The Little Gypsy Girl

                To my curly-haired brother,
                without whom this story would not be written.



                He viewed my brown cheeks and he liked them so well
                He said, "My little gypsy girl, will you my fortune tell?"
                Oh yes sir, oh kind sir, please give to me your hand
                It's you that have fine fortune, both houses and good land.
                The fairer girls are dainty, but you must cast them by,
                For it is the little gypsy girl who is to be your bride.
               
           (The Little Gypsy Girl, British folk song, http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk)



     It all started when I was sick with the flu. Actually, it started much earlier; I was seven when I first asked my mom how it happened that three of my siblings and I have straight hair but my older brother has wild, curly hair. She only smiled and promised to tell me later. Though to be accurate, and as I know it now, this story began in the middle of the nineteenth century. However, I will start in the order it was presented to me.
     I was sick, and my head hurt unmercifully; I had a fever, felt miserable, and could not eat anything. My mom changed my clothes, put a cup of fresh raspberry tea on a chair next to my bed, and prepared to leave me for work.
“Mom, can you tell me why does Anthony have curly hair unlike everyone else in the family?”
     She stopped in the doorway, then went to her room and came back with a thick, ancient-looking photo album. She sat down near me, opening the album and turning pages. She found one and showed it to me. There were two women near each other, both with short, wavy hair; a young one with large, light, dreamy eyes that were friendly and curious; the other, the older one, had darker skin and her black eyes were sad and intense. The picture was placed between two sheets of half transparent paper; it looked as though it had had an oval frame before. Carefully, I looked at the other side; the date in pencil was 1914.
     “This young woman is my grandmother, and the older one is your great-great-grandmother. She was half-gypsy. Now, try to get some sleep; that is the best medicine.” She went to work leaving the family album on my bed. The cover was of dark cherry-colored leather worn on the corners and edges; the spine had been damaged by fire. I looked briefly at some of the other pictures: in one was a lovely woman, the same as on the first photo, only younger and wearing a daisy wreath on her head; in another she was dressed for a masquerade in the dress of a Turkish girl; in another in a hussar uniform. 
     The old photos were brownish and had worn off corners; some were torn apart and carefully glued back together; all were covered with a web of tiny cracks in their varnish. Was it the effect of my dizziness after the high fever? It seemed to me that these tiny cracks were moving; now combining together and the next moment running apart. The more I tried to catch the position of the lines, the more I felt a strange sensation that somebody was looking back at me behind this web of lines. There! There was a little dark eye! And now there was a piggy snout! I guess I do have swine flu after all, I thought, and it’s the fever that’s responsible for my hallucinations! I took an aspirin and drank a couple gulps of raspberry tea. The headache calmed down and I fell asleep.
     I awoke when a cat jumped on the bed. It was getting darker, but I still was alone at home. Wait a minute! What cat? We did not have any cat...I sat in my bed and very close to my nose saw a most strange creature. It looked similar to a sitting porcupine or maybe more accurately a hedgehog, if you can imagine a hedgehog the size of a large cat with untidy hair instead of needles. His eyes were brown and attentive, his curious snout-like nose was absorbing the smell of my raspberry tea, and the creature was smiling. He stretched out his short brownish hand.
     “How do you do, my friend?” We shook hands; his hand was warm, dry, and wrinkly, the back covered with short, hard hairs.
     “Who are you? How did you get here?”
     “I’m a hobgoblin if you know what that means.(Hobgoblin is a term usually applied in folktales to describe a house spirit, a friendly or amusing goblin). Russians named me Domovoy, from the word Dom, home. My folks usually take care of peoples’ homes, their family, and their animals. Our favorite places to live are attics and barns, with fresh, sweet hay, cows, horses, goats...  Ah, goats, warm milk...
     His pink and a bit hairy snout started to sniff, quivering, and his beady eyes turned in the direction of a large mug of milk. I laughed.
“You will not like it; though it has honey and butter, it also contains baking soda, another of Mom’s “best medicines,” this time against cough!
     “Milk... butter... honey...” he was repeating dreamily with half-closed eyes.
     “You can have it if you want.”
     “Really?!” Before I had time to answer this already rhetorical question, he finished the huge mug in one gulp and was licking his snout, his short hands peacefully folded on his round belly.
     Poof! I guess it was the baking soda turning to carbon dioxide in his stomach that caused this sound.
     “What is your name? Could I call you Poof?”
     “Sure! Everybody calls me as he pleases. Rose called me Rudy, when I was young and my fur was golden-brown; now it’s more grayish-brown."
     “Who is Rose?”
     “She is... was a little Gypsy girl who found me in the forest under a fern. It was a warm night in the middle of June when the villagers went to the woods to look for fern flowers that were shining in the dark among trees but hid themselves when somebody came too close. These flowers, if found, could make the finder immensely rich. Rose came close and the flower did not hide its flame; she covered it with her hand and was wondering how the flame makes her fingers look half-transparent in warm red light. Suddenly she left the flower, listening, and then separated the fern leafs and scooped me in her hands.
     “‘Baby Domovoy! So small and furry!’ She put me in the hem of her upper skirt and ran after the adults. Later, in the Gypsy camp, she found a place for me in a soft armful of hay near the goats. One or another of these goats always let me have some milk after their kids were fed. Fresh goat’s milk, unlike cow’s milk, has all the flavors of the meadow: the light bitterness of dandelions, the freshness of daisies, the honey of clovers, the sweetness of wild anise, and the strong oriental richness of clove pinks.
     “It was more than a hundred and fifty years ago, but I remember it as it was yesterday. So many events happened since; wars and revolutions, floods and fires, deaths and new births..." His beady eyes lost their shine.
     “Isn’t it a sad experience to live so long? I can’t imagine losing all the close people and still keep going.”
     “It’s sad, and it is not: new little people come; I see in their bright eyes and their smiles dear features and they become my friends.” He remembered something and smiled. “When I look at your brother with his curly black hair and hazel eyes, guess whom I see?” Not waiting for an answer he continued.
     “The little Gypsy girl, who rode horses without a saddle as well as any boy, grew up. In the evenings, all the tribe enjoyed her dancing with the tambourine near the campfire, especially young Gypsy lads; but Rose had a friendly smile for everybody and for no one in particular. She looked just as your great grandmother in this picture, only a bit darker and skinnier.
     “Every spring, the Gypsies made their camp in the meadows of a rich Moscow fur merchant’s homestead. In the summers, he and his wife, sons, and servants left behind the hot and dusty city for simple country joys. His old, white, two-story house with columns surrounded by gardens and orchards was built on the hilltop and faced the river and the meadow across the river. The proximity of the river and the fact that the merchant’s family did not mind Gypsies made this spot their summer home for many years. As soon as the first grass appeared, there they were with their horses and wagons, their dirty and happy little kids, and their songs and dances on warm summer nights. One short night in early summer, Rose, instead of going to sleep in her tent, went to the horses and untied her favorite, a little pinto mare with hairy legs. Maybe you heard an old proverb about Gypsy gold that “does not chink and glitter, but gleams in the sun, and neighs in the dark”? The girl patted the mare’s nose and jumped lightly on her back. Hobgoblins are nocturnal creatures; they have enough time for sleep during the day, curling in some quiet, shaded place. In a second I was behind Rose. She led the horse to the river and let her drink. Afterward, we crossed the small river on horse-back and went uphill. From there we looked back to the sleeping camp. The sun had not risen yet, but the sky was a light rose color to the east; wagons and tents were surrounded by the fog rising from the river. The first birds began their welcomes to the sun. Rose tied the mare at a small birch grove and we went to the quietly sleeping house on the hill. My fur was all wet from dew; Rose’s skirts of cotton and silk with small golden flowers and carmine roses became heavy and were sticking to her legs; she tied them in a large knot to walk faster. We passed through a small opening in the hawthorn fence and found ourselves in a rose garden! I was not sure if Rose noticed me at all, so I just stayed near the hawthorn bushes covered by white bunches of flowers. Bees appeared with the first rays of sun, and the birds’ songs merged into one polyphonic hymn. The girl was walking from one rose-bush to another touching heavy, wet flowers with her fingers and her nose. She chose one large carmine rose, plucked it with the help of her teeth, and placed it in her black, curly hair.
     Suddenly a joyful voice close to us pronounced:
     ‘This is who is stealing our roses!’
      A young lad, gray-eyed, wearing a hussar uniform, his jacket unbuttoned, his thin batiste shirt opened, was quickly going in Rose’s direction. The girl stood blushing with eyes cast down. Barefooted, with floral skirts wet from dew, she still looked to me the most beautiful rose of the garden. I guess the same thought flashed through the young hussar’s brain; he came close, bended and kissed the girl on her cheek.
     Rose came to life. A quick flash of angry eyes, a sharp turn around, and she was already running between the rose bushes, to the opening in the hawthorn fence, and downhill to the river. The sound of merry laughter followed. With my short legs it was hard to catch up; I jumped on the horse’s back in the last moment...
     “It looks that you do not have fever any more.” He put his short, wrinkled hand on my forehead to be sure. “Definitely,” he nodded in satisfaction, “your temperature is the same as mine.”
     Half asleep, I had a momentarily blurred thought: How does he know that my temperature is normal? Do hobgoblins have the same temperature as people do? If they have higher, mine shouldn’t be normal... and just before being completely lost to sleep I heard the rustle of turning pages and him talking to himself:
     “What I tried to understand all these years was how this young girl, almost a child, was brave enough to leave behind all familiar life, friends, parents, the freedom of riding in morning meadows to follow her beloved to his dusty city, to meet the wrath of his and also her families, to experience the births of their children, the deaths of some of them and the deaths of seven grandchildren — except Maria, this girl in the picture wearing a hussar uniform. She was accepted to Moscow University in 1913, only one of three girls among all the medical students. Maybe she decided to learn to be a doctor because of the deaths of her siblings...
     The rustle of the turning page was the last thing I heard before falling asleep.