Madeline Sheehan - The Soul Mate

“Trin, do you ever smile?” Xan appeared out of nowhere and threw a large green duffle bag at my feet.

“Didn’t you already fill your harassment quota for the day? I asked.

“I’m just dropping off dirty laundry, not here to fight.” He nodded at the canvas bag he’d left at my feet. “Mostly Pitti’s underwear and socks. Knock yourself out.”

I groaned. Pitti Moldoveanu had the smelliest feet in the world.

“Xan?” I called out as he turned to leave, wanting to ask him something that maybe only he might have a familiarity with.

He turned, one eyebrow raised, his eyes dark and hard. I thought about his explosive temper and changed my mind.

“Never mind," I said quickly.

“Fată, what’s bothering you?” He leaned up against the basin a few inches from me, too close for comfort, his dark eyes always assessing. I always felt uncomfortable around him, exposed in a way I wasn’t used to feeling.

“Your father couldn’t stay with the clan because he wasn’t a Roma right?”

Surprise lit his features and for a moment I didn’t think he would answer me.

Then, “Yeah.”

“So what makes me any different? Is it just because it isn’t safe out there? If it was would I have to go?”

Xan just stared at me, his body ridged. I gathered his father was a sore subject.

“I don’t know,” He finally said. “Now, my laundry?” He nodded toward the bag and walked away.

I huffed. “Jerk.”

Serbia, 1065 A.C.E

“ Emilian! Emilian! Hurry, before my mami sees!” Treime giggled at his surprised look as she tore past him. Colorful petals now sprinkled the countryside as her long black hair blew out behind her. The wildflowers and intricate braids that had been woven into her hair for the earlier festival were both lost to the wind.

His footsteps behind were a heavy stampede. Her little heart began to race in anticipation the louder and closer they grew. Treime’s excitement was palpable; it was easy to ignore the dirty looks and nasty comments from the Gaje villagers as they ran past them.

Treime let loose a scream of frustration as the tips of his fingers brushed against her back. He was gaining on her. Again.

On a whim she changed direction toward the village well near the outskirts of the forest, but she hadn’t been fast enough. Emilian’s hands slipped around her middle and in mid run she was swung up through the air as Emilian began to laugh.

He crushed her against him and twirled until she gasped for air.

“ Ah puţin o…” He laughed harder. “You’ll never be faster than me. It’s just not possible.”

His dark brown eyes flashed gray as he set her down and tapped her on the nose. Treime stomped her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

Emilian shrugged unapologetically, still grinning. “Well for starters because you’re 9 and I’m 16 but mostly because you’re a girl.”

Treime, suddenly angry, grabbed his wrist and released forth a string of the most unfeminine curses she could think of.

She waited for Emilian to start laughing. He always did when she cursed. He’d taught her most of them. Instead he’d grown unusually quiet, his eyes somewhat unfocused as he stared down at her.

“ Emilian?” She shook his wrist, feeling his warm skin twitch under her hand. Treime loved the way their skin warmed when it touched. It never did that when she touched anyone else and she’d never told anyone about it either.

She wanted it to be their secret. Someday, she though, when she was older, she would tell Emilian about it too.

Emilian jerked his arm out of her grasp and frowned at her. Treime’s lower lip started to tremble. Did he know? Was he mad?

“ Go home Treime, no more playing today.”

“ But Emi-

“ Go.” His eyes had turned gray and Treime’s entire body warmed at the sight of them. Whenever Emilian’s eyes changed color, all she wanted was to be closer to him, to hug him, to hear his stories, and the songs he sung, even though she’d heard them all a hundred times before.

“ Don’t make me say it again Treime,” Emilian’s eyes flashed white with anger. Treime backed slowly away from him, no longer recognizing her friend. Suddenly, Emilian’s fist shot out, connecting with the solid stone wall surrounding the well. With a scream, Treime ran from him, stopping only when she found a wide tree trunk to hide behind.

He brought his hand back to him covered in blood.

“ Are you hurt?” A small voice asked.

A village girl was approaching the well clutching a large bucket to her chest.

“ I could help you,” The girl said.

Slowly, he turned toward the villager and Treime watched in astonishment as her best friend smiled at the silly girl.

Was he going to talk to her, a Gaje? They thought the Romani people were thieving beggar scum. Her clan had to move all the time because of people like her.

Holding out his injured hand for the Gaje girl’s inspection, Emilian waited until she was close. Then, using his good hand, he pulled her forward and her bucket fell to the ground. Treime saw his magic before the girl did. It was just a small amount of fire that Emilian pressed against the girl’s chest.

Where a typical village girl would have probably run screaming if a Roma boy had kissed her, this girl melted into Emilian’s arms. She watched as Emilian led the love struck girl into the woods, already untying the laces on her bodice.

That night sleep never came.

After spending hours knee deep in salt water, soaking sliced meat until I felt salted enough to hang myself on the drying rack, I should have been tired enough to sleep for days. Instead I ended up tossing and turning. Eventually, I gave up trying and wandered out into camp.

I could see the Popa’s fire pit burning high. As I walked toward it the low hum of male voices and the sweet sounds of a violin grew louder.

Jericho, the Jankovic brothers Lajos and Marcell, Mihai Asenov and his son Shandor, Xan, Gerik, Stefan Sava Sr. and Hockey, without Becki, all sat around the fire drinking out of Jericho’s large jug of homemade Plum Ţuică.

Gerik saw me before anyone else. He always knew when I was near. My skin heated at the memory of what had passed between us earlier and I looked away, embarrassed. When I looked back at him he was smiling brilliantly, the happy expression having reached his eyes. My breath caught at the exquisite sight of his features lit up with happiness. Every line on his face was symmetrical perfection, every plane and hollow, an artistic masterpiece. Gerik wasn’t just handsome or attractive; he was the masculine definition of beautiful.

Marcell looked up at me and smiled or grimaced, I could never tell the difference. “Ah lepo dekle na lep večer,” He grunted.

I didn’t understand a thing he said. Marcell and Lajos spoke only Slovenian, neither bothering to speak English or any other language. I was convinced they both could but simply wouldn’t.

I looked around at the varying faces and ages, “Boys night?” I asked, not wanting to intrude if it was.

“Not at all. Please join us.” Jericho motioned to the chair next to him and offered me the precious Romani drink. For the first time ever, I was seeing Jericho with his long salt and pepper braid unbound. His hair hung long and thick down his back and even though he had to be in his sixties, maybe even seventies, he was a very handsome man.