In Search of James

CW: Due to its historical setting, this story refers to people of Romani descent using a term now recognized as a slur

The gypsies surrounded the fire. A woman with thick, long black hair was dancing. A man was playing the violin for her to dance to. None of them saw the man hiding in the shadows of the woods. He had a knife in his hand, and his narrowed eyes scanned the scene, trying to find the one light head he knew must be there in the sea of dark ones.

    He saw nothing. The man cursed inwardly, and was about to turn to leave, when suddenly the violinist changed tunes. He began to play an old ballroom dance, famous. No gypsy fiddler would know that song. The man with the knife looked closer at the violinist. He was very young, but he had black hair. The lighting was dim, but the man knew what he was looking for; there would be no mistaking the white blonde color of James’ hair. Not even shoe polish or some cheap dye could completely smear out the sheer brightness. 

    The man stared at the boy playing the violin. His features looked freakishly exaggerated by the dancing firelight, so it was impossible to tell what he really looked like. 

The gypsy woman who had been dancing seemed to falter at the unfamiliar tune, but another woman jumped up and began dancing. He hadn’t noticed her, but now as she came into the firelight, there was no mistaking it. Her hair was a bright, blinding blonde. The man with the knife smiled and showed his blackened crooked teeth. This was what he had been waiting for.

    Gypsies were considered tramps and magicians to the average person, but James had always had a soft spot for them. It disgusted him, but did not surprise the man with the knife that James had found a mate in one of them. Clearly, this blond woman was a daughter of his. And the fiddler, a son maybe. How else would he know the old English tune?

    The man with the knife knew that James was here. So he waited. Gypsies can dance all night and travel all day, but eventually even they must rest. They are living creatures, if not human. He thought.

    The fiddler slowed his song, and another man stood from the group. He took the hand of the blonde woman and began to dance with her. For an instant, the man with the knife thought his search was over. But almost immediately he realized this man was not James, even though he did seem to know the English couple dance. James was a tall man. This man was lightly built and of medium height. This aside, the two danced like lovers, not like father and daughter.

    Watching this was getting him nowhere. Now that he knew this was the right gypsy camp - and that James must be here - he needed to find him. 

    He crept from his hiding spot in the trees, careful not to put even a toe into the firelight. The gypsies seemed unaware of his presence. He began to slowly make his way around the edge of the camp, his eyes always on the fire and the people around it. 

The dancing couple seemed to have the attention of the entire group. And indeed, the way they danced together was mesmerizing. The man had to tear his eyes away and remind himself of what he came here to do. 

Knife in hand, he slowly made his way until he was directly across from where he had started. One of their caravans blocked his path. He ducked down and snuck around it, so that if someone was inside, they would not see his head pass by the small window. As he passed below the window, he heard a voice from inside, then the sound of a racking cough. He stopped. He backed slowly until he was just below the window, and cautiously peeked through the small opening. Inside was an old man with greying hair, and a middle aged woman he assumed was his daughter. The man was lying in the bed, and his skin looked pale. It was definitely not James. 

The man with the knife swore to himself again, and quickly moved out of view. This was becoming tiresome. He continued his way around the camp, but in vain. He saw no other blonde man, woman or child. What a waste. But he couldn’t leave yet. This blonde girl was the closest he had gotten in five months. He couldn’t leave quite yet. 

The gypsies danced on for many hours, until finally the black of the woods began to fade to grey. Every minute or so that the woods grew lighter, people would head to their caravans. The man stood completely still. As the darkness dissipated, so did his cover.

A rosy hue began to spread across the sky. The fiddler had long since gone to bed, and only one or two people were still up. Pairs mostly, watching the sun rise. They spoke in low murmurs. 

The man with the knife waited. The last person to go to bed was the gypsy who had danced with the blonde girl. She had been one of the first people to go, to the man’s dismay. 

As the gyspy got up, and stamped out the fire, the man with the knife knew this was his chance. He had wanted to take either the fiddler or the blonde, but this was as good as it would get. He moved fast. As soon as the gypsy’s back was turned the man with the knife darted into the clearing and in a blink had his hand over the man’s mouth and the knife at his throat. He growled into his ear, “Don’t speak or move.” He felt the other man’s muscles tense. Although he was bigger and taller, he was certain the gypsy was almost as strong as him. 

The man with the knife slowly backed out of the clearing, keeping the knife so close to the other man’s throat that it drew a thin line of blood. 

As soon as they were out of sight of the clearing, the man with the knife removed his hand from the other man’s mouth, but kept his knife in place. 

“Now,” the man said aggressively, “Tell me, who was that lass you was dancing with?” 

The gypsy said nothing. 

“I said, who was that lass you was dancing with?” Still, the young man stayed silent. 

The man with the knife was already on edge from the tedious night and the aggravating, seemingly endless search. The stubborn gypsy boy was treading on thin ice.

The knife pressed the tanned skin on the young man’s neck. He automatically tried to draw away.

    “Tell me who that girl is or I will slit your throat!” the man threatened. The gypsy smiled, though the man could not see it, and spoke. 

“If you kill me, how will you ever find out who she is?”

“I have my ways.” The man with the knife snarled. He could not let this savage boy know this was his last chance. “Now tell me, who is she?”

“She is a gypsy.”

The man felt a rush of anger. “You know as well as I do that blonde wench is no gypsy. Now tell me, is she or is she not the daughter of James Buckingham?”

The gypsy replied evenly, “If you knew who she was, why did you ask?”

In one quick movement, the knife flashed down and suddenly there was a shallow, horizontal cut on the younger man’s chest. He did not cry out in pain, as the man with the knife had expected and wanted. His only reaction was a slight convulsion of his wiry shoulders. 

“Tell me where James is.” The man snapped. The boy said nothing. “Tell me where James Buckingham is!” The man said louder. 

“Careful,” the gypsy boy said. “You don’t want the camp to hear you . If they do, they’ll do a lot worse to you than this little scrape you’ve given me.” His voice was devoid of all emotion. It enraged the man with the knife. 

He slashed at the young man again, and a cut perpendicular l to his collar bone appeared, this one a bit deeper. Still, the gypsy only barely reacted. 

“Tell me where James Buckingham is.” the man muttered dangerously. 

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? Of course you know, you dirty little tramp! You had your slimy, gypsy hands all over his daughter!”

Again, despite the insult, the gypsy didn’t react. And still, he was quiet.

“Boy, you had better tell me where James is. I need to tell him something. It’s important.”

The gypsy said nothing.

“You need to tell me. Someone is after him.”

The gypsy stayed silent still.

“I’m saying it for the last goddamn time. He’s in danger!”

The young man said, “Let me go, and I will tell you.” 

The man with the knife considered this. The gypsy was smart, as most gypsies were, but they were also known to double cross and for their tricks. Then again, his tactic wasn’t working. After a moment, he let go. The gypsy shook himself and turned around to face him. He had harsh features, and his eyes were dark and unreadable. He surveyed the cuts on his chest before he looked back at the man with the knife. He began to speak, his brown eyes shining with an emotion the man couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“One day, two men came to the camp, looking for him. They invited themselves in, and asked to speak to him. He went with them into the woods, so they could talk alone, and we didn’t see him again.”

The man with the knife felt a sinking feeling. They got to him first. 

“How long ago was this?” He asked. 

“It happened back when the days were longer and the nights were warm.” said the gypsy.

 Five months ago.

The man with the knife said nothing. He felt like a failure. He had been searching for James for so long. He had wanted to warn him, warn him that there was a price on his head and that bounty hunters all over the country were after him. If only he had been faster. 

The gypsy boy seemed to see right into his soul with his large, brown eyes, but he gave no sign of sympathy or even pity. He looked at him coolly, without emotion. 

The man with the knife despised him for it. Why James ever loved the Romanis I will never know. They aren’t like us, they aren’t human. They feel nothing. 

This train of thought was so common, so common in fact that people seemed to really believe it was true. James had never believed so, though. He had always been fascinated by the Roma culture and gypsy camps. 

And his children take after him.

Lost in his thoughts, the man barely noticed when the gypsy began slipping away. He had a sudden urge to thank the young man, but he stifled it. He wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. 

As the gypsy faded into the wood, headed back for his camp, and his blonde lover, the man with the knife watched him. He felt a small stab of guilt for slashing at the younger man the way he had, especially since it had amounted to nothing. But he pushed it away easily. The blonde girl or some other person in the camp would help him, and the wounds weren’t deep anyway.

He considered following him, talking to James’s daughter and the fiddler who may have been his son, but decided against it. She wasn’t his best friend’s daughter; she was just a gypsy girl who had English blood in her veins.

The man turned and walked away into the woods, towards the road that would lead him to his own home.