5.
Marco
Luiz aka the Archdeacon Claude Frollo stepped to the open area between the
buildings where the gypsies have their camp. He was seen by the Community as a
friendly party and approached the leader, the Voivode to pay his respects.
“I
am glad that you have returned.” Marco held his hands in front of him and then
to his heart. “How was your journey?”
“We
are fine. The journey was the usual routes we get to move to our other homes
and then returned.” The senior lady of the Community replied. “As usual,
Esmeralda had to see the totem. She was stopped and then evicted.”
“Esmeralda?
Can I see her please?” Marco made the request. He was given the permission.
Marco took the walk past the parked vehicles turned caravans. The gypsies still
traveled after a short stay and they have improvised with the haulers towing
the containers turned caravan homes. He had marked out twenty two caravans and
that worked out to seventeen families with some families occupying two caravans
or co-sharing one. That marked out to an average of five persons per family or
eighty three of them there in the Community.
Esmeralda
was in her own caravan at the rear with her pet the white lamb; Djali. Her
family was killed by the murderous mobs that had ambushed them one day when the
local murders were pinned on the gypsies. The surviving family member was taken
in the Community and her caravan attached to the hauler.
“Esmeralda,
I am here.” Marco approached the younger lady. “Padre is here.”
Esmeralda
was young and being of the gypsy descent held a darker skin with the curled
flowing hair that flowed to the back. She was dressed in the off shoulder tunic
and floral skirt, and was wore the laced ankle high boots. She had lost her
parents three years ago when she was fifteen in the age count. Her frame was
slim and gave her the height. She was tending to the goat.
“Padre,
I am glad you are here.” Esmeralda had expressed her gratitude to the person
who had stayed with her during the few months of disbelief that she had lost
her parents a few years ago. She had seen him in the Community before and those
few months she had called him ‘padre’ to replace her own.
“I
had to see you when I heard you return.” Marcus said. “Were you at the Dome?”
“I
wanted to … see totem. It was what my mother told me was our original home.”
Esmeralda replied. “They won’t let me in. I had to sneak in by the side door.”
“Sit,
Chey.” (Romanian for daughter) Marcus offered the girl to sit next at the
nearby bench. “You do know the Dome is not yours to go to. Your …”
“My
Community had the right to do so. We are also the citizen of the land.”
Esmeralda protested. “All I wanted to do was to see it.”
“Padre,
I cannot give up.” Esmeralda continued on.
“Chey,
we move. Are you joining in the festivities for the Maiden’s Festival?” The
festival was the get together of the communities where the youngsters will
interact in series of dances and feasts. It was held annually.
“No,
I am at the Festival of Fools. We are going to portray the foolish Archdeacon
as a lame dick.” Esmeralda told the other. “It’s the one where we can mock the
others.”
“No….no,
you are not…I mean you are of the age to be married. I can be…” Marcus was cut
off.
“I
am not keen to get married. I am happy being who I am.” Esmeralda turned to her
native words. “Ramai liber si fii liber.” (Stay fee and be free). Let us join the others in the Community
feast.”
Marcus
was dragged by the right hand to the open fire feast being prepared by the Community.
At
that moment, another guest was there at the feast; he was not a regular but
joined in the last gathering. He was not invited but stumbled there as any
wandering minstrel will do. He was armed with the ancient lute plucking at the
strings. His voice was stubby but listenable.
To the wanderers
of the land
They held no land
to their name
Their homes was
where they stop
Their food was
what the table offers
Freedom to choose
and to hold
Let no fences or
stakes hold them down.
(Jimmy Loong
November 2020)
“Hey,
Minstrel. Don’t bore us with your words. Stoke the fire with the ladies.”
Pierre Gringoire nodded to the elders of the Community. He was not of them yet
he travels with them. He hitched his ride on the haulers and sleep under the
stars. The minstrel looked at the approaching pair and felt envious that he who
was nearer and yet he was not able to get close to Esmeralda. He smiled to
himself.
“I
am past the mark of three decades in age, a wanderer yet not of the nomadic
breeds. And I am looking at a lady who is twice younger than me.” Pierre
sighed. He had been wandering for years then. His previous life was in the
corridors of the powerful and elites. He was among the ones that ran the land,
till they named him the decayed gourmet when he favored the party that lost. He
was selected to be the flunkie and flung out of the corridors.
Pierre
was considered a washout.
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