Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “So what does it all mean? To you and me, Mateo?”

  The desperation in Charlotte’s tone pleaded for an answer. But Mateo could give her none—not yet.

  They were not the only two in the Gypsy camp left puzzling over events that had taken place on the night of the full moon. Even as Charlotte and Mateo stood silently searching for answers in each other’s eyes, Queen Zolande sat alone in her tent, pondering life’s meaning. Somehow she knew the answer to what had occurred on the night of the full moon was within her reach.

  “But where… where?” the old queen muttered to herself.

  A strange thing had happened to her during those storm-whipped hours of the full moon. She had felt Death lurking outside her tent that night. In her troubled dreams, she had been visited by her mother, her father, her dead sister, and many others much more ancient—some she had never known in this life. They had spoken to her. Even now, she could remember their words:

  “Come! There will be no pain, my daughter,” her mother had assured her, looking young and happy.

  “The tunnel of light, my child,” her father had said. “Follow it to the place where there are no questions because all the answers are known.”

  A beautiful woman with hair like the raven’s wings and great, sad eyes had told Zolande, “Soon the moon’s pain will cease forever. The blood of the virgin will be avenged. You and I will find peace together, sister.”

  But this apparition had not been Zolande’s dead sister—Phaedra’s mother. The old queen had pondered long and hard over the identity of the sad-eyed woman. She was Romany by her bright skirts and peasant blouse, the hoops at her ears, and the coins around her neck. But she seemed to be of some ancient tribe. Her skin was darker, her features more chiseled and sharply defined.

  Zolande had thought at first, when she awoke from her dream, that she had been visited by Sara-la-Kali herself. But of course not!

  “I am a foolish old woman, no longer right in the head,” she’d chided herself. “That holy saint has better things to do than soothe the passing of a nothing… a nobody.”

  But the ghostly woman’s mention of the blood of the virgin seemed such a fitting thing for the Gypsies’ patron saint to say—after all, she had been handmaiden to the sisters of the Virgin Mary.

  And this was not the only mystery left over from that night. While the wind had whipped at her tent and the flame of her lamp had guttered threateningly, casting ominous shadows over her sickbed, Zolande had felt Death enter. More than that, she had watched it enter! It had crept in slowly, riding a silver beam from the full moon. With it had come a chill that had gripped her instantly. She’d lain in her wolf skins and shivered and ached with the death-dealing cold. And, odd as it seemed, Tamara had sat beside her bed, drowsing, in only a thin nightshift with never a chilblain on her smooth flesh.

  But so it was with Gypsies. They felt neither the parching heat of summer nor the frigid winds of winter. So why had Death’s cold breath so affected her? Zolande wondered. Why indeed, unless her time had come that night?

  Therein lay the mystery. Her time had come. She knew it! Her earthly tasks were done and her loved ones awaited her on the other side. She herself had been ready—even willing. She had opened her arms to Death that night as a maiden would welcome her lover. Death had leaned close enough to kiss her brow, her lips, and to touch her heart. She had felt the weak flutter of its final beat. And in that instant, she had seen the tunnel of light her father spoke of. She had entered it, fearful at first; then her silent heart had taken flight, hurrying her footsteps, which trod nothing more substantial than the air she had once breathed.

  Suddenly, from out of the midst of the bright white light, voices had spoken to her. No, not to her, but to each other. She’d heard a man say, “What have I done to you?” And a woman, with great tenderness and love in her voice, had answered, “Only what Fate intended.”

  At that very instant, as if the distant words had been some cue from on high, Zolande had felt herself jerked back from the tunnel of light. She was in her bed once more, her heart beating, the cold vanished. And the pain—the awful, soul-gnawing pain that had racked her body night and day for so many moons—the pain had gone. She’d no longer felt old and feeble. She’d felt reborn, as if the marrow-deep cold and the searing white light together had worked some magic to cleanse her of a terrible evil.

  She had arisen with the dawn that morning, going about her chores as any Gypsy woman would. Her joints were limber, her heartbeat strong, her head and eye clear. No pain, no weariness, no regrets for the past or fear of the future. And thus it had been since that night.

  The others had stared at first, then smiled. They asked no questions of their queen. That was good, because their queen had no answers to explain away the miracle. She had only the gladness in her heart that the miraculous was still a part of life.

  But now she had four questions to ponder: Who was the woman in her dreams? How had she been snatched back to life from beyond the grave? Who were the couple whose words had rescued her?

  “And why, why?” she wondered aloud. Surely she had been pulled back from the other side to accomplish some great service. But what?

  Zolande shook her head to clear it. Weary now from puzzling over so many questions, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift. Back, back, back in time she journeyed—to the old country and near-forgotten memories. Suddenly she smiled, thinking of the golden-haired woman who had joined her father’s caravan in Zolande’s thirteenth summer to travel with them through Bavaria. They had all been so sure that this was the golden Gypsy who would dispel the ancient curse. How different Zolande’s own life would be even now, if such had been the case. Her own betrothed, Strombol, had been the carrier of the curse in those years. As such, he would have taken the light-skinned woman as his bride.

  “And what, then, of Mateo?” Zolande wondered aloud. “Would he still have come from my womb, but with no taint of moon madness?”

  She shook her head at her own foolishness. Without Strombol, there would have been no children. She had loved him far too much to marry any other. But Fate had seen to her needs. The woman had caught a chill and died of a fever during the first snowstorm that winter, proving that she was not of Gypsy blood. She had left Zolande her legacy—Strombol, and Valencia’s curse for her only surviving son.

  “Ah!” Zolande cried aloud, clutching her throat suddenly. “Valencia!”

  There was no need to struggle with one of the questions any longer. Every Gypsy knew the story of Valencia and her curse. But now the woman herself had appeared to Zolande in her dream. The raven hair, the ancient look about her, her very words—the queen should have realized her identity at once. Still, there had to be a reason for the vision. This one answer gave birth to yet another question: Why had Valencia come to her?

  Zolande tried to rest, but once more faces and voices from her dreams drifted back. “Blood of the virgin…”

  “The moon’s pain will cease…”

  “Only what Fate intended…”

  The old queen might have slipped into a well-deserved repose at last, if Phaedra’s strident tones hadn’t penetrated her sanctuary.

  “I know you went to his tent the other night. You needn’t deny it. I’m just curious, since we were supposed to be married. How was he?”

  Charlotte hadn’t meant to get trapped like this by Phaedra. She’d come back directly from the practice ring and had been on her way to bring Queen Zolande some fresh berries when the other woman had barred her way and demanded conversation.

  “He was quite ill, Phaedra,” Charlotte answered honestly, but blushing nonetheless.

  Phaedra’s lips curled in a smirk. “Oh, come now! I saw you as you sneaked back to the brides’ tent at dawn—hair tangled, blouse ripped, skirts wrinkled. You’re not going to tell me all that came of tending Mateo while he was out of his head.”

  “You might say so, Phaedra.”

  �
�Nothing happened between you, then?”

  “I really don’t see that that’s any of your concern.”

  “No, I suppose not, now that I’ve decided I don’t want him yet.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened with surprise. “Don’t want him? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, it was my idea to press for a wedding date. But once I got what I wanted, I changed my mind. Besides, Queen Zolande is better now. There’s no hurry. She’ll last the winter at least.” She laughed. “That’s probably more than you can say.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Phaedra. Maybe I won’t be here for the winter. Maybe Mateo won’t be, either.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s spinning wild tales to you again about taking you away from all this. You know he’ll never leave his people.”

  Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Mateo had made no further mention of such a move in the past few weeks. Maybe Phaedra was right—maybe she was only living in a dream world.

  “Besides,” Phaedra went on, her voice barely more than a whisper, “you haven’t done what every Gypsy woman must do to prove her loyalty and love for her man.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlotte was frowning now, growing uneasy. Had she failed Mateo in some way without knowing it?

  “Were you a Gypsy woman, you would know without having to be told,” Phaedra said haughtily. “Before the man offers the brideprice, it is good for him to know that his woman can earn gold herself if it is ever needed.”

  “But I am earning my keep. Mateo is paying me to work with him.”

  Phaedra laughed. “Stupid little gajo! What sense does it make for a woman to earn money from her own man? What if he is sick or hurt and cannot work? Then who will pay either of you? No. You must know how to earn gajo gold.”

  “You mean begging?” Charlotte was horrified. Hadn’t her mother predicted that she would end up doing exactly that if she didn’t marry Winston Krantz?

  “If that’s all you can do. But there is a far better and faster way to bring in money. I’ve been quite successful at it in Leavenworth.”

  “Then tell me! Certainly if you can do it, Phaedra, I’ll be superb at it,” Charlotte replied, matching the other woman’s sarcastic tone.

  “Very well. There is a code among the Roms. Their women must never give themselves to other men for pleasure, but it is quite acceptable to do so to earn gold when it is needed.”

  Charlotte gasped. “No!”

  “You said you were willing to do anything for Mateo.” Phaedra shrugged. “And yet you refuse the least suggestion. When I tell him, he’ll never look on you with favor again. But very well. We all know you are no Gypsy. You’ve only proven it by your refusal.”

  Phaedra swished her skirts and started away, but Charlotte caught her arm.

  “Wait! Why hasn’t anyone else told me of this before?”

  “Perhaps they guessed you would refuse. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But I was wrong.”

  Fear and panic seized Charlotte. What Phaedra was suggesting was unthinkable. But if the Gypsies… if Mateo expected it of her, how could she say no?

  “Don’t tell Mateo, Phaedra!”

  “Don’t tell him what?”

  “That we’ve even talked about this. Please!”

  “Then you’ve changed your mind?”

  Charlotte still hesitated. She could talk to Tamara about it, but her friend might feel compelled to tell Mateo. Charlotte didn’t want him to find out, for fear she might back out at the last moment.

  “Yes!” Charlotte answered after taking a deep, steeling breath. “I will do it… for Mateo.”

  A catlike smile curled Phaedra’s lips. “I give you credit, little gajo. You have more gumption than I thought. Meet me at the edge of the forest tonight. Petronovich will drive us to town.”

  “Petronovich?” Charlotte said uneasily.

  “He should not concern you. I am more than enough woman to keep him occupied!”

  Phaedra stalked away, leaving Charlotte in a quandary of fear and worry. She stood there, watching the other woman disappear into her tent. What had she gotten herself into?

  Kentucky and her old, ordered way of life seemed far away and near forgotten. She was not the young girl who had run off in a fit of impassioned rebellion. Charlotte Buckland was a woman now.

  “But what kind of woman?” she whispered aloud.

  Just a few feet away, inside her tent, Queen Zolande was wondering the same thing about Charlotte Buckland. She had heard everything that had passed between the pair. Her first impulse had been to rise from her bed and scold Phaedra severely. But why should she? Every word Phaedra had spoken to Charlotte was the truth. During lean times in the old country, Zolande’s own mother had been forced to sell her body to the gajos in the towns to feed her family. It was every Gypsy woman’s duty.

  Still, this Charlotte Buckland was not a Gypsy. Zolande could tell by the quaking of her voice that the very idea was repulsive to the girl.

  The queen pondered the problem. She could go now and tell Charlotte that Mateo would never expect this of her, a gajo—in fact, it would no doubt provoke his wrath rather than earn his respect.

  Then the old woman nodded to herself. “Yes,” she whispered. “This is as it should be.”

  Zolande had sought a means to convince Charlotte to return to her own people and leave Mateo to his duty. Now Phaedra, with her wicked cunning, had come up with the perfect scheme to accomplish that end.

  The queen sighed and closed her eyes in sleep.

  Outside, Charlotte stood where Phaedra had left her, staring blankly down at her basket of berries. She couldn’t face Mateo’s mother right now. The old queen, she knew, could read thoughts. Charlotte was too ashamed of what was in her mind at the moment to want anyone to know. Her body felt stricken with cold at the very idea of what she had committed herself to do. How could she let another man use her body when it belonged to Mateo by word and deed?

  Slowly, she walked toward the front of Queen Zolande’s tent. She peeked through the flap and was relieved to find Mateo’s mother napping. The old queen looked noble even in sleep. These Gypsies were indeed a proud people.

  Placing the basket of berries just inside, Charlotte rose and squared her shoulders. Suddenly a great resolve gripped her—a feeling of honor, duty, and the tightness of things. She knew what she must do.

  But when the actual time came, could she really bring herself to lie with a strange man, even if it was part of a Gypsy woman’s obligation?

  Yes! She could and would do anything for Mateo!

  “I am Mateo’s woman!” she said, turning, her head held high.

  Chapter 13

  The Star of the West saloon was busy for a week night. Besides the usual locals and soldiers from Fort Leavenworth, a wagon train headed for California had come in at almost the same time a rowdy bunch of cowboys hit town. Their pay from a trail drive would be burning in their pockets until it was all spent on liquor and paid-for love.

  But Solange certainly had no complaints about booming business. This was the type of night every saloon keeper dreamed of. She would make more money in a few hours than she normally did in a week. As she poured more whiskey for two dusty drovers at the bar, she smiled to herself, thinking that she might even clear enough to give her girls a bonus. They would deserve it before this night was through.

  “How much longer?” demanded the good-looking cavalry officer at the end of the bar. His temper, she could tell, was growing shorter by the minute.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Delacorte,” Solange said with a winning smile. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time. But all my girls are still upstairs, and who can say exactly how long love takes?”

  He muttered a curse into his drink and tossed down another whiskey. Solange frowned. He was getting very drunk. She hoped one of the girls would be down soon. Lieutenant Lance Delacorte could be surly when sober, but he was imp
ossible when inebriated. He came here once a week, always for the same thing—a bottle of whiskey and a woman. Usually, he was quiet and kept to himself—a real loner. But when crossed, he could get ugly.

  She wished that he would take his business elsewhere. Handsome as he was, with his night-dark hair and smoke-gray eyes, he was a strange man. At times, according to her girls, he could be brutal in bed. Not one of them desired his company. Still, he had never done any permanent damage. She had no real reason to turn him away.

  “How about you, Solange?” Delacorte said suddenly. “You keep saying ‘some other time.’ What’s the matter with me? I know you take other men upstairs. Why not me? Why not right this goddamn minute?”

  The lieutenant was on his feet, coming down the bar toward her. His step was unsteady. His eyes looked bleary. His face was flushed from the whiskey. Before Solange could reply, he reached across the bar and grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, pulling her toward him until his lips were almost touching hers.

  She remained cool. “You’re hurting me, Lieutenant. Please let go.”

  “Dammit, woman, I’ll do more than that if you don’t get this show under way! I want you… now!”

  “I can’t leave the bar. There’s no one else to tend to the customers. Besides, I decide upon my own customers. They do not choose me.”

  “Meaning you don’t choose me!”

  “However you wish to put it, Lieutenant.”

  Delacorte was truly angry now, and Solange was feeling a rise of panic. She hadn’t handled the situation well. But then, she didn’t care for the way he was manhandling her. Perhaps she should have Farlow, the bouncer, throw him out. But she didn’t want a scene on such a busy night. It was bad for business.

  “Lieutenant Delacorte, please be reasonable. I’m sure that either Bella or Rosalie will be down any moment.”

  He made an angry sound in his throat. “Bella’s a bitch! And Rosalie’s old enough to be my mother.”