The Hollow Girl Page 6

  “Of course. We are Christians, like you, and do many things like you. We dance and sing and marry and have children and pray to God. We simply do it our way. We are always—” I’d never tried to explain my culture to a diddicoy who’d never been taught about his own blood before, but that was mostly because I’d never wanted to spend any time with someone outside of my caravan before. It took a minute to formulate a proper explanation. “We always seek balance. There is good, there is bad. There is pure, there is impure. All things must balance for a person to live a good life.”

  Martyn reached into his pocket to pull out his cigarillo box, sliding one between his teeth and striking a match against his boot heel. “What determines what is good or bad? Or pure or impure? Dirt?”

  “Not exactly. A dirty body is not ideal, but a dirty body can also be washed in the river. If you wallowed in filth, it would make you unclean soon enough, though. It is…Perhaps I should say it is a spiritual uncleanliness? Your practices determine the filth upon your soul.” I looked to see if he followed. He didn’t appear confused, his expression even while he leaned back on his hands to smoke, so I continued. “To answer your earlier question, tradition dictates what is clean and what is not. These are rules passed down through the generations.”

  “So how would I know if I’m unclean or not?”

  I tore my attention from his profile and down to the hunk of bread in my lap, my fingers toying with the crinkly paper wrap. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I was likely going to, and that made me squirm. “All who live the gadjos way are mochadi. You don’t practice our ways to maintain your balance.”

  I braced myself, expecting him to be angry with me, but he smiled inside his cloud of smoke. Mochadi didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me—which was truly the difference between Roma and outsiders, and why the separation of our people was encouraged. The outsiders blissfully wallowed in their filth.

  But is he filthy?

  Yes, of course.

  I frowned down at the bread.

  Martyn nudged my foot with his, forcing me to jerk away from him. “Guess that’s that. Glad you’re still sitting here, Miss Bet…what’s your last name? You have those, right?”

  “Wh— Of course we do. Mine is Jones, like my gran. Bethan Jones. A Welsh name, like yours. I told you we were not so different.”

  “I have cousins who are Joneses. Are you my cousin?” He leaned in to eyeball me, so close I got a coil of smoke up my nostril and had to rear back for fear of sneezing in his face. “Oh, oh. Sorry. My mistake.”

  “It’s fine.” I shook my head to clear the stench, waving a hand about to push the smoke away. “But no, we aren’t cousins. Our name was not originally Jones, I’m sure, but we took it to avoid trouble. Blending in keeps us safer in places where we are not welcome.”

  “Huh.” He stubbed out the cigarillo and put it, half-smoked, back into his box. “You know, I could teach you how to read. It might help you blend in. I taught my sister.”

  My gut jumped to an emphatic no, followed by the chieftain’s well-practiced “Everything important we keep in our heads and hearts,” but then I remembered that not a few hours ago, I’d been thinking about asking Gran for lessons. Why was it all right from her but not from Martyn? The answer, of course, was the impropriety of it all.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m…I’ll be fine. I believe you about the sign.”

  “I know I don’t have to do it. I want to. You’re smart. You’ll get it quick.”

  He wasn’t going to let it go. I may have only known him a little while, but he’d been nothing but persistent since our meeting—getting me to go beyond town limits with him was proof enough of that. It had been all right to that point, but too much of it and he’d eventually annoy me. “I’m busy,” I offered, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I come to market, I make the bags, I have lessons with my grandmother in the evening. Thank you for offering, though. You are kind.”

  Martyn looked thoughtful. “But if we sell your goods faster, you’d have time in the afternoon before you go back to make the bags. My brother’s around in the early afternoon, and business tapers off enough that I’d feel comfortable leaving him in the stand alone.”

  “But the market’s so loud….”

  “So I go to Cotter’s Field with you, or if that’s not allowed, we could go to the fields at the edge of my farm. It’s on the way, so you’d be home with time to spare.” He grinned at me. “Any other ways you’d like to try to escape?”

  I had run out of comfortable excuses, and it soured my disposition. I tugged up my scarf over my face and tucked it beneath my hair. “I can’t, Martyn. That’s all. You said if you did anything to make me uncomfortable, I should tell you to stop. Please stop.”

  “I shouldn’t push.” He leaned forward to catch my eye, a smile on his mouth. I knew if I looked at him, I’d notice the nice balance of his features and the rich hue of his eyes, so I concentrated on the grass beside me, my fingers toying with the tall blades. “I am pushing, of course. But I’d like to spend more time with you. You don’t want to because I’m not…I’m unclean?” He craned his head to sniff his shirt and made a face. “No wonder. I’m ripe like a sty. Been hauling all day.”

  I frowned. I didn’t owe him any explanation, but he certainly thought he deserved one all the same. “You’re ridiculous, diddicoy. Yes, that’s part of it. Gran wouldn’t allow it, even if I’d like to learn. It would be inappropriate.”

  “Aha! So you do want to learn.”

  “Is that all you heard of what I said?” I demanded.

  “Not at all, but does it hurt to ask her about it? You’d sell your goods, have a lesson, and be home with daylight to spare. There won’t be anything improper—just learning.”

  “She’ll say no,” I insisted.

  “And once she does, I’ll never bring it up again.” He smiled and stood, offering a hand to pull me up. I accepted before thinking better of it, the big fingers against mine so warm that I jerked away. He was not for me, he was off limits, and I’d remember that for his sake as much as mine.

  He said nothing of my recoil, instead gathering the blanket from the field and folding it into neat squares. I walked by his side back to town, quiet and contemplative. I’d enjoyed myself despite his questions, despite our differences. Reading lessons with Gran would be strict and unyielding, and there’d be few smiles. But Martyn had been interested in what I had to say. He was funny. He was generous and warm and friendly. I wasn’t sure he had a hard bone in his body.

  Gran very likely wouldn’t allow me to meet with him, even for something as proper as education, but I would ask. I was about to commit to as much when I spied Silas standing outside the market’s gate. Three of his gang attended him, the boys side by side, their arms crossed, their legs braced apart. The absent party was Tomašis, who either suffered punishment at home with his mother or was too afraid of Gran’s curses to trouble me further.

  I wanted it to be an unhappy coincidence, but Silas’s look was too keen. He stomped my way, his boots kicking up clouds of dust. My teeth ground together as he neared. I clutched my basket and bread to my chest and forced myself to meet his gaze so he would know my defiance.

  Martyn paused at my side, his brows lifting. His attention swept from Silas to me, and seeing my displeasure, he tensed.

  Silas spat on the ground. “What are you doing with him? This isn’t proper.” He eyed Martyn up and down, his frown so sour it could curdle milk. I took a step away from Martyn’s side, putting enough space there that another person could have easily slid between us. It was not enough for Silas. “No! Come here.” He pointed beside him like I’d heel simply because he called. To be addressed in such a way was embarrassing, especially in public. An old woman near the gate to the market watched us through slitted eyes; another woman near her whispered to her daughter and pointed.

  I motioned at the gadjos observing us, and past them, at the milling crowds ever so ready to ta
ke Roma to task for any number of invented sins. “Keep quiet,” I barked, my voice a furious whisper. “There’s trouble enough for us without your help. If you wish to speak to me, do so in camp, with Gran or your father to witness.”

  Silas said nothing as he stalked toward me, his hand darting out, fingers manacling my wrist. He jerked me toward him. My body collided with his chest, one of his hands sweeping to my lower back and holding me like we were dancing.

  “Hey,” Martyn said, his tone uncertain.

  “It’s all right.” I pushed away from Silas, but he held strong, glaring at Martyn over my shoulder.

  “Go, gadjo, and don’t think to look at my girl again.”

  “He’s diddicoy, and let me go. Have you learned nothing these past few days? Ask Tomašis about his dreams!” I slapped at Silas’s shoulder, but that only made his grip tighten, his fingers digging painfully into my side.

  “How much Romani blood?” Brishen demanded. “A thimble’s worth?”

  “Less. Look how yellow he is up top,” Cam replied.

  “Shut up. You blather like women,” Silas spat. His eyes never left me as he delivered the reprimand, though they did narrow when he said to me, “My father said your curses have no power. Your grandmother frightens children, and I am no child.” He shook me again like a ragdoll, hard enough that my teeth rattled and the bread slipped from my hand to hit the ground.

  “Now look what you made me do! You stupid boy.” Such brave words, and yet I was so anxious, my heart pounded in my ears. I wrenched from his grasp to gather the bread so I could properly dispose of it later, but the moment I stood straight, he grabbed me again.

  “You all right, Bet?” Martyn asked from behind. I couldn’t see his face, pressed as I was to Silas, but the tone was upset.

  “I will be once he leaves me alone,” I said.

  “You heard her, friend. She’s not interested in your attention.”

  Silas let loose with a string of expletives in Kååle that Martyn wouldn’t understand before whirling me about and throwing me at his friends like a sack of potatoes. Brishen, a squat brick of a boy with a too-round face and an enormous nose, caught me and pulled me to his body, his hands pinning my arms to my sides so I couldn’t catch him with a flailing elbow.

  I glanced back at the gates to see what the spectators were doing, worried they’d gone for the constable, but they remained, looking disgusted and hungry for the promise of violence.

  “Or what, diddicoy? Or did you lie about being one of ours?” A cold smirk oozed across Silas’s mouth. He streaked his fingers through his hair as he circled Martyn, looking him over from head to toe. Martyn was taller than him by half a foot, wider by as much, but that didn’t intimidate Silas. Why would it when he had three of his cronies at his back? “What are you? A blacksmith? A carpenter’s son? Or let me guess, a farmer? It doesn’t matter. You’re unfit for our girls—especially my girl.”

  “Never yours. Ever, Silas.” I shook my head and looked at Martyn, my eyes stinging with shame. We were so proud, so proper. So many of us were good, honest people, and yet here was the outlier, “proving” what outsiders whispered among themselves whenever they spoke of us. That we were ne’er-do-wells and troublemakers. That we couldn’t be trusted. “Ignore him and go back to town, Martyn. He’s goading you. Please.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Martyn spun with Silas, never again giving him his back. “I can’t leave you with him, not like this.”

  “She’s not upset. She’s spirited, as all our girls are. She’s too much filly for a rider such as you.” Silas snickered, and Mander, Cam, and Brishen echoed him in foul chorus. Brishen was distracted, so I kicked at him, my boot striking the side of his knee and buckling his leg. I tore free of his clutches, but then Cam swooped in to loop his arm around my shoulders, his movements smooth like a dancer. I struggled, but Cam had me tight while Mander snagged the side of my blouse, letting me know he’d take over guard duty if I somehow escaped my newest shackles.

  Silas smirked at Martyn with another oily grin. “Some fillies kick. Perhaps I’ll hobble her when we get home.”

  I didn’t so much see Martyn throw the first punch as I heard it crunch into Silas’s face. There was a wet snap and Silas staggered, blood exploding from his nose to dribble down his lips and chin. His eyes rolled back and his whole body tilted, his heels the fulcrum to his seesaw. I thought he’d fall, and secretly hoped for it, but he righted himself at the last second, growled, and charged Martyn, striking him in the middle and sending him sprawling in the grass on his back.

  “Stop!” I shouted at them. “People are watching!” But neither boy paid me any heed, the two of them wrestling like cats. Footsteps approached from behind, and I tried to see who was coming so we could run if need be, but Cam’s grip kept me anchored, his shoulders too broad to see around.

  “ENOUGH.” The command was so loud, it echoed across the hills and startled the birds in a nearby tree. They swooped up at the sky in a choreographed dance.

  Martyn rolled off Silas with a muttered oath, his hand slapping at the dirt on his trousers as he regained his feet. Mander and Brishen slinked away like kicked dogs while Silas, their leader, stayed prone on the ground, his breath coming fast, blood staining his nostrils and drying to crusts on his cheeks.

  “Da,” Martyn murmured.

  I heard the crunch of grit beneath boots as Mr. Woodard approached. Cam loosed me and I collapsed onto my knees in the field, the bread once again tumbling from my grasp. I silently apologized to it for my poor treatment as Mr. Woodard overtook us, his shadow huge and long. I glanced from his stoic face over to Martyn’s resigned one, and then down to Silas, who glowered at me despite his injury, his features blackened by Mr. Woodard’s looming shadow.

  “I see Silas Roberts in the shadow of a giant,” Gran had said when she’d spoken of her vision.

  In that field outside Anwen’s Crossing, I did, too.

  Mr. Woodard offered Silas a hand up, but Silas smacked it away and scrambled toward Cam. His cronies hauled him to his feet, the four huddling together, half-crouched and hackles up like rabid wolves.

  “I don’t need help from the likes of you,” Silas snarled. “Come to us, Bethan. We’re your people, or have you forgotten?”

  It was meant to shame me, but all I could muster was a tired shake of my head. I looked toward town, the knowledge that I had work left to do weighing on me. I’d have preferred to go home, to burn the bread and seek Gran’s council about so many things, but I had forty bags left to sell.

  “You would choose the gadjos over your own?” His hands raked through his sleek black hair, flattening it to his scalp. “Betrayer.”

  “Can’t you see she wants to be left alone? Go home,” Martyn said.

  Silas stepped toward Martyn, his lip curling. “As for you, you’re nothing. You’re dead.”

  Martyn stood taller, like he’d gladly go at Silas a second time, but Mr. Woodard slapped a hand across his son’s chest, holding him back. “Violence begets more violence,” the older man said, but his eyes remained on Silas. “I apologize on behalf of my boy, but threats do nobody any good. We’ll go back to work; you go on your way.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do, pig farmer.” Silas spat on the ground to punctuate his insult, and Mander, Cam, and Brishen were quick to do the same. Silas extended a hand my way, once again trying to coax me into standing with him, but I ignored his dirty, blood-crusted fingers. Not five minutes ago he’d said he would hobble me like a mare.

  I walked away then, from him and the boys and Martyn and Mr. Woodard, to return to my table in town. I was too ashamed to look at the Woodards and too angry to look at my own people. I wanted to escape it all—to concentrate on my work so I could get home to Gran.

  “I will not leave you here,” Silas called after me. “Not unchaperoned. It’s indecent.” I walked through the gates, pretending I didn’t see the curious looks of the bystanders who’d assembled during the boys
’ fight, pretending I couldn’t hear Silas shouting, “Bethan! Stop!” as I pressed through the crowds, the throngs of market people closing around me to cloak me from his view.

  Martyn jogged to catch up with me. We walked side by side, never saying a word, not when he ducked into his stand to work, not when I displayed my remaining goods on my table. Mr. Woodard joined him a short time later, but didn’t spare me a glance.

  Hours passed. Customers came and went; many referred to me by the young man whose grass-stained clothes sported the evidence of his scuffle. Sometimes, when the crowds thinned, I caught Martyn looking my way, and sometimes, when our eyes met, he dared to wink at me.

  I manufactured smiles for him despite the heaviness in my chest. It seemed like the right thing to do when he’d fought for my honor.

  Later, when the shoppers came in singles instead of droves and my table had only six bags left, I shot a nervous glance at Mr. Woodard as he sorted his remaining produce before calling out to Martyn.

  “Thank you,” I managed. “Silas is spoiled and terrible. We’re not all like him. He’s shameful.”

  Martyn leaned over the half door of his counter, his arms folded, a piece of straw migrating from one side of his mouth to the other. “That’s obvious. You’re lovely. Is he courting you?”

  “No. I think he would if he could, though. He’s the chieftain’s son—our leader’s son. He doesn’t believe rules apply to him.” I gathered my leftover bags, laying them in the basket next to the bread. “I hope you don’t get in trouble with your father. You were defending me.”

  He shrugged. “If anything, he’ll whack me for throwing the first punch, but I can live with that. That boy was an arsehole.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? You didn’t make him an arsehole…or is that one of your witch abilities, like the warts on your gran?” His grin was all teeth, and I shook my head. I glanced Mr. Woodard’s way, at his broad back flexing as he stacked and restacked his boxes of crops. I didn’t want Martyn getting thrashed for Silas’s awfulness, and if a kind word from me would tip the scales, I had to try to talk to him.