Pyramus Herne was the head of a family of gypsy horse dealers that
toured the south and west of England, appearing regularly in the Land’s
End district on the heels of the New Year. They came not particularly to
do business, but to feed their horses up for the spring fairs. The
climate was mild, and Pyramus knew that to keep a beast warm is to go
halfway towards fattening it.
He would arrive with a chain of broken-down skeletons, tied head to
tail, file their teeth, blister and fire their game legs and turn them
loose in the sheltered bottoms for a rest cure. At the end of three
months, when the bloom was on their new coats, he would trim their feet,
pull manes and tails, give an artistic touch here and there with the
shears, paint out blemishes, make old teeth look like new and depart
with a string of apparently gamesome youngsters frolicking in his
tracks.
It was his practice to pitch his winter camp in a small coppice about
two and a half miles north of Bosula. It was no man’s land, sheltered by
a wall of rocks from the north and east, water was plentiful and the
trees provided fuel. Moreover, it was secluded, a weighty consideration,
for the gypsy dealt in other things besides horses, in the handling of
which privacy was of the first import. In short he was a receiver of
stolen goods and valuable articles of salvage. He gave a better price
than the Jew junk dealers in Penzance because his travels opened a wider
market and also he had a reputation of never “peaching,” of betraying a
customer for reward—a reputation far from deserved, be it said, but he
peached always in secret and with consummate discretion.
He did lucrative business in salvage in the west, but the traffic in
stolen goods was slight because there were no big towns and no
professional thieves. The few furtive people who crept by night into the
little wood seeking the gypsy were mainly thieves by accident, victims
of sudden overwhelming temptations. They seldom bargained with Pyramus,
but agreed to the first price offered, thrust the stolen articles upon
him as if red-hot and were gone, radiant with relief, frequently
forgetting to take the money.
“I am like their Christ,” said Pyramus; “they come to me to be relieved
of their sins.”
In England of those days gypsies were regarded with well-merited
suspicion and hunted from pillar to post. Pyramus was the exception. He
passed unmolested up and down his trade routes, for he was at particular
pains to ingratiate himself with the two ruling classes—the law
officers and the gentry—and, being a clever man, succeeded.
The former liked him because once “King” Herne joined a fair there would
be no trouble with the Romanies, also he gave them reliable information
from time to time. Captain Rudolph, the notorious Bath Road highwayman,
owed his capture and subsequent hanging to Pyramus, as did also a score
of lesser tobymen. Pyramus made no money out of footpads, so he threw
them as a sop to Justice.
The gentry Pyramus fawned on with the oily cunning of his race. Every
man has a joint in his harness, magistrates no less. Pyramus made these
little weaknesses of the great his special study. One influential land
owner collected snuff boxes, another firearms. Pyramus in his
traffickings up and down the world kept his eyes skinned for snuff boxes
and firearms, and, having exceptional opportunities, usually managed to
bring something for each when he passed their way, an exquisite casket
of tortoise-shell and paste, a pair of silver-mounted pistols with
Toledo barrels. Some men had to be reached by other means.
Lord James Thynne was partial to coursing. Pyramus kept an eye lifted
for greyhounds, bought a dog from the widow of a Somersetshire poacher
(hung the day before) and Lord James won ten matches running with it;
the Herne tribe were welcome to camp on his waste lands forever.
But his greatest triumph was with Mr. Hugo Lorimer, J. P., of Stane, in
the county of Hampshire. Mr. Lorimer was death on gypsies, maintaining
against all reason that they hailed from Palestine and were responsible
for the Crucifixion. He harried them unmercifully. He was not otherwise
a devout man; the persecution of the Romanies was his sole form of
religious observance. Even the astute Pyramus could not melt him, charm
he never so wisely.
This worried King Herne, the more so because Mr. Lorimer’s one passion
was horses—his own line of business—and he could not reach him through
it.
He could not win the truculent J. P. by selling him a good nag cheap
because he bred his own and would tolerate no other breed. He could not
even convey a good racing tip to the gentleman because he did not bet.
The Justice was adamant; Pyramus baffled.
Then one day a change came in the situation. The pride of the stud, the
crack stallion “Stane Emperor,” went down with fever and, despite all
ministrations, passed rapidly from bad to worse. All hope was abandoned.
Mr. Lorimer, infinitely more perturbed than if his entire family had
been in a like condition, sat on an upturned bucket in the horse’s box
and wept.
To him entered Pyramus, pushing past the grooms, fawning, obsequiously
sympathetic, white with dust. He had heard the dire news at Downton and
came instanter, spurring.
Might he humbly crave a peep at the noble sufferer? . . . Perhaps his
poor skill might effect something. . . . Had been with horses all his
life. . . . Had succeeded with many cases abandoned by others more
learned. . . . It was his business and livelihood. . . . Would His
Worship graciously permit? . . .
His Worship ungraciously grunted an affirmative. Gypsy horse coper full
of tricks as a dog of fleas. . . . At all events could make the precious
horse no worse. . . . Go ahead!
Pyramus bolted himself in with the animal, and in two hours it was
standing up, lipping bran-mash from his hand, sweaty, shaking, but
saved.
Mr. Hugo Lorimer was all gratitude, his one soft spot touched at last.
Pyramus must name his own reward. Pyramus, both palms upraised in
protest, would hear of no reward, honored to have been of any service to
_such_ a gentleman.
Departed bowing and smirking, the poison he had blown through a grating
into the horse’s manger the night before in one pocket, the antidote in
the other.
Henceforward the Herne family plied their trade undisturbed within the
bounds of Mr. Lorimer’s magistracy to the exclusion of all other gypsies
and throve mightily in consequence.
He had been at pains to commend himself to Teresa Penhale, but had only
partly succeeded. She was the principal land owner in the valley where
he wintered and it was necessary to keep on her right side.
The difficulty with Teresa was that, being of gypsy blood herself, she
was proof against gypsy trickery and exceeding suspicious of her own
kind. He tried to present her with a pair of barbaric gold earrings, by
way of throwing bread upon the waters, but she asked him how much he
wanted for them and he made the fatal mistake of saying “nothing.”
“Nothing to-day and my skin to-morrow?” she sneered. “Outside with you!”
Pyramus went on the other tack, pretended not to recognize her as a
Romni, addressed her in English, treated her with extravagant deference
and saw to it that his family did the same.
It worked. Teresa rather fancied herself as a “lady”—though she could
never go to the trouble of behaving like one—and it pleased her to find
somebody who treated her as such. It pleased her to have the great King
Herne back his horse out of her road and remain, hat in hand, till she
had passed by, to have his women drop curtsies and his bantlings bob. It
worked—temporarily. Pyramus had touched her abundant conceit, lulled
the Christian half of her with flattery, but he knew that the gypsy half
was awake and on guard. The situation was too nicely balanced for
comfort; he looked about for fresh weight to throw into his side of the
scale.
One day he met Eli, wandering up the valley alone, flintlock in hand, on
the outlook for woodcock.
Pyramus could be fascinating when he chose; it lubricated the wheels of
commerce. He laid himself out to charm Eli, told him where he had seen a
brace of cock and also some snipe, complimented him on his villainous
old blunderbuss, was all gleaming teeth, geniality and oil. He could not
have made a greater mistake. Eli was not used to charm and had
instinctive distrust of the unfamiliar. He had been reared among boors
who said their say in the fewest words and therefore distrusted a
talker. Further, he was his father’s son, a Penhale of Bosula on his own
soil, and this fellow was an Egyptian, a foreigner, and he had an
instinctive distrust of foreigners. He growled something incoherent,
scowled at the beaming Pyramus, shouldered his unwieldy cannon and
marched off in the opposite direction.
Pyramus bit his fleshy lip; nothing to be done with that truculent bear
cub—but what about the brother, the handsome dark boy? What about
him—eh?
He looked out for Ortho, met him once or twice in company with other
lads, made no overtures beyond a smile, but heeled his mare and set her
caracoling showily.
He did not glance round, but he knew the boy’s eyes were following him.
A couple of evenings after the last meeting he came home to learn that
young Penhale had been hanging about the camp that afternoon.
The eldest Herne son, Lussha, had invited him in, but Ortho declined,
saying he had come up to look at some badger diggings. Pyramus smiled
into his curly beard; the badger holes had been untenanted for years.
Ortho came up to carry out a further examination of the badger earths
the very next day.
Pyramus saw him, high up among the rocks of the carn, his back to the
diggings, gazing wistfully down on the camp, its tents, fires, and
horses. He did not ask the boy in, but sent out a scout with orders to
bring word when young Penhale went home.
The scout returned at about three o’clock. Ortho, he reported, had
worked stealthily down from the carn top and had been lying in the
bracken at the edge of the encampment for the last hour, imagining
himself invisible. He had now gone off towards Bosula. Pyramus called
for his mare to be saddled, brushed his breeches, put on his best coat,
mounted and pursued. He came up with the boy a mile or so above the farm
and brought his mount alongside caracoling and curveting. Ortho’s
expressive eyes devoured her.
“Good day to you, young gentleman,” Pyramus called, showing his fine
teeth. Ortho grinned in return.
“Wind gone back to the east; we shall have a spell of dry weather, I
think,” said the gypsy, making the mare do a right pass, pivot on her
hocks and pass to the left.
“Yeh,” said Ortho, his mouth wide with admiration.
King Herne and his steed were enough to take any boy’s fancy; they were
dressed to that end. The gypsy had masses of inky hair, curled mustaches
and an Assyrian beard, which frame of black served to enhance the
brightness of his glance, the white brilliance of his smile. He was
dressed in the coat he wore when calling on the gentry, dark blue
frogged with silver lace, and buff spatter-dashes. He sat as though
bolted to the saddle from the thighs down; the upper half of him, hinged
at the hips, balanced gracefully to every motion of his mount, lithe as
a panther for all his forty-eight years.
And the mare—she was his pride and delight, black like himself,
three-quarter Arab, mettlesome, fine-boned, pointed of muzzle, arched of
neck. Unlike her mates, she was assiduously groomed and kept rugged in
winter so that her coat had not grown shaggy. Her long mane rippled like
silken threads, her tail streamed behind her like a banner. The late
sunshine twinked on the silver mountings of her bridle and rippled over
her hide till she gleamed like satin. She bounded and pirouetted along
beside Ortho, light on her feet as a ballerina, tossed her mane, pricked
her crescent ears, showed the whites of her eyes, clicked the bit in her
young teeth, a thing of steel and swansdown, passion and docility.
Ortho’s eyes devoured her. Pyramus noted it, laughed and patted the
glossy neck.
“You like my little sweet—eh? She is of blood royal. Her sire was given
to the Chevalier Lombez Muret by the Basha of Oran in exchange for three
pieces of siege ordnance and a chiming clock. The dam of that sire
sprang from the sacred mares of the Prophet Mahomet, the mares that
though dying of thirst left the life-giving stream and galloped to the
trumpet call. There is the blood of queens in her.”
“She is a queen herself,” said Ortho warmly.
Pyramus nodded. “Well said! I see you have an eye for a horse, young
squire. You can ride, doubtless?”
“Yes—but only pack-horses.”
“So—only pack-horses, farm drudges—that is doleful traveling. See
here, mount my ‘Rriena,’ and drink the wind.” He dropped the reins,
vaulted off over the mare’s rump and held out his hand for Ortho’s knee.
“Me! I . . . I ride her?” The boy stuttered, astounded.
The gypsy smiled his dazzling, genial smile. “Surely—an you will. There
is nothing to fear; she is playful only, the heart of a dove. Take hold
of the reins . . . your knee . . . up you go!”
He hove the boy high and lowered him gently into the saddle.
“Stirrups too long? Put your feet in the leathers—so. An easy hand on
her mouth, a touch will serve. Ready? Then away, my chicken.”
He let go the bridle and clapped his palms. The mare bounded into the
air. Ortho, frightened, clutched the pommel, but she landed again light
as a feather, never shifting him in the saddle. Smoothly she caracoled,
switching her plumy tail, tossing her head, snatching playfully at the
bit. There was no pitch, no jar, just an easy, airy rocking. Ortho let
her gambol on for a hundred yards or so, and then, thinking he’d better
turn, fingered his off rein. He no more than fingered the rein, but the
mare responded as though she divined his thoughts, circled smoothly and
rocked back towards Pyramus.
“Round again,” shouted the gypsy, “and give her rein; there’s a stretch
of turf before you.”
Again the mare circled. Ortho tapped her with his heels. A tremble ran
through her, an electric thrill; she sprang into a canter, from a canter
to a gallop and swept down the turf all out. It was flight, no less,
winged flight, skimming the earth. The turf streamed under them like a
green river; bushes, trees, bowlders flickered backwards, blurred,
reeling. The wind tore Ortho’s cap off, ran fingers through his hair,
whipped tears to his eyes, blew jubilant bugles in his ears, drowning
the drum of hoofs, filled his open mouth, sharp, intoxicating, the heady
wine of speed. He was one with clouds, birds, arrows, all things free
and flying. He wanted to sing and did so, a wordless, crazy caroling.
They swept on, drunk with the glory of it. A barrier of thorn stood
across the way, and Ortho came to his senses. They would be into it in a
minute unless he stopped the mare. He braced himself for a pull—but
there was no need; she felt him stiffen and sit back, sat back herself
and came to a full stop within ten lengths. Ortho wiped the happy tears
from his eyes, patted her shoulder, turned and went back at the same
pace, speed-drunk again. They met the gypsy walking towards them, the
dropped cap in hand. He called to the mare; she stopped beside him and
rubbed her soft muzzle against his chest. He looked at the flushed,
enraptured boy.
“She can gallop, my little ‘Rriena’?”
“Gallop! Why, yes. Gallop! I . . . I never knew . . . never saw . . . I
. . .” Words failed Ortho.
Pyramus laughed. “No, there is not her match in the country. But, mark
ye, she will not give her best to anybody. She felt the virtue in you,
knew you for her master. You need experience, polish, but you are a
horseman born, flat in the thigh, slim-waisted, with light, strong
hands.” The gypsy’s voice pulsed with enthusiasm, his dark eyes glowed.
“Tcha! I wish I had the schooling of you; I’d make you a wizard with
horses!”
“Oh, I wish you would! Will you, will you?” cried Ortho.
Pyramus made a gesture with his expressive hands.
“I would willingly—I love a bold boy—but . . .”
“Yes?”
Pyramus shrugged his shoulders. “The lady, your mother, has no liking
for me. She is right, doubtless; you are Christian, gentry, I but a poor
Rom . . . still I mean no harm.”
“She shall never know, never,” said Ortho eagerly. “Oh, I would give
anything if you would!”
Pyramus shook his head reprovingly. “You must honor your parents,
Squire; it is so written . . . and yet I am loath to let your gifts lie
fallow; a prince of jockeys I could make you.”
He bit his finger nails as though wrestling with temptation. “See here,
get your mother’s leave and then come, come and a thousand welcomes. I
have a chestnut pony, a red flame of a pony, that would carry you as my
beauty carries me.”
He vaulted into the saddle, jumped the mare over a furze bush, whirled
about, waved his hat and was gone up the valley, scattering clods. Ortho
watched the flying pair until they were out of sight, and then turned
homewards, his heart pounding, new avenues of delight opening before
him.
Out of sight, Pyramus eased Rriena to a walk and, leaning forward,
pulled her ears affectionately. “Did he roll all over you and tug your
mouth, my sweetmeat?” he purred. “Well, never again. But we have him
now. In a year or two he’ll be master here and I’ll graze fifty nags
where I grazed twenty. We will fatten on that boy.”
Ortho reported at the gypsy camp shortly after sun-up next morning; he
was wasting no time. Questioned, he swore he had Teresa’s leave, which
was a lie, as Pyramus knew it to be. But he had covered himself; did
trouble arise he could declare he understood the boy had got his
mother’s permission.
Ortho did not expect to be discovered. Teresa was used to his being out
day and night with either Bohenna or Jacky’s George and would not be
curious. The gypsies had the head of the valley to themselves; nobody
ever came that way except the cow-girl Wany, and she had no eyes for
anything but the supernatural.
The riding lessons began straightway on Lussha’s red pony “Cherry.” The
chestnut was by no means as perfect a mount as the black mare, but for
all that a creditable performer, well-schooled, speedy and eager, a
refreshing contrast to the stiff-jointed, iron-mouthed farm horses.
Pyramus took pains with his pupil. Half of what he had said was true;
the boy was shaped to fit a saddle and his hands were sensitive. There
was a good deal of the artist in King Herne. It pleased him to handle
promising material for its own sake, but above all he sought to infect
the boy with horse-fever to his own material gain.
The gypsy camp saw Ortho early and late. He returned to Bosula only to
sleep and fill his pockets with food. Food in wasteful plenty lay about
everywhere in that slip-shod establishment; the door was never bolted.
He would creep home through the orchard, silence the dogs with a word,
take off his shoes in the kitchen, listen to Teresa’s hearty snores in
the room above, drive the cats off the remains of supper, help himself
and tiptoe up to bed. Nobody, except Eli, knew where he spent his days;
nobody cared.
The gypsies attracted him for the same reason that they repelled his
brother; they were something new, something he did not understand.
Ortho did not find anything very elusive about the males; they were much
like other men, if quicker-witted and more suave. It was the women who
intrigued and, at the same time, awed him. He had watched them at work
with the cards, bent over the palm of a trembling servant girl or farm
woman. What did they know? What didn’t they know? What virtue was in
them that they should be the chosen mouthpieces of Destiny? He would
furtively watch them about their domestic duties, stirring the black
pots or nursing their half-naked brats, and wonder what secrets the
Fates were even then whispering into their ringed ears, what enigmas
were being made plain to those brooding eyes. He felt his soul laid bare
to those omniscient eyes.
But it was solely his own imagination that troubled him. The women gave
him no cause; they cast none but the gentlest glances at the dark boy.
Sometimes of an evening they would sing, not the green English ballads
and folk-songs that were their stock-in-trade, but epics of Romany
heroes, threnodies and canzonets.
Pyramus was the principal soloist. He had a pliant, tuneful voice and
accompanied himself on a Spanish guitar.
He would squat before the fire, the women in a row opposite him, toss a
verse across to them, and they would toss back the refrain, rocking to
the time as though strung on a single wire.
The scene stirred Ortho—the gloomy wood, the overhanging rocks, the
gypsy king, guitar across his knees, trumpeting his wild songs of love
and knavery; and the women and girls, in their filthy, colorful rags,
seen through a film of wood smoke, swaying to and fro, to and fro,
bright eyes and barbaric brass ornaments glinting in the firelight. On
the outer circle children and men lay listening in the leaf mold, and
beyond them invisible horses stamped and shifted at their pickets, an
owl hooted, a dog barked.
The scene stirred Ortho. It was so strange, and yet somehow so familiar,
he had a feeling that sometime, somewhere he had seen it all before;
long ago and far away he had sat in a camp like this and heard women
singing. He liked the boastful, stormy songs, “Invocation to Timour,”
“The Master Thief,” “The Valiant Tailor,” but the dirges carried him
off, one especially. It was very sweet and sad, it had only four verses
and the women sang each refrain more softly than the one before, so that
the last was hardly above a whisper and dwindled into silence like the
wind dying away—“aië, aië; aië, aië.” Ortho did not understand what it
was about, its name even, but when he heard it he lost himself, became
some one else, some one else who understood perfectly crept inside his
body, forced his tears, made him sway and feel queer. Then the gypsy
women across the fire would glance at him and nudge each other quietly.
“See,” they would whisper, “his Rom grandfather looking out of his
eyes.”