Pharasma avilan chi, it is Pharasma who brought you daughter. Your journey is soon finished.
Mirela was the little girl struggling to cook without being scalded. Struggling to care for a mother that should have been taking care of her instead. Villagers would appear from village and want to learn their fortunes in exchange for a few coppers. Mirela could not read the harrow cards. However her mother could see them even though she sat covered in layers of veils behind a curtain in the back of the wagon. She spoke, but only in Mirela’s mind. She spoke the fortunes and Mirela repeated them not always understanding what she was relaying. Mother was always there teaching, scolding, comforting, and commanding. With that voice in her head, Mirela was never alone.
We deal with the Gaje, the non-gypsy, only when we must. Only to survive. For to be with them you become marhime, defiled and unclean.
The world seemed ethereal, unreal. As if running through the mist that surrounded her would somehow puncture the illusion. She grew to womanhood in moments. Her mother spoke her name in her mind. Not “Mirela”, but her true name that which was only spoken once at birth and again when she first bled. Her true name was forever secret; less it could be wielded against her. Such was the way of the Drabarni, those who were blessed with dukkeri, the luck, the sight, or the magic.
We live apart from the kumpania, the caravan. We Drabarni may possess the sight, but we also draw mulo, spirits of the dead.
Mirela rebelled. She refused to live as an outcast despite her mother’s screeches and warnings lashing at her mind. She sought the warmth in the arms of the Gaje boy Gustan, a merchant’s son.
Gajo si dilo, The non-gypsy boy is a fool. You defile yourself precious daughter. Marhime!
The fog brought the evening when Gustan professed his love to Mirela. They spent hours together that would be forever remembered. Forever for Gustan was only until midnight. The merchant’s son was thrown from his spooked horse, his head splitting against an oak tree. As he died, Gustan cried wanting to see his own mother. Although Mirela was sure that she could save him, she wasn’t sure how. As his eyes grew dark, all he asked for was his own mother to tell him everything was going to be alright. Though shocked and saddened, Mirela thought Gustan wanting his mother and not having her in his final moments was a curious thing. The fog swirled.
Foolish girl. This was your fault. I told you to stay away from him. You didn’t think I was serious.
Gustan’s coffin fit him perfectly. He almost looked alive except that he had no color. He wore the same suit he wore the night before. It was his finest. Mirela also wore the same clothes as the night before, only hers were faded rags. She stood out terribly against all the mourners wearing black. She could feel accusing tearful eyes burning on her from every direction.
Why don’t you come home? Why didn’t you listen to me? I only think of you dear daughter.
Mirela had lingered near the coffin too long. Gustan’s father the merchant noticed her, “This was your fault whore! You lured him away with your spells and hexes. Your kind has plagued this town long enough. I swear on his grave that if I do nothing else in my life, I will burn you and your devil mother. Your flesh shall cook and your blood shall boil for all our people to see.”
He did not love you. He was just after your...
“Silence mother!” The funeral mourners turned towards her. Their features faded away until they were only gray shades. Mirela turned and ran into the fog. Crows cawed overhead. She found herself in a copse of trees.
Be watchful daughter! Someone comes for you. He comes to take you away from me. Flee now and find safety in your mother’s embrace.
Mirela hid amongst the roots of a nearby tree. The fog grew thicker and moisture dripped from the branches onto her head. A dark figure wearing black scale armor emerged from the gray cloud. Fear clinched Mirela, yet something about the figure seemed familiar. Fog swirled again.
Come home daughter. Dance around the fire as you used to. Let your scarves twirl and your bells tinkle. Bring a smile to your old mother's face.
"I cannot dance mother, for there is no one to play the fiddle." Mirela found herself in the caravan wagon. It smelled of scorched wood. The curtain was open and mother sat there covered in her layers of veils. "I remember now mother. I remember everything. You killed Gustan and I burnt you for it. All it took was a single flaming twig to end you. For all your power, you could not do as little as crawl from a burning wagon."
Kurav tu ando mul! Ungrateful wench, you did not kill me. You think yourself a gajo that you would do thier work for them? As you will find out yourself, Drabarni are not so easily ended. Let me be so kind as to share the gift you gave me.
An emaciated hand shot out from underneath the veils and latched onto Mirela's wrist. Its dry skin stretched as paper over bones yet its strength was as a steel manacle. The candles in the wagon flared and the walls erupted into flame.
I will never forgive you. My spirit shall never rest. I can smell the filth of the gaje on your soul. You were nothing to them. They let you die. Now we will cleanse you of your marhime. Burn with me now daughter. Burn through eternity!
As the heat of the burning wagon enveloped Mirela, she felt something cool attach itself to her neck. It was an antique necklace. She felt herself ascending, being lifted as a one drowning might be lifted from water. The heat subsided and her back began to feel cool stone pressed against it. Still the veiled figure gripped her wrist refusing to give up.
They will not take you from me! I will always be with you dear daughter.
******
The body on the alter lay quiet except for a whoosh of air that rushed down her mouth filling her lungs once again. A low whine began in her ruined throat. The three-eyed crow dropped from a stone perch and landed just above her head. The bird spread its wings wide and cawed triumphantly. Mirela reflexively batted away at the phantom memory of teeth in her flesh. From her mouth burst a piercing scream that sounded throughout the cemetery and traveled out across the moor.
She curled up sobbing as the servants of Abadar held scales aloft and said their prayers.
