Our people are as old as the Gaje and our roots are not so different from theirs. We had a land once, a land called Romany. We were not the wanderers of the earth that we are today with our houses of wheels, our towns of canvas. Far to the east our homeland lies, beyond the great sea and a thousand leagues still. Our land was a beautiful land -- lush green hills and dark, rich soil that provided us all the food we needed. The rivers ran thick with gold. Iron and coal leaped to the surface for us to work steel. We revered the earth, my children, and were its favored people. We had barely to work, and that was our undoing.
In a land with no worries, there is no need for kings or lords, for armies or arms. One day a Gaje king looked beyond his borders and into ours. He saw the beauty of the land, the wealth of minerals and gold, the beauty of our people. He began to covet our lands, and soon he mobilized his armies.
We had no way to defend ourselves, but still we fought -- flesh against steel, plowshares beaten into swords, fiddlers and dancers against trained soldiers. The result was inevitable; our land was stolen and our people enslaved.
But we did not make good slaves. Unused to hard labor, we strained and toiled. Many of us died under the harsh yoke of our conquerors. After we completed their slave labor -- building castles and fortresses, digging mines and canals -- the king gave us some of our own land back. Instead of construction projects, we had taxes and tariffs. We were left largely to our own devices and soon fell back into the old ways of letting the land provide for us.
The taxes went unpaid. Understand, this was not rebellion. We just did not understand what the Gaje wanted. Why should we make more than we needed? The forest does not produce more deer than it can feed. Why did we need a king collecting taxes to care for us? We always took care of ourselves and or each other. But the tax collectors came and took our winter storage. Our children went hungry, their parents died, the old suffered, and we learned. The next time they came, we piled them with food and drink, danced with them, sang with them, and told them piteous tales of woe. A flood had destroyed the mine. A tornado had eaten the field. A fire had taken the granary. And so on and so forth.
You see, the king had put his worst generals and most foolish generals in charge of the "docile sheep" he thought us to be. While they believed story after story of disaster, their king did not. He ordered the army to march and seize our possessions again -- every grain of corn, every nugget of gold, every knife of fine Romani steel. We would have nothing left.
The first town they came to -- remember, children, we lived in towns of stone and wood then -- was Aginsdown. Our people were outnumbered 10 to 1. We had no way to defend ourselves. But we had learned from experience the folly of fighting the Gaje way. When the general presented her demands to the town, our people threw open the gates and invited the soldiers for a feast. For hours they danced, sang, ate, and drank... and danced... and drank... and danced and drank. These soldiers could not drink like our people, and no one can dance like our people. By the squad, the Gaje dropped off into drunken slumber. As the dawn broke, our people stole among them, taking their weapons and armor. When the soldiers finally awoke, stomachs churned and temple throbbed. They fled in disarray and disgrace.
When the general reported this to the governor, they both knew that is word got to the king it would be their heads. So this pair of fools sought to trick us from our land, figuring that as long as they were working on the problem they were not lying to the king in telling him they were making progress.
The first challenge took the form of a chariot. Each side would make a chariot strong and fast. The chariots would race to the canter of a field and crash into each other. The first to reach the middle would win half the contest, and the one to survive the crash would win the second half. There was no known provision to break the tie in the event that one side won the race and the other side the crash, but then no one ever accused this governor of being an intellectual colossus. Although we saw this contest as silly, we had no way to refuse. So a young blacksmith named Foma, who lies at the heart of many a tale, forged a mighty chariot -- its body a single piece of iron, its frame a single Y of steel. He shoed the horses and instructed the Elders to have all Romani smiths build a road of iron to the center of the field. Needless to say, our chariot won, flying well past the center of the field and through the Gaje applecart like an arrow through an icicle, shattering it to a thousand glittering needles of iron.
The governor grew more troubled. He sent for his advisor, a bent old necromantic crone. She gave the governor words of advice, and his orders went out. A messenger arrived at the town of Muus bearing three branches. The challenge was to determine which was cut from the tree first, which second, and which last. The elders considered for a brief time before one Drabarni, a revered healer, took the branches and them into her garden pool. "Tis simple," she said. "Dry wood sinks fastest, so the first to sink was the first cut; the second to sink was the second cut; and the one still afloat was the last branch cut."
The governor grew still more troubled. The crone was sent for, and she devised a new ruse. Three horses, alike as could be, arrived at the town of Skwirl. The messenger asked the Elders to identify the oldest, middle, and youngest steed. The Elders considered the problem until an old farmer stepped forward. He took the horses, put down three piles of food, and waited. "There, you see," he said after a time. "The oldest and smartest horse took the oats, the next oldest the corn, and the youngest the poor barley."
The governor grew even more deeply disturbed. He gave the old crone a choice, to find a way to remove our people from our land or to die. She went home to her icy cave filled with necromantic abominations beyond description -- disembodied hand and entrails slithering about, foul minions of Chaos gibbering in the darkness, the loathsome shadows tittering with twisted glee -- and there began her rituals. Into the world she called the Four Horrors; the Elementals of Hunger, Bad Luck, Bad Health, and Unhappiness. The Four Horrors traveled through our land, laying it to waste, spreading pestilence in their wake. One Romani warrior had courage enough to face the Horrors -- Aliosha Baro. He rode forth on his fiery charger to stand against them. On the Field of Woe he awaited them in silent challenge, sword in hand, helm upon his brow. Upon him came the Elemental of Bad Luck, for the Horrors had split to increase the range of suffering. Upon seeing his intended Foe -- pus-filled sockets staring down at him, steaming jaws dripping poison between dagger-like teeth, claws blackened with Romani blood -- Aliosha thought the better of his plans, turned tail, and fled for none could hold his courage in the face of such a monstrosity. Bad Luck gave chase until a shoe flew from Aliosha's stead and flew like an arrow into the Horror's head, slaying him on the spot. Aliosha turned back, retrieved the shoe, went home, and hung it above his door in remembrance of the event. Meanwhile, Hunger, Bad Health, and Unhappiness heard of their brother's plight and vowed to avenge him. That night they crept to Aliosha's house and began to open the door. But looking up, they saw the horseshoe above the door. Unhappiness spoke then in a voice like gravel. "My brother, there are three of us, and that has three shoes remaining." Being cowards at heart like all necromantic ilk, they turned and fled, never to return to our land. This is why the horseshoe is considered the symbol of good luck for our people.
But remember those Horrors, my children. Remember the destruction that necromancy can cause to the land. Remember, and be ever a foe of Chaos, for the earth will surely punish you if you, of its chosen people, stray from its paths.
That Winter was long in Romany, but spring was even longer. For in that Spring, the Gaje army returned. This time they fell for no tricks, and we were driven out. They took from us the lands that we were bound to. They took our homes, our heritage, and our possessions. This is why you should feel no regret when you convince the Gaje to give you money or food or the rings off their fingers. As they tried to trick us, trick them. As they took from us, take from them. Unless they are Didikai (Gypsy Friends), you should feel free to have them return what they stole so long ago.
And so, dispossessed, we began to wander, as we wander today. We bring news and new teachings with us. How many cultures did we bring steel to? Or the music of faraway lands? Or new healing herbs? How much good have we done? Yet people know us for kidnapping babies! For stealing their goods! Hah! As if we need their children! Do the Gypsies not make enough of their own! Again, hah! Their children run off to join us! How many have we sent back, telling them that the life of the Romani is not for all? And their goods? We steal nothing! We take only what is given to us, or what belongs to nobody. For remember, my children, if you are not using it, it cannot be considered yours. If you leave your dagger on the table and your brother needs it, he will take it until he needs it no longer. That is our way. I do not presume to speak for the Gaje, but I can only assume they think as we do on this matter.
Always we were wandering. In our travels we met many a people. Always they would ask us the same thing, "Who is your King?" At first we were insulted. The first king we had ever seen had enslaved us, then dispossessed us. But always these Gaje needed a king to talk to. So we would find the loudest, most foolish member of our tribe, the one that no one would mourn, and named him our monarch.
The first such a king was a smith named Yue. He was full of self-importance, thinking that people called to him all the time. So important he thought he was that he cast himself a crown of lead. He died in parlay with the Dwarves of Vosnia.
Our tradition in selecting monarchs came with a man named Franz, another smith. A vile dragon appeared upon a time and lay waste to the earth beneath it. Always had the Gypsies revered the earth, and so Franz rose up to stop its destruction. He forged himself claws of iron and wrapped himself in the hides of seven oxen. Thus equipped, he called the dragon down and challenged it, not to a test of strength but of luck. The wager? Their skins. The dice were thrown and Franz lost. In went the dragon's claws and off came an ox-hide. And Franz called for the dice. Again they were cast, and again Franz lost. Another hide came off, and as Franz called for the dice, the dragon began to sweat. The dice were cast once more, and this time BaXt was with Franz. In went his claws of iron and off came the dragon's hide. The dragon died, and Franz was left with a lovely souvenir for his Vardo. And he stood before the people and thus he spoke: "My brothers, my sisters, the great Aliosha Baro (who battled Bad Luck, as you recall) taught us well, and today the lesson is repeated; it is better to be lucky than to be good."
But a change had come over Franz. Perhaps he was purified in the scalding blood of the dragon, or perhaps a grateful earth gave its thanks, but Franz was granted two powers. The first was the power to create Gypsies from Gaje; we had been starving and dying in battle, but now we were saved. We could Romani at heart of Romani in being!
While the first power received by Franz was one of creation, the second was one of destruction. No more would we be defenseless before greater forces with ourselves now that our King (for so Franz was named) was given the power of Amria, the Curse.
Long had it been the Gypsy custom to emphasize an important point by calling upon oneself a horrible fate if the point following the description of the fate did not hold true. This was used in two ways: as an oath ("May the Four Horrors devour me if I do not shelter you from the storm.") and as an insult or threat ("May my vardo be infested by termites if you do not move from my path.") The oath, a promise or invitation to another Gypsy, was never given to the Gaje. The insult was never given to another Gypsy. The point is that the Gypsy would do all in his power to avoid the fate named, and thus would expend all his strength to make the oath come true.
One day a Gaje fool offered violence to a young Gypsy child. Franz appeared suddenly on the scene and told the fool, "May a dragon out-dice me eight times if I do not see you dead." As Franz drew his sword, the Gaje's face began to blacken and his eyes to bulge. He clutched his throat and croaked a plea to Franz, but it was to no avail. Within seconds the Gaje was dead. And thus the power of the Curse was born.
In the beginning, the Curse was a mighty weapon. It could be used to kill an enemy, or to kill all his heirs before him. And many Gypsies began to use it unscrupulously, such as Rudya all those years ago. A healer one day hired Rudya to cut the grass in his field. The two of them went to the field, where the grass was as high as Rudya's head. They settled on the price of a coin of gold, and a haunch of beef, and a bottle of mead to fuel him for the job. The healer agreed, gave Rudya the food, drink and gold, and went home. Rudya spent the next two days laying around eating and drinking, then he returned to the healer's house. "Healer," he said, "The task is completed. But if I had known it would be such an onerous task, I would have charged you a gold-and- a-half. Please, pay me the 5 silver you owe me."
"Forget it, Rudya. We agreed on one gold plus the beef and the mead. I owe you nothing."
"Well then," quoth Rudya, "may the axles of my wagon always need greasing if your grass is not always as high as it was when we struck the deal." And Rudya strode away.
The healer, of course, ran out to his field and saw the grass that high.
It was this type of use of the Curse, my children that deepened the Gaje's distrust of us. And thus it was that Franz lay down the law: Curses are only to be cast upon one who has threatened, harmed, or insulted you or your family. And remember, children, never Never NEVER cast a curse upon a Gypsy or a Gypsy friend.
The curses now are not what they once were. The magic has changed. No longer can we use the Curse to destroy an enemy, but only inconvenience one. The Curse now can be described in three categories:
The first is the uncontrollable action. With it we can cause one to do what he would normally not do. Bark like a dog. Sing all his words. Limp with each step. Jump into the air. We are also able to force one to give all that he owes to strangers, or to help all those less fortunate than themselves.
The second is the deformity. Certainly you have seen Gaje leave our camp with the head of an ass or the face of the purple leper...
Finally, the Curse can be used to turn another into his opposite. Be careful with this curse, little ones. What you see of one may not be what he truly is...