A portly belly barely contained inside a well stretched waistcoat wobbled back and forth, hypnotizing me as the owner of both the belly and the brave item of clothing paraded back and forth in front expounding his views with dramatic flair. “The Idrii are dangerous. The Idrii are not to be trusted. They are filthy gypsies and a scourge on the good name of our fair country. May they be driven into the sea!” Professor Faldwell brandished the draft of my thesis in disgust. I tried to maintain my composure in the face of his vehement onslaught, but it was difficult. I had known that my thesis would not be popular, but I had not expected this vigorous response. Even his white whiskers were trembling with outrage.

“Perhaps they are dangerous,” I allowed, “but they are an essential part of our history. A part that is being lost at an alarming rate. Linguistically, culturally, there is much we can learn from them. In many respects,” I said, quoting from the very thesis he seemed to be on the verge of tossing into the fire, “they are the keepers of our heritage. We are consumed with progress, with the new culture. They safeguard the old ways.”

Professor Faldwell sighed deeply, put my thesis down on the table and began cleaning his steamed glasses on the tails of his shirt. His ruddy jowls continued to wobble as he shook his head. “Really Miss Weaver, you are given to the most shameful flights of fancy. The board will never grant you a doctorate if you present them with this, this... dreck!”

“Because it does not suit their political agenda. Not because it does not have academic value,” I argued, rescuing my draft from his clutches before it could come to harm. It was the product of many months research and though my notes were safely in my study, it was the only copy I had painstakingly penned by hand.

“Precisely,” Professor Faldwell shook a cautionary finger at me. “This is a political piece. Stay away from politics. If you want to study history, take a broader view. Do not rub the Idrii in the faces of those who fund this college.”

Confronted with bigotry of the worst kind, the academic kind. I did my best to remain patient. “Am I to take it, Professor, that you will not be sponsoring my thesis?”

“Absolutely not!”

I thanked Professor Faldwell for his time and departed swiftly before my temper boiled over in an unseemly display. After his summarily blunt rejection of the work I had been immersing myself in for the past three years, I determined that a nice long walk would be just the thing to prevent me from giving into the temptation to beating him with a poker from his fireplace.

To say that I was frustrated by the fact that politics had disturbed my studies would have been to make a gross understatement. I was quite furious. It was bad enough that the government's policies of rounding up the people they liked to call 'gypsies' and sending their children to schools all the while pressing the parents into base manual labor was fast destroying what remnants of the old culture remained. The fact that attempts to document these people before they were absorbed by the industrial revolution were stymied at every turn was unforgivable. If we could not save these anachronistic treasures in our books and museums, then what was the purpose of academia at all?

I dressed myself with the utmost formality and began my excursion. A nice long walk on a long summer's evening is perhaps the most universal of all human pleasures – and the most effective at dissipating anxiety and anger. I chose to indulge on a such a walk around the rural outskirts of the scholarly city of Ulyssys, pondering my predicament. If I was to be true to my studies, to my academic premise, I could not in good conscience abandon my study of the Idrii. True, they were a lawless force who traveled in bands taking what they wanted and often causing trouble for officials, but they were also the last remnants of the original settlers of these lands. Their culture was a living history.

I was pondering these things, along with the proper fate for people like the so called Professor Faldwell, when a stone, hurled with force, skipped just inches in front of my feet. I was under attack from all corners it seemed. A giggling in the hedgerows alongside the road betrayed my latest assailant. I parted the branches with my walking cane and saw the gleeful smiles of  some gypsy children. It was a most marvelous coincidence, and my anger evaporated immediately as I saw their dirt smudged faces and the brightly colored clothing that I knew would have been passed down from brother to sister for years and years. They were tatty and ragged in appearance, but the children positively exuded happiness.

“You should not throw stones at strangers,” I chided them.

“You should not throw stones,” they parroted back, mimicking my accent. It seemed to amuse them greatly. Whilst I spoke with crisp control of consonant and vowel, their tongues seemed to hold no desire to enunciate. Vowel and consonant flowed together in a charming slur that made them sound quite tipsy. They were impertinent, but I was not angered by their display. It was impossible to be angry at such free range cherubs.

I made a move with my walking stick and the children lost their nerve almost immediately. Before I could stop them to assure I meant them no harm, they had fled towards a circle of caravans in the distance, shrieking the entire way. I followed their path with my eyes and a wide smile spread across my face as I realized what I had done. I had stumbled across a small group of Idrii. Their wild behavior and fearsome tattoos made them outcasts from decent society and it was becoming increasingly difficult for an outsider to make contact with them. In all the many months I had toiled on my thesis, I had been unable to find a single one. Now that my thesis had been summarily rejected, here was a whole band of them.

We registered citizens were always warned to stay clear of the gypsies, to report their presence immediately to the local authorities. Of course I had no intention of doing such a thing. I immediately began following in the footsteps of the children. It was perhaps foolhardy, but this was an unprecedented opportunity to see if what was written in the texts held any truth at all.

Though I attempted to hide my presence at first, it was a difficult task that I quickly abandoned. The Idrii were a keen people and I had no doubt that I had probably been observed even as I walked down the road. The best thing for it was to simply introduce myself. I wagered my fortunes on the fact that they had customs of hospitality that should prevent any harm from coming to me and even if they should run me off, at least I would have tried.

It was a fairly large tribal grouping, I discovered as I drew closer. My progress was much slower than that of the children, for I did not have their sprightly youth, and my own alacrity had been stripped from me by an childhood illness. I got along well enough with a slight limp and my trusty cane, and I made rather good time, spurred on by burning curiosity.

Whilst still at a distance I observed that there were at least ten caravans ranged around a central space that boasted a crackling fire. Each of the caravans was hand carved with the most delightful ornamentation and I knew from my research that each one could carry a full family or more inside its walls. In the past the caravans would have been brightly colored, painted with red ocher and other natural dyes. As it was, they were all painted in a deep olive green with black trim. Persecution by the authorities had lead to the Idrii concealing their presence wherever possible and the darker paint provided an excellent camouflage that made them much harder to spot in the fields and amongst trees. If I had not been alerted to their presence by the children, I would probably have passed them by without so much as a second glance.

As I drew closer, I heard voices and the sound of stone on metal. I was instantly enchanted by the noises, which were so foreign and delightful to me. I was used to the hissing of steam machines as they did man's work. Any trepidation I had felt at the idea of introducing myself to a tribe of Idrii dissipated in my enthusiasm so, clutching my walking stick firmly, I stepped into the ring with a hearty, “What ho!”

My appearance drew note almost immediately. I was significantly overdressed by the standards of these simple people. The women here wore light blouses and skirts and nothing upon their feet at all. I, by sharp contrast, wore three petticoats, an underdress, an overdress and a traveling dress atop that. My feet were shod in very fine kid skin boots and of course I carried a walking cane that assisted me in my travels. That was not where the dissimilarities ended however. For the most part, the women's hair flowed free over their shoulders in rambunctious dark curls. My own strawberry blonde locks were swept off my face and held back with numerous pins and clips, swaddled in a hair net and stored neatly away under a wide brimmed hat that kept the elements from my skin. I also wore gloves for the same purpose. It would not do to sully the fingers I used in delicate experiments with common dirt and grime.

There were several men, women and children ranged about the inner circle. I seemed to have interrupted their dinner preparations, for they were all sitting about, sharpening a great pile of short, thick knives that I could only imagine would be used for hewing steak from the bone. At my hearty introduction they froze to a man, staring at me with wide eyes as if I was a specter from the fields.

“Hello,” I said, making a little bow. “I am Katherine Weaver, PhD.” Nobody replied. They simply stared at me with their dark eyes, mistrustful and probably afraid. I could not blame them for their misgivings. After all, people like me were seeking to strip them of all they cared for in the world. “I am sorry to interrupt you so rudely of an evening,” I apologized.

Again, there was no reply. A couple of the men got up and walked away without saying a word and I began to grow nervous. There was a distinctly hostile atmosphere that even I could not ignore. As anxiety settled in my belly, I determined that it would probably be best if I left.

“I apologize,” I said with another little bow. “I have clearly stumbled upon a private gathering. I will take my leave.” I turned to go back the way I had come, but the space between the caravans was now filled with the bulk of a fearsome looking gypsy man. He wore just a tunic over his broad chest and his brawny arms were covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. I had some idea of how painful it must have been when the ink was hammered into his skin, and I recoiled from him quite instinctively. He laughed at my fear, his lips parting in a cruel leer.

Doing my best to keep my composure, I looked about myself and discovered that the rest of the group had moved quickly and formed a circle about me. They were not close enough to touch me, but their presence prevented me from leaving. I was trapped. “Please, allow me to go on my way,” I begged them.

“Not until Idric's seen you.”

A wave of relief washed over me as a man finally spoke. “Who is Idric?”

The answer came in a terrifying hoarse whisper. “Your worst nightmare.” I felt my extremities begin to tremble as my body initiated a thoroughly useless fight or flight response. There was no way I could fight this group of gypsies and escape was impossible. I did my best to compose myself as we all waited for the man they called Idric to make an appearance. I hoped that he would be a man of reason and sound judgment.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the crowd parted and a tall man stepped into the circle with me. His dark curls and sinful thin lips spoke to a cold, keen temperament.  Short, thick hair cropped into a widow's peak sitting low on his head, brown eyes and light stubble around his chin contributed to the appearance of dashing demonry. For a moment I did not know whether I looked at a man or a devil incarnate on the green. I shuddered instinctively as he drew closer. The scars on his face and arms showed that he was no stranger to violence and the glint in his eye told me beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did not fear any man.

“What are you doing here?” He addressed me with a surprisingly well spoken demeanor. He was definitely of the Idrii, but the inflection he used when he spoke hinted at some level of formal education. I was not particularly relieved by that discovery, if he had been taken and forced into the schooling system and later returned to his tribe it was safe to say that he did not look upon scholars like myself with any fondness.

“I, er,” I stammered. How to explain the curiosity that had driven me here? How to explain that I was not a threat? How to stay in one piece? “I was, er, well, taking a walk because of my thesis and...” I waved my arms in a manner I hoped would convey my general confusion.

His cheeks dimpled as I looked for an answer, as if he had already anticipated my inability to reply. He would be used to stammering and stuttering, I imagined. I noticed, to my extreme discomfort, that the crowd had not only grown considerably, but also edged forward so that they might not miss a moment of the exchange. When Idric moved, these people paid attention. When he spoke, they hung on his every word.

“Does anybody know who this is?” He raised his voice and looked around as if he half expected some male to step out from the throng and claim me. My studies had informed me that women had no autonomy amidst the Idrii. They were owned, attached to a male from birth. First father, then husband. When nobody replied, he looked back towards me. “Who did you come with?” He spoke as if I were little more than a lost puppy, which I thought rather strange as I was clearly a fully grown woman. My stature was considerably greater than that of the average Idrii woman, who tended to be slim and dark, with pretty figures. I was almost as tall as Idric himself, a fact that gave me no great consolation as he was certainly twice as broad as I.

“I came by myself.” I hoped that the truth would keep me safe, if not set me free.

“You came by yourself.” He laughed, and a small ripple of laughter rolled around the crowd. “You were wandering along the roads at night all on your own, were you? Looking for a man?”

“No!” I frowned at the affront.

“Then why?” He placed his hands on his hips and bent down towards me, his eyes sharp and predatory.

“I like to take walks and explore the countryside.” It was strange, being insulted and afraid all at once, but I did not care for his implication that I was a woman of ill-repute. 

“I see. We have a curious little kitty.”

The crowd was drawing closer around me still and I felt their hostility growing by the moment. Tales of what had happened to those caught by the gypsies flashed through my mind, scaring me silly. When I'd heard them I had dismissed them as government propaganda, but now that I was surrounded by these wild people I realized that I had been exceptionally foolish and I was probably going to die where I stood. Tales of the scholar who had wandered into a camp full of Idrii would no doubt soon be the latest urban legend to be passed around school children.

Idric reached out and touched me with a finger, running it down my cheek and around my chin. “You're fortunate,” he murmured. I looked up at him wordlessly, my heart pounding. “I might have a use for you.” I held my breath, hoping that the use would not be too terrible.

“Take her to my caravan,” he ordered over my head, pushing me gently towards a large man with a shaved head and a dark tattoo that ran from his crown down to his cheek in a black slashing 'V' symbol. Grunting obediently, the large fellow grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me bodily towards the ornate wooden home on wheels. I did not resist, though every fiber of my being was screaming to get away. One had to pick one's battles. This was not a battle I could win.

My feet didn't touch the stairs on the way up, the man took the liberty of  lifting me by the back of my shirt and simply tossed me into the caravan. I stumbled onto a soft, low bed and sat there, hoping that I would not earn further ire. I breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed and I was left looking around the small, sparse enclosure.

It smelled pleasantly of incense and musk and the wooden floor was covered in a well made rug that I knew from my studies at the University would have been hand knotted by one of the women. Perhaps Idric's mother had patiently sat in candlelight and weaved it together so that her son would not have to step on plain wooden floor boards.

There were other touches in the caravan that spoke to care. The curtains that covered the windows were of a bright rainbow hue that seemed quite out of place when I thought about the man who occupied this space. The bed I sat on took up much of the left side of the caravan and was neatly made with crisp white sheets and an undyed woolen blanket tucked in securely. Homely. That was what it was. On the other side of the caravan there was a hand hewn table that showed a significant amount of craftsmanship in its construction. The legs had been carved into the shape of rampant lions, and the top, whilst plain, was polished to a high shine. Some papers laid there, but they did not catch my eye at first. What did catch my eye was a curved dagger, perhaps five inches long and made of bright silver. The handle was inlaid with oval red jewels. Rubies? Probably not, I thought as I picked it up. Garnet was a more likely choice.

I turned the dagger over in my hands, liking the weighty, solid feeling. I would never have thought of attacking anyone, but a sturdy weapon makes for an excellent friend when one is amidst foes. Was it sharp? I extended a finger towards the tip of the blade...

“No!” Idric appeared in the doorway and crossed the caravan in one long step. He grabbed the wrist that held the dagger hard and wrested the weapon away from me. Glowering, he placed the dagger back on the table it had come from. “Don't you dare touch anything.” He slapped the back of my hand hard enough to make me cry out with the sudden pain. I tried to pull my hand away, but he kept it in his grasp. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I am sorry Sir.” I squealed when he slapped my hand for a second time. The back of my hand had turned pink and it stung terribly.

“Idiot child,” he muttered under his breath, dropping my wrist. I pulled my hand away quickly and slipped it between my other arm and my body as I crossed my arms over my chest defensively.

“I wasn't going to do anything with it,” I promised.

“Except cut your fingers off.” His expression was severe.

“I really do apologize. It was just so beautifully crafted, I've only ever seen pictures of that style before.”

Fortunately my appreciation of the craftsmanship seemed to mollify him somewhat. He glanced back towards the dagger and, turning from me, placed it in a drawer which he locked securely with a small golden key. “What is a woman like you doing here, in this lawless encampment?” He used the same phrases government officials used when warning the populace about the gypsies. He was obviously very well aware of the way 'our kind' viewed him. I felt ashamed of my people, as I had done so many times before.

“Well I am a scholar and I did my degree in ethnic studies,” I began in an attempt to explain my sympathies with him and his people. He held up his hand, his expression clearing as if he understood all too well.

“I see, so you decided to do a little field work, did you?”

“I was on a country walk and I saw your caravans, so I came over. The rest is history.” I managed a weak smile. “I am harmless.”

“Harmless indeed. Just an over privileged, over educated woman wandering about on her own.” His lip curled in disgust.

“Over educated? I hardly think...”

“That much is obvious. No matter how much time you spend in your books, your people are fools in the real world.”

I was insulted by his rude interruption. “Well I apologize for stumbling so idiotically into your gathering. As my presence offends you so, I will be on my way.”

“Not so quickly, book worm,” he shook his head at me. “You have already seen too much.”

My mouth fell open in dismay as I looked pleadingly at my captor. He still terrified me, but I hoped that some reason might reside in the mind behind those dark eyes. “I didn't see anything, and if I did, I wouldn't say anything,”

He folded his arms over his chest, his expression decided. “You wanted to study the gypsies, well study them you shall. You can stay with us until such time as the little dangerous knowledge you have is no longer a threat to us.”

My confusion was only outweighed by my outrage at what he proposed. He was calmly informing me that I was to be kidnapped. “You can't do this! I am a free woman.”

An intelligent look came into his eyes. “Consider it a field study,” he said, attempting charm. “A field study in which you'll be able to not only observe our way of life, but live it.”

“What does that mean?” My curiosity began to intrude on my common sense once more.

He glanced out the window and back at me. “I won't have you sitting about the place, collecting information on us to report back to the authorities. But you can work with the womenfolk, learn to weave. When you return home you can show your ethnic baskets off to your suitably non ethnic friends.”

“I am expected home!” I protested, ignoring his cutting snark.

“Are you?” His arrogant smirk widened. “You are out, alone in the fields. Not even a puppy to follow you.”

“That does not mean I have nobody to care for me.”

“If they cared, they would not allow you to go so far alone. This is a dangerous part of the world and you are clearly inclined to flights of ill fancy.” Again, he took on surprisingly cultured tones, and I wondered if this was not perhaps some evidence that he had spent time outside the ranks of the gypsies.

“They will look for me,” I insisted stubbornly.

“Perhaps. But they will not find you. We will move on tonight.” A chill ran down my spine as I remembered who I was talking to. No matter how refined and educated he sounded Idric was a criminal by nature. One missing woman was nothing to him. My plight would not weigh heavily on his conscience. I decided it would be for the best to capitulate to his demands. Sooner or later there would be an opportunity for escape, and I would take it when it arose. Until that time, I would do my best to stay alive and not anger anyone.

“Very well,” I agreed. “But I must impress upon you that I have no intention of bringing harm to you or any of your people and it would be best if you simply let me go. I have seen nothing that would cause you any trouble.”

He brushed aside my protestations as if I had not spoken at all. “How familiar are you with our customs?”

“Well enough,” I said humbly, not wishing to boast of my many years of study. It was obvious that he did not respect my scholarship in the slightest.

“So you know that you will be subject to discipline.” He rubbed his hands together as if he relished the thought. I had read of the methodologies employed by the gypsies. They were primitive compared to our own cultured methods of reason. It was not uncommon for them to strike one another in order to impose order.

“Beatings, yes?” My tone had taken on a scholarly affectation. It was the only way of dealing with this thoroughly unexpected turn of events.

“We are a physical people. But do as you are told and you'll have no trouble.” He spoke gruffly. “I tell you this now because it is obvious that you are the type of woman who believes she should do as she pleases. That is not how things work here. Here you should do as you are told.”

His mention of the beatings quickly unnerved me further. “Please let me go.” I attempted to appeal to his better nature once more. “I give you my word I shall not speak of what I have seen here.”

“Your word is worth nothing here.”

His harsh retort stung. I held back tears of frustration and hopelessness. “Very well,” I acquiesced, bowing my head in what I hoped would be taken as a display of maidenly subservience.

“Good girl.” His voice came in an encouraging purr above me. Idric was a fool if he thought I would meekly stay, but I supposed he was used to commanding his people and being obeyed. Not a single soul would have thought to defy him. I was surprised when he reached down and tipped my chin up towards him. He looked down at me, his deep brown eyes seeming to see through me. “Do not get any silly ideas about escaping. We have dogs that can hunt a man down over miles.”

I tried my best to hide my disappointment at his apparent ability to anticipate my thoughts. Smiling a tight smile, I nodded. “As you wish, Sir.”

My agreement only seemed to bring more irritation. His thick brows drew into a heavy line. “Do not give me your slick replies. I can tell a lie and I can see a plan hatching.” He pointed to the door. “If you so much as set one of those pretty feet outside this caravan before I give the say-so, you'll be thrashed  - and not over those thick skirts of yours either.”

“Yes Sir, just as you say, Sir,” I agreed once more, schooling my features into a neutral state even as he threatened me with terrible indignities. He was not a mind reader, he was a mere man. I was an educated woman, not one of his simple country wenches. If he thought threats of violence would cow me, well, he thought incorrectly.

He made a noise of irritation and left me. He did not bolt the door behind himself, but I knew better than to try to make an escape that way. No. I would bide my time. I comforted myself by thinking about how I would soon be free and I would have a tale to tell in the common room that would greatly amuse my fellow students. My smug thoughts were interrupted by the gentle rocking of the caravan as it was hitched to the horses. Reality hit home suddenly, along with a bolt of panic that caught me in the center of my chest and made it difficult to breathe. I was being swept off into the unknown by a band of gypsies and there was nothing I could do to stop it.