The gypsy boy was dressed gaily in light cotton trousers of a bright red and a vest of similar make though yellow in colour. He wore no shirt beneath the vest, and it hid nothing as he twirled lightly to the beat of his sister’s tambourine, his short black hair a sharp contrast to his clothing. His sister, almost as dark skinned as he, was dressed in a white flowing skirt that swung about her as she played her tambourine. No hat was on the ground to accept money, only an empty harp case. Where the harp itself was, no one present seemed to know. The gypsy boy did not seem to care.

The gypsy boy, whose name was Ves, had never known the harp itself. Only the old, beaten harp case his father used when he was still young enough to dance to his wife’s tambourine. Now, Ves’s father brewed potions and helped take care of all the horses, while his wife told fortunes in a faded yellow pavilion they had found in the wreckage of a raided covered wagon. There had been no blood on the pavilion, though plenty on almost everything else. They took what they could.

They were gypsies. Ves knew nothing of a home except the road. Every year, he and his family would travel to the same towns at just about the same time of the year. They were known, and usually could find a street corner or two at which they could put on their show. No one seemed to mind them, but no one really cared either. Ves did not know that love outside of a family could exist.

Ves had gotten used to his life as a gypsy, and by the time he turned seventeen he no longer wondered why people acted the way they did. Some people cared for the gypsies, and some people hated them. Those folks who lived in the woods beyond the towns saw them almost as wood spirits, asking for potions to keep them healthy. Closer to the town, but not yet inside its walls were the farmers who were the most superstitious. They feared that gypsies would bring them bad luck. At least, that’s the best reason Ves could come up with for the way they acted. Inside the town, they were treated like little more than beggars. Some gave them coins, some spit at them. Still, it was a living, and that was all that mattered as far as Ves was concerned.

He was dancing the way he always danced, a light, flowing movement that seemed mostly too smooth to ring the bells around his ankles and wrists. They tinkled merrily nonetheless, their bright silver surfaces gleaming in the brilliant midsummer sun. His sister laughed, her tambourine playing merrily against her hips as an old woman frowned at Ves’s light dance and hobbled away. Ves winked at his sister, turning to skip among the crowd to the old woman, encircling her and whistling his own tune. She nearly screamed, falling back at his sudden appearance. Stopping, he caught her before she could fell. Returning to stand before her, Ves bowed in his best mockery of solemnity and strode out of eyesight before laughing and skipping back to his sister.

Life had always been like this for him, and maybe the little tricks Ves played on people did not help how the townsfolk felt about gypsies. It was the most fun he could have, so he did it anyway. His sister clucked her tongue at him and  shook the forefinger of her free hand, not dropping the beat as he slipped back in time with her playing.