Monday, March 31, 2008
She was a Romanian gypsy girl. In the first nights firelight, her trials as a young girl would arrive at their fruition. All marriage age girls would show at the campfire tonight. She was entitled to this ritual. A scarlet scarf lay draped across her beautiful hand carved mirror. Golden earrings were tossed carelessly across the same dresser that had been a wedding gift to her parents. Sweet perfume was awaiting her in a blue crystal glass container. A rose lay upon her skirt and blouse with the remnants of dew still upon its tender petals.
Fragrance from the lilacs she had picked the evening before remained in the damp morning air. The coral colored rose had mysteriously appeared on her windowsill this morning while the skies still showed purple and pink in the firmaments. Tonight an age-old tradition would be presented to many of the gypsy. Her father was full Romanian gypsy blood. Dark haired and green eyes composed her looks. Her mother was Italian. From somewhere out of the early twilight night the ardent howls of the timber wolves played a symphony of haunting night music. They too seemed anxious.
The dance began in a slow methodical rhythm of gypsy guitars and drumbeats. She slowly paced her steps and pirouettes to the tempo of beautiful gypsy music. Her skirts became a kaleidoscope of satin ribbons as she danced by the crowd. Like the morning sky colors had proved to be such a spectacle long ago, so the nights events sped by it seemed. Several eyes caught her movements and followed her progress about the dancing flames that bathed her features.
Garishly clad hosts hovered nearby anticipating the night’s events. She caught her slipper once on a fallen log but tossed her head with a cat like grin and quickly remedied her situation. It was then that dark eyes followed her from somewhere out in the dark and vast wilderness.
The ruggedly handsome features of his countenance were at once turned, peering unblinking at the angry gleams reflected from the firelight onto a golden object. This was a key to share all secrets and it was his only link that which would serve and serve him well. Only this shining heirloom could save his onerous hide. For without wearing this one key the gypsy nomads strewn about the campsite were to slit his throat. He again scrutinized the bejeweled band reposing about his trigger finger.
Verdant orbs shifted their tenacious gaze to then ponder upon the softly dancing tongues of flame. His garishly clad hosts hovering about were more dangerous than the sand scorpions that inhabited the sweltering desert sands and grasslands, and just as wily. The breathtaking beauty of a young girl caught his eyes once more and then he made his move.
Whisked away on the winds were all creatures that once composed his enemy’s campsite. In one flowing movement all had vanished, just as the great sandstorms came upon an unwary traveler. In those treacherous storms all who did not seek shelter perished in the onslaught. Only footprints remained in the sands left as last testaments and witness.
A muffled scream escaped into her scarlet sequined scarf. She was draped across a black as midnight steed and they were heading away from her beloved gypsy caravan.
She heard the tell tale hoof beats strike across the grasslands as they sped past her favorite lilacs. Perhaps this assailant was the giver of the coral colored rose. Her heart leapt, as does an eagle as he takes to his wings from a cliff precipice.
Voices spoke in a language she could not understand. From her position across the horses back she could vaguely peer through the scarf that had somehow draped across her face.
She was brusquely dropped across a satin divan. Left to partake of her surroundings she composed herself. Her eyes searched about the tent. Fresh dates that had been placed in a golden goblet tempted her. There was wine in a chilled goblet. She adjusted her eyes to the dim light. Across the tent she discovered a vase containing two freshly plucked coral roses.