by Gavril Salazar
Upon my return from a successful business visit in a moderately wealthy village, it started raining very hard. Soon the road became a muddy torrent, but my horse managed to keep its footing and I along with it. Up ahead I could see a group of people, another tribe of Gypsies, struggling to keep their vardo from toppling. It fell as I rode up to them.
I offered my assistance and we soon had the vardo upright. After we found shelter, the tribe's Chiovanni offered me to stay with her tribe until the storm broke. She introduced me to her son, a proud young man with a spotted fox pelt draped around his shoulders.
I identified myself and delcard I was from Tribe Roman Morga. Everybody from the tribe let out an exclamation of recognition, except for the Chiovanni's son. Heshrieked and ran away.
I was too distracted by questions from the other tribe's members about the exploits of my tribe to ask about the Chiovanni's son. They all wanted to know if everything they had heard about Roman Morga was true. I assured them it was.
I told one tale after another about my tribe's famous adventures. When I related how we were hired by the Turks to use our dancers to seductively distract English soldiers before a great battle, I traded a portion of the loot I obtained (from both sides of the battle, of course).
They told me their stories in turn and offered me a bowl of adequate hedgehog stew.
After a while the storm finally broke. "You must leave now," the Chiovanni said.
I was puzzled. Did I do or say anything to offend them?
"Let me tell you about my son," the Chiovanni said. "When he was a boy, our best chickens and goats were being killed by a fox, who was easily recognized by the small, white spotted markings on his fur. This fox would not eat what it would kill; it would rather leave its prey in full sight for us to see in the morning. We tried everything to catch it, but we would always fail.
"My son one night set a trap for the fox and caught him. The tribe was so proud of him that we gave him a new name."
The Chiovanni grinned. "Your tribe Roman Morga is also known for its reputation in other crafts."
"Like potions," I replied with understanding. I almost did not hear the Chiovanni calling her son back as I left the encampment.
"He is gone. You are safe now, Powdered Fox."
Back
Home