PART 2
George sat down in the tavern, hungry for a meal and thirsty for ale. Not so many months ago he had been fighting in the wars with the gallant Captain Phoebus. It had been a bloody battle, two horses had been shot from under him. He’d come out of the battle less a finger, with stained britches. The slaughter had been pointless, their opponents were peasants, farmers with pitchforks and stones.
George stared at the stump that was once his finger, a finger that held a golden ring that had been lost in battle. He stared at a woman with her child in the corner of the inn, longing for the days when he looked forward to a child. If she knew what he’d done, her heart would surely break.
George took another draught of Vodka. He missed her every day, every waking moment since she’d died in the hands of a supposed midwife. No tears fell, George just buried his sorrows in the never-ending flow of liquor. Had it really been so long? He was a young man when she was taken, young with black hair and all his teeth. His hair was now gray and his teeth all but there, those not knocked out were yellow and long.
He was once a hero, someone who could stand proud. A man who once had everything, then lost everything only to become the object of affection after battles. Now, he was just another drunkard in a tavern, living each day with a bottle, Venus and the devil in his hands. He leaned into the bar over the cheap vodka. Life had gone downhill since the Gypsies took his wife and child.
George thought back to five weeks ago when a gypsy took everything he owned. While it was true that he had accidentally taken Trouillifou’s horse, by no means was the act planned. He had been drunk, mounted to ride home and unfortunately mounted the wrong horse.
The horse galloped along willingly for a bit, then stopped suddenly. All George remembered was waking up in the middle of the river without clothes or weapons, on a large piece of wood. There was no horse nearby for him to ride. In fact, the gypsies had taken his mount with them. George had looked down at his nakedness. Curse those filthy sorcerers!
George remained on the bar, a flask in his hand. As the night wore on, the inn slowly emptied, the people either leaving or retiring to their beds. Three of four figures remained in the inn, sitting at their tables and talking among themselves.
The soldier continued to swirl the vodka in his cup. He watched as a badger sniffed the ground outside of the tavern, looking for scraps, he contemplated. At that moment a gypsy woman stood up from the table, held her child to her chest and booted the badger away from the door. She dropped a coin on the table and ran out of the tavern, spouting strange words.
George muttered cusses under his breath. There was no such thing as a sane gypsy. The landlord must have noticed his confusion.
“They usually run when they see a badger, you know. It’s not that unusual.”
“I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Them badgers, you see, are possessed by the devil. You let your child near them, the devil will move out of the badger and into your child.”
“I never heard such a thing, Monsieur”
“I assure you that I speak the truth. Why, it wasn’t so long ago that the devil took a child in just that way.”
George was skeptical, he sat back in his chair and asked that the landlord explain himself. The man asked for George to buy some wine, which he did, then agreed to share his tale.
The landlord set a bottle and two flasks between them. George pulled the cork and filled both cups. The man behind the bar began to speak softly.
“It had to be a few years back, just after I built this place. It was late at night in November when four gypsies, a woman with two men and a child in swaddling clothes moved through. The child, they said, had been cursed after a badger had been killed in their camp.
The woman would not speak, but sat in the corner over there with her child. They left the next morning, having paid a tidy sum for their room. They were like gypsies I’d never met before. They did not steal, they did not cast spells. They merely rushed through.
It was the next day when I learned that the woman with the child was the wife of an English Nobleman. He was there in the tavern asking about her and the child. I turned the man away, saying that I saw nothing. After all, gypsies are whores, not wives.
Anyhow, the man went on to tell me that the child was his. Not so long ago there had been two of them, teenaged lovers driven to start something forbidden. To recall what I heard, let us have some more wine.”
George filled the landlords glass and his own.
“In my opinion, they got what they deserved. The Egyptian has no business in the life of good Christian men. From what I was told, the two teenaged lovers ran off together in the night. The young man held his love in his arms. Their love was forbidden, Nobility did not associate with the heathen gypsies, he kissed one passionately. Deciding to elope, the two young lovers ran off with her tribe. The man had no other choice but to leave his home, his family and riches to be with the woman of his dreams. He didn’t care.
Unfortunately, the woman’s brothers felt differently about the arrangement, especially when the wedding jug failed to break. When she became pregnant, it became even worse for the man and his lover. Yet love soon prevailed, and the men knew there was no changing the mind of their sister.
In early November, she gave birth to a beautiful boy. He instantly softened the hearts of the tribe and her husband was finally accepted, if only as a foundling. That child was the most beautiful either parent had ever seen. Sky blue eyes, fiery red hair. The child was strong & healthy, promising to be as strong as his father. The elders doted on the child, saying her would grow strong, someone his people would be proud of once he was a man. Others warned the mother that the child was an ill omen of sorts, but neither parent believed that.”
One wise woman read in the cards that the child would achieve greatness, become a hero loved by all and marry the daughter of an outsider. The runes said he would be raised in a world of corruption, pain and suffering. He would grow not knowing who he was and would spend his life lost in a dream. The parents didn’t know what to believe, since only one of the predictions could be true, they were opposite to one another. Among the predictions was a poem, written by the father as a fortuneteller read it from her cards.
Rather than disown their sister, her brothers soon accepted the father as a family member and allowed him to stay with them as the child’s father. The tribe continued to travel throughout England, staying at farms and camping in the countryside. One afternoon, one of the older children brought a badger she had caught into the camp, to keep as a pet.
Soon afterwards, a curse arrived at the camp. Within a week several children had died. The mother guarded her baby, tried to keep him safe, but it was soon discovered that he too would become ill. His parents prayed for the child’s’ life. “Keep him safe, Lord. Please. Don’t take him away from us.” The young mother prayed, day and night, holding her child in her arms.
By the end of the week it was clear that the beautiful child wound not die, but suffer another fate. By February the sickness began to change his form. The child’s uncles blamed his father, thus turning him away from the tribe and refusing him the right to see his wife and his sweet child. Weeks passed, the child did not get any better. The father followed the camp, meeting with his beloved whenever possible. She’d bring news of the child and cry into his shoulder. The pain of not seeing his son drove the father into depression.
It was early March when the cold snow was blowing and the tribe decided to move out of England. The father assumed this was due to his following the tribe. She must have begged for one last meeting, however, as she approached him one cold March morning with the child in her arms, accompanied by two of her brothers. Tears filled her face as she restrained herself from proclaiming her love. She simply looked up at her lover with her midnight eyes and tears began to stream down her face.
The mother held forth the bundle in her arms. Her son, her precious son. He would always be beautiful to her, no matter the changes that had been made to him. The father gently uncovered the boys’ face. The father was not prepared for what he saw, yet knew he was his boy through his eyes. The boy looked up at his father silently, not really understanding what had happened to him. His little angel, now resembled a demon. His son. The poor man held the boy to his chest and cried.
Having pleaded with the gypsy men to let their sister and him raise the child together. They refused. Forcing the boy out of his arms, they turned to walk away, leaving the man in the snow, on his knees. His lover turned around as they led her, her deformed son and his life away. Her eyes were filled with tears, she called his name once, then resigned herself to her fate. The next day the broken hearted father watched as her people disappeared into the distance.
Unable to return home to his family or betrothed bride after that day, the brokenhearted man became reclusive. The only love he had was for his wife and his child. His fathers sent men to look for the runaway groom yet by that time he had lost weight and looked like a beggar.”
George looked again toward the door. “What happened to the mother and child?”
“Never heard from them again and am thankful for it.” The landlord polished his cup. “Though it is likely the woman continued her life as a whore and the demon became a sorcerer.”
Pouring the last of the wine into a beaker, the landlord took a long draught. George had yet to take a sip of the wine in his flask. The landlord took another coin from George, then retired to sleep.
Having no more coins for wine, the old soldier left the inn and went outside into the cold night. The price of a room was immense, more than he was willing to spend.
In the morning George set out to the next town to visit a pretty whore he’d met not long ago. She had all her teeth, ample bosom and childbearing hips. More importantly, she had a warm bed she was willing to share with him.
Mother and child sat in the candlelit tent. Incense floated in the still air in delicate ripples. An older child, about eight, sat on the floor playing with an old doll. Her hair lay in a cloud around her head, her blue and yellow dress crumpled around her delicate legs. Her name was Calliope. She laughed and played with the doll, then rose to dance with it.
The mother sat the young boy on her knee and watched as her oldest daughter danced on the worn carpet, her skirt swirling with each step an imaginary beat. She began to sing as her mother clapped.
Deep in the woods on a starry night
I feel the song of a woodland spirit
I close my eyes, and see
the words
Love is a tune that’s never ending
Now you may ask, how I know
Of a voice that travels without body
It’s all in the birds and the deer that run
The
wolf that hunts and the river flowing
The land is alive, for those who know
It just takes love
and a heart to listen
For the familiar tune on a starry night
The silent voice of the woodland spirit
The young girl bowed to her mother, then to her ill baby brother. The mother was overjoyed at the sight of her beautiful child, her precious Calliope, singing and dancing with such grace and beauty.
Calliope enjoyed the attention and began another dance. She would prove herself, she would become a dancer of the streets and help her mother to feed her family. She swung the doll around her head, as if a partner.
The doll was soon snatched away from her by a younger child, a fight being the result. The mother watched as Calliope was pinned to the ground by her youngest daughter.
“Let me up!”
“No! You took Anna!”
“You weren’t using her!”
“You STOLE her!”
“I needed her to practice!”
“Mama! Calliope stole my doll!” The mother picked up the doll and handed it to her young son, who began chewing on its head.
“Both of you. You must work together, no more of this fighting over such things as dolls! There are much greater things to worry about.” Calliope stuck her tongue out at her sister and received a slap for it. “Now the both of you. If you don’t fight for the rest of the day, I will allow you to perform with Clopin tomorrow. No fighting for a whole day.”
The children grinned and soon made up. A day with Clopin in the city was something to look forward to, something worth not fighting to achieve.
The girls got along and soon found themselves in the streets of Paris with Clopin. They soon got bored, however and wandered off. Calliope began dancing on an empty street corner and collecting coins as she danced. Her sister played the flute beside her. They both laughed at how easy it was to make money. Clopin was so cautious, when in fact there was nothing to fear.
The girl’s happiness shattered when leather clad hands rested on their shoulders. The younger sister caught a glimpse of a soldier.
“Run!” screamed Calliope.
The two girls ran across the square and past Clopin’s wagon. Calliope overtook her younger sister, running toward the giant building across the square. The doors opened as Calliope fell against them, her sister fell on top of her. An invisible hand shut the door behind them.
“We’re safe now, bibet.” She petted her sister’s head. “Clopin says this place is always safe.”
The younger gypsy looked up to the person who had shut the door. “Sanctuary is for all. This way, children.”
Calliope stood and followed the priest, her sister in tow. Two sets of eyes looked upward, soaking in the beauty of the rainbow walls and checkerboard floor. Neither had ever beheld such beauty. The smell on incense touched their noses.
The priest led them to a narrow cloister to rest. “You may stay here as long as you wish.”
The two girls sat next to each other throughout the evening, where the bells woke them up. The sound came directly from above and caused the two girls to tremble. Chanting monks emerged from the cloisters, the smell of incense became stronger. The girls could only feel the movement as the monks walked past. It was too dark to see anything.
“We’ll be alright here?”
“I promise you.”
The two gypsies returned to their slumber, awaking as the first morning rays pierced through the rose windows. Bells rang out above them as they did the night before. Both girls rose to leave.
As the girls walked out of the Cathedral, they passed a tall figure dressed in black, carrying a basket. He looked down at them and sneered, then continued on his way.
The youngest girl looked up at the judge, her eyes watching him as he walked on. She’d been told he was evil, that he was a danger to all gypsies. Meanwhile, Calliope had fled the Cathedral at the sight of him.
A scream came from the square, the young girl turned her head toward the open door. She forced her way through the crowd making it’s way into the church for morning mass. Nobody moved to let her pass, they ignored her.
She emerged to see the square nearly empty. Two hands scooped her up from behind and carried her off. She fought, then realized the hands that held her were gypsy hands.
When she awoke, she was back in her mother’s tent. Her mother stood by the entrance, her baby brother screamed. Calliope was no where in sight, her tambourine lay on the chest. The younger sister stared at the doll that sat next to her. There were much more important things to worry about, such as family. She stroked the dolls’ hair and placed it next to the tambourine.
The young gypsy soon fell asleep, expecting her sister to walk in at any moment. Calliope arrived soon after her mother stepped out.
“Bibet! Bibet! Wake up!”
“Calliope! You’ve come back!”
“For a while, I must leave shortly. Don’t worry about me, OK? I’ll never be far from you.”
“You have to stay. Mom cries without you.”
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
“I just do. I love you.” Calliope walked out of the tent.
The young gypsy cried and soon woke up. A mere dream.
Two weeks later, a the body of an eight year old girl was discovered in the river. Her hair was a mess of black curls braided with tinsel and had been cropped. She wore a blue and yellow dress.
That night, the mother bundled her son in a blanket, her daughter in tow, to leave Paris forever more.