Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “There is not enough gold in all the world to buy this woman!” she called out. When someone tried to give her a bottle of wine, Granny Fate turned on the generous Gypsy. “Don’t offer me your bribes! She will not marry him, I tell you!”

  But she would, of course. They all knew it and rejoiced in the fact.

  Suddenly, the bright waves of the sea of Gypsies parted and Charlotte saw Mateo standing before her. He wore a silk, ruffled shirt as orange as a sunset, open to the waist so that the wealth of gold he had draped about his neck gleamed like fire against the dark hair there. His tight britches were shiny black, his waist swathed in a colorful sash. His high boots, blackened with soot, shone from a wax polish. His eyes held hers, speaking to her of love. Everyone else seemed to fade from Charlotte’s vision.

  “Come, my darling.” He took her hand and helped her mount the pile of many-colored rugs provided for the bride and groom. Here they would sit, and listen, and wait through the interminable night while the brideprice was offered, refused, argued over, and finally agreed upon.

  The two old women—Granny Fate and Queen Zolande—stood toe to toe before the bridal couple. Their beaklike noses and narrowed, glittering eyes made Charlotte think of two birds of prey in pitched battle over a bit of carrion.

  “She is a puny thing, not fit for carrying sons!” Zolande screeched, poking the air with one long talon. “Why, you should pay my son to take her off your hands!”

  Granny Fate drew herself up to eye level with the queen. “Does madness run in your entire family, old woman? She is strong enough for any man. Would you want an ox as your son’s wife?”

  “He will give one hundred gold pieces. No more!”

  Fatima whirled away toward the onlooking Gypsies, her arms spread wide in supplication. “Did you hear her?” she said to them. “She would have me sell flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, for a paltry hundred gold pieces!” She walked toward the blankets and motioned to Charlotte. “Come! The deal is off. We will leave now. There will be no marriage!”

  Queen Zolande caught the arm she extended toward the bride. “You rob my son, but very well. Five hundred.”

  “You would pay more for a good brood mare!”

  “I would get more from the mare!”

  On and on they haggled. The moon sailed high and then began its descent. The price edged up—nine hundred, twelve, fifteen. Mateo and Charlotte sat atop their throne of bright rugs, holding hands, smiling into each other’s eyes. Charlotte wanted desperately for her groom to kiss her, but the lace hiding her face acted as a barricade against his lips.

  “How much longer?” she whispered.

  He stroked her palm with his fingertips. “Who knows? I thought my mother was the most stubborn woman in the world, but your grandmother wins over her. We could be here until dawn.”

  Just then, Queen Zolande took a deep breath and shouted, “Two thousand is my son’s final offer for this timid and sickly bride!”

  Every voice in the clearing hushed. It was as if the whole world and time itself stood still, awaiting the other woman’s decision.

  “Done!” Granny Fate boomed at last.

  The two women fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying at the same time. They had put on a magnificent show. The other Gypsies applauded and hugged one another, too.

  Then silence fell once more. Dawn was streaking the sky with featherlike rays of lilac, gold, and scarlet. Queen Zolande motioned the bridal couple down from their place of honor. She took Charlotte’s left hand and placed it in Mateo’s.

  “Prince Mateo,” she said solemnly, “this is the woman you want to be the mother of your children?”

  Mateo squeezed Charlotte’s hand and looked down into her beautiful face, melting her to tears with his gaze. “She is.”

  “Then swear that you will leave this woman as soon as you discover that you no longer love her!”

  The words shocked Charlotte, but Mateo answered smoothly, “I do so swear.”

  Mateo then turned slowly and took both Charlotte’s hands in his. She was trembling slightly. In a soft, rich voice, he said to her, “Charlotte Buckland, you are the woman I want to be the mother of my children, but you must promise that you will leave me the moment you discover that you no longer love me.”

  She waited so long to answer that the crowd, growing nervous, shuffled their feet.

  “I do so swear, Prince Mateo.”

  Fatima Buckland appeared at that moment beside Queen Zolande. She was holding a blue satin pillow, cradling a silver knife much like the one Mateo carried in his boot.

  “And now we will make you blood friends,” Queen Zolande said.

  Granny Fate held the pillow out before her, offering the knife to Mateo. He took it in his right hand and held it high for all to see.

  Charlotte’s heart was pounding. This was a part of the ceremony no one had told her about.

  “Give me your right hand, my wife,” Mateo ordered.

  She did as instructed. Gently, her husband turned it palm up and with the sharp blade made a small cut in her wrist. Charlotte winced but made no sound. She stared down as a tiny pool of blood formed on her white skin.

  Mateo then took the blade and cut his own left wrist. Quickly, Queen Zolande took their hands and pressed their wounds together. Granny Fate used a white cloth to bind their wrists in that position.

  “Now you are blood friends for life,” the queen pronounced. “Even if you should go your separate ways, no longer man and wife, you will always be brother and sister.”

  Zolande drew the broken icon Mateo had left on his altar from her pocket and kissed it for luck.

  “What’s that you have there?” Fatima asked, not quite believing what she saw.

  “Only a charm, but a very ancient one.” She showed the one-eyed saint to Granny Fate.

  Without a word, but with a deep inner sense of the rightness of things, Fatima brought forth the other half of the shining relic—smashed by Valencia in her anguish so many full moons ago. Their gnarled old fingers trembling, the two women made the good saint whole again. The final proof!

  “So be it!” Zolande whispered.

  Fatima answered, nodding sagely, “As Fate has willed!”

  Charlotte stared up into Mateo’s face. Never had she known such overwhelming love. It seemed that she could feel his life’s blood flowing from his heart into hers, while her own veins filled his body with the precious liquid. They were one as they had never been before.

  He reached out with his free hand and lifted the lace covering her face. Ever so slowly, he leaned down to kiss her lips. When she felt his warm, soft touch, her body went weak with desire. She would never want any other. Yes, she had sworn to leave him, but only if she no longer loved him. At this moment, she knew that time would never come.

  A long day of feasting, dancing, and singing followed. The bride and groom were not allowed to leave but were expected to sit upon their high throne and take what advantage they could of each other’s charms with all eyes on them. They hugged and kissed, cuddled and embraced. When the sun began to go down, they were both at a fever pitch.

  “When can we be alone, Mateo?” Charlotte begged.

  “Now, my love, this minute.”

  He took her hand and helped her to the ground. Miraculously, the mob of happy Gypsies parted a way for them to Mateo’s tent. As bride and groom hurried toward their destination, the wedding guests pressed money on them, saying, as was tradition, “To give a push to the new wagon.”

  When, at last, they waved to the crowd and entered the tent, Mateo pulled Charlotte into his arms. His eager hands, which had fondled her so discreetly all these hours, sought her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. She sighed and moved against him.

  “Mateo, are there any more traditions to be observed before—”

  “None, my darling! No more! Now there are only the two of us, to do as we will.”

  He d
rew her down upon his wolf skins and began stripping away her bridal finery. When she lay naked before his eyes, he sat back, caressing her body with his gaze.

  He shook his head and smiled. “I have stolen you for two thousand. You are worth millions!”

  She raised her arms to him and he came willingly, anxiously.

  All the emotions that had been boiling through them for so long now erupted. When Mateo took his wife, she knew him as if for the first time. The tears of a virgin filled her eyes.

  Through the long night, they flew the star-strewn skies in each other’s arms. They traveled down glowing highways of passion and swam in warm pools of love. And all the while, the Gypsies sang and danced and laughed outside.

  At dawn, Mateo stirred from his wife’s clinging embrace.

  “Don’t leave,” she begged.

  He reached out and stroked her full breasts. “Only for a moment, my love. There is one more tradition to be observed.”

  Charlotte sat up and stared as Mateo drew on his britches. He went to the tent flap and threw it open. She could see him standing just outside, his feet wide apart, his hands on his hips, his bare back gleaming in the early-morning sun.

  His voice boomed through the camp. “Hear me, my familia! The woman is true and good and passionate. She will give me many sons!”

  His words were followed by a mighty cheer.

  The next moment, he was back in his wife’s arms and she was sighing and again proving herself more than worthy to be his wife… his queen.

  Epilogue

  1875

  The west wind blows through the tall cottonwoods and ripples the surface of the little stream where many full moons ago Gypsy women laughed and bathed together. The clearing, which once knew dancing feet and singing voices, lies in silence except for the sounds of the birds. No caravans, no tents, no devil-black stallions remain. Only a scorched circle of earth, where the women used to cook, marks the spot.

  But should another of the familia pass this way, he would spot the twisted twigs lying beside piles of stones—the patrins left by Mateo’s people to guide other Gypsies along the road.

  This unspoken language of the Rom would say much to the Gypsy stranger of the wanderlust of Mateo’s tribe. He might choose a path to east, west, north, south, or any point in between, for so have the descendants of Xendar and Kava scattered, as if blown by the four winds.

  Twin-braided plaits of grass point north to where a pair of old friends ride side by side, gossiping of times gone by, sharing their food, their wine, their ancient laughter.

  “Ah, another wintering-over is past, Fatima,” observes the woman in black holding the reins. “It is good to be on the road again.”

  Granny Fate squints at the golden spring sky. “By the holy Handmaiden, I thought the snows would never go this year. But the earth turns, the winds blow, and the Gypsies creep from their caves.” She stretches and smiles back at the sun. “I can feel the sap rising in my blood, Zolande. Why, I’m like a flower opening its petals after a long winter sleep.”

  “Ha! You had better not bud and flower so or you’ll, lure some young Rom to come and steal us both!”

  They laugh together like young girls, giggling over secrets.

  “Touch up the team, Zolande. We’d better hurry.”

  “To where?”

  “Anywhere that there’s music and dancing! The world is ours. Have some wine?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, old friend!” The noble old queen, driving the yellow-and-blue caravan with the tinkling silver bells, takes a sip and clucks at the team. “A good patshiva, that’s what we need!”

  “One like when my Charlotte married your Mateo.”

  “Ah, yes, Fatima, that was a celebration to end all!”

  “Do you suppose we will see them soon?”

  “Have we missed the spring gathering of the familia yet?”

  Fatima nods, still smiling. “It will be good to be with them once more.”

  Zolande agrees.

  They chat on—remembering, savoring, weeping at times. But ahead of them stretch the wide rivers and plains, and there is always one more day to live and one more reason to celebrate.

  “Life is life!” Fatima cries happily.

  “That it is!” Zolande answers. “That it is, my dear old friend!”

  Appropriately, a patrin made of pyrite rocks—fool’s gold—points to the west. Far off, on the coast, two ragged beggars trudge the squalid alleys of San Francisco.

  “I’m hungry!” complains the woman in her tattered gown of emerald and heliotrope.

  “And what do you expect me to do about it?” The man was probably handsome once, but his dark features are drawn now and a bitter flame burns deep in his eyes. “You know our ways. I have no money to feed us. It is up to you, Phaedra!”

  He takes her roughly by the arm and hauls her toward the docks. The many tall masts look promising. The sailors just in port will have money jingling in their pockets and they’ll be none too particular what a female looks like or how clean she is.

  After shoving the woman out into the street, the dark-eyed man slouches down behind some barrels for a nap.

  “No, Petronovich,” she whines. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Go!” he orders. “And do not come back without at least ten pieces of gold!”

  She smooths her rags with dirty hands and tugs her silver bodice a bit lower, breathing deeply to show off her full breasts. She struts up and down the dock, giving each passing sailor the eye. One slows and stares at her. She smiles alluringly and beckons to him.

  “Are you a hundred years old and no good any longer?” she taunts through pouting lips. “I want you. Can’t you tell that? I will be good to you. Only ten pieces of gold to buy my charms.”

  The bearded sailor grins at her, baring yellowed teeth. “Come along, then, woman! I’m right off the boat, and ain’t dipped my wick in near a year. Time’s awasting!”

  He slips an arm about her waist and hustles her into a reeking alley. His duffel bag serves as a pillow for her head, the hard ground a mattress. He is rough and cruel and loveless, but soon it is over and Phaedra has her handful of gold pieces.

  “Here!” she says, adjusting her clothing as she drops the coins into Petronovich’s lap

  He scowls up at her. “Only five? That’s not enough! I told you ten. Back to the docks with you, slut!”

  He slumps back down to sleep again and dream of a long-lost fortune—two thousand pieces of gold.

  She goes back on the street to ply the Gypsies’ oldest trade for no more than will keep them from starving.

  A smooth chunk of crystal and two sticks placed to ward off evil… Hairs from a black horse’s tail, a daggerlike stick, and one gleaming pebble.

  Two patrins point to the east, the first toward neat fences as white as new snow that border green fields, where strong black stallions mount their mares.

  The great house on the hill casts a welcoming glow from within, and music floats out on the fragrant night breeze. A ball is in progress.

  The mistress of Fairview greets arriving guests. “Dr. and Mrs. Feldston! I’m so happy you could come.” Warmly, Jemima Krantz welcomes the surgeon and his dark-eyed wife.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it, Mrs. Krantz,” answers Tamara Feldston, casting a loving glance up at her Ira. He smiles and agrees.

  “You look perfectly marvelous, Tamara!” the hostess adds. “Why, in that Paris gown, no one would ever guess you’re expecting your third!”

  The pretty Gypsy’s eyes glitter happily and she whispers, “Prince Mateo swears that if this one is a daughter, her marriage contract will be sealed at birth. Of course, we’ll be on the road when the baby comes.”

  “How exciting! It must be wonderful traveling all over the country every summer.” The older woman, dressed in burgundy silk, eyes the young mother with a touch of envy. But then she shrugs it off and tucks her hand through
her husband’s arm. She is happy as Winston Krantz’s wife. Their life at Fairview is good, rich, full.

  “How was your trip, Dr. Feldston?” asks Jemima.

  “Too long, but the train was quite comfortable.”

  “Well, my dear, we’ve seen the last of trains for a few months,” Tamara reminds him.

  “And the last of a roof over our heads when it rains,” he complains, but then laughs good-naturedly.

  The young couple have both been admiring the house as they chat with their hosts. Tamara glances about, eyeing the fine antiques, the new wallpaper from France, and the crystal chandelier.

  “You’ve done wonders with Fairview, Mrs. Krantz. It looks like a palace!”

  “Thank you, dear,” her hostess answers with a pleased smile. “If I do say so myself, I think the brideprice was well spent!”

  “Tamara! Ira!” Suddenly, a familiar voice floats down to the couple from the stairs. The woman standing there looks like a queen. She is dressed in a golden gown glittering with tiny crystals. Her gleaming hair, piled high atop her head, resembles a crown. She sweeps down and embraces them both.

  “You’re the first to arrive,” she tells them, even though the ballroom is filled with guests.

  “Perhaps we’re the most anxious to be on the road,” Tamara answers.

  The two friends chat for several minutes. Then suddenly the woman in the golden gown is conscious that someone is watching her. She can feel little shivers along the back of her neck and a familiar heat coursing through her. She turns. The room full of people vanishes. She sees only his dark eyes on her, his face smiling love through time and space. As if drawn by some invisible force, he makes his way across the room to her side.

  “Dance with me, my sunaki bal.” The tone of his deep voice caresses her, fondling her almost intimately.

  He sweeps her into his arms and onto the dance floor. The other couples part for the handsome pair. The candlelight, gleaming from the chandelier and wall sconces, catches the glint of her gown and the golden rings in his ears. The two of them glow as one.