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It was a time of blindness, a time of confusion. It was a time when Science was at its highest, and humanity at its lowest. It was a time of learning, and yet a time of forgetting. It was a time of yearning, when mankind longed back to ages past, wishing to know the truths and secrets that lay buried and lost. It was a time when the brain had long replaced the heart, and thoughts were more important than feelings.
It was a time of searching, a quest for the meaning of life and the sense of being. It was a time of groping in the dark, of looking for a door in a wall that was just too high to cross. It was a time when forgiveness was thought strange, meekness laughed upon. It was a time when widows and orphans were left to fend for themselves, when knowledge was worth more than the joy of giving a helping hand. It was a time of great loneliness, a time of tears, a time without laughter, a time without magic.
It was a time of broken dreams.
Gion clapped with all the others as the music stopped and the girl gave a grateful curtsy to the onlookers. Beside him, a little old man took a long, strangely twisted pipe from his mouth, exhaled a puff of smoke and said, "That one dances like a bear compared to the one from our tribe! Keep your clapping for later, ester(1)." He grinned to himself, muttering in the gypsy language, "The Dancer tribe wins every year."
Gion gave no sign of having understood the last comment. He preferred to keep on pretending that he was just another tourist from the valley, come to see the Radunanza – the yearly gathering of the twelve gypsy tribes – just for the fun of it. But besides enjoying the dance competitions and the other traditional events, as well as the Easter celebrations held during the Radunanza week, Gion had other reasons for hiking up the mountain to the gypsy settlement so often – reasons which he would rather keep to himself.
As the next competitor arrived, bangles all a-jangle, Gion glanced skywards and noticed it must be getting late. The cows were still out on the paddock and he couldn't trust his younger brother Hans to bring them in by himself. Sighing, he pushed himself through the crowd of people and made his way down one of the town's little streets.
The sounds of music and cheering still followed him for a while, slowly dimming into the distance as he walked down the deserted roads. He whistled along a little; his footsteps echoed on silent walls. Somewhere in the distance, one of the gypsies' yaks lowed loudly and plaintively. It was Easter Sunday, Radunanza was over and tomorrow the gypsy tribes would be separating again, until the next year. Maybe Gion would nip back up the mountain for one last drink at the inn – the gypsies' beer was the best in all Alland – before the town closed up and emptied.
Suddenly, abruptly, Gion stopped in his tracks. He was no longer alone. He could feel a presence behind him, hear the heavy drunken steps and smell the stale breath… He walked on, quickening his steps. Meeting a drunk in the middle of the night when he was in a hurry was not one of the things he liked to do. He could only hope that the drunk would leave him alone and go away…
But the drunk was clearly after him: wherever Gion went, he followed. Annoyed, Gion hurried down a side street, hoping to somehow shake him off. He was just thinking that he was rid of the drunk at last, when suddenly, he found his way obstructed by a wall. He was in a dead end. He quickly turned around. His throat constricted: there stood the drunk, much taller and broader than him, his face hidden in shadow.
"Sir," the gypsy drawled, taking one lumbering step closer, "I need money. You have money?"
Gion backed away, shaking his head. Giving money to a poor and starving beggar was one thing, but if a drunk asked for any, it was obvious what he'd be using it for. "I have nothing," he said, resolutely taking another step.
But the drunk had already heard the jingling of the coins in Gion's pocket. "You liar!" he hissed. Suddenly, Gion heard a clicking sound. His heart jumped to his throat as he saw the blade of a knife glint in the rising moonlight. "Give me the money! Give it to me!" the drunk growled. Again, Gion shook his head, his ears throbbing with the sound of his loud heartbeat.
Suddenly, with a wild cry, the drunk sprang at him. Gion could only see the knife as it flew towards him, all else vanishing from his sight. Filled with fear, he tried to duck, but the gypsy, despite being drunk, was much faster and more agile than him. Desperate, his senses blinded by panic, Gion shot out a hand as the two of them fell to the ground. He grabbed the hand holding the knife, trying with all his strength to twist the weapon out of it.
The stones on the ground dug into Gion's back as he rolled over, still wrestling for the knife, the drunk's sour breath blowing onto his face and making him feel faint. The gypsy was much stronger than him, but Gion would not give up so easily to death. Crying out in frustration, he gave the knife one last twist –
And then, the drunk was dead, lying spread-eagled on the ground.
It took Gion a while to realise what had happened. He stumbled slowly to his feet, staring at his hands. What had he done? Gion felt sick; his head was whirling and he thought he would fall over. There was only one sane thought in his mind now: he couldn't stay here. He couldn't stay here…
Without another thought, Gion turned and ran out of that ghostly alley, through empty streets and down deserted pathways. He never looked back as he half ran, half fell down the steep sides of the high Mount Culm. I am a murderer, he repeated to himself again and again. I am a murderer.
Flurina fingered her marriage bracelet, a simple band woven from dried mountain grasses, as she looked out the window into the darkness of the Radunanza village, the only built-up, permanent settlement of her gypsy people. Sometimes she wished that it was all a nightmare, that the past three years had never happened… Sometimes she wished that she was still the pale little orphan, dancing
through life on her own instead of having to follow her husband's wishes. Sometimes she longed back to the tenda of her aunt and to her Dancer tribes-people. But now she had children, chickens and goats to look after, as well as the family's sick yak.
"He is six years older than you, and you've known him only a year! Don't come back to me later and say you're sorry!" Flurina shook her head, trying to get rid of the unbidden voice of her aunt and former guardian. Tears sprang into her eyes as she rubbed the weal on the side of her head where he had hit her only two weeks ago. She tried to convince herself that he had not meant to hurt her, that he had only been overwhelmed by frustration over failing harvests and too little food, but after three years, she could no longer hide the truth from herself.
Sighing, Flurina turned away from the window and lay down on her pallet on the floor, pulling aside the yak-hair blanket. She closed her eyes. Even from within the little mud hut, she could hear the sounds of the dance competition her husband no longer allowed her to go to. Her feet yearned to dance again… but her husband thought that it was improper for a poor woman to dance, an ill waste of time when the children were starving and the yak was unwell. Apparently, to him getting drunk and only coming home at midnight was much less of a waste than dancing and displaying one's talents.
"If you don't have enough to eat, you must notify the tribe so that we can share the food!" Flurina's mother-in-law kept saying. "Go to the Preditgant or the Manader(3), and they can help you!"
But Flurina's husband was proud, too proud to admit to the preacher and the headman that he needed help, let alone the rest of the Weaver tribe. He covered up their poverty by lying, and forbade Flurina to ever mention their problems. She never dared go against his will; she had too much experience with him to still be so bold. Instead, day by day, night by night, she kept on working, doing as much as she could, only to be blamed of laziness as soon as he came home, alcohol on his breath.
She didn't know how she had managed so far. She didn't know how she would manage the next three years. The only thing still keeping her alive, still giving her hope for every tomorrow, was the love for her children, who might never even live to her age if things went on as they did.
It was late. Her husband rarely returned before midnight, but even so, Flurina felt uncertain. Perhaps he had drunk too much again, and was now asleep in some back alley… The dance competition was over, the town silent once more except for the chirping of crickets in the dark, the lowing of the yaks and the clanging of goat bells. Swallowing away the fear of her husband's return, Flurina shut her eyes once more and tried to do the breathing exercises the midwife had told her to practise. Maybe they would calm her down before he came…
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a loud commotion on the street just outside. People were hurrying around, shouting things that Flurina couldn't hear. She sat up nervously, hoping that everything was all right. The valley-dwellers had been very peaceful for the past ten years, they couldn't be persecuting the gypsies again…
Flurina jumped as she heard a rapid knocking on her door. She stood up, her heart beating. Before she opened the door, she quickly covered her hair with a kerchief – a rule for married gypsy women.
The first thing she saw was the tear-streaked face of her mother-in-law, her eyes puffed up and red. The mother-in-law said nothing, the sobs shaking her frail old form were too violent for her to speak. Silently, she grabbed Flurina's right arm and slid something onto it. Slowly, Flurina looked down at her arm, her heartbeat pounding loud in her ears. Deep inside, she already suspected…
An icy cold feeling burned into her heart as she recognised the bracelet: white fabric, four wooden beads. Widow's bracelet.
Even though she clutched at the door frame to support herself, Flurina slowly sank down to her knees. Everything gave way as she clutched her sobbing mother-in-law, as the tears flowed and Flurina cried for a man whom she had never loved.
(2) tenda – gypsy tent
(3) Manader/Manadra – leader, tribe leader