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DISCLAIMER: I know this is long, but I think you will find reading this re-telling of Gypsy adventures worthwhile. Some of the spellings are only guesses and I would appreciate any corrections. Also, please let me know if there are any incidents that I have missed and should be included. Now...turn down the lights, grab some munchies and enjoy.
Located high up in the mountains, near the Lake of Cachuma and nestled in an oak grove forest, lies the village of Coventry. For three years now the Gypsies have traveled to Coventry for a festival celebrating the English Queen's birthday. The area has always been magical to the Tribe, and this year was no exception. Saviya and Petr were finally handfasted and the Gypsies were given their own nation, albeit for just a short time. It was impossible to not be touched by Coventry's atmosphere; in fact, some Gypsies have yet to shake it off!
This Coventry is not the same hamlet you may have heard about in England, rather this village is in a region known as Santa Barbara. One must travel through strange and treacherous territory to reach this place. I joined our Gypsy advance scouts this year to secure our place at the festival. To gain entry, we first had to travel through a Danish-controlled territory known as Solvang.
Well known to most Gypsies (and a normal haunt of my wife, Musa), Solvang is still suspicious of outsiders—especially Gypsies. Boris and Iņigo insisted we must wear the local garb for us to "blend in," and so they procured these bizarre Viking helms. One of these were acquired for me as well: it is in the shape of a metal bowl (a little too small for the size of my head) with two horns protruding from it. Of course when we entered the town, our existence was immediately made known, as we were the only ones wearing these silly helms! On our way out, Iņigo and Alexis acquired a large, green melon and a bottle of Russian spirits. While their use was unknown to me at this time, these items will become instrumental later in my story.
The festival began the next day. We found ourselves in the middle of Gypsy encampments: Tribe Dombra (our neighbors at Long Beach), Clan Dummenhull, The Dancers of the Double Crown, No Man's Nomads, and The Gypsies of the Four Winds, who graciously allowed us to squat at their encampment during (ptui!) Crossroads. At first we thought this was happy coincidence, until a well-groomed gentleman by the name of Sir Christopher Hatten from the Queen’s court visited our encampment. He intended to purchase a small nation and offer it to Her Majesty for her birthday. It so happened that we Gypsies were living in this nation, and he invited us to join him at the Court tomorrow so that the Queen could see her new subjects. After agreeing upon a price, I proceeded to inform the heads of the other Gypsy tribes. As this Queen Elizabeth was not known to have done anything ill towards the Gypsies, we agreed to Hatten's proposition. However, it seemed other Gypsies were to have their own ideas.
My beautiful, estranged wife also visited me, bringing with her our daughter whom I have never seen. Right off, I could understand why it had taken Musa so long to show me our daughter: while her appearance certainly favors her mother, there are no physical traits that suggest my paternity. Indeed, her eyes are certainly not from me! Musa insists the child is mine, and for me to forsake her would be wrong for my family and the Tribe. I will make her into a fine Salazar worthy of her breeding!
Saviya and Petr were handfasted at dusk. The nine years it had taken for the two to commit their lives to each other befitted the ceremony that took place. The couple were surrounded and engulfed by a circle of friendship and love, punctuated by a moving ritual led by Katarina and Nikolai. As darkness closed in and the din of crickets reached a fevered pitch, Petr and Saviya leaped over the sword and broom into a world where they are now one soul. I shall never forget that moment and feel blessed to be a part.
Afterwards, we celebrated. Alexis and Iņigo brought forth that melon they had acquired, now swelling with the Russian vodka that was slowly added the night before. It was very, very good. Other Gypsies brought forth their own collection of spirits and liqueur, and they too were very, very good. In the midst of our celebrating, our cousins from Tribe Dombra came forth and invited us to participate in another celebration in the shire. While we declined at first, a few of us, now quite inebriated, agreed to attend.
We arrived at this second celebration about the time the show was to begin. Our performance was to be quite different, using rhythms and dances from Africa and a "New World" country called Brazil. Tom modified my ashiko to his liking, Iņigo, Ashiq, Jimal and one other brought their digiridoos, Alexis armed herself with her Native American love flute, and Chris and myself grooved on our doumbeks. The result was tribal: I have never heard my drum sound the way it did under Tom's hands, somehow Chris and I managed to supplement the beat, and Alison and the quartet of digiridoo players added an otherworldly atmosphere. Add to that an intense, energetic dance by the Dombra women, the collaboration was spellbinding. All who participated and watched experienced harmony with the universe for those fifteen minutes.
The next morning was the direct antithesis of the previous evening. A few Gypsies partied harder and less sensibly than others, and they paid the price. The encampment was christened with fresh vomit. Some could not move, others suffered pounding headaches and then there was Jimal: he somehow managed to make it outdoors, but only for a few paces. This day was to be for him a living hell.
A bewildered Sir Christopher Hatten entered this chaos to ensure the arrangements for the Queen's birthday had been set. I assured him that all is in place, that the leaders of each Gypsy camp were aware of this event and had pledged their cooperation. Hatten left our camp satisfied, completely unaware of the Gypsy plot that was brewing behind his back.
The time arrived to present ourselves to the Queen. After some wrangling, a goodly amount of Gypsies were assembled in front of the Queen’s court. In front of us was a large group of young men and women, all similarly dressed, and very clean. Hatten explained to me they were also part of this newly purchased nation. Something did not seem quite right: this was our land, not theirs. How did Hatten acquire this land, anyway?
We followed the group of clean, young gadje into the court. The guards were noticeably suspicious, yet the Queen herself did not seem surprised to see us. As Hatten began to offer his gift to the Queen, a loud keening emanated from behind him. "Our land, it is being taken away from us!" I heard from my Gypsy cousins. "There is no justice for the Gypsies!" Women wailed, men beat their chests, and one ran up to the Queen, ripping out his heart and stomping it into the earth. I was almost as dumbfounded as Hatten: it appeared my Gypsy cousins believed that by having their land sold and turned over to the Queen, we were to be evicted from our new home. When I explained that we have received assurances we were not to be removed from this new nation, decreed by the Queen to be Hattenland, but we are now the Queen’s new subjects, the spirit of despair transformed into a happier atmosphere. The Gypsies celebrated, adding to the confusion of Her Majesty and court. The air of joviality was quickly dissipated when that group of young gadje began to sing a mournful song about the seasons. How can anyone perform music without a drum?
Now the new subjects of Hattenland, we departed the Queen’s court as quickly as we could. Gila of the Four Winds greeted us, and informed us of a wager she made. One of the festival’s merchant guilds embarrassed itself earlier in the day when it attempted to train to use the pike for battle. Gila had wagered with the battle sergeant that Gypsies could do better. After all, we should at least learn how to defend the fine, new nation of Hattenland! An ensemble of Gypsies from our Tribe and the Four Winds marched to the camp of Antares to become battle hardened.
When we arrived at the front gates, the soldiers did not know what to think of us. "We have come to fight!" declared Vladimir of the Four Winds. The soldiers warily opened the gates and allowed us passage. After some successful sparring with another group of green fighters, the battle sergeant ordered us in line and armed each of us with a weapon.
Our line consisted of Boris, Shauva, Vladimir, Gila, your Scribe, and three others. The halberd handed to me was much to heavy for me, but if we were to win this wager, I would persevere. The others in our group did not take this wager as seriously as Gila and me. They did not appreciate the gravity of our gambling. Shauva was more interested in flirting with the sergeant, and Vladimir was intent in embarrassing him. But at the command of "Attention!" our weapons were at the ready.
At first, our line had difficulty with the sergeant's commands. After a time, however, we could raise, shoulder and charge our weapons as well as any army. Well, some armies. At one time our bloodthirsty warrior charge scared away all the spectators who were mocking us! When one gaujo attempted to distract us by dangling gold in front of us, we were unmoved. Even the noble woman who strutted in front of us with a chest of coins cooing "Gilder fur die Gipsies!" could not break our concentration. We were now a finely honed fighting unit, unafraid of anything or anyone.
My friends, this is where my story shall end. We of course had to leave Hattenland to wander to another land, but now our caravan is well protected on our journey. I solemnly pledge to you that I shall continue to relate the events of our journeys no matter where our wagons shall take us.
Your most humble Scribe,
Gavril
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