By Kim Mays ©2003

I was born April 2nd, 1363 in a small Northwestern European village, I know not which country because my father would never tell me exactly where he met my mother.  The people of my tribe dare not disclose from whence I came for fear of my father’s displeasure.  Therein lies the conflict with my loving, overprotective and stubborn father.

You see, my father is the leader of this small band of travelers, Nomadi, they call us.  We think of ourselves as the Family, our source for comfort and acceptance.  We have roots in ancient times, originally our family belonged to the ancient tribe of the Sabines, used cruelly by the Romans during their many conquests.  But we fought and we survived, and now our band travels freely, answering to no king or overlord.  We go where we please, we trade with whom we choose.  We fight, or we retreat, but always, it is our choice.  From this, you may begin to understand the stubborn pride that our people and especially our leaders have.  I do not begrudge my father his decisions, yet I believe it is my right to know my heritage.

      But as I am the daughter of the leader of our tribe, all this history is known to me and as such,  not what I wish to discuss.  My mother however has always remained a mystery to me.  My Grandfather told me part of the story before he passed on, short conversations with others has filled in a few of the gaps.  But my greatest desire has always been for my father to take me in his confidence and for once, tell me the whole story of why the shadows of sorrow so often rest upon his face.  This tale is what I know from my gathering of information.  Some of it may or may not be true, only my father can truly answer these questions, which so far, he has vowed never to do.

Some years ago, when my father Gennaro Savina  was a young man and my Grandfather still a strong leader in his prime, my tribe traveled out of its normal trade routes to far reaching countries that touched the great waters.  There, according to my Grandfather, Gennaro met and fell in love with a young, beautiful woman named Moyna.  She was tall, with bright green eyes and a joyful smile.  Long luxuriant tresses of auburn hair cascaded down her backside.  When she laughed, people joined in, when she cried, there were songs of sadness.  My Grandfather said the only woman he ever saw who surpassed Moyna was his own beloved Zakiyah.

Gennaro wooed Moyna with all his heart and soul, easily winning her, for my father was and still is a fine specimen of a man.  Dark, thick, curly hair, eyes so chestnut they glowed with an inner light and his physique, according to the gossips of my tribe made maidens sigh.  Today, his hair is more gray than black and his eyes, although still a golden brown, often seem cloudy with sadness.  The lines of laughter still appear as he is not always in sorrow.   But just as easily, when he thinks no one sees, the pain is visibly etched in his face.  But I digress, so thus I return to the story.

Anyway, Moyna and Gennaro fell madly in love, stealing every moment they could to be together.  My father even begged my Grandfather to remain in this village for much longer than we normally ever stay while on a trading trip.  So they stayed throughout the summer, the young couple laughing and dancing and being in love.  But as the Autumn came, my Grandfather said it was time to move on, so Gennaro, obviously and with great happiness assured of the answer, asked Moyna to be his bride and accompany him on his journeys.  To his astonishment, she refused but was quick to explain to Gennaro and his family.  (Her father, for now I break in with a comment that still, no one will discuss her father.  Something happened, perhaps anger, perhaps prejudice against our Nomadi ways that made Moyna’s fathers name unspeakable in our tribe.  I doubt I’ll ever know the truth about that.  But again, I digress.)

She did not refuse because she did not love, nay the love they shared is the kind spoken of in ballads, dreamt of by all.  She said no because she was the only child of her family and had to remain nearby to care for her parents as they aged and to take over the farm after she had married.  Honor and duty were strong in her morals and as such, she could not leave her family for a life as a Nomadi.  My father begged her that night, he cried to the heavens, but nothing would convince her.  After she went home from our encampment, my father and my Grandfather had a fight louder than any remembered.  I do not know everything that was said there, I have been told that although all in the camp could hear the words, none spoke of it after. 

Come the morning, they packed up the encampment and moved to a warmer climate, leaving my father behind.  After that, in my tribe, my father’s name was not spoken.  My aunt told me once, that the mere mention of him would send my Grandfather into a rage.  For you see, my father was next in line to command the tribe, and while my Grandfather could understand great love and longing, he believed that duty to the Family came first.  My father, according to my Grandfather, chose wrong.

Several years went by.  My tribe prospered, moving from one place to another, gaining and losing members here and there.  Occasionally a traveler will join our band and marry one of our members.  From this we continue the bloodlines, we know through past experiences that remaining too closed as a unit can lead to problems with future generations.  My Grandfather governed the tribe well, gaining wealth and goods with which to trade.  Their route was far flung, traveling through all of lower Europe and even occasionally into the Islamic regions of Persia.  The only place my tribe would not venture was into Northwestern Europe.  One day, and now I’m relating what my gossiping aunts have disclosed, a disheveled man and a young girl-child stumbled into the encampment, faint with hunger. 

To everyone’s astonishment, this man proclaimed himself as Gennaro and asked to speak with his father.  Luckily for him, for at that time Grandfather was still angry, he was off with some of the others gathering foodstuffs from the village nearby.  My aunts took him in, fed, bathed and clothed him and the child and put them to bed in an extra wagon.  When my Grandfather returned, no one told him of Gennaro miraculous appearance, instead my aunts had concocted a plan.  At dinner that night they bemoaned the fact that they no longer had a brother (Gennaro was the only son).  My Grandfather shot them murderous glances, for that was coming very close to mentioning the name that he did not want spoken.  But as one, my aunts, there being seven of them, descended upon my Grandfather overpowering his anger and told him how very much they missed their brother.  They said it had been several years, and that they should at least be allowed to speak his name at the campfires, they wanted to be able to remember Gennaro with fondness, not pain. 

After much shouting and argument, my Grandfather agreed that maybe, just maybe he had overreacted, but that now it was too late.  He missed his son, for while Grandfather is not a cruel man, he was very, very stubborn and that was the reason he was so angry every time the name was mentioned.  He regretted his decisions, but now felt it was too late to make amends.  Gennaro was long gone, lost to the winds.  My aunts carefully worded their next question.  What would Grandfather do if he was able to hold his son again in his arms?  He stated that if fate ever made that possible, he would gather his son up in his arms and never be separated by anger again.  With a smile, my aunts then led my confused Grandfather to the wagon on the outskirts of the encampment.  There, they parted the curtains and revealed my father and I (then age 3) sleeping peacefully.  I was told Grandfather cried, but he never admitted that to me, although he always denied it with a quick hug and a smile.

Gennaro awoke to see his father standing above him, I apparently slept the blessed sleep of children and never stirred a muscle that night.  My father carefully covered me with a blanket, and leaving me to peacefully slumber, stepped outside to confront his sire.  There was no argument then, my Grandfather enfolded his son in his arms and loudly blessed the Gods for returning his blood to him.  I guess father was startled by this, but did not protest.  He too had regretted that angry words spoken so long ago.

Arm in arm they moved to the main campfire, where all gathered to celebrate the return of happiness to camp once again.  I’m told my father that night was joyful and exuberant but would not join in the dancing when the maidens tried to entice him to the circle.  I have also been told that the only one who knows all of what occurred during the four years Gennaro was gone was Grandfather, who never betrayed the trust of confidence to anyone.

The next night, father formally introduced me to the Family as his daughter, Yasmin Zakiyah Savina.  Yasmin for friendliness, Zakiyah, for my grandmother, meaning a lady of keen perception and a sharp mind and Savina, which means ‘of the Sabines’, that being the ancient tribe of our origin (my Grandfather affectionately calls me Yasmina, so that is what I normally answer to).   After this, father told the only public version of his story that ever came from his lips.  Any other retellings has been off in a quiet corner, told to a new member of the clan, and this only to explain why my father is the way that he is. 

Apparently, after Grandfather and the clan left the village where Gennaro met Moyna, he went to her farm and formally asked her father to marry.  He explained to Moyna what had happened and stated, that if she would have him, he would stay, learn to farm and become the son-in-law her father wanted.  After some difficulties, which he would not elaborate on, he and Moyna were married and began a life as man and wife.  One of my aunts believes that the marriage was allowed because Moyna was already pregnant with me.  This could explain some of the friction that obviously existed between her father and Gennaro, but this has not been confirmed.

What father did tell people at the campfire that night was that Moyna did swell with child and that they greeted the upcoming arrival of their firstborn with great anticipation and joy.  When it came time however for the birth, Moyna had serious problems and remained in labor for two days and in a great amount of pain.  The midwife did as much as she could, but as in all births, the burden falls on the woman to expel the babe.  After more than fifty hours of labor, I came squalling into the world, breech born, angry and full term.  Moyna, according to my father, held me tenderly in her arms, looked lovingly up at him and presented him with his daughter.  He took me in his arms and as he bent to kiss his wife, she gasped in pain and blood began gushing forth from her nether regions, more than a human can lose.  She died quickly, there was nothing the midwife could do. 

The telling of the tale grew brisk here, he stated that after leaving the farm with me, not elaborating on why he left with only a newborn babe in his arms, he traveled to the nearby village.  There, he purchased a wet nurse and left that country, vowing to never return.  I can only imagine what could have made a man leave his wife, dead, yet still warm with the remains of life, walking out into the world with a squalling newborn, leaving behind all that was dear to him.  Perhaps my mother’s father reacted with violence, perhaps something more horrific occurred.  I have no idea, since father will not speak of it, and Grandfather took the truth with him to his grave.

Father then told of his travels, how he searched far and wide for our tribe.  Once I was old enough to no longer need a wet nurse, he released her and traveled alone with me.  There were some hard times,  a man with a small child is always a target.  But with luck and a lot of quick thinking on my father’s part we traveled successfully.  Unfortunately, Grandfather had changed his normal route of travel so much after the conflict with his son that it took three years for Gennaro to finally track them down.  But finally he did find the clan and was successfully reunited.

I remember nothing of our re-acceptance back into the clan, but I do remember being raised with love, spoiled by doting aunts and spending countless hours listening spellbound to my Grandfather tell tales of the old days.  Because I did not have a mother, there was perhaps more leniency to my behavior than should have been allowed.  When I wanted to learn how to fight, Grandfather showed me, when I wanted to learn how to wrestle, my father, with a raised eyebrow allowed a cousin to instruct me.  Perhaps they believed that if I was denied nothing, my mother’s death would not enter my mind.   Father never has taken another woman for his own though.  He chooses to remain celibate, staying faithful to the memory of his beloved.  Though he rules our clan justly, he still carries with him dark secrets that no one knows or dares contemplate out loud.

      With this I end the tale of my creation and my father’s sorrow.  Now you can understand my frustration at not knowing my history!  I must know where my roots lie.  I begged my father for the name of the country, the village, my grandfather, but to no avail.  He would tell me nothing, saying only that my life is here, with the clan and that I need no other family.  Perhaps it is because I was raised so leniently however that I refused to accept this as a final answer. When I was but eighteen years old and still unmarried, I decided to set out on my own to try and find my history.  I know this may be seem as rash, but it was important to me!  After another endless argument with him, I decided that it is time I left the clan.  I left in the middle of the night with two companions, my cousins, Arshaq and Haleemah as they too desired adventure. 

      We traveled up to the northern parts of Europe, encountering much danger and excitement.  While in England I met a young French-Scot named Pagan Badger.  He too is searching for his roots, he too is curious about his past.  Because of this, we spent time together, and unexpectedly fell in love.  He is my soul mate, my partner and we search together for our past.  My cousins found entertainment in England and we parted ways there.  They promised that if they return to our clan, they will tell my father that I am happy and send him love.  I don’t know if Badger or I will ever find our past, but at least now, we are creating a future, together.

It has been twenty years since Badger and I first fell in love.  We linger over fond memories, we remain in love as much or even more than when we first met.  We have moved here and there, never content to remain in one spot.   We have taken up the roles of a traveling merchants; ever wandering as my tribe still does far away.  It amuses me to think of how hard I fought to leave the Tribe and how easily I returned to it’s habits, selling various wares to strangers…  Recently I have begun to learn the skills of pottery and my good husband is learning the trade of woodworking.   We learn on our own, having no teachers who will travel with us; our restless feet cannot bear to stay in one place too long to be apprenticed.  In some ways this is better, we are able to speak and discuss these skills with many folk throughout the lands we travel and our knowledge is varied and growing every day.

Our quests have not been fulfilled, perhaps they never will.  I have only my mothers name to guide me, that small piece of information in such a large world is so unbalanced that it seems unlikely I will ever find my roots.  Badger has had hints here and there about his father but as yet he too remains a mystery.  We have a daughter, who is seventeen years old and a young son who’s nine now;  these offerings of love bring us much joy and laughter.  So for now, we travel where we will, enjoying what we may, and we always know that that where our journey leads us will take us only closer to our destiny.