Page 35 of I Will Always Find You
Soon, as the dance built momentum, the men began to double-stamp, and in their Slavic language, they all shouted boisterously as they moved around in their human hoop.
With the aid of a friendly Slav who travelled part of the way to this region alongside him, the Romani witch had learned to speak, to some degree, the language of this land.
Several months earlier, he had met Slobodan, a one-armed man a few years older than himself, inside a tavern in a small, insignificant town on the western edge of the Kingdom of Hungary. On the brink of starvation, the poor fellow had found himself in a spot of trouble with several belligerent drunkards who had been harassing him, mocking his infirmityand threatening violence simply because he appeared different and weak.
The Romani witch loathed bullies. Since the day he first met Aeneas in Pompeii and saved him from a beating, he swore to always stand up to ruffians. Thanks to his magic, he rarely had to get physical.
He inevitably rescued the beleaguered man from his predicament by casting the Spell of Forgetfulness, needing only spoken words of power accompanied by sand flowing through his fingers to cloud the minds of the drunken brutes further. In every new life, the Romani witch kept two small pouches of sand from the shores of the Tyrrhenian Sea on his person specifically for this spell.
To everyone around, it seemed a stranger had come out of nowhere and calmed the local men’s anger with naught but gentle words in a soothing tone and sent them on their way. No one had suspected witchcraft.
After his new Slavic friend was no longer under threat of harm, the Romani witch treated him to a warm meal and several mugs of good mead.
Having no coin and no family in a society that had branded him a burden and rejected him, Slobodan made a mutually beneficial proposal. He offered to become the Romani witch’s travel companion in gratitude for his kindness and to obtain assistance in keeping himself fed; he noticed the full money pouch on his saviour’s belt.
Although unaware of his true power, Slobodan could not deny that the Romani witch appeared strong, was full of courage, and had a clever tongue. Those qualities would keep him safe.
Upon discovering that the Romani witch had limited knowledge of Ruthenia, the Slav enthusiastically offered to educate him about the land and its culture. He also proposedto teach his potential benefactor the Slavic language of the Carpathian region he was travelling to.
Slobodan was educated and could read and write, though he kept to himself how he had become this erudite.
Before this sensible proposal, however, to repay the debt of graciousness he felt he owed his saviour, Slobodan had offered himself sexually, or at least strongly hinted at it, as that was what he frequently did to survive.
Though quite thin, the Slav was handsome in his own way, with hair the colour of dark ocher, eyes as blue as the sea, and a pleasant smile with crooked teeth that the Romani witch found oddly endearing; still, he was uninterested in this type of transaction and declined the vague offer.
Slobodan’s missing arm was not the reason for the disinterest, though the Slav initially believed it so, the look on his face conveying his humiliation.
The Romani witch did not like that he had unintentionally wounded his new friend’s heart. He did not find Slobodan’s impediment distasteful or shameful, nor did he believe the Slav should ever feel that way about himself, and he stated that quite clearly. He explained that he declined because only his beloved Aeneas would ever touch his body or have his heart; he desired no one else.
Also, any person feeling they had to use their body as payment for a simple showing of goodwill was distasteful to the Romani witch; it saddened him. He firmly believed that friendship, charity, and benevolence should be offered freely, without cost or expectation of return.
Of course, as his Romani grandmother used to say:One must realize a fundamental truth in the grand tapestry of human life. Sometimes, hard, uncompromising choices must be made to push forward and ensure survival. Never judge, and never place yourself above those forced down this path, especiallywomankind. Many a witch has bedded a man she barely knew—or even despised, just to keep her head above water.
Slobodan chose to remain in the last village they visited, where he had forged a unique bond with a local farmer who bore the scars of physical injury and carried the weight of solitude like him. As a deep affection quickly blossomed between them, the Romani witch, observing this heartfelt connection, knew it was time for him to continue his journey and search for Aeneas on his own.
Though the thought of parting brought a twinge of sadness, his primary wish was for his friend’s happiness, hoping he had finally found the love and fulfillment he so richly deserved.
Before his departure, the Romani witch had cast the Spell of Friendship on Slobodan and the farmer to protect the two men in their budding romance from those who would not tolerate their association should they guess there was more to it than friendship.
To ensure the spell’s permanence, the Romani witch, under cover of night, had secretly burned ancient sigils, ones he had learned in the land of Éire, onto the farmer’s house and upon the very soil of his land, as well as a few on the wooden walls of the village’s small church. These magical symbols would appear invisible to the naked eye but continuously empower the enchantment for as long as the two lovers remained in the area.
“What brings you to these lands, young man?” a Hutsul elder with a thick, bushy grey beard and a head as bald and shiny as polished stone asked, pulling the Romani witch out of his thoughts. “Our simple village, nestled on the edge of the Temnyi Lis forest, is not on the beaten path, no, sir!”
The Romani witch laughed agreeably as he clasped the man’s shoulder in a friendly gesture of camaraderie.
“No, it is not. In truth, I have never travelled north of the Black Sea, nor have I been to the Carpathian Rus. I am searchingfor someone, and based on reliable information, he is believed to reside somewhere in Ruthenia. I have been travelling from village to village, town to town, and city to city for some time now, hoping to find him.”
“Is that so?” the Hutsul elder replied, intrigued. He continued the conversation by bombarding the Romani witch with further questions. “Where do you come from? Who are your people? This man you are seeking, what is his name? Where are my manners? I have not even asked your name!”
The Romani witch suddenly wished he had cast the Spell of Distraction to keep attention like this off himself.
Without another moment’s thought, however, the Romani witch, his voice imbued with the warmth of his homeland, declared, “I hail from Lazio, a picturesque central region in Italia that hugs the shores of the Tyrrhenian Sea. My family owns an olive farm nestled in the rolling hills of Tuscany, where our sun-drenched groves stretch as far as the eye—”
The Romani witch halted mid-sentence, a flicker of realization lighting up his eyes as he grasped the significance of his words.
Why did I say that? Why am I thinking this? That is Pietro’s story, not mine. While I promised Abriana to hold onto the boy’s memories, they should not cloud my own thoughts. I am Romani and proud, though I cannot express that openly now. My people do not own large properties, such as olive groves. I do not understand this blunder of the tongue.
All this greatly unsettled him.
