That night, I had the most terrible dreams. Jack and his creepy friend Dean were chasing me. Jack was a hideous monster that was alternately gigantic and then knee-high. Dean, not the handsomest fellow in real life, was even more frightening. First, he was dazzlingly handsome and then his face melted, revealing a grotesque mask full of oozing sores and pointy teeth. They grabbed at me with clawed hands and snarled, "Give it to us! We want it now! It's ours!" I tried to run away but it was like wading through glue. I ran and ran and ran but didn't get anywhere. I don't know what they wanted but they thought I had it.
I woke up exhausted the next morning. I lay in bed for awhile, mulling over my dream and what it might mean. I had never liked Jack's friend Dean. He had never been outright rude to me but he was one of those people who paid backhanded compliments and then pretended to be surprised when he hurt someone's feelings. And in my gut, I just didn't trust him. My gut said he wasn't what he pretended to be.
The smell of fresh coffee and warm blueberry scones brought me back to the present and I hauled myself out of bed. When I reached the kitchen, Mary greeted me with a steaming mug and looked into my haggard face. Clucking her tongue, she said, "Rough night? Those night dreams can be fearsome."
I must have still been under the influence of my dream because, when the phone rang, I jumped and nearly spilled my coffee. It was Jack. He said he'd left a few things at my house and wanted to stop by for them. I told him that, if he'd tell me what it was, I would box it up for him and have it delivered to his house. He refused. In fact, he was pretty insistent that he wanted to come and pick it up. When I'd had enough of his bullying, I told him that I didn't want him in my house and that I'd get his stuff to him if he'd tell me what it was. He got angry and hung up on me.
I don't know why I let him get to me but I was pretty upset after his call. Mary suggested some fresh air and sunshine would do me good, so we went to the mall. It's a big outdoor affair that I like to call an "adult amusement park". We spent the afternoon just walking around, window-shopping, and chatting. The kitchen gadgets at Williams-Sonoma fascinated her - she said they didn't have things like that where she came from.
It occurred to me that I knew very little about my house guest, so I asked her where she was from. She replied, "Why, I'm from ... Minnesota." I was pretty certain that Minnesota has electric mixers but let the subject drop.
She was so taken with a cookie press, which she laughingly said would have "that Annie" simply green, that I wanted to buy it for her. She later asked if she could exchange it for a set of wooden spoons. She said hers was wearing out and she liked to keep a few spares handy. I purchased both; I figured it couldn't hurt to keep the cook happy.
I knew something was wrong as soon as we pulled into the driveway. The front door stood wide open and, as we approached, we heard hurried footsteps and voices, followed by the back door slamming open.
Running through the mess they had made of my house, I reached the kitchen door just in time to see Jack and Dean hop into Jack's car, a gold Camaro. I always hated that car and felt like I should wear shorts that exposed my ass-cheeks every time I rode in it, which was blessedly seldom. I once told Jack that I thought guys who drove "muscle" cars were compensating for something. He must have thought that was a good thing because he showed up at my house the next day with his Camaro. He loved that car. He said it was a "chick magnet".
I couldn't believe Dean had the balls to flip me the bird as they sped away, tires spinning out and throwing gravel into my flowerbed. I turned to Mary and spluttered incoherently with impotent rage. She patted my arm and said, "Don't worry, child, I got the license number. We'll notify the authorities."
She handed me a scrap of paper with "X32 1ARO" written on it. I groaned inwardly. "Mary," I said. "This is no good. It's not a real number. That's a fake plate Jack, my ex, bought from the back of some girly magazine. He thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. Read it backwards."
"Oh. Oh, dear!" Mary exclaimed, her cheeks turning pink. If I wasn't so upset about Jack breaking into my house, I would have found her embarrassment humorous. She stared off into the distance, as if considering something. "That's your ex, eh? Darned fir darrigs! You can trust there's trouble when that lot's about."
I started. "Fir darrig? Where did you hear that name?"
"It's not a name, child. Not a proper name, leastwise. A fir darrig is a shape-shifting fairy, known for its ruthlessness and practical jokes. Not one you'd want to tangle with."
"That's what Jack calls Dean! I asked what it meant once and he just said it was a nickname from their childhood."
"What ... um ... what is Jack's last name?" Mary asked quietly.
"Spriggans. Why?"
Mary paled. "I think it's time to call some of my friends. While I do that, why don't you look around to see if anything is missing. Maybe clean things up a bit. And then I want you to tell me everything you know about this 'Jack Spriggans' fellow."
I stopped her on her way to her room. "Mary," I said. "How did you know to write down his license plate number?"
Note: This started out as a character study of my fairy godmother, inspired by an online friend. It's become something else along the way. Not sure when the story will end, either ... I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it ...
The following story, as unbelievable as it sounds, is true. It all happened. You might wonder, as you read, why I didn't ask more questions. At the time, it didn't occur to me. I just took everything at face value. Maybe I truly did lose touch with reality for a time. Maybe I was more upset about the break-up than I knew. Maybe I just really liked having my own housekeeper. Read my tale and tell me if you would have done the same:
I first saw her in the toy aisle. She held a plastic bucket - the sort a child fills with sand at the beach. She was filling it with items pulled at random from the shelves. I like to watch people, especially unusual folk, so I stood silently for a few moments and just watched. She barely looked at what she grabbed. Her attention was closely focused on a list on an impossibly long sheet of paper. So intently was I watching her that it took me a moment to realize she had caught me staring. As I turned away in embarrassment, she looked me up and down and snorted with laughter.
I saw her again later. She was browsing through the music section, muttering under her breath. A bit later, she was in the hair care aisle. Later still, I found her happily loading her bucket in the candy section.
I wasn't the least bit surprised when, looking up from the People magazine I was reading, I found she had ditched in front of me in the check-out line. I watched in fascination as the cashier pulled item after item from the bucket. It reminded me of Mary Poppins' carpetbag. People's purchases always fascinate me and this woman was not disappointing. She had, among other things, a set of My Little Ponies, a Sweatin' With the Oldies cassette, a bottle of berry-scented shampoo - the kind that's targeted at the next generation of consumers, an assortment of old fashioned candy, and a snowflake-shaped pin studded with rhinestones. The bucket wasn't even close to being empty.
I was amazed to hear the cashier finally say, "That'll be twelve dollars, please."
"Damn!" I thought to myself. "She can shop for me any day!"
The little woman seemed distraught. She pawed through her pockets - her clothing seemed to have an inordinate number of them - and glanced up at me with worried eyes. In a strange sing-song voice she said, "I seem to have misplaced my gelbouch."
The last words were garbled but I swear she said "gold pouch". She was working herself into a tizzy and all sorts of things were falling from her pockets, including a wooden spoon! I didn't even want to know where she'd gotten them. I could feel the people in line behind me getting restless. The situation was not my fault but I felt responsible for it anyhow.
I asked the woman, "Is any of this anything you absolutely must have?" She avoided my eyes as she shook her head "no". My heart went out to her; she looked so miserable, just like a child who has found she can't have her heart's desire. I knelt so our eyes would be at the same height. "The shampoo." I said. "What about that? Everybody needs shampoo." She snorted and adjusted the wig on her head. Why hadn't I noticed it before? In fact, why hadn't I noticed her entire outfit before?
The wig - and it was an obvious wig to my eyes now - looked like a giant black cotton ball. Not quite an afro but also not quite found in nature. She was wearing cat eye glasses with one of those little chains to hold them around her neck. Her clothing screamed "bag lady". She wore a holey, faded blue cardigan over a housedress that was a few sizes too big. Her shoes, likewise, looked too big and didn't even match! I felt even sorrier for the poor creature.
I looked over the pile of goodies she couldn't afford and plucked out the rhinestone pin. "She'll take this." I announced to the cashier. The cashier, who had been busily inspecting her hair for split-ends, started to argue but I cut her off. "I'm buying."
I glanced down at the strange little woman to make sure she was still there. The adoration in her eyes as she looked up at me was almost tangible. Frankly, it embarrassed me.
After paying for my purchases, I knelt and pinned the snowflake to her sweater. "Every girl needs a little bling," I whispered.
The woman looked into my eyes and took my hands in hers. "Indeed they do," she answered. "Thank you for your kindness today, child. It won't be forgotten."
As I watched her clump out of the store, I felt my day had brightened considerably. When I left my house earlier today, I was in a nasty mood. Not only had Jack, supreme con artist that he is, just left me for someone else, he also stuck me with his credit card debt and stiffed me on rent. I wasn't sure how I was going to pay the bills this month. So what did I do? I took myself out for some retail therapy, of course! But that woman ... somehow she had lifted my spirits. Maybe it was seeing someone obviously worse off than I was, who still found joy in the simplest of things - a cheap rhinestone pin.
When I returned home, I found the atmosphere there seemed brighter than when I left earlier. "The power of positive thinking," I muttered sarcastically. The plants in the kitchen window looked perky, almost cheerful, and I saw blooms on the violets. "Huh, those things haven't bloomed in months," I mused. The books in the living room appeared less dusty and there seemed to be more light everywhere. Everything seemed more vibrant and lively. "Heh ... shoulda made Jack leave sooner. His absence really brightened the place up." It was as if I was seeing my house for the first time.
As I unpacked my bags, I heard a commotion outside. It was Puffy, the neighbor's annoying poodle. Puffy was barking his head off, which isn't unusual, but he really sounded upset this time. I stuck my head out the back door to yell at him and found the little woman from the store talking to the dog!
Ok, so she wasn't just talking to him. I watched as she picked Puffy up by the scruff of his neck and, mid-yap, gave him a shake. She then draped Puffy around her shoulders and clipped his mouth to his hind-end. I did a double-take and saw that she was wearing a stole! Somehow Puffy had turned into a stole, complete with glass eyes. "That should take care of you!" she chuckled. Glancing up, her smile faded and she clucked her tongue. "Ach, you weren't supposed to see that."
"Who are you? What are you doing here? Why did you follow me from the store?" I demanded, somewhat scared of the strange woman.
"Names are powerful things, child. Why, to name a thing is to own it. I'm sure you've heard the story of my friend Rumple-what's-his-name. You can just call me Mary. And, as for why I'm here ... erm ... it's to help you, of course!"
After slamming the door shut and locking it securely, I turned to find her standing in my kitchen. "How did ... what ... who ..." I stammered, gesturing weakly at the door. I noticed she was now wearing an apron and a tidier hairdo, in addition to her new stole. She held a wooden spoon in her hand.
"Now don't you worry about a thing, child. Mary is here now and I'm going to take good care of you. Now off with you and let me get to work." With that she clucked her tongue again and waggled her spoon. I jumped when the sink began filling with sudsy water. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as the dishes loaded themselves into the sink and began washing themselves, rinsing and neatly stacking themselves in the drainer afterwards.
I fled the kitchen, cowering and covering my head like Igor, just as the cutlery whizzed across the room to its rack on the counter. Mary took a batch of muffins from the oven and they smelled heavenly. I never even saw her make the batter! I was beginning to like this strange woman.
As the day progressed, I'd catch Mary furtively watching me as she cleaned and organized my previously untidy house. Around dinnertime, I began wondering when she was going to go home but couldn't bring myself to ask, especially when I caught the unmistakable aroma of colcannon and roasted chicken wafting through the house. After a companionable dinner, eaten at the kitchen table - a rarity at my house - Mary clucked for the dishes to wash again and stretched.
"Cor, child, but I am tired!" she sighed. "Think I'll turn in now." With that, she stood, took off her apron, and headed to the hall closet. Dumbfounded, I watched as she opened the closet door, went inside, and closed the door firmly behind her. As quietly as possible, I tiptoed to the door and listened. I could hear her rummaging around and talking to herself.
Timidly, I tapped on the door. "Mary?" The closet fell silent. I tapped again. "Mary, is everything alright?" She didn't answer, so I opened the door and looked inside. What I saw astonished me. The closet was organized! No longer would I pull out the mop along with my coat! Never again would I be forced to wear mis-matched mittens! No more would boots intermingle with cleaning supplies! What was more surprising, however, was the small door set into the back wall. Why had I never noticed it before? It stood open a crack, so I peeked inside.
The small door led to a tiny room! I was sure it never existed before. Everything was scaled to Mary's size. There was a small brass bed with a colorful patched quilt and the stole-formerly-known-as-Puffy curled up at the foot of it, just like a real dog. A chest of drawers with an old-fashioned ewer-and-bowl set and a small, smoky mirror hanging on the wall completed the room. Mary sat knitting in a rocking chair next to the tiny fireplace, with her disproportionately large feet propped up on a stool. Fireplace!?! She must have heard my surprised gasp because she looked up, chuckled quietly, and said, "There's no place like home, eh?" before returning to her knitting.
This is the tree spirit's version of the Dark Moon story. I think it's PG.
We awaken gradually, one or two at a time. First the Coll, then the Nuin and Huathe, and finally we Duir - we all rouse slowly, reluctant to wake from our Winter slumber. But the song of the Birds seeps into our dreams and, bit by bit, we come to life.
With the increasing warmth of the Sun, we unfurl green banners, revealing flowers and growing fruits. We dig our toes deeply into the Earth and stretch our limbs to the Sky. We revel in the soft breezes and the sweet Summer rains and look not for happiness past right where we are.
The Wheel turns and now it is Autumn. The days are shorter and the Air is crisp. Leaves flame and fall, like bits of fire, as if they will stave off the cold for a bit longer. I smell the tang of dry leaves and know it is almost time. I feel a sense of anticipation. Something is coming.
It is the New Moon - the Dark Moon - and a time for new beginnings. I stand in the darkness and dream of possibilities. I hear a whispering on the Wind; I have been hearing it a week now. I know it is for me only and the Wind carries it like a messenger between lovers. I know not who it is but a presence is summoning me, calling, and I cannot resist. I take shape, gathering bits of this and pieces of that - leaves for cloak, a bit of moss for beard - until I have formed a semblance of what is expected. I then wait.
She comes in the dark, stumbling and lost. I appear at her side and say I know not what, only that I hope it is words of comfort. She peers at me closely but seems not afraid. She turns to me and I to her and we touch. We merge: I am lost in her and she in me.
After, lying twined together, as sleep overtakes us both, we murmur words - the meaning is lost to me, and I feel myself returning to my self, disintegrating. My mossy beard falls away and my cloak scatters, leaving naught but a pile of leaves behind. When I wake again I am in my rightful place, back among the Duir. I know we will meet again, she and I, at the next Dark Moon of October.
We stand, the Coll, Nuin, Huathe, and Duir just as we have stood for years upon years: silent sentinels to the turning of the Wheel and the changing of the Seasons. I cannot remember how I came to be; just that I am. I have existed since the beginning of time; I am ageless. Eternal. I am Nature.
Once again, chock full o' adult content. Continue not, O Prudish Reader!
Belle's story:
Belle nervously stared at herself in the mirror. She wasn't sure why she was nervous; it's not like it was their first date. She'd been seeing Allen for months now. They were practically an old, married couple. Still ... she couldn't shake the strange feeling. As she thought about it, she realized that she'd been feeling odd for a few days.
"Couldn't have anything to do with the Moon," she mused to herself. "It's the Dark Moon. Everyone knows it's the Full Moon that makes you crazy." She put it out of her mind and continued primping for her date.
Belle was actually very excited about the evening. She had finally convinced Allen to check out the local color at a gothic nightclub. He had reservations but she was filled with anticipation. You see, Belle was used to being the ‘good girl'. She always did what people expected of her but she harbored a secret: Belle wasn't a good girl at all. Nor did she particularly want to be one. But she doesn't know this just yet.
It had taken her some time to talk Allen into giving up their Friday night bowling league to visit the club but he finally gave in. She spent the weeks before their outing searching for what she considered proper ‘goth attire'. She finally settled on a long garnet-colored duster over a revealing black dress - both made of velvet, of course - torn fishnet stockings, and chunky heeled boots. Dressed like that, she felt decadent and a little bit dirty, but so alive. The irony of becoming goth to feel alive was not lost on her.
They arrived at Club Dead around 10:00 and the parking lot was just beginning to fill. "Good," said Allen. "We can still get a spot close to the door." And then sarcastically, "Club Dead ... how original." Belle just rolled her eyes. Why did Allen always have to be so critical?
From the outside, the club appeared to be one of many warehouses in a mostly forgotten part of town but inside ... for Belle and Allen, it was like stepping into a different world. The interior was a combination of haunted house rejects, junkyard, and neglected barn. From the foil stapled to the ceiling to catch water from the leaking roof to the sagging floorboards, Belle was enchanted! Music blasted from speakers in every corner of the room and was like nothing she had ever heard before. It was loud, so loud she could scarcely think, but the beat ... the beat stirred something that was primal and, until now, asleep deep inside her.
The bartender looked like something from a B-grade horror flick had mated with a porn star and she was the result. Long raven hair with bright red streaks, a frilly dress that a little girl would wear, except that it was made of vinyl, and boots with such impossibly high heels that Belle wondered how she could walk. "What can I get you?" she asked, rubbing at a spotty glass.
"Two sodas, please." said Allen.
"Two tequilas coming up!" the bartender replied, eyeing him up and down.
"No, we wanted two so...."
The bartender cut him off, "I said, ‘Two tequilas coming up!'"
"Erm ... two tequilas, it is." Allen gave in weakly.
Belle had a flash of inspiration. "Can I have a beer chaser, too?" she asked.
"Sure thing, honey! You can have anything you want tonight; it's the Dark Moon!" The bartender winked at her knowingly and pushed the drinks down the bar.
The crowd at the bar rivaled the bar itself in creativity. There was every sort of outlandish clothing, accessory, and hairstyle imaginable. Belle saw a woman wearing, what appeared to be, nothing but underwear and go-go boots. She saw a shirtless man in a kilt sporting obvious lash-marks on his back. There was also a man who looked like Adam Ant did in the 80s, complete with black stripes across his nose and cheekbones. In the far corner was what looked like scaffolding with a dwarf chained to it. A woman in a long shiny black dress was diligently applying a Tazer to his hump. Belle was repelled but also intrigued.
Feeling warm inside and loose from the liquor, she tried to get Allen to dance with her. He refused, so Belle ended up dancing by herself. Her face flushed and her eyes glassed over as the music took over. A woman wearing a German officer's uniform grabbed Belle and kissed her. She gasped in surprise but didn't pull away. Instead, she snaked her arms around the woman's neck and began dancing with her without breaking the kiss. The woman jammed her knee between Belle's legs and Belle gyrated her crotch into the woman's thigh.
Allen felt increasingly uncomfortable as the evening wore on and, when he saw what Belle was doing, he'd had enough. "Oh, my god, Belle! What are you doing?" he cried in alarm.
Allen took her arm and dragged her off the dance floor. She wasn't used to him handling her so roughly and she didn't like it. She yanked her arm from his grasp and looked at him with feverish eyes. Clearly this wasn't the Belle he knew and loved. Indeed, she would never be that Belle again for the dark of the Moon was now in her. "Don't touch me!" she shrieked in his face. "Don't ever touch me!"
Before he could stop her, she darted out the door. The freedom Belle felt as she fled into the darkness was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Euphoria. She didn't care where she went, just so she was free and away from Allen.
Belle was suddenly aware of a change in her environment. She had been stumbling through a paved parking lot, but now found she was moving along a path through soft, dew-laden grass. With no moon to light the night, she had to rely on the stars to see. She looked up and couldn't remember ever seeing so many stars in the sky. Such brilliance! Even so, Belle found it hard to keep on the path.
Presently, she realized she was in a park. Benches and playground equipment loomed in the darkness and the trees seemed almost alive in the light fog that was forming. Belle heard soft laughter in her ear and realized she was not alone.
A man appeared beside her, seemingly from nowhere. He said, "It's about time. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming tonight. I thought perhaps I had the wrong Dark Moon."
His voice was warm and soft, like the faint breeze that cooled Belle's feverish cheeks. He was half a head taller than Belle and well built. He wore a hooded cloak which appeared to be made of nothing but leaves. It partially obscured his face but she detected the hint of a beard, soft and mossy. At first she thought she also saw antlers on his head but saw nothing when she looked again, so decided it was just her imagination. Rather than being afraid, Belle felt a stirring, that quickening between her legs that made her want to do unspeakable things.
As she turned to face him, he turned to her and their lips met. Tentatively at first but then with growing passion, they kissed. Pulling away, she looked up at him with glassy, feral eyes. She had never known such passion, such desire. She wanted nothing more than to know this stranger. He tore at her clothing, baring her breasts. His hands looked so brown against her white skin and she thought she would cum right there as he pinched first one nipple and then the other.
She knelt in front of him and took his cock in her hands. Slowly she ran her tongue along the length of him. She heard his sharp intake of breath as she took all of him into her mouth and the sound was akin to leaves rustling in the trees. His body smelled of dry leaves and oakmoss, which further inflamed her desire. She sucked and teased him until she felt him begin to tremble.
She fell back in the grass and spread her legs as he dropped to the ground between them. Belle was ready for him as he slammed his cock into her wetness. She cried out, unsure if it was pain or pleasure she felt. Maybe it was both. Maybe they are the same. Never before had she behaved in such a way but she was beyond caring. She clawed him as she arched her back. He bit her neck and she pushed his face into her breasts. He pulled her hair and she begged for more. They climaxed at almost the same moment.
Spent and panting, he rolled to the side and cradled her in his arms. She looked at him and found, somewhat to her surprise, that he was quite handsome. Not in the conventional sense, but he had a certain rugged appeal. She always did like a man who was a little on the rough-hewn side. He gazed into her eyes for a moment and it seemed that he could see right into her soul. He nodded imperceptibly and his eyes slid closed. Seeing him dozing made her feel sleepy as well. As they nodded off, she murmured, "I don't even know your name."
He murmured this into her ear:
"I am the Oak tree, strong to the storm And I am the grass growing in the cracks Bending to every breeze. I am the lovers' whisper in the deeps of love And I am the shout of the captains on the battlefield I am the Song of the Birds And the endless murmur of the mountain stream."*
His voice faded out and it sounded just like the wind through a cornfield. Belle noted that his body seemed to be fading too, sort of disintegrating, right before she slipped into sleep.
She jolted awake early the next morning to the sound of traffic: a blaring horn, a car backfiring, a radio playing Bobby Darin's "Dream Lover", faint at first, growing louder, then faint again. She was stiff from the night spent on the ground. As she gingerly loosened her limbs, she looked around. She found she was in a forgotten part of the town park, surrounded by a pile of dried leaves. She wondered idly where the stranger from the night before had gone. She wasn't sure why but she was fairly certain that he was nearby, in the trees perhaps.
Upon standing, she found that her coat had been neatly buttoned down the front, covering the torn dress underneath. As she stumbled out of the park entrance, Belle bumped into the bartender from the club. "Excuse me, miss. You dropped this," she said flashing a knowing smile. Belle looked at the woman's outstretched hand and saw a single oak leaf. "Have a good evening, did you?"
"You have no idea." Belle replied. "When is the next Dark Moon?"
The bartender laughed and patted Belle's shoulder. Though she appeared to be younger than Belle, her manner was motherly. "Fairy godmotherly," Belle thought to herself.
"Don't worry, child. He'll be back again and he'll be looking for you."
* From "Song of the Bard", author unknown (not me, sadly)
Last fall I attended a lecture on Gypsy magic given by Dr. Ray Buckland. This story was inspired by an anecdote he told about a kinsman of his, Plato Buckland.
Plato's story:
Plato Buckland wore a red kerchief on his head and a gold hoop in his ear. He had a bushy moustache, which he said were really caterpillars dueling for his lip, and he usually smelled of garlic. He liked to play cards and share stories around the campfire and dance when he'd had too much to drink. His wife, Delphine, told fortunes to the gadjes who were willing to part with a few coins. They traveled the countryside in their brightly colored caravan, making money where they could.
The day Plato died was much like any other day. Their caravan was parked with the others at the outskirts of a small village and Delphine busily read the cards and stones and made charms for the locals. Nothing fancy, Delphine used materials that were readily at hand. If someone wanted a money charm, she would fashion one from a shiny stone and a leaf, tied up in a strip of colorful cloth. A fertility charm could be made from flower buds, apple seeds, or anything else that she deemed suitable. Though she never spoke of it, the locals' superstitions and the ease with which they believed her fortunes amused her. For them, it was a matter of great importance; for her, it was simply a way to make a living.
Being of the Travelers - gypsies to the outside world - although they despised that word, Plato and Delphine had a difficult life, but they couldn't imagine living any other way. They loved the life of a Traveler, moving from place to place as their mood or opportunity took them. At the same time, they found it hard to earn a living. Delphine was a well respected card reader and never lacked for customers. Plato was a skilled carpenter - he had built his own caravan, called a vardo - but no one wanted to hire a gypsy. He satisfied himself with picking up day work as he could and carving small statues of whimsical animals in his spare time.
Plato was proud of his caravan. Gaily painted in a sunny yellow, it had a red door with carvings of birds and flowers and green shutters at the windows. Delphine had fashioned bright checkered curtains from a skirt she no longer wore. It was small but the space inside was used so well, it was roomy enough for more than the two of them. A squat wood burning stove stood inside to the left of the door, its smokestack jutting jauntily from the roof. Benches ran along both sides and served as both seating and storage. At night, planks and a pallet laid across the benches made their bed and they slept cozily under a quilt Delphine had made from Plato's old shirts.
The sun was high in the sky when Delphine felt the first twinges of unease. She tried not to worry too much but when the sun reached the horizon and Plato hadn't returned, her unease turned to fear. Plato always came back before dark. It just wasn't safe for the gypsies to travel after dark. Her fears were realized when the small group of fellow Travelers emerged from the dark, into the firelight, bearing Plato's body on a stretcher. He was dead.
They told Delphine how they all worked together that day building a house and how the foreman was so impressed with their work, he asked them to return the next day. They decided to celebrate their good fortune with a drink at the tavern. Delphine knew the rest of the story without being told; she'd heard variations of it a hundred times before. A drunkard took exception to gypsies being in the tavern. He called them "dirty tinkers", accused them of taking work away from him and his friends, and every other evil he could think of.
When they finally left the tavern a few drinks later, with Plato in the lead, the drunkard was waiting for them. He lunged at the group with a hunting knife and caught Plato in the neck. His arteries severed, Plato died within minutes. Realizing what he'd done, the drunk ran off into the night screaming jibberish about gypsy curses and the evil eye. A single tear rolled down Delphine's cheek as she listened to the tale. Such was the life of a Traveler. She turned to her husband and began preparing his body.
She worked through the night and by morning all was ready. Plato's body had been washed and clothed in his finest suit, a natty affair resplendent with gaily colored ribbons, bells, and wooden buttons he'd made. As the sun rose, Delphine gathered her meager possessions - a small bundle of clothing, her Tarot deck, a bag of colored stones, and the suede cloth which Plato had given her for reading her stones - and took them to her new home. Plato was gone and now Delphine would live with his brother, Pascal, and his family.
Plato was laid out beside his caravan and the other gypsies came to pay their last respects. All day they came. They told funny stories about Plato and remembered all the good things about their friend, including his generosity with his kinsmen. "Today we will feast, tomorrow we'll starve, the next day we'll feast again," Pascal quoted him. They drank toasts in his name and, as evening approached, they had a huge feast in his honor.
As the sun set, Plato's body was placed inside his caravan, along with his worldly possessions - including the pearl handled knife his father had given him and the gold watch Delphine gave him on their wedding day - and the whole thing was set ablaze. She wished for the night to never end for Delphine knew that, after this night, Plato would never be spoken of again. The last thing she saw before the caravan was swallowed by the flames was the plaque Plato had hung over the caravan door. She shook her head at the irony. The plaque read:
"It's kushti bak to wellán a Rom, When tute's a pirryin pré the drom."
"When you are going along the street It's lucky a gypsy man to meet."
As Plato's caravan burned, the other Travelers gathered around the campfire, dancing wildly and playing their instruments in a frenzy, as if their lives depended on it, until they were a whirling blur, all colorful skirt, stamping feet, and glistening skin. It was the finest tribute they could give to one of their own. As the fire of the caravan dimmed and cooled, the dancers slowed and left the circle one by one.
By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, heralding the dawn of another day, the caravan was reduced to ash and the fire was out. Plato Buckland was no more.
Modern gypsy funeral: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/mid/3031922.stm Travelers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Travellers Ray Buckland: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Buckland The Road That Has No End: http://www.endicott-studio.com/rdrm/forgypsy.html
