Once upon a time there was a poor, poor gypsy. He had nothing: neither a horse, nor a bridle. And when the camp set off on the road, the poor gypsy himself had to harness himself to the cart, drag his meager belongings and his many children himself. And his wife was pushing the cart from behind. Once a gypsy fell behind the camp. Until nightfall he caught up with his brothers who had gone ahead, but he never caught up. I decided to spend the night in the forest. The gypsy pitched a tattered tent, lit a fire, his wife boiled some tea, and they sat. It's too late. They were just about to go to bed when they suddenly heard someone singing a song in Gypsy. And the song is getting closer and closer. The bushes parted, and a gypsy came out into the clearing, a tall, strong old man with a beard, his hair fluttering in the wind. He approached the fire and said hello:
-Who are you, romale, where are you from?
What kind?
- We are such and such.
Who are you?
“I lived in a rich camp,” the old man began. - He was the leader. The gypsies did not know their needs when I was there. And everything went well.
One day we went to pick up horses. They found a large herd with beautiful mines grazing in it. But our luck changed. We had barely taken the horses when the men discovered us and set up a chase. I told the gypsies to leave, but I stayed behind to ward off trouble from the camp. When I was old, I began to escape from the chase.
The men overtook me and killed me. They killed him and left him in the forest. They didn’t bury me or have a funeral service for me. Since then my soul has not known peace. As soon as night falls, I wander through the forest like a restless person and wait for a kind person to be found who will take pity on me and bury me according to custom.
- Maybe we can help your grief, baro? - said the gypsy and looked at the leader.
“Thank you for your kind word, but I just wish my own hands could do it.” After all, none of my relatives know that I died. And if you bury me, they will never know where my grave is. Now, if you went to my camp and told me everything...
- Of course, I’ll go, what’s the talk about? I myself know what grief is. It's just a pity that I don't have a horse. It will take me a long time to get there.
“It’s not a problem,” the baro smiled, and then stood up and heard a whistle throughout the forest. The earth shook, and out of nowhere, a black horse appeared.
- Take the horse, I give it to you for your kindness. Also, take this. – And the leader handed the poor gypsy a strange pipe. I've never seen a gypsy pipe like this.
“And pick up the phone, but that’s how they’ll recognize you in my camp.” I got this pipe from my grandparents.
They treasured her. Now she is yours, take care of her.
The roosters crowed and the baro disappeared. The gypsy harnessed the black horse, loaded his belongings onto the cart and hit the road.
Long or short, one day I met a large camp of gypsies. He stopped nearby and walked up to the fire. Around the fire, the girls sing songs, and the guys dance, and the older ones sit separately and talk about gypsy affairs. The gypsy sat down with the old men to listen to what they were talking about.
And the old men remembered their leader, how wisely he led the camp, and how he rescued the gypsies from great trouble. The poor gypsy listened to the old men's story for a long time, and then he took out his baro pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit it.
-Where did you get this pipe, more? Let me look at her!
The old men looked at the pipe and gasped, “So this is our leader’s pipe!” - said one.
- His! – confirmed another. “You won’t find another like it in the whole world.”
– If you have this pipe, it means you killed our leader?!
“We found the leader’s killer!” - the gypsies shouted. - We will judge him according to gypsy laws! Death to him!
- What are you, romale, what are you!
“I didn’t kill your leader,” said the poor gypsy and told about everything that happened to him. “He also asked that you bury him according to custom.”
“Show us this place, more, maybe then we will believe you, but if you deceived us, death awaits you.”
The next morning, the poor gypsy led the camp to the place where he met the murdered baro. And as soon as night fell, none of the gypsies went to bed, everyone sat by the fires and waited for the baro to come out. And suddenly everyone heard a song that was getting closer and closer. And the bushes parted, and their leader came out to the gypsies. And then the gypsies believed that the poor gypsy had not deceived them.
And when the morning dawn broke, they buried their leader.
“Live with us, more,” the old men said to the poor gypsy, “you have helped us a lot.”
- I can’t, romale, thank you, but my camp is waiting for me, and I must return to it...
“Keep the baro pipe for yourself, it’s yours by right,” the old men said to the poor gypsy.
The gypsies harnessed their horses and set off: the camp followed their nomadic roads, and the gypsies followed the camp that had gone ahead.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru