The horse stamped, steam coming out of its nostrils. It moved forward slightly when it saw Misha walking towards them.

‘Good morning,’ said the blacksmith and gave Misha a hand up onto the cart.

They set off to an open field, well away from church, where the butcher’s grave had been dug. Lightning flashed yellow across the grey sky and thunder rolled down from the mountain. A pungent smell of garlic came from the coffin as Misha and the blacksmith lifted it from the cart and slid it into the flooded grave.

As the priest stood shivering by the grave, the rain stopped and the sun broke through the windmill clouds, sending out sharp rays of sunshine.

‘Aren’t you going to pay your respects?’ asked the priest.

Neither Misha nor the blacksmith said a word. They walked away and waited under a chestnut tree while the priest gave the service alone.

‘He put a stake through the butcher’s heart,’ said the blacksmith, rolling his tobacco. ‘And there’s more garlic in that coffin than you’d stuff a goose with.’

At last the priest stood back and Misha and the blacksmith covered the coffin with earth. They were pressing down the tufts of grass when they heard the distant sound of drums, trumpets and cymbals.

‘What’s that?’ said the priest, a look of fear on his face.

The blacksmith, the tallest of the three, could see the top of a tattered banner winding its way up the path to the village.

‘Sounds like the devil’s music,’ said the priest.

‘You of all people should know,’ said the blacksmith.

The banner came into view. It read ‘Zamfir’s Circus’. One more turn in the dirt road and there came a motley collection of people in faded clothes that once had been bright. Some were on horseback, some on foot and one led a bear. They were followed by three lumbering houses on wheels. The procession came to a halt and out of one of the houses stepped a man. He was striking in looks; his hair was dark and tousled, he wore a black frock coat with red and green checked trousers, an embroidered waistcoat and pointed red boots. He was carrying a top hat.

He walked with energy towards them and seeing the priest said, ‘Is this a funeral?’

‘Yes,’ said the priest.

‘Where are the mourners? Where’s the feast?’ He looked from Misha to the blacksmith then the newly covered grave and said, ‘Ah. I see. He took his own life.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said the priest.

‘My name is Zamfir and this is my circus. I know you, Priest. Yes, indeed. It was you and the butcher who turned my father away last year.’

‘We told him we didn’t want any gypsies in our village,’ said the priest.

‘We are called Tzigane,’ said Zamfir. ‘The word gypsy is an insult.’

‘Can we help you?’ asked Misha.