The Price Of Horses

1 The country lane lay quiet in the lingering evening light of early summer. The leaves of the oaks and hawthorns in the field hedgerows on each side hissed softly in the gentlest of breezes. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, leaving mottled bands of alto-cumulus to the northwest glowing violent orange-red, like the reflection of some far-off conflagration. With barely audible flutterings, nesting birds settled down into exhausted sleep, the long day feeding hungry fledglings over for a few brief hours. A Romany travellers' trailer with ornamented chrome work and steel trims stood on the grass verge. Voices and laughter drifted from the open door. A small truck was pulled up nearby. Between the truck and the trailer, an open fire burned brightly. Above the fire a blackened kettle hung from a kettle iron. A smooth-haired brown lurcher, tethered by the trailer, watched everything that moved. Further down the lane, a dozen piebald gypsy vanners, tied to their plug chains, grazed the coarse grasses on the verge. The munch and stamp of the horses and the rattle of their chains as they grazed was at first all that could be heard. Then voices arose, strangely disembodied among the dense screen of hawthorns. Luke Smith, a fifteen-year-old Romany youth, and Riley, his elder brother, worked among the bushes, grooming the family's prize chestnut mare. Riley brushed the mane, Luke the tail. Seniority in such tasks was strictly observed. "You done good mushgaying, brother?" Riley asked. "There's no posh rawni's gryes in the field? No bokros and gurnis?" "I've dikkered every inch of it!" Luke replied hotly. "No sheep. No cows. There's only drummers as round and fat as firkins! And a couple o' snoring elephants." Riley was used to his brother's strange mixtures of fact and fantasy. "We'll put Nip in later to get us a drummer." Rabbit stew for supper! We'll be living free as princes!" Luke exclaimed. By the trees across the lane, Old Musker, a tramp with a bushy grey beard, erected a small, hooped bender tent. He kept up a muttered commentary in traveller cant as he worked. No one knew Old Musker's age; he had been announcing that he was "nearer seventy than sixty" for as long as anyone could remember. He had attached himself to the Smith family for the past year, and in spite of him not being of their blood, they had kept him fed and watered. But he always set up his bender at a distance, as privacy mattered, too, on both sides. Ambrose Smith, the youths' father, a dark wiry man, stepped out of the trailer, followed by his wife, Mireli, and Athalia, his thirteen-year-old daughter. Both mother and daughter wore brightly patterned dresses, with headscarves over their long glossy black hair. Ambrose was in his weather-worn work jacket and heavy boots, his flat cap, shiny with time, set at a jaunty angle. He glanced at the sky. "Be a dark moon tonight. Reckon we'll get ourselves some free grazing." He gave a short whistle as a signal to his sons and waited until they emerged from the trees. "It's a beautiful evening, with only us here to please ourselves. Unplug the gryes, boys. We'll be putting 'em in that empty meadow yonder." Mireli cautioned them. "Riley. Luke. Look after the gryes. And your dadu. They's all we got!" "Let me come with you!" Athalia pleaded. "Your job's to take care o' your dai, my girl," Ambrose admonished her with a kindly smile. "She's all we got!" Luke, handsome and easygoing, laughed at her. "We're only gonna nick a little gorgios' grass, a bit o' chaw ta pani. It's no big deal." Riley, habitually scowling, took exception as usual. "Big deal? This Romanichal's a yank now!" Ambrose waved to the women, who watched their menfolk leave. Mireli glanced at the lurcher. "If anyone comes prowling, Nip will tell us." The lurcher looked up at them at the mention of his name. Mireli waved to Old Musker. "Drop o' tea when you want." "Two minutes!" Mireli knew that clock time to Old Musker meant nothing. Two minutes could become as many hours. But she topped up the kettle from the water jack, placed more wood on the fire and got the drinking mugs ready. "You think Musker will live another year?" Athalia asked her mother as they went back into the trailer. "What if he dies? Where will we bury him?" "He said he wants to be laid in the churchyard in his village, or his mullo, his ghost, won't let him find peace. He told me he'd paid for his grave years back. Next to the birch tree he said, so he could be a part of its roots and travel in the underworld. But I don't know if he was just telling a mumpers' tale. Anyhow, who says he'll be dying? We're looking after him now." Riley and Luke released the horses from their plug chains and walked them for a quarter mile to where Ambrose had opened a field gate to let the horses enter the wildflower meadow that bordered the lane. "Be some sweet grazing for 'em tonight," Ambrose remarked. "It'll help get 'em in shape for Appleby Fair. We've to meet Taiso there next week." Luke looked at their prize mare with pride. "I ride her over the field?" he asked eagerly. Riley frowned. "What makes you think you can?" Luke grinned. "I can ride anything! I could ride a wild boar if we'd any left in England. Or even one o' them African osteriches!" "You be riding for a fall!" Riley seemed about to punch his younger brother. Luke stepped back, laughing. He enjoyed annoying Riley, but the fun was beginning to sour, as increasingly he was growing to think of him as weak—and only a bully makes sport of a coward. "Freedom's wasted on you, brother. You gotta live it or lose it! One o' these days you'll wake up and wonder where it's gone!" Before Riley could reply, Ambrose stepped between them. "Wait till we get to Appleby. You can ride her there, both o' you. It'll help us sell her. Too risky to ride her down here in the dark. She might get a hoof in a drummer's hole and go down. Then where'd we be?" Ambrose, a man of practical good sense, was right, of course. His mind was filled with nuggets of wisdom, the fruits of forty years on the road. Luke stored his father's observations away like a secret coin hoard, but he also picked up something else: a sense of sadness that hung around the man like an invisible aura with no obvious cause. While Luke chased the impression away like an irritating bug, Riley seemed to have no power to banish it. Sometimes it seemed he was sucked into their father's sadness, as if the two of them were privy to some disturbing secret. But Luke's enthusiasm remained undiminished. "Can I swim her in the Eden at Appleby, Dadu?" "We'll see," Ambrose said thoughtfully. "We'll mebbe race her in Flashing Lane. If she wins, we'll get a good price for her." They stood a while, watching the vanners gallop around the field, enjoying their freedom. As the light faded, the horses settled down to graze and drink at the field trough. Then, at last, the chestnut mare was put into the field. "Beat you at Appleby this year, brother," Luke taunted Riley good-naturedly. "You'll be a loser!" "Loser?" Riley scowled. "Another word for gorgio, ain't it?" They all laughed. The sound of two gunshots, followed by a sudden explosion, took them by surprise. Flames leaped into the sky in the direction of the trailer. "Dordi! Dordi!" Ambrose exclaimed. "Run, boys! Run!" They closed the field gate and sprinted towards the fire. Luke raced ahead, Riley and Ambrose a stride behind. Gradually becoming visible through the lane-side trees were flames engulfing their campsite. The trailer was a fireball. Old Musker and Nip were nowhere to be seen. Luke, Riley and Ambrose tried to get close, but the heat beat them back. "Mother! Athalia!" Luke yelled. He leaped forward, as if about to hurl himself into the flames. Ambrose grabbed him and held him back. "It's too late, son. We're too late. We've lost our dearest treasures." They stared helplessly at the inferno that had once been their home, tears streaming down their faces. Luke released a terrible yell of despair. "Who's done this to us? Who's done this to us, Dadu?" His father and brother stared in despair at the flames. They shook their heads but made no reply. "Who's done this?" Luke persisted. "Who hates us so much?" "No one," Ambrose managed to reply through his tears. "No one's done it." He looked at Riley for confirmation. "An accident," Riley said, his voice choked with emotion. "Just an accident. Those gas bottles are dangerous things." Luke didn't believe them. He couldn't explain how he knew, but their words were hollow. "Who's done this?" he yelled again. "No one, Luke. Believe me." "An accident, brother!" But Luke's mind was screaming NO! NO! NO! "Who hates us so much, Dadu? I swear by my blood I will find them and kill them!"