• The Gypsies

    Lord Carlyle looked out of the window in his manor study. Morning mist wafted over the verdant slopes of his estate. The land rolled gently as far as the eye could see, and beyond. He savored his pipe with great satisfaction. Another good year for the apples and walnuts; another good year in all his undertakings.

    The kitchen matron came in bearing a tray with tea and buttered toast, a pot of marmalade, and an egg perched in a cup.

    “Here’s your breakfast, Master. The hens are laying such large eggs this summer.”

    After breakfast, he was perusing documents when a clamor arose outside. His man Bernard entered. Bernard supervised the workers, livestock, and farming on the estate. As usual his shirt and trousers were soiled. His clutched his grimy cap in his hands.

    “What’s all the commotion?”

    “There’s a passel o’ gypsies arrived last night. They’re setting up camp in the hollow. Th’ children ‘n folks are all excited. But I ne’er seen such a manner of clothing n’ speech in any Gypsies.”

    Gypsies were itinerant people who appeared in their caravans around harvest time, to pick and pack the fruit and nuts for a daily wage. They worked hard, provided some entertainment, and moved on. But it was approaching high summer, at least two months before the harvest began.

    Carlyle frowned. A most inconvenient time.

    “They’ll have to go. There’s no work, so they must be up to no good. Probably want to run off with some of the young cows or horses. See that they’re gone before supper.” He turned away and picked up the newspaper.

    His man appeared a little while later, looking disheveled.

    “Well, have you run those thieving dogs off yet?”

    “No, sir. I just don’t feel right abou’ it. My dear old mother – may her soul rest in heaven – said you should never mess wi’ the Gypsies. Sir, give it another few weeks. They’ll be on the move again – that’s what their ilk does. Moves – “

    “Why, you apple-headed mule!” Lord Carlyle cursed up a storm as Bernard hung his head. “I’ll show them out myself! Saddle my horse!”

    He rode out to the encampment. A group of wagons, painted yellow with red flowers and greenery, rested slightly askew on the ground. Horses grazed hungrily on the lush grass. A few men lay around remnants of the breakfast campfire, playing a game with dice.

    “Made yourself at home, have you?” He reined in his horse so it reared and snorted. The men looked at him but made no move to get up. “Where is your leader?”

    “I am the Queen of the Gypsies.” A voice spoke from behind him – or was it to his right? He spun around but saw no one. His mount whickered nervously.

    Carlyle dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. He walked around behind one of the wagons, and saw the owner of the voice standing in the back of one of them.

    He had never seen such an old woman.

    Her face was like one of his walnuts that had been dropped in the desert and picked up after a hundred years. Her body resembled a mockery of a tree rather than a human. Her back was hunched so her head was at shoulder level. Her right arm reached up and clung strongly to a sturdy, ancient staff. All the grandmothers he had known possessed some trace of their younger selves. But it was as if this crone had been born old.

    Yet the leader of the gypsies possessed a faculty and command that unnerved Carlyle.

    “Shall I tell your fortune, good master?”

    He walked up the steps and entered the wagon, which was much roomier than it appeared. It was dark inside, but he could see it was decorated with harem curtains and exotic objects. Incense perfumed the interior.

    “I think I shall tell yours, Old Mother. You and your group will be off my land before I take my evening meal.”

    Seemingly heedless of his words, she ushered him to sit. “Have a drink while I get out me bones.” Leaning on her staff with one hand, she took a flask off a shelf and set it on a small round table covered with a white cloth. She followed with a small glass.

    Pouring his drink, she rummaged in her layered skirts and came up with a velvet pouch. She lowered herself into the cushion across from Carlyle.

    The old woman flicked the pouch with her free wrist, and yellowed cubes of bone, carved with runes, spilled out on the table.

    “You are a lonely man; you have no wife, no children. You long for someone with whom to share your wealth and business knowledge.”

    Carlyle sipped his liquor. “I haven’t thought that far into the future. I am not an old man, only five and forty.”

    The Gypsy Queen cackled gently. “Men lie, but the bones do not.”

    He downed the rest of the drink. “Regardless, Old Mother, there is no work here for your party. It’s not a good time for visitors to my estate; I have – matters to attend to.”

    Peering at the bones, she exclaimed:

    “I see great avarice and cunning as well. You fill your loneliness with a quest for riches and danger. Others help you in your quest – cutthroats and thieves. You don’t get all your wealth from sellin’ apples and nuts, oh, no! You do other business – with smugglers! Pirates! They use your land as a hideout and you get a cut of the treasure.”

    The lord’s face turned red with rage. Clenching his fists, he rose. “Old Mother, you have just told your last fortune.”

    “Excuse – oh! I didn’t know you had company.” Carlyle turned and beheld a beautiful vision standing in the sunlight outside the wagon. A young woman so beautiful that she must be a daughter of Aphrodite.

    His problem momentarily forgotten, he said, “What is your name? Gypsy girls are striking, but I have never seen one so striking as you.”

    She seemed flustered. “My name is Marcella. Are you the lord of this estate?”

    He walked to the opening. “My name is Carlyle – Jasper Carlyle.” He smiled broadly and looked back. “Is this your grand-daughter, Old Mother? Surely, you were a beauty in your day. Miss Marcella, how would you like a tour of my grounds? There are summer flowers and herbs aplenty, and you can pick them to your heart’s content. Just let me bid your grandmother farewell.” He strode to the table, and hissed, “Very well, you can stay. I will find some kind of labor for your tribe. Have a festival for the locals. But we will talk later, and you will not interfere, or there will be consequences.”

    * * * * * * * * *

    He and Marcella got to know each other on long walks, rides, and picnics – always chaperoned by a silent Gypsy brother. Each time he was in her company, he felt privileged, as if he had discovered a rare rose. Marcella possessed not only beauty, but intelligence and grace. It was one of the best summers of his life.

    That was before his people started disappearing.

    “It’s Belinda, sir. She went off t’milk and just vanished, her pail o’milk half full. And the cow, she was frightened half t’death. Won’t gi’ na’ another drop.”

    “Perhaps she ran off with that lummox of a stable boy, Garth?”

    Godfrey shook his head emphatically. “No, sir! Garth’s not seen hair nor hide o’ her. He’s confounded and quite honestly, his spirit’s crushed.”

    “Well . . . go to the village constable and tell him to be on the lookout for anyone with her likeness.”

    Next to go was a farmhand, a strong man who vanished along with one of his best horses while en route to the blacksmith.

    Jasper brooded at his desk. The time had come to act. It was time to rout these Gypsies once and for all. Stealing a girl, and probably killing a man for a horse. Marcella – perhaps the old woman was conniving to get a share of his estate should he take Marcella for his wife. Well, he would put an end to that. He would have Marcella – but he would make her his maid, and not his equal partner.

    A messenger boy, out-of-breath, entered the study. Carlyle took the note and gave the boy a couple of coins. In the note was the answer he had been seeking:

    RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE. WE WILL ASSIST YOU AS THIS IS OUR PROBLEM AS WELL AS YOURS.

    It was signed with the name of the leader of the pirates.

    * * * * * * * * * *

    At midnight, sidearm fastened securely to his belt, he left and walked by foot to the sea. The moonlight shone on the dark expanse of water as he made his way down the rocks to the secret cave. A lantern sat on the side of the cave mouth; he could see others lit inside. He picked up the lantern and ducked his head as he entered. “Belus; Roland. It’s me.”

    Rounding the corner, he saw a terrifying sight.

    The bodies of the pirates lay against the cave wall. A fire burned brightly, the Gypsy Queen standing next to it. He whipped out his firearm.

    “Die, crone!” The gun blasted in a flash of light and gunpowder. The Gypsy Queen crumpled.

    “Now, come out, you filthy Gypsy rats! I know you’re in here!”

    Figures emerged from the shadows. The Gypsy men, women, and children – but instead of their rustic garb, they wore robes of a strange metallic silver-gray. They circled around the fire and began to chant softly. To his great surprise, out stepped Marcella.

    “Marcella! What are you doing here! Come, stand behind me!”

    She smiled. She also wore a robe, but it was a black one trimmed with the shiny gray material. “Jasper, welcome to our little ceremony. I did so enjoy your hospitality, and your people were delicious.”

    He backed toward the cave entrance, but the lanterns had gone out. He stumbled over some sharp rocks and fell, twisting his ankle and losing his gun somewhere in the dark cave.

    “Marcella . . . I was going to take care of you – take you away from that filthy Gypsy life!”

    “We aren’t Gypsies, as such. But the Gypsies are closest to our kin, so we look after them – and they us.” She smiled again. “We may not even be from this time and place.”

    Her black eyes sparkled. “I am the Queen of the Gypsies.” Lord Carlyle recoiled as her face elongated and two more pairs of black, shiny eyes emerged. Dripping black fangs extended from her mouth. Great, jointed limbs flexed on either side.

    She leaped forward and sunk her hideous pincers into his shoulder. He tried to scream, but he was instantly, completely paralyzed. The huge arachnid flicked his blood onto the roaring fire.

    The chanting around the fire grew more intense, the syllables resonating in a guttural and foul language. The green flames leaped. Carlyle could feel the primordial magic.

    Out of the fire stepped a featureless clay man. The figure stumbled blindly towards Carlyle. He could see that the man was made of blood, not clay, and beginning to take his features. But by then, it was too late.

    The wedding took place the following May. The bride was radiant, the groom strong and handsome. After their honeymoon, Lord Carlyle announced that the land was open to any and all tribes of Gypsies.

    Soon, regular folks began to stay away from the estate. Strange things were seen, and few survivors returned to tell tales. The manor was abandoned. The farmland and orchards began to return to the wild forests of centuries past.

    And it was a very good year.

    THE END