“The edge of the world looked so near. If only Mama would let me go just once I was certain I could reach it in a very short time.”
The Kinta Years
HIS FULL NAME was Stonewall Jackson Breckinridge. Inevitably he was called Stoney. He lived in Beaver Creek, population three hundred and fifty, in the Indian Territory, which was not yet Oklahoma. His father, whom everyone called “Professor,” was principal of the school. His mother was a musician and an artist. He was an only child. He was six years old.
With frowning concentration he was trying to master the art of riding, pushing and guiding his new red wagon all at the same time. One knee was doubled into the bed of the wagon. The other leg pushed. One hand braced against the wagon frame, the other gripped the tongue. He went up and down the short strip of sidewalk, sometimes managing to stay on the walk and straighten the wagon out. He went back and forth, back and forth, until his doubled knee began to ache; then he brought the wagon to a stop at the fence corner where the sidewalk ended and sat to rest a moment.
The professor’s house was the last one before the prairie began. The dusty road bent around its white paling fence and then straightened out to unroll flatly across the land until it met the sky in infinity. The boy sat with his shoulders drooping, his thumb in his mouth where it strayed when he felt bored or lonely or unhappy, his eyes following the road.
He thought that where the sky and the road met was the edge of the world. He had watched cowhands race their ponies out the road until they were lost to sight, only a swirl of dust marking their trail. He had seen the buckboards of the ranchers sweep around the corner of the fence and head into that long, level, white road. He had seen the Indians spurring their horses into the dust, the blankets that a few of them still wore making a strange, flowing garment in the wind.
But he was not allowed to go out on the road. “The prairie is wild and wide,” his mother had said. “You’d get lost. There are wolves and gypsies out there.” He had heard the wolves himself, on frosty winter nights, and he knew that bands of gypsies frequently camped on the fringe of the town. His mother didn’t say there was also the edge of the world over which you might fall, but he knew it was there, too.
He wondered what happened when all the people who rode the road came to the edge of the world. How, for instance, did one ride a horse down that steep other side, or drive a wagon or buckboard over it? How did the red-covered gypsy wagons ascend it? And he wondered if the other side of the world was anything at all like this one. He never told anyone what he thought or wondered, and he never asked. This was something he wanted to keep to himself.
Sometimes when he looked out across the prairie it was so big and so wide, so empty and limitless, that he felt himself shrinking in size like Alice in Wonderland. He could feel himself growing smaller and smaller until his blouse hung loose around his shriveled chest. He became the tiniest speck of humanity on the face of the earth, no larger than a mote of dust in a sunbeam. Then he was afraid. At other times, when the wind blew in his face, he felt as big and as wide as the prairie itself, capable of holding all its vastness, filled with all its space. He became a giant, able to stride across it in seven-league boots, daring and venturesome. That was when he ran the hardest, laughed the loudest and sang the song his mother sometimes sang when she played for him at night:
Follow the Romany patteran
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild
south wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.*
“What,” he asked his father once, “is a Romany patteran?”
“Romany means gypsy,” his father had said, “and a patteran is a kind of marked way, you might say, like a blazed trail.”
“Oh, a gypsy road?”
“Well, that’s near enough.”
“And what is sheer to the Austral Light?”
His father had laughed. “Clear to the edge of the world, to the end of time, to the beginning of heaven.”
Stoney’s eyes had widened. The edge of the world was right out there! He shivered with excitement. “Tell me about gypsies.”
“They’re wandering, roving, wild and free, following wherever the road leads. They love music and dancing and laughter, and some of them, if you cross their palms with silver, can tell your fortune, marvelous things about the future.”
“I wish I could see a gypsy, up close.”
His father had tucked the covers more tightly about his neck. “Sometime,” he promised, “we’ll visit one of their camps. Maybe this summer, if any come.”
Stoney sat humped on his little red wagon and looked out across the prairie. It was always there: broad, flat and level, stretching limitlessly on all sides. He thought that from where God sat a prairie town such as Beaver Creek must look like a tiny pimple on the flat belly of the wide, wide earth. He sighed. He wished just once he could follow the road. “When you’re a little older,” his father had said, “you can have your own pony and ride on the prairie. But it’s too big for such a little boy now. You don’t even know east from west yet.” And he echoed his mother’s words: “You might get lost.”
But anybody could follow the road. You didn’t need to know east from west to do that. You just went where the road went and came back when you got there.
He left his wagon and ventured timidly beyond the end of the sidewalk onto the road. It went so straight. He couldn’t possibly get lost. He took one step and then another, stopping to look back, listening for his mother’s call. But it didn’t come, so he kept on taking one step and then another. Suddenly he felt full of excitement, swelling as wide and as big as the prairie. The besom of God was blowing, the south wind, full in his face. He stretched out his arms and began to run. It was all right, he knew. He would go to the edge of the world, just once, sheer to the Austral Light. He would peek over and then he would come straight home again.
It was a long road and his legs grew tired, but he was nowhere near the Austral Light yet. Straight ahead of him it lay, looking as far from where he was as it had at the fence corner. But all you had to do was keep going to get there. He amused himself by watching the dust plop up between his bare toes, by walking pigeon-toed and looking at the queer tracks he made, by walking on his heels, by making a zigzag path from one side of the road to the other. Once when he looked back it frightened him a little. The town was just a splotch in the distance and he felt cut loose from its safety. So he didn’t look back anymore. He grew tired and he grew hungry, but he kept doggedly trudging on.
He came, finally, to a place where the road dipped down into a dry wash. In the bed of the gully a wagon, with a big red-canvas top, was camped. A lean dog scratched fleas beside a lazy fire, and a white horse munched from a feedbag hung from his head. A man sat leaning against a wheel of the wagon, a battered hat cocked on the back of his head. He wore a red-checkered shirt, and black suspenders held up a tattered pair of pants. He was playing a concertina. His eyes were closed and he sang softly. The music was plaintive, wistful, yearning.
Stoney’s heart pounded. There had been no gypsies this summer, but here, surely, was one, close up. He shuffled the sandy dirt under his feet and waited politely until the song was ended. Then he called out, “Tell me, sir, are you a gypsy?”
Unstartled, the man opened his eyes and looked up at him. He laughed. “Aye, you could call me a gypsy, lad.”
“Where are your friends?”
The man waved an arm widely. “Oh, here, there, yonder.”
“I thought gypsies traveled in bands.”
“Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. Just depends.”
“I see.” Stoney waited a moment and then in a small voice, which he tried to make large, he said, “Could I come down there and listen to your music?”
The man made another sweeping gesture with his arm. “Come and welcome. It’s a vast place, this prairie. I’ve no claim staked out on it.”
Stoney slithered down the gravelly bank of the gully, hunkered by the man. “I’ve never seen a gypsy close up before.”
“You’ve not? And where have you been keeping yourself all your life?”
“Back there.” Stoney pointed. “In Beaver Creek.”
“So you live in Beaver Creek. I suppose you’ve a father and a mother.”
“Oh, yes. My father is the professor.”
The man nodded. “I’ve heard of him. Spouts Greek and Latin poetry at the drop of a hat. You’ve wandered off the range a little, haven’t you?”
Stoney considered the matter gravely. “I expect I’ve come ten thousand miles already.”
The gypsy squeezed his concertina and a small catlike sound sighed out of it. “You must be pretty tired.”
“My legs are tired,” Stoney admitted, “but the rest of me isn’t.”
“Legs,” the gypsy said and nodded knowingly, “have a plaguey way of getting tired before the rest of you does.” He fingered his instrument and a little tune took form.
Stoney felt the back of his neck tingling.
“Is this road,” he asked finally, when the tune didn’t seem to be going anywhere, “is this road the Romany patteran?”
“Well, now,” the man said, squinting one eye, “it might be at that.”
“Being a gypsy,” Stoney said, “I thought you’d know.”
“And so I do, lad. But gypsies have many roads, you know.”
“Oh.”
The tune started again.
“But this is the one,” the boy insisted, “that leads sheer to the Austral Light?”
The gypsy’s fingers danced on the stops and a waterfall of notes cascaded into the air. “Sheer to the Austral Light?”
“You know, the one in the song. Follow the Romany patteran sheer to the Austral Light.”
“Oh, that light. Sure, sure, this is the one.”
Stoney laughed softly. “I knew it! I knew it!”
The little tune played between them, like a dancing veil of light. “You were starting to the Austral Light, were you?” the gypsy asked.
Stoney nodded. “Just once I wanted to see it, you know; just peek over the edge of the world and see what it looked like.”
A deep, rich chord embellished the small tune. “Just once?”
“Yes. You see, ever since I was very small I’ve seen other people go out this road, clear to the edge of the world. It’s out there, you know.” He pointed. “Exactly where the road runs into the sky.”
The gypsy’s head bobbed.
“Are you,” Stoney asked, anxiously, “going there yourself?”
The tune broke off and the gypsy shifted his concertina and shoved his old hat farther back on his head. “Well, you see, lad, I’ve just come from there.”
“Oh.” It was a small sound of disappointment.
There was a silence and the boy looked up at the rim of the gully. “I thought, maybe, if you were going that way I could ride with you and get there quicker. I have to be home by dark.”
“Going to push you a little, isn’t it?” the gypsy asked. “It’s getting on toward sundown now.”
Stoney stood up in panic. “Oh, no,” he said quickly, “it’s not much farther. I can get there and home again by dark if I hurry.”
The man shifted his feet. “Well, now, I tell you, sonny, I was heading in the other direction, but I’d just as soon make another turn around the Austral Light as not. Why don’t you just sit here a spell and I’ll cook us a little supper and then we’ll go together. It’s farther than you think.”
Stoney thought about it. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I’m sure. Matter of fact, I always hate to see the last of that Austral Light. It’s something to see, now, and no mistaking.”
The boy sighed with relief. He had been a little worried. “All right. If you’re sure it won’t be any bother.”
“No bother at all. I’ll just chunk up the fire and open a can of beans and fry a little meat and we’ll eat first. You hungry?”
“Awful hungry.” Stoney grinned.
“I thought so.”
As the man went about fixing the meal, Stoney followed him, helping where he could. “My father,” he said, “told me that gypsies could tell your fortune, if you’d cross their palms with silver.”
“So they can. You want your fortune told?”
“I don’t have any silver.”
The gypsy looked thoughtfully in the fire. “Well, there’s one kind of fortune don’t need any silver. Just needs some tea leaves.”
“Is it as good a fortune as the other?”
“Better, in my opinion.”
“Do you have some tea?”
“I have. And I’ll be fixing it right now.”
When the tea was made, the gypsy poured a cup, drained it off, then showed the boy how to swirl the leaves. “Now, let me have a look.” He peered into the cup.
“Is it a good fortune?” Stoney asked, finally, a little anxiously.
The man fingered his chin. “I’d say it’s one of the best I ever looked into. Now, let me see. You’re going to grow up to be a fine, big man.”
“Like my father?”
“Like your father. And this here little doodad means you’re going to be very happy. And you’re going to travel all over the world and make a lot of money.”
“Where does it show I’m going to travel?”
“See these wide spaces between the leaves? That’s the seas you’ll be crossing, probably to Africa and India and China.”
“And the money?”
“Well, that’s this little pile over here in the corner.”
“Am I going to get married?”
“Oh, yes, to a girl as beautiful as a fairy princess. And have six children.”
“Six!” Stoney was aghast. “Do you think I’ll be able to take care of that many?”
“And why not, with all that money?”
“Would it be enough to pay for each one to have his own pony?”
“Plenty, and enough left over for licorice sticks every Saturday night.” The gypsy set the cup down and stirred up the fire. “Well, there’s your fortune, laddie.”
Stoney sighed happily. “It was a very nice fortune. Thank you for it. You’re sure it will come true without the silver?”
“Silver don’t matter much to tea leaves. It’s just palms that get itchy for silver.” The man stirred the beans.
“You didn’t play much music yet,” Stoney reminded him.
“Been talking too much. You want to hear some music now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just settle yourself comfortable, then, while the supper’s finishing.”
He picked up the concertina and propped himself once more against the wagon wheel. He pushed and squeezed on the instrument and wonderful sounds came from it, chords and trills and little rippling, flowing notes. He sang about the River Shannon, and about the lakes of Killarney, and about something called the Blarney Stone, and about a girl named Kathleen, and about a town called Dublin. He sang so many songs the meat almost burned and he had to throw aside the concertina and snatch the pan from the fire. “Like to ruined our supper,” he grumbled.
“Oh, I shouldn’t have minded,” Stoney told him. “My father was right. Gypsies do make wonderful music.”
It was while they were eating that the boy approached the subject he most wanted to hear about. “How,” he asked, “how ever do you manage to drive your wagon up the other side of the world? I mean, the edge of the world must be so steep. How can horses and buggies and wagons go up and down it?”
“Well, now, it takes some managing,” the gypsy admitted. “In some places it’s so steep you have to get out and scotch the wheels to keep from sliding back.”
“You do?” The boy’s eyes widened. “But don’t the horses slide, too?”
The gypsy took a swallow of tea. “Sometimes they do. But there’s kind of little steps, like, and if they’re real sure-footed, they can walk up or down all right.”
“Doesn’t that make your wagon bump a lot?”
“Not as much as you’d think. They’re awfully little steps.”
Stoney ate his beans. “What is the Austral Light like?”
The gypsy took a long breath and let it out. “It’s hard to tell about it, lad. It’s like nothing you’d ever expect to see in this world. It’s all pearly and rosy and a little cloudy, and there’s rainbows chasing around in the clouds, and there’s a kind of dim, far-off music playing all the time, like harps maybe. And there’s a sweet smell like wild roses . . .”
“And the south wind.”
“The south wind?”
“The besom of God, you know.”
“Oh, sure. Sure there’s the south wind. It blows all the time.”
“But not very hard.”
“Oh, no. Just a breeze; just enough to make the music swell and send the wild-rose smell all over.”
“And to feel on your face.”
“And to feel on your face.”
“Never anything but the south wind?”
“Not ever. Never a west wind, or a north wind, or even an east wind.”
Stoney ate the last of his beans. “It must be beautiful.” He lifted his face earnestly. “You’re very good to take me there.”
The gypsy cleared his throat. “Well, I kind of like the place myself.” He scraped the plates out for the dog. “We’d better be starting, I expect.”
Stoney helped him back the white horse into the wagon shafts, helped him load the food stores. The back of the wagon was crowded with bedding and odd-looking tools. “What is all this stuff?” he asked.
“Well, a gypsy has to live on the road, you know, and turn his hand to whatever comes handy. I sharpen knives and scissors and things for people, and mend pots and pans.”
“Oh, in your spare time.”
“Yes. When I’m not visiting the Austral Light. Climb up, laddie.”
He boosted the boy into the wagon’s seat and climbed up himself. He took up the reins, clucked to the white horse, and the wagon slowly pulled up the far bank of the gully. The sun had set and a red and purple haze hung over the horizon, shot through with bands of gold. “There,” Stoney pointed. “That’s where it is.”
The gypsy nodded. “That’s where it is, all right.”
The white horse ambled slowly, very slowly it seemed to Stoney, for suddenly he felt sleepy. At home he would have had his bath by now, and soon would be going to bed. His eyes drooped and his head nodded. He jerked it upright from time to time but each time it drooped further and his eyes stayed closed longer. The gypsy watched him, and finally, smiling, he drew the small head over on his knee. Stoney sighed and settled comfortably. The gypsy pulled the horse around, then, in a wide circle, and headed for Beaver Creek.
He met the search party about a mile outside of town. He pulled up the horse and they played their lanterns over him. “Are you looking for the professor’s boy?” he asked.
“Why, it’s Tim O’Hara, the tinker,” one of the men said. “Yes, the boy’s lost on the prairie, Tim. Have you seen anything of him?”
“I’ve got him here. But keep your voices down. He’s asleep.”
The professor rode up alongside, shone his lantern over the sleeping child. “Thank God! His mother is frantic. We were following his tracks on the road, but were afraid he might have wandered off as night came on.”
Tim laughed softly. “He came up on my camp in the Flat Red gully. He was following the Romany patteran, sheer to the Austral Light.”
The professor chuckled. “ ‘Where the besom of God is the wild south wind, sweeping the sea-floors white.’ ”
“That’s it. He said it was a song. Maybe I ought to have brought him straight on in, Professor, but it seemed terrible important to the lad to see this Austral Light. He thought I was a gypsy and could take him there. It didn’t seem right to disappoint him. He’s had his supper and he’s come to no harm.”
The professor lifted the little boy into his arms and looked thoughtfully down into the face of his son. “You never know, do you, what a child thinks and feels? They let you know so little of what goes on inside. No, we’ve been anxious, but I’m glad you didn’t disappoint him.” He looked at the tinker. “Did he get there, Tim? Sheer to the Austral Light?”
The tinker grinned. “Not exactly sheer, Professor, but he got pretty close.”
“I’ll bet he did. Thank you, Tim, for being a good Irish gypsy.”
“That’s all right, sir. He’s a fine little lad.”
Ruefully the professor smiled. “Pretty much of a gypsy himself, isn’t he? But aren’t we all? I’d better take this one home to his mother, now, though.”
He wheeled to ride off. The tinker called after him. “Professor? What in tarnation is the Austral Light?”
Over his shoulder the professor answered. “The grass in the next pasture, Tim, the other side of the mountain, the coast of the farthest seas, the beckoning finger, the throne of grace, the radiant mystery.” His voice faded and died away and there was only the soft sloughing sound of horses’ hoofs in the heavy dust of the road.
Slowly, the tinker gathered up his reins and followed.
(This story was published originally in Woman’s Day, November 1965.)
* From “The Gypsy Trail” by Rudyard Kipling.