Tales by the Fireside (Part One: To his father, a son)

"Come, múrro shávo (my son), and sit with me here beside the fire. You have asked me many times to tell you of my adventures before I came here to this land; where I came from, the lands I have seen, the people I have known, and the riches I have found. But first, I shall tell you that my grandest adventure is the one I am now on, and the greatest treasures I have found is you, and your mother. But, I know! You are young and do not wish to hear this! You wish to hear of sword fights, narrow escapes, and chests of gold overflowing, yes?

Then I shall start at the beginning of the beginning. To know me, you must first know my father....."

"The man with the great mustache?" The boy asked, his hands making the twisting motion he'd seen Zindelo mimic whenever he spoke of his father.

"Yes, the man with the great mustache. Now, do not interrupt."

"It is said by our people that long ago, Zindelo Baro (The Great), was born somewhere in the lands of Anatolia, before even the House of Osman rose in the land. No one knows for certain the day, or even the year, he came into the world, but all agree that it must have been in the hottest part of the summer. This accounts for his temper, which burns like the sun at its zenith.

Unlike most of the men among the Rroma, who grow fat on plenty, Zindelo Baro was always a hard and lean man, weathered even when he was young, for life in those days was hard, much harder than it is now. In those days, even as it is now, there were great battles in the east. The Ottoman Empire was pushing further into the north and overrunning the smaller, weaker countries. We Rroma have always been survivors, and many of our people joined or followed the armies, allying with whichever side seemed more likely to win. We have never much cared for their religious differences. To us, they are all much the same.

In those days, the Ottoman army used the Bashi-bazouk; irregular soldiers notorious for being brutal and undisciplined, to their advantage. Men, like my father, who would fight for their cause, with little in return but for the spoils of war. But.....the spoils of war were rich, and Zindelo Baro was a fearsome soldier who soon became a leader, a Bey, among such men.

Now, at that time, the Prince of Wallachia was an evil man by the name of Vlad Dracul, the very father of the one we now call Țepeș, The Impaler, or as the Turks have named him, Kazıklı Voyvoda. He encouraged the enslavement of the Rroma, stealing away the livelihoods and freedom of our people. Many Rroma died in that country and others, under leaders who insisted we were spies for the Turks." Here Zindelo paused in his tale, a wide grin flashing as he gave Angus a nudge with his shoulder. "Of course, many were! But there were just as many of us spying on the Turks for the leaders of the north.....and there were some of us who spied for both." Zindelo's black eye was briefly shuttered in a wink, before he leaned back again and continued.

"So, Vlad Dracul was enslaving our people in Wallachia, and my father was a Bashi-bazouk leader. Long before, he had crossed the Dardanelles out of Anatolia, and was now headed north with the armies of Murad II and took part in the battles that won so much of that region for the Turks, even unto annexing Serbia a few years before I was born. After this campaign, Zindelo Baro and his men began traveling toward Wallachia, where it was rumored the Prince was preparing for negotiations with the Sultan. They sought to take advantage of this temporary truce in their journey. But it was in Wallachia that my father found his first wife.

Her name was Simza, and a more beautiful Rromani woman never graced the earth with her foot. Her mother and father were enslaved to a Boyar, and she was nothing more than a serving girl. But, could she dance! She was young and full of life, with hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes the color of the Aegean. And so, in the darkness after the moon set, my father and his men crept into the home of the Boyar." Zindelo's black eyes gleamed as he recounted the tale he had heard, in just such a way, from his own father before the flickering of a fire, though he had been younger than Angus was now, and the fire was contained in a ring of bare stones, rather than an ornate fireplace within a palace.

"Simza, startled when my father appeared out of the blackness, gave a cry, and rose the alarm of the household guard, but Zindelo Baro and his men were ready for this. Their blades were already drawn, and their black eyes glinted in the light of banked fires and flaring torches. All who came against them were cut down where they stood! They spared the life of no male in the household, save for the Rroma who made themselves known. Though the women of the Boyar wept bitterly, they were taken, and the horses from the stables as well, all laden with what wealth they could carry. But, Zindelo Baro purloined the finest of the treasures that night, plucking a green-eyed jewel from the drudgery of her existence as a slave, and binding her to him as his wife.

The escaped Rroma, the Bashi-bazouk, and the treasures they had stolen, (treasures that glittered, walked, or were ridden), fled to the south of Wallachia and further into the lands of Rumelia, already occupied by the Ottoman Turks, where they could take refuge for a time. And it was there, múrro shávo, that the first child of Zindelo Baro and Simza was born, a son who was said to smile the day he came into the world. And they called him, Zindelo Tsino (The Small), after his father."

Angus looked up at him with widened eyes, listening raptly, before he asked, "That was you, father?"

Zindelo's black eyes shone in the light of the fire as he inclined his head in a slight nod, smiling. "Just so, my son. Now, come, let us get you to bed. I will tell you more tomorrow night."

(To be continued.....)

::Doesn't WANT to go to bed, WANTS more story!::

Subject: ((Awesomishness!)) Sun Mar 20, 2011 3:08 am

((pulls up a pillow by the fire, toasting marshmallows, awaiting the next part))

Number of posts : 19 Registration date : 2011-02-27

(( Your Tale is very intriguing and it has captured my attention. Bravo.. Let the story continue. )))

((:::snuggles in around the campfire with Ali::: Marshmellow please oh and...you...more story please.))

The sun was beginning to sink low on the western horizon, its bottom edge dipping into the sea beyond the coast and dissolving into waves of gold that rippled toward the shores of Solurius as Zindelo and Angus stood upon the ridge of a rocky cliff. Throughout the day, the two had ridden along the western perimeter of Zindelo's lands, examining the first growth through the sprawling grasslands that would sustain the herds of sheep and horses that were the life's blood of the region.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" The young boy asked his Rroma father as he looked up at him.

Zindelo glanced down at the boy by his side and smiled fondly, crossing his sinewy arms over his chest. "It reminds me of sunset on the shores of the Black Sea. I often marveled at such a sight when I was a boy."

"When did you live by the Black Sea?" Angus questioned.

"I was younger than you." Zindelo replied, as he turned away from the vista of the ocean and motioned to the rolling pastures behind them. "All of this land, it reminds me much of the lands where I was raised." He began to explain. "My people, our people, the Lovára Nátsiya (Nation), did not stay in one place for long when I was a child. By the time I was ten years of age, I had seen the shore of the Black Sea from Varna, bathed in the Danube, crossed the Balkan Mountains, and ridden the coast of the Adriatic and Mediterranean Seas. We lived near the banks of the Sava River when your aunt Luludja was born, and we spent many years in the lands of Rumelia. The Lovára, you see, are distinct among the Rroma because we are itinerant horse-dealers." He motioned in the distance where a small herd of horses were being turned out to graze upon the last of the tough winter grasses, making way for the tender, new shoots that would soon fill in, and then to his own mount, Parno, who was docilely mowing through a small patch. "Horses have always been a source of affluence and status among the Rroma. I learned to ride nearly before I could walk!" He paused a moment and grinned at the boy. "My father gave me one piece of advice when I was your age, and I shall pass it on to you: 'There is a saying among our people, Zindelo,' he told me. 'In selling a horse, praise his bad points and leave the good ones to look after themselves.' Zindelo affected the gruff voice of his father as he said this, lifting a hand to twist the end of a non-existent, but quite impressive mustache.

When Angus had recovered from his burst of laughter, he looked up at his father with wide eyes. "Has he always been that way?!"

The question made Zindelo pause. It was a shrewd question, and one he had to ponder. There was a time that he could barely recall when his father had been a more carefree man. The swarthy Rrôm was silent and lost in his thoughts as he went to fetch the horse and lifted Angus to the saddle before him to begin the trek home. Angus began to speak a few times, but he waved a hand, silencing him until they were once more on the road that paralleled the central river through his domain. Finally, he answered in a cautious tone, as though he were still remembering back. "He was not always that way, no. But for nearly as long as I can recall. You see, shávo, the Rroma of our Vítsa (Clan) were not solely horse-dealers, they are also known for their entertainers, their fortunetellers, and musicians. I, myself, learned early to play the Kemençe (a bowed string instrument of Turkish derivation) and the Tambur (a long-necked lute), while the young women of our encampment danced about our fires in flaring skirts with finger-cymbals clashing. My father was once as I, daring and reckless, a noble brigand! But time, and hardship have shaped him. War is rampant in those lands, and has been since before we Rroma led our caravans into them, and our people have always fallen under suspicion and persecution. When I was a child, my father was a hard man still, but not always so....." He took a moment, reaching for the right word. ".....disgruntled." He finally settled upon.

"It was after the battle of Constantinople that he grew more stern. Between you and I, múrro shávo, I think he was only angry that he did not get a better share in the spoils." He gave the boy a nudge with his shoulder, grinning widely in jest.

"He fought in that war?!" Angus asked as he looked back over his shoulder at Zindelo.

"Of course! All men fought in that great battle! Even I fought at Constantinople!" He laughed low, as he curbed Parno to a halt within the walls of their estate, and spied Aly waiting them in a doorway of the palace. She was as radiant as she ever was in his eyes, the fire of her hair unbound and cascading over her shoulders, eyes like bright gems in the growing dark, her slender arms crossed over her chest.....a small foot tapping.....

Zindelo lowered Angus down from the saddle and handed him the reins as he whispered to the boy. "A story for another time, my boy. I shall continue the tale of my adventures after dinner. Take Parno to his stall." He straightened and held out his arms, a magnanimous grin exposing a flash of white in the midst of his dark features. "Ah, múrri Rrômniorri (my dear wife)....."

(To be continued.....)

Subject: To the readers: Fri Apr 01, 2011 2:41 am

I would like to thank each of you for the positive feedback you have taken the time to post in response to these small contributions to the astounding body of work already featured on this message board by our colleagues. Other installments are forthcoming.

Respectfully,
D.

"Come, múrro shávo, and sit with me here beside the fire once again. So, where did I end my story the other night?"

"You were born, father." Young Angus supplied, and Zindelo gave a nod as he lowered upon a cushion by the spacious fireplace.

"Ah, yes. I was born, to Zindelo Baro and his beautiful wife, Simza. Tonight, I shall tell you of one of my first grand adventures! Do you know where Constantinople is, my son? No? First, I should go back a little further. Before I tell you of the glorious battle that brought an end to the Byzantine Empire, and was a blow to Christendom in the east, you must understand a little about Vadoma....."

"That scary old woman?" Angus piped up with wide eyes.

"Yes, that scary old woman. Now, do not interrupt."

"Baba Vadoma, as we call her, was ancient when I was a child, and old when my father was a boy! No one knows how long she has lived, and some legends of her say that she traveled with the first Rroma who wandered from the east into the Byzantine Empire, perhaps fleeing the persecution of one named Mahmud of Ghazni. I do not know the truth of those stories, but I do know that she is a wise and far-seeing woman." He caught the dubious look upon the youth's face and flashed a grin before Angus could comment.

"I do not mean with her eyes, my son. She sees far with her mind. She sees the past, the present, and the future more keenly than a hawk perceives its prey. My father said that she came among his people the year that I was born, and she remained in our Vítsa (Clan) until I came to these lands. How she came here is not important. What is important, is that she was as a mother to me after my own had died, more so than the next wife my father took. Always, she was there, hovering upon the edges of our encampment in her dark caravan, with its oddities.

As I grew up, my father was often away with his men in the wars, fighting for the pay of the Ottoman Turks, and our Kumpaníya (itinerant Rroma families) followed where he and his men went. It was in those days, after Sultan Murad II fell ill and died, that his son, Mehmed II, succeeded him and ruled over their expanding Empire. Mehmed II would later come to be known as el-Fātiḥ (The Conqueror), but at first, he was widely believed to be an incapable ruler and no real threat. Perhaps affronted, he constructed a great fortress called Rumelihisarı on the European side of the narrow Bosporus Straits, across from (on the Asiatic side) the one his great-grandfather, Bayezid I, had built long before, Anadoluhisarı. This secured Turkish influence over the straits, a formidable strategic position which aided The Conqueror in what he set his eye upon. In the spring of my tenth year, Sultan Mehmed II led his vast army to the very western walls of Constantinople.

Imagine, my son: There was a mere seven thousand soldiers behind the walls of that great city, looking out onto an army of more than ten times their number! More than eighty thousand men laid siege for eight weeks! And my father, your grandfather, was there, a Bey among the Bashi-bazouk, who were arrayed behind the front lines of the army, ready to do battle against the Byzantines and plunder the riches of the fallen.

For weeks, the walls of Constantinople held against its attackers, though many of the strongholds outside the city were overrun within days. Beyond our encampment, I could hear the thunder of the matchlocks, and the earth-shaking rumble of the great guns the Sultan had ordered to crumble the central wall, called Mesoteichion by the Byzantines. On many days, even the most prevailing winds could not clear away the haze of smoke from the army's fires, and the sky was unnaturally clouded.

Between our encampment and Constantinople, there was a wide, horn-shaped inlet called The Golden Horn, a breath-taking vista which was a shelter for ships, and shaped the very peninsula the city was on. We had settled our caravans and tents near the north of The Horn's head, where the body became little more than a marsh, where a single misstep could suck men and horses down into the murky water and the mud beneath it. Each day, I climbed to a rise to the south of our encampment to peer past The Golden Horn's estuary to the expanse that lay beyond, evading the women of our Kumpaníya who would put me to work doing menial things. From this great distance, there was little I could see. I had to get closer! I thought myself a man and should have been fighting by my father's side. I longed for the glory that could come from carrying a man's weapons into battle. Too, I was small and agile, and could use craft to sneak into the city and open the gates to let the Sultan's forces pour in! I would be proclaimed a hero and be given the greatest share of the riches and honor! I knew this in my heart!

The siege had been dragging on for weeks.....and word trickled in of our wounded and of our dead, but such news of the casualties was small in the face of the insurmountable wall that the Turks had to destroy in the annals of time. It was upon one night, however, late in the middle of May, that something turned; whether by men or spirits, we may never know. But! There is a thing we Rroma know well: and that was how to follow the signs that fate would show us. That night, as our women, children, and old men were gathered around our fires, Baba Vadoma hobbled down from the steps of her caravan where she often perched, watching over our people like a wise old crow. As the thud of her walking stick sounded upon the wooden steps, and then upon the hardscrabble ground as she went toward the central fire, our encampment fell into silence. I watched the bent old woman as she neared the opposite side of the fire, though her milky eyes seemed to stare straight through the flames at me, and when she opened her mouth, it was as though she breathed out my destiny into the night.

'Behold!' Her wavering voice cried, startling a babe nearby who was silenced at her mother's breast. Vadoma's gnarled walking stick was lifted, pointing toward the sky. As a body, our people gazed skyward, but we saw nothing. A few murmurs arose around the fires.

'Look!' She hissed, silencing them all. The dark faces of our people were lifted to the night sky, and after what felt like an hour to my stiffening neck, we saw what she was waiting for. A collective gasp was heard above the crackling of the flames and the distant nickering of horses. A shadow began to creep across the pallid face of the full moon shining down upon us. It oozed across the surface, bleeding black into the brilliant white, stealing away the luminescence. It was as though Vadoma herself had called upon the great shadow to blot out the light as she spoke the words that would blot out the lives of thousands.

'In seven days' time,' she began, her voice wavering at first, and then growing in strength. She spoke to us all, but still, her unseeing eyes were fixed upon me. 'In seven days' time, the streets of Constantinople shall run red with the blood of its people. In seven days' time, the treasures of Constantinople shall be wine overflowing in our cups. In seven days' time, the Great Turkish Bombard will be silent. In seven days' time.' As she spoke, the shadow encompassed the moon, swallowing it in darkness, but when she fell as silent as we, she lowered her stick once more to the ground, and silver light began to peer around the edge of the black disk, then poured forth, bright to our eyes. Hundreds of hands made the sign against the Evil Eye, protecting themselves from the spirits that spoke to the mad old woman, though not a one of us doubted her words.

For the next few days, the sound of the distant battle was subdued, as were the people of our encampment. Those before the walls of Constantinople might not yet know that the end of their bitter siege was coming, and those inside might not yet know that their walls would soon crumble around them, but we knew. Vadoma had spoken. And from the way she had looked at me, I knew that I would be there to witness it.

Three days after the night of the eclipse, the sky had cleared and there was a lull in the booming of the massive bombards; the sound of battle had stilled in the cool morning before the dew had even dried upon the grass. For long weeks, the men in that vast army had toiled at the walls of the great city, weakening them stone by stone. I knew upon that morning that it was time. It was my time! I returned to the encampment and laid out my brilliant plan to meet the army.

I climbed to the roof of my father's caravan and lay back, drawing out my route in the clouds that crept into the sky. I would have to wait for night to fall before I could leave, and I hid there until the sun was sinking low in the sky. The caravan rocked beneath me now and then, as its inhabitants came and went, but I was startled when it stilled and I felt small fingers poking me!

'Here you are! You have been searched for!' Luludja chastised me. I silenced her and waved her off. I was preoccupied. If she did not leave, I warned, I would push her off the roof of the caravan. I recall that she stuck her tongue out at me, but she said she would not tell, and started to climb back down. 'Oh,' she said, just before her head disappeared, 'Vadoma said to come see her before you do something foolish. I told her that it was too late, for you are always doing something foolish.' I rolled to my knees and struck out at her to shove her away, but she laughed and leaped down, rolling to the dirt, and ran away before I could catch her, hiding behind the skirts of the women by the cook-fire to peek out and making a face at me.

I paid her no more mind. What I had to do was too important. The old woman, too, must have sensed that the time had come for me to leave, and join my father's men. I gave a sigh and climbed down from the roof, and slunk through the deepening shadows to the old woman's caravan. She was waiting for me. She was always waiting for me.

'Ah! My Zindelo Tsino! Come here, child.' Her scratchy voice bade from the darkness that lay beyond her half-open door. I climbed the steps of her caravan with more bravado than I felt. I would not confess that I had any plans, but I was certain she knew what I was going to do, but there was still a brief flash of apprehension that she might try to stop me.

'What do you wish of me, Baba?' I cautiously asked her. I could only make out her aged face when it was lit up by the smoldering of the oily clay pipe she was drawing on, its acrid smoke wreathing her head and filling the vardo's interior.

'I wish a boy who will not lose his head fighting the wars of men, so he will live to become a man himself. But Del (God) has given me you instead.' She cackled from the dim.

'I do not know what you speak of, Baba, I know I cannot go to the battle.....' I started to speak, but her voice interrupted me sharply.

'Do not lie to Vadoma, boy! I know where you go every morning. I know what you long for. I see into that empty head of yours, and know that it will one day be filled with great knowledge! Now, you will listen to me, Zindelo Tsino, and perhaps you will survive the battlefield. I cannot promise you will survive the beating that will await you when you return.'

I swallowed hard, but nodded for her to continue. At that moment, I did not care what the old woman said, I was elated that she was not going to stop me! Later, I vaguely remembered her telling me to find and stay close to my father, 'for you were given to him, because he can protect you,' she had said. I did not understand it then, and do not still. Given to him by whom? And for what purpose? But I digress.....

Her parting words to me were haunting, but not enough that the man they were intended toward would listen. 'Remind the Rrôm Baro that he commands neither the Crescent, nor the Double-headed Eagle, Zindelo Tisno, but either might seek to bear away his foolish pride. Tell him this for Vadoma! If you make it there alive.....' I shuddered at the words and made the sign against ill fortune as she rasped a laugh in the darkness.

When the fires burned low, and nearly all were asleep, I crept out of the encampment, and stole away to the rope-pens where our horses were secured. The finest of our riding horses were already on the field of battle, and all that remained were the strong, sturdy draft horses that drew our carts and caravans, and one nearly untamed stallion."

Here, Zindelo paused and turned his black eyes, agleam with memories, to Angus as he asked. "Which one do you think I should have chosen, my son? Should I have taken the reliable and tame draft horse that was unlikely to rouse suspicion? Or should I have taken that stallion; fast, unpredictable, and half-wild?" The boy didn't hesitate in his answer. He knew which one he would have chosen. "The stallion, father!" Zindelo's smile flashed in approval. "Just so."

"I caused as little disturbance as possible among them when I secured the reins and saddled, though he shied and nickered. After a time, when I was certain I drew no attention, I persuaded him from the pen, leading him into the tall, silent grasses beyond our encampment until we were far enough that no one would see me ascend to his back, if any eyes turned in our direction. Only then did I take to the saddle, and recklessly spurred the horse into a trot, and then to a full gallop, riding hard for the field before the walls where glory awaited.

As I rode toward the marshland that crossed The Golden Horn, I had to carefully pick my way in the darkness. The moon and stars shed no light, blotted out by the smoke of more than seven thousand campfires, the smoldering remains of the outlying villages that had been overrun and razed, and the guns that now lay silent in the black.

Suddenly, a thick fog rolled in off the water of the channel. It stole across the land like the shadow that had crept across the moon, moving as if with a purpose, eddying around the legs of my horse, and enshrouding the spongy ground. Sometimes I detected the sound of shouting in the impenetrable fog, but they sounded far off; an illusion, perhaps, of the heavy mist. But, each time, I spurred on the spirited mount, forcing him onward.

There was but one way across The Golden Horn, on foot or horseback. A road had been constructed to allow the passage of communication through the marshland, a road that was dangerous during the day, and even more treacherous by night. If I strayed but a little, I would be lost to the murky waters.

I rode the stallion ahead, heedless of the fog and danger. There were men to either side, sentinels, and I knew a checkpoint lay ahead, but it seemed that the dense mists cleared before me for several horse-lengths, no matter how fast I spurred him on. It was unnatural; mists such as these did not descend in the dry warmth of the late spring! It was uncanny; the way it curved along the path, steering the route of my horse, avoiding sentries and treacherous marsh alike.

I flew along the narrow spit of land that led to the boggy road across the Golden Horn, leaving the fog swirling in my wake. I could hear the voices of confused and frightened men behind me, insisting something was in the mists, coming for them, and in my abandon youthful foolishness, I gave a keening howl into the stillness. The eerie sound seemed to come from everywhere. There was no way for them to tell where I was, and I left them with my ghostly laughter in the thick clouds, riding on, spurring the mount back to a gallop until the road became merely a track, and dry ground began to give way to a squelching, shifting mass of water-saturated earth.

The corridor of mists widened, and the horse shied from the edges of the road, prancing from one side to the other, seeking dry footing, and I eventually had to climb from the saddle and lead him by the reins. I became stuck once and sank to my knees in the mire, loosing my shoes entirely, but I grabbed the stirrup of the saddle and hauled myself out, watching as black water gushed into the hole I'd left behind.

Cursing my misfortune, I climbed back into the saddle and we continued on until the marshes gave way to firmament. Dawn was close to breaking, and the breeze shifted, but still the fog did not lift. I almost retched! The stench of death was heavy in the air, mingling with the refuse of the armies, and the tang of black powder that made my nose itch. My eyes began to water and I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve, as I rode ahead to a copse of trees where I could rest for a few moments. That respite was briefly lived. I washed the filth from my hands and face as well as I could in a small stream that ran nearby, and let the horse drink its fill as I explored along the embankment. A short way downstream, I came across a launch area where clay jars and water-skins were piled, awaiting the water-carriers who would soon be coming to gather the fresh water for the morning ablutions and drinking. An idea sprang into my mind, and I darted through the darkness, down the embankment, leading the horse behind me.

I realized that while the fog had been able to conceal me along the road, there would be far more men among the armies, and closer pressed. But, here at hand was my way past the perimeter of the army's vast encampment! Of course, I was too young to be a soldier, but I did not look much younger than the young men who carried water, ran errands, and tended to the encampment. I was already tall and able-bodied in those days, and so I stooped to fill two large water-skins (nearly my own size!) before securing them to my horse's saddle. I would not now seem so conspicuous; a barefoot boy with a laden horse, performing his labors. I filled another water-skin and slung it over my back, leading the stallion by the reins, then went off to join the army of the great Sultan, Mehmed II!"

Zindelo glanced over at Angus. The youth was fighting to keep his eyes open, his head now and then nodding with the weight of fatigue, and his low laughter rumbled. "Come, múrro shávo. It is time for you to be abed. Tomorrow, I shall tell you about how I became a Janissary and first saw The Great Turkish Bombard, that pummeled the walls of Constantinople, and could have toppled God from his throne!"

(To be continued.....)

( Love this! Vadoma..old crow HA!)

Story Book Author ME : Number of posts : 335 Registration date : 2007-10-29

((okay D. Its been 19 days since your post and I am not a patient person. More please? :::smirks:::: ))

Number of posts : 19 Registration date : 2011-02-27

(( still very captivating D.. I was told once that my character was to be introduced to Vadoma cant wait now.)))

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