the grass, rel
ieved that he hadn’t caught me spying.

  Gran, however, returned to the window above and promptly emptied the tea kettle on my head, dousing me in tepid water.

  I squawked and she quietly chuckled.

  “Get in here,” she said, her voice laced with humor. “But wring yourself out first.”

  After squeezing excess water from my hair, my shirt, and the hem of my skirt, I climbed the steps with the basket clutched to my chest. Gran sat at the table waiting, her sharp fingernails drumming against the wood. I hefted the empty basket at her, attempting a happy, carefree smile, but all she did was arch a brow and motion for me to return it to the shelf.

  Her seriousness was back in place. That boded poorly.

  “I didn’t know what to do. You were talking to the chieftain and…”

  “I do not care. Sit down.” Her tone stood for no argument, and I slid into the chair across from her.

  “I meant no disrespect.” A breeze swept in through the open window, and I squirmed when the damp cloth of my shirt glued itself to my back. “May I ask about the conversation with the chieftain?”

  “No, you may not. Tell me about Silas.”

  I reached into my pocket for the coins from market, offering them like they’d buy me an ounce of benevolence, but she waved them away. I shriveled in my seat, the coins squeezed so tightly in my palm, they dented the meat.

  “He cornered me this morning,” I said. “His friends flanked me so I couldn’t escape. I was afraid if I called for help, they’d say I’d invited it, so I mumbled nonsense words and spat to make him believe I’d cursed him.” I lowered my gaze to the table and examined the knots and swirls riddling the wood. What had seemed so clever hours ago no longer held its shine. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

  Gran said nothing. My face burned with shame, and I wrapped my arms around my stomach—it roiled so much, I was afraid it would fall out of my body and plummet to the floor. Still she didn’t speak, not even when she got up to rummage through the cabinet beside her cot. I watched without a word. She pulled out a few jars, a black figurine, and a piece of leather rolled like a scroll and bound with twine. There were feathers and rocks and other things I couldn’t identify upon first glance. She collected it all in her apron, holding the sides together to form a carrying pouch as she returned to the table and arranged the miscellanea in a tidy line.