The Snow Gypsy(25)
“No, I don’t!” She gave him a black look. “You’ve got half an hour. There’s bread in the basket—probably stale by now. We had our breakfast hours ago.”
Rose hadn’t meant to go back to sleep. She’d climbed back into the tent after cooking the sausages over the fire and closed her eyes, thinking she’d just let her food go down before cleaning the frying pan. But when she opened them again, she could hear trumpets and drums. Struggling to her knees, she opened the flap of the tent. The sound was coming from beyond the paddock, over by the road that led to the village. She crawled out of the tent and stood up, shading her eyes with her hand. She could see something silhouetted against the pale blue of the sky: it looked like a person standing in a boat as it glided over the sea. But the motion was jerky, as if the arms and legs couldn’t move. And the sea was in the wrong place.
Suddenly her mind grasped what she was seeing. It was Saint Sara, the Black Virgin, being carried from the church to the beach. The procession was well underway, and she had almost missed it. She grabbed Gunesh’s lead and snapped it onto his collar. He pulled in the other direction, unwilling to leave his bone. It took all her strength to make him follow her.
“Sorry, boy. You can have it back in a minute—but this I have to see.”
As she hurried across the field, Rose saw that the paddock was empty of horses. Soon she realized why: the procession was being led by them. Snow-white mares and freckled colts trotted along the road, bare of saddles and harnesses, herded like sheep by Gypsy men sitting proud and tall on gleaming stallions.
Behind them were people walking, all in their best clothes. The children were just as elaborately attired as the adults—the little girls in flouncy flamenco dresses, the boys in white shirts and waistcoats and colorful neckerchiefs. Despite their finery, everyone was barefoot.
She wished she’d had time to change into something better than her mud-stained skirt and plain white blouse. But the sight of the statue coming closer drove out such thoughts. Held aloft by a dozen men, Saint Sara looked very different from the simple, unadorned figure Rose had seen in the shrine. She wore a sparkling white cloak over a dress of blue and gold. On her head, a spiky diadem threw out rainbow colors where the sun caught it.
The river of bodies swelled in the wake of the statue. A few yards behind, a second group of men carried a huge cross festooned with fruit and flowers. Behind that was yet another cross—this one a copy of the symbol above the church door, with the heart and anchor entwined at its base. A painted wooden sign beneath it read: “Pèlerinage des Gitans.” Pilgrimage of the Gypsies.
Rose scanned the press of people, searching for the familiar faces of Lola, Nieve, Cristóbal, or Jean. But it was difficult to pick out individuals in such a crowd. She glanced at Gunesh. She wanted to join in, but she was afraid that all the noise would frighten him. To her surprise, the dog was wagging his tail. She patted his head, wondering what to do with her shoes. After kicking them off, she balanced them in the crook of a branch of one of the tamarisk trees that lined the road. Then she slipped in at the back of the procession, walking alongside an old man strumming a mandolin and a young boy beating a drum.
The tide of pilgrims slowed as it neared the sea. People fanned out along the beach as the men carrying the statue waded waist deep into the water, coming to a stop in front of a fishing boat. Standing in the bow was a bishop robed in white and gold, holding himself steady with a silver crosier. A hush fell over the crowd as he lifted his hand in a benediction. Raising his voice above the rise and fall of the waves, he pronounced a blessing on the sea, on the Camargue, and on the Gypsy pilgrims.
As he lowered his hand, the crowd surged forward, everyone cheering as they waded into the water. Men carried babies above their heads, holding them out for the bishop to touch. Little girls spun around in the waves, laughing as they scooped up the sodden frills of their dresses. Old women gave toothless smiles and theatrical shivers as they stood knee deep in the shallows.
Gunesh bounded into the waves, pulling Rose behind him. Her skirt billowed around her hips. It felt good to be in the water—not just because the waves were doing a good job of getting the mud out of her clothes: it was as if all her doubts and fears about what lay ahead were being washed away, too.
At a sign from the bishop, the men carrying the statue waded out of the water. They passed very close to where Rose was standing. She could see the glass eyes glowing amber in the sunlight and the worn red paint on the lips. Somehow the face seemed more real than it had in the shrine. There was a Mona Lisa look about it. Rose could almost believe that the wooden image had come alive, secretly happy to have been freed from the gloomy crypt and allowed to breathe the fresh sea air.
She’s smiling down on you.
Jean’s words came back to her as the statue moved toward the water’s edge. How Rose longed for that to be true. But thus far her journey had brought mixed success. She made a silent prayer for what was to come.
She blinked as the sun bounced off the surface of the water. Black discs bobbed in front of her eyes, blotting out the faces of the people in the sea. It made her feel dizzy. She turned toward the beach, staggering as a strong wave knocked her off balance. She gripped the slippery leather of Gunesh’s lead, afraid of losing him. Suddenly she felt a strong pair of hands around her waist, lifting her out of the water.
“?Ten cuidado!” Be careful! Cristóbal pulled her close as he turned her around. His skin glistened where the salt water had splashed it. She opened her mouth, but his lips stifled the words. She felt a powerful throbbing in her belly as they kissed. When he broke away, it was only to scoop her into his arms and carry her onto dry land.