Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  As the Gypsy woman flipped her bright skirts and stalked away, Charlotte stood trembling at the pictures Phaedra had evoked in her mind.

  What had she done? What must Mateo think of her now? And what would he expect from her next? Was she no better than Phaedra—throwing herself at him? She could feel his gaze still on her, but she dared not look at him.

  “What is your true name, sunaki bal?” he asked gently.

  She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Charlotte Buckland,” she answered in a whisper.

  “Very well, Charlotte. I will see you to the brides’ tent now. You will remain there for the time being.”

  She turned to him, suddenly overwhelmed with joy. This must be the way Gypsy men asked women to become their wives. She hadn’t displeased him after all. He wanted her for his own! She was more than willing. She had heard of love at first sight, but never had she believed it could happen to her. Now she knew it was possible. Anything was possible as long as she had Mateo!

  Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him again, deeply. But this time his lips were motionless upon her own. She stepped away and looked at him, bewildered. She couldn’t read his closed expression. His eyes seemed clouded by a mysterious veil.

  As if the second kiss had never interrupted what he had been saying, Mateo continued, “You will live in the brides’ tent and Tamara will see to your needs until Petronovich is able to raise the brideprice and claim you for his wife.”

  His words came like a physical blow. Charlotte could only stare at him in stunned silence.

  Chapter 5

  Staggered by Mateo’s pronouncement, Charlotte meekly allowed herself to be led toward the bright blue brides’ tent. She felt numb and strange, as if her spirit were disconnected from her body and she were viewing the whole scene from the top branches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew along the stream near camp.

  She was keenly aware of the sound of the breeze stirring the trees, of the aroma of wood smoke and rabbit stew cooking, of the feel of rough buffalo grass stabbing her bare feet. But Mateo, although his guiding hand rested on the small of her back, seemed only an indistinct shape, hazy and undefined in her mind’s eye. Her whole existence had taken on a dreamlike quality in the past hours—tipping back and forth from fantasy to nightmare at a moment’s notice.

  What quirk of fate had put her on a collision course with these Gypsies? Had this queer turn in her life been written in the stars since the beginning of time? Or had the whole direction of her future detoured the instant she’d stepped down from the train in Leavenworth, Kansas? Just thinking of so many unanswerable questions made her head ache.

  “Wait here, please,” Mateo said, snapping Charlotte out of her trancelike state.

  She watched him walk ahead several paces. To her eyes, Mateo resembled some pagan woods god with his broad shoulders gleaming rich bronze in the early-morning light and his hair like a dark crown forged in Hades but brushed with the pure gold of Heaven. His buckskin britches fit like a second skin over narrow hips and well-developed thigh muscles before disappearing into soft leather boots.

  The sheer animal power of his physique sent a tremor through Charlotte. She tried to look away, to deny her own thoughts and desires. But try as she might to put Phaedra’s words from her mind, the suggested vision of her own naked flesh, pale beneath the Gypsy-copper of Mateo’s strong, demanding body, persisted.

  He turned suddenly, as if sensing the drift of her thoughts. In that instant, their gazes met and held. Although Mateo’s face was unlined, Charlotte could see the troubled frown deep in his black eyes, like storm clouds on the far horizon. Then the expression changed, growing softer, almost pleading with her to understand.

  But how could she understand a man whose eyes held love while his lips refused to speak the words? What kind of man would turn the woman he desired over to await the coming of her marriage to another?

  “Mateo,” Charlotte whispered. She moved toward him, one hand outstretched in supplication.

  He looked away, breaking the fragile spell between them, and turned to the fancifully painted wooden door set into the side of the brides’ tent. Reaching for the string of small, hammered-silver bells that hung there, he gave them a vicious jerk. Even while the merry chimes echoed through the early-morning stillness, Tamara opened the door and motioned for Charlotte to enter.

  A brief, uncertain moment passed as Charlotte reached the entrance and Mateo. His fingers brushed her hand with a feather-light touch as if his impulse were to grab hold and keep her with him. Surrounded by a misty haze of morning sunshine, they stood staring at each other with an intimate intensity that shut out the rest of the world.

  Charlotte’s very soul ached when Mateo offered her a melancholy smile. Slowly he bent toward her, his lips parted, beckoning hers. She closed her eyes and her whole body tensed, awaiting the sweet pressure, longing for the taste and feel of him once more.

  But only his breath teased her waiting lips as he said, “Good-bye, Charlotte. I must leave you now.”

  Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She felt as if he were casting her into the yawning black depths of a whirlpool instead of showing her to a comfortable place to rest.

  “You will be safe here, little one, until the time comes for—’”

  Charlotte drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster and cut off the words she didn’t want to hear.

  “I won’t marry him, Mateo!”

  “As Fate wills,” he answered softly.

  She watched as he turned and strode away, her heart feeling unaccountably empty.

  “Mateo is right, you know,” Tamara said, ushering Charlotte into her new quarters.

  “Right about what?” Charlotte lashed out. “If you mean marrying Petronovich, you’re as dead wrong as he is!”

  The shy Gypsy girl busied herself with the teapot and didn’t meet Charlotte’s fiery gaze. “No. I meant that Mateo is right about Fate. Our lives and fortunes are all dictated by what was written ages ago. We cannot change it. There is no reason to try.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Tamara. Think about it. I heard what Queen Zolande said about you and Petronovich. You were destined to be his bride. If that’s so, I have no place with him. And I certainly have no desire to be his wife!”

  Tamara’s gentle sable eyes grew moist. She smiled at Charlotte and shook her head. “Fate can be fickle, my friend. At my birth, it was written that I should be Mateo’s bride. But I was a sickly child, and certain signs forecast my early doom. Since Mateo will be king someday, it would not be right for his queen to have clouds in her future. Therefore, I was given to Petronovich. But the very fact that my fate was altered that way may mean that nothing will ever be certain in my life. It is of no consequence.” She shrugged eloquently. “Petronovich is in no hurry to marry me. He earned my brideprice once, but gambled it away. Perhaps he did so on purpose because he doesn’t want me. Perhaps I was never meant to wed anyone.”

  “And you accept all this without question?” The very thought made Charlotte furious.

  “It is not for me to accept or reject. We exist in the eternal now, living each day as it comes—without expectations, without regrets. I am simply thankful to see the sun rise again each morning. You will learn our ways and be happy, too, eventually.”

  “Never!”

  Seeing that Charlotte Buckland was not a willing student of her fatalistic tutoring, Tamara changed the subject. “Come sit down and have some tea. You’ve had an exhausting night. We will break our fast, then you must sleep.”

  Delicious aromas from the cooking fires drifted into the tent, making Charlotte’s stomach rumble insistently. She remembered suddenly that she hadn’t eaten since arriving in Leavenworth the day before. She sat down at the small table in the center of the tent and accepted the red-and-gold china cup that Tamara offered. Unlike the dark Bohea tea her mother brewed back home, this was topaz in color and spic
ed with wild herbs and mint. It went down smoothly, leaving Charlotte with a warm, drowsy feeling.

  “Another cup?” Tamara offered.

  “Please. It’s delicious.”

  Tamara smiled her appreciation of the compliment. “I make it myself from herbs and grasses I pick and dry. I’ll show them to you when you’ve rested enough to go out for a walk in the vesh. Now I’ll go bring our food.”

  “Wait, Tamara!” Charlotte put a restraining hand on the girl’s arm. “Stay and talk to me for a bit.”

  The lovely Gypsy woman nodded and took her seat again.

  “Tell me about the Gypsies—where you came from, how you got here.”

  Tamara’s beautiful face took on a wistful, faraway look. “To tell you of Gypsies is to talk to you of the wind, for so we come and move on unknown and unknowing. Some say we suffer this fate because we are descended from Cain—that we wander the earth ever trying to escape the guilt of his mortal sin. Perhaps this is so, or perhaps since we have been mistrusted and sent away so often, we have adopted the nomadic life out of self-defense, moving on before others cast us out. Whatever the reason, we flow like the water and move like the trembling branches of a tree in a storm.

  “Those of us in this camp are of the Lowara tribe—the horse traders—and the kumpania of Valencia. Once our people roamed the Transylvania plains at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. We know Russia, the Balkans, the Sacro Monte caves of Spain. Most recently we came from Wales. Only one year have we been in America.” Tamara’s face clouded suddenly and she shook her head. “I do not wish to speak of the sea voyage. Gypsies are not good sailors, I’m afraid. But we traveled from Liverpool to the great city of New York, then on to meet the other circus people in Philadelphia before heading for this wild country.”

  “All of you came together, Tamara?”

  She nodded. “Thirty-six of us, counting little Svetslav, who was born on the boat. A few others joined us from a circus troupe in Philadelphia.”

  “But Mateo has been with you all along?”

  Tamara smiled. “Ah, so now we get to your real interest, Charlotte Buckland! Yes, Mateo came from Wales, where he bred and trained horses for the racecourses of England.”

  “He’s a fine man,” Charlotte said, hoping to prod Tamara into further discussion of Mateo.

  “As well he should be! The only son of the queen has grave responsibilities to the familia.”

  The family, Charlotte thought. Always the family! She felt a sudden overwhelming resentment at being an outsider—a gajo.

  “Do Mateo’s responsibilities to the familia extend to populating the entire western territory with hordes of little Gypsies?” Even to her own ears, the question sounded harsher than she had intended.

  Tamara stared at her, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Charlotte got up and paced for a moment, embarrassed at having to discuss the subject with such an innocent. “I met a mob of children at the circus—at least a dozen. They all claimed their father was Mateo. They said he would beat them if I didn’t give them money.”

  To Charlotte’s total consternation, Tamara laughed out loud.

  “I didn’t think it was funny, Tamara! How many children does Mateo have? How many wives? Or is the son of the queen free to take his pleasure wherever he finds it?”

  Tamara caught Charlotte’s hand and coaxed her back into her chair before she said, “I’m sorry, my friend. I shouldn’t have laughed. I can see that the experience upset you terribly. You met many children, you say. Poor Little Pesha?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “That child! At times I think she should be beaten! But of course, we don’t believe in such cruel punishment, not even for naughty little liars.”

  “Then you mean Pesha isn’t Mateo’s daughter?”

  “Certainly not! Nor are any of her accomplices who besieged you. They are a crafty pack of high-spirited con artists. They know that Mateo is the star of the circus. So they call him their father, thinking that the gajo customers will give them more, out of respect for his high position and great talent in the ring. Mateo has never married, although he is well past the age when most of the Rom take brides. He must marry soon. He is a child of Queen Zolande’s autumn years. She is very old and infirm. The familia cannot be left without a leader, and Mateo is the chosen one.”

  “He’ll marry Phaedra?”

  Tamara shrugged. “As Fate wills. She is his, if he wants her. But there are unusual factors to be considered in Mateo’s choice of a bride, for she will also be queen. I think he has delayed his final decision, hoping against hope that some ancient prophecy will be fulfilled.”

  Charlotte slumped back in her chair, weak with relief, and smiled. “Thank you, Tamara. I was so worried about those children, even though I only half believed what they said.” She didn’t mention that most of her relief came from knowing that Mateo had not yet chosen the woman with whom he wished to share his life.

  “A word of caution, my friend. Only half believe anything that a Gypsy tells you. We have kept ourselves safe from the world by never letting the gajos know the full truth on any subject.”

  Charlotte eyed the other woman speculatively. If this was so, how much of Tamara’s story could she believe? And how could she live in an atmosphere of falsehood and fairy tales?

  Once again, Tamara seemed to be reading Charlotte’s thoughts. Quietly she said, “One thing I will tell you about Mateo which you can believe, totally. Always his people will come first—before personal desires, ambitions… even before love.”

  Charlotte felt a blush stain her cheeks. Was this a warning from the perceptive Gypsy fortune-teller?

  “How can love even be considered in a family that still arranges marriages?” Charlotte answered, an edge of bitterness in her voice.

  Tamara patted her hand in understanding. “Our ways are our own. The very fact that you question them shows that you could never give your heart to Mateo without reservations, Charlotte. Besides, he is different from the others—” Tamara quickly cut off her words as if she’d said more than she should have to an outsider.

  “Different? How? I don’t understand, Tamara.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. It is for Mateo himself to explain, if he should choose to. Now I’ll go for our food.”

  Left alone, Charlotte had time to examine her surroundings while she mulled over Tamara’s words. The tent was partitioned by colorful curtains into several small rooms. The earthen floor was hard-packed and covered by lush Brussels carpets. The table and four chairs were beautifully carved, with touches of gilt on the trim. An oil lamp with rose-tinted glass and heavy, leaded-crystal prisms hung from the ridgepole. A glassed-in china cupboard held the dishes, and two other chests, painted blue, completed the furnishings in the main room.

  Charlotte pulled aside the deep-amethyst-colored curtain. There on the floor, like a cozy nest, lay a pallet of soft rabbit skins. A heavy robe of black fur served as blanket and counterpane. Charlotte couldn’t resist the urge to lie down for just a moment. In spite of her gnawing hunger pangs, weariness took priority. Within seconds after she’d settled herself in the warm, caressing pelts, she was asleep.

  Charlotte awoke disoriented. The room was dark and close with the dry heat of autumn. Music drifted to her from somewhere beyond the walls. She listened, trying to place the unfamiliar sounds. She could make out the sad sighs of a violin, accompanied by the low throb of a drum and the trills of a flute. From time to time, she heard wild yelps interspersed through the song.

  Indians! she thought, clutching the pelts beneath her. But the feel of the fur in her fingers soon brought her back to reality. Not Indians, but Gypsies! Could one be less of a threat to her than the other? A kind of hopelessness settled over her, but she forced herself to shake it off. There must be a way out of this. She would bide her time and pick the moment for her escape.

  “Oh, you have awakened at last,” Tamara sa
id, peering in around the edge of the curtain.

  “At last? How long have I slept?”

  “Through a day, a night, and a second day. I was worried, but Mateo said I should leave you to your rest. He said your journey was long and your strength dissipated by the manner in which you came to us.”

  Charlotte laughed out loud at the delicate phrasing Tamara used to refer to her kidnapping by Petronovich. The girl misunderstood her reaction.

  “Ah, good! You’re feeling better. Mateo will be so pleased.”

  Charlotte walked into the lighted room, taking stock of her ruined nightgown and wondering what she would do for clothes, since everything she owned was still at the Planters Hotel in Leavenworth.

  “Why should Mateo care? He’s washed his hands of me.”

  Tamara frowned at her guest. “I do not understand about this washing of Mateo’s hands you speak of.”

  “It’s an American saying. What I mean is that I didn’t think Mateo cared in the least about what happened to me from now on.”

  “Oh, you are wrong! He cares a great deal. He has such plans for you!” Tamara’s pretty eyes sparkled like bright bits of glass and she smiled mysteriously.

  “Plans? What plans?”

  “It is a secret… for Mateo alone to tell you. Hurry now. Eat the stew I’ve brought. Then you must bathe and dress and join the others around the campfire. Hear? They are already playing and singing. Mateo has planned a patshiva—a celebration to honor you as our special guest.”

  “I have no clothes, Tamara,” Charlotte said between bites of delicious stew spiced with wild garlic and onion. But the other woman was busy pouring steaming water from a copper pail into a basin.

  “From now on, you will bathe in the stream as the rest of us do. But for tonight, I thought you would like to refresh yourself indoors with hot water.”

  “Thank you!” Charlotte had never spoken the words with more sincerity.

  The warm water and scented soap renewed her spirit and refreshed her body. When she finished and had wrapped herself in a blanket, Tamara appeared from behind one of the curtains, carrying a beautiful costume.