Serialized Sundays; The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter 4

Here is the next scene in "The Gypsy's Curse"  Thanks for stopping by to read my rough draft.  If you enjoy the story, leave a comment. Those who do will recieve a free copy of the final product. Leave your email address for me so I can contact you.




Chapter Four  Copyright, Lily Silver 2013                                                 

          The darkness was cloying at her. Zara was confined, trapped in some sort of box. A coffin? Her mind made the connection against all rational thought.       

          Zara gave a thin screech, and clawed at the cool fabric hanging above her and touching her face. She winced, and shook her wounded hand as tears stung her eyes. The wound was festering. Judging by the wetness of her palm it was bleeding again or worse.

          She must have fallen asleep in the clothes press while waiting for the cottager and his wife to leave the house. Rising up on her numbed knees, with anxious fingers, she felt the smooth wood in front of her for the spring latch and pushed the door open. It creaked slightly, and she cursed herself for her carelessness in making even the slightest noise. She didn’t know if the caretakers were gone for certain as yet. She had to be careful.

           Oh, the air was so sweet and fresh as it caressed her hot face and freshened her stale lungs. Crouched on calves and knees that had lost all feeling, she listened to the strange new sound echoing through the room. Pat-a-tat-tat. Pat-a-tat-tat. It was a steady, rhythmic sound made by nature, not the uneven ones made by people attending their chores. Zara sighed with relief and listened closely to the peculiar sound. She leaned forward, bracing herself with her good hand against the doorjamb of the closet so she didn’t fall out of it on her face.

            Pat-a-tat-tat.  There it was again. The sound of icy water blowing against the window across the room, overshadowed briefly b a deep, low rumble that shook the roof and the foundations of the house.

          

Curses! She crawled out of the clothes press and stumbled forward on stiff legs. Just her luck, it was storming outside. She couldn’t leave the manse as she’d hoped, not until the winds and driving rains let up. Zara wobbled toward the lacy window, recognizing the leaden pall beyond the expensive fabric before she even reached the casement to pull the curtain away.

            The skies were heavy with anger. They seemed to mock her determination to put at least two shires between herself and the mob hunting her. Without the sunlight, she couldn’t tell the time of day. Was it noon or early evening?  It had been early morning when she climbed into the closet to evade discovery. She could not have slept in the closet for very long, could she? The rumbling beneath her ribs made her doubt her judgment. She hadn’t eaten yet today.

            Zara moved from the window to retrieve her bag from the closet. She hefted it over her shoulder and closed the door on the fine lawn shirts and velvet jackets and breeches hanging there. Her eyes surveyed the room for a clock. The furnishings had been covered, draped in white sheets to protect them from the accumulation of dust. The mantel above the black marble fireplace sported a clock, but it hadn’t been wound for some time. The hands stood still, as if resenting the labor of recording the passage of time.

             She supposed it didn’t matter so much what the hour was. It wasn’t nightfall as yet. She could have a look about the manse, start a fire in one of the rooms that didn’t have a window, or at least one that didn’t face to the west and would be noticed from the road or the hollow near the lake. She would close herself in for the remainder of the day. The cottagers wouldn’t be out in this weather. And if she were very careful, she might be able to spend another night indoors, where it was dry and somewhat warm.

            The hallway was dark, as the only windows were at the end of it and over the stairs. Zara slid the leather bag over her shoulder and held it steady with her uninjured hand. Her footsteps were muted on the carpet as she made her way to the open mahogany stairs. She paused at the top of the expansive stairway, marveling once more at the ingenuity of the Gadje in creating such wondrously regal spaces. The foyer below the carved, polished wood banister had a checkered black and white floor. The light fixture about her head had to hold at least fifty candles, if not more. She would love to see it lit one night. It must shine like sun above.

            She imagined herself standing here as a grand lady in a silk gown and lovely jewels--rubies, of course, glittering at her throat. White gloves would embrace her hands--the hands of a lady. Her dark hair would be swept up in a fashionable style by a servant. There would be a crowd of people gathered below, all eyes on her as they waited for her to descend and join them so the ball might commence. And waiting at the bottom of the stairs would be a gentleman, that certain someone who could not live without her in his world, nor she without him in hers. No more would she be cold, wet, hunted like an animal, abhorred by her father’s people and resented by her mother’s family. She would be accepted, have a home at last, a place where she not only belonged but was actually wanted and needed by those about her.

            Touching the balustrade as she prepared to descend the stairs brought Zara quickly back to reality. Her palm stung, as if an adder had emerged from the polished wood to rebuke her for her foolish fantasy. She released her breath in a low hiss. Tucking her wounded hand to her side, she made a slow descent down the majestic stairs. The kitchen would be the first stop on her journey through the magnificent Gadje palace, the kitchen where she could start a fire, heat some water, and apply a healing poultice to her festering palm. 

                                                       ___________________________________________

 

           “And you bade me thanks for helpin’ ye home and told me to come around today to receive a reward.” The street urchin concluded her tale and held out a dirty palm for the promised coin.Set upon by thieves, in Coventry Gardens? Stephan frowned at the chit. It sounded like a scam. A drunk lord wandering about the Gardens late at night could only expect to be robbed or worse, stabbed by some ne’er do well waiting in one of the hedges and thickets surrounding the walkways. He didn’t know if this girl were telling the truth or if she were taking him for a ride on the idiot coach.

 

         “You are claiming I was with you last night?” It was impossible. If she were a strumpet, she was not his type. She was too thin, for one thing. Starved would be a more apt description and her face was too childlike beneath a generous sprinkling of freckles and red hair.  

        “Oh, no sir. It wasn’t like that.”  The waif actually had the good sense to blush. “I found ye sprawled on the cobblestones, sir. You was holdin’ yer head. Ye couldn’t get up without my help. You asked me to hail a cab but when you reached into your coat, you said your coin purse was missing. That’s how I knew you’d been robbed, sir. I helped you walk home, you gave me your card and told me to come back this morning at nine-o’clock sharp.”

Stephan reached up to feel the back of his head. There was no lump or wound, which wasn’t surprising, as Brisbane would have remarked upon it while grooming him this morning if there had been. Still, the girl was probably telling the truth. She found him in a dazed condition after one of his harrowing blackouts and assumed he’d fallen prey to one of her comrades. He was still clothed, so he must not have transformed. And there was the matter of his card. She presented it when she spoke with the butler. Stephan didn’t give out his card to anyone and he certainly wouldn’t have done so to a street whore, even if he were foxed out of his mind.

           “Well, I thank you, Miss . . .?”

            “Maggie, sir, Maggie O’Donnell.” She informed him primly.

           “Thank you for helping me, Miss O’Donnell.” He said politely. “I’m afraid I do not recall what it was I promised you as a reward last night. The head injury, you know.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke to emphasize his oblivion. “How does ten pounds sound?”
            “Oh!” The freckled face bloomed crimson, framed in a riot of red curls spilling out of her poke bonnet. “Why sir, I-I didn’t’that is to say---you promised . . .”

            “Out with it. What did I promise you, Miss?” He replied with more vehemence than was necessary as his hackles rose. What kind of chicanery was this? Ten pounds was more than a girl her age could make in a year as a scullery maid. It would keep her off the streets for a long time. Unless she was greedy, that is.

           “Well, sir.” She posed her hands in front of her as if she were in a church and about to begin her prayers, licked her lips, and then rushed on. “You promised me a position in your household, at some abbey, ye said. I don’t reckon the name. T’was long. I know that much. You said you was returning there and didn’t have no help--and you doubted the locals would dare work there because of them strange murders, and you said I could be a maid and . . .”

             “And what?” he held up a hand to silence her run on speech. Stephan regarded the girl with horror, not for her story but because a random street waif could not know any of those things unless he told her those things.  He straightened from his casual slump in the chair. “I told you that on the way home?” He eyed her severely as he waited for her response.

            “Aye, sir.” She mumbled, looking suitably ashamed for repeating the tale. “But, you were pretty deep in your cups.”  She added, as if that made all the difference.

            “What of your family? Surely they would not let you go off with a strange man to parts unknown.”

           “My Da’s dead.”  Miss O’Donnell informed him in a somber tone. “I’ve no one else. Da brought me to London with him when he signed up for the army. He told me to find a job in service when he left and wait to for his return from the War. Seemed good advice. I’ve been trying, sir, but none will have me ‘cause I ain’t got no references.”

           “Don’t have. I do not have any references.” He corrected, more as a stalling tactic than any real annoyance. The girl could not help her lack of education and it seemed that correct grammar was not her most pressing problem at the moment. “How old are you? Don’t you have any relatives or friends that might take you in?”            

           The girl looked at him as if Stephan had struck her. She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the rising tears. “There’s nobody, sir. We left Newling Green after mama and my two brothers died. The fever wiped out half the town. Da came to London last year to sign up for the regiment. He left for Spain within a month. He arranged to have most of his wages set aside here for me. I was to go to the Home Office each month to collect it. Da used to write me, every week. He’d send his letters to the Home Office as he didn’t know where I’d be working. The nice officer kept them until I could come by and pick them up. The letters stopped coming a few months ago, my lord. They say at the office me Da is either dead or missing.”

           “I am sorry for your loss, Miss O’Donnell.” Stephan replied, regretting his words.  “However,  I am not running an orphanage. I cannot be responsible for you, if that is what you are hoping.”

           “I’m no child beggin’ for charity, sir. I’m seventeen.” She countered, drawing herself up to her full height. “And I’ve known girls who have gone into service as young as fourteen. I want to work. You said you needed maids in your manor house out in the county, and after city living for six months without my Da, I’d like to have an honest position in the country, sir.”  

            Stephan rubbed his temples as the ache rekindled in his head. “Seventeen.” He repeated with a sarcastic laugh, certain he was going to regret this sometime in the near future. The girl didn’t look more than fourteen and he’d bet his last cigar she was not much older than she looked. And yet, if what she said were true she had been living hand to mouth on the streets for past month, maybe more, since her father disappeared. The army did not give out wages to family members when a soldier went missing. And what she wasn’t saying in all of this was that he owed her something for saving his life--for helping him home when she could have left him where he was and let the street scum find him and finish him off. He promised her a position in his household, and God help him, he would keep that promise.   

          “So be it.” He said, lifting a hand to her for silence. “You may have made a deal with devil, we shall see if you have the courage to keep it.”

          “Thank you, sir! Thank you.” The girl gushed as if he’d given her a pretty bauble, not an opportunity to join the House of the Damned. Any more encouragement and he feared she might hug him like an exuberant child. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

           Stephan already regretted it. Hiring an adolescent girl to be a maid was not a duty for the master of the manor, it normally would fall to the lady of the house, or in the very least, the housekeeper. Since Julia was dead, she would hardly care now that the girl was of obvious Irish descent, a critical flaw that troubled his snobbish spouse when she was alive. Annie would bless him for bringing an extra set of hands to help her work as the local women shunned the manse since Julia’s grisly death, fearing they might come to a similar fate if they took a position working for The Beast of Huntingdon Abbey.

           “Now then.” Stephan replied, in a futile attempt to stymie the girl’s excitement. “You will return here tomorrow with your belongings. We leave at eight in the morning.  I will not wait around for you if you are late.”Copyright Lily Silver. 2013

Join us each week for a new excerpt. And leave a post if you wish to recieve a free copy of the final e-book. 

Lily Silver, Romance Author

 

Serialized Sunday; The Gypsy's Curse

Enjoy a peek into an author's life with a weekly rough draft excerpt from a work in progress.  This is for your reading enjoyment, Any comments are welcome. Once this book is complete and edited, it may differ slightly from the verision you read here. Those wishing to be given a free ebook copy of the finished novel  must leave a comment with their email address in the comment section. It's my way of giving back to my wonderful readers!  Enjoy this week's post.

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter Three Part 1

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

        The wind awakened her. It blustered outside and rattled the window panes.

        Zara sat up in the big bed, confused by her surroundings for a brief instant. She was in a manor house, in a warm, dry, comfortable old canopy bed. She wore a clean bed gown that belonged to the lady of the house. Her own meager clothing was draped over the chair to dry. Her sodden, stained slippers had been discarded when she entered the house via the unlatched window on the back side. It was not quite dark up here on the hill as it had been in the hollow by the lake. The grey twilight had given her just enough light to make her way to an upstairs bedroom and collapse.

        The bed was luxurious. She’d never seen the like before. Her experience with sleeping quarters was severely limited to her uncle’s camp wagon and the small cot the Widow Kendall had offered her in the cottage attic. She sprawled on the feather mattress and extended her arms. There were still a few inches on either side of her fingers. Oh, it must be wonderful to be wealthy. Warm, cozy beds. Rooms with fireplaces. Yards and yards of elegant brocade fabric hanging from the bedposts and windows, all matching, not scraps of fabric sewn together willy- nilly to create an illusion of privacy in an overcrowded wagon--Stop it.

         Guilt and shame dampening her spirits, Zara sat up suddenly and curled her arms about her bent knees. She was doing it again; ungrateful wretch that she was. She was mentally comparing the wasteful luxuries of the Gadje against the simple provisions of her mother’s people.  Oh, but it was so grand, this room. She’d never dreamed such places existed in the world. It was a place for a princess in a story book.

        The sun was still hugging the far horizon, as reluctant to rise from its dark, comfortable bed as Zara was to pull herself from her cozy refuge. She stretched, and placed a bare foot on the floor. It was cold, but not terribly so, as the rich carpet had been set down to protect milady’s dainty feet from the frigid reality of an uncaring winter floorboard. She stood and pulled the covers up about the bed and smoothed away any evidence of her presence the night before. Remembering the cottager’s assurance to his wife that he’d come up the hill to inspect the manse today, she hurried to the clothespress and hung the new cotton gown back up on the peg where it belonged. Her fingers caressed the soft fabric with longing before she closed the door on the borrowed gown and slipped into her own worn garments.

       Shoes. Yes, she needed something more substantial than the frivolous slippers she ruined on the way here. She’d cast them down the well in the courtyard last night, mindful that she must not leave any evidence of her passing for the villagers on the other side of the woods to track. Zara knelt on the floor and checked the drawers of the armoire. She found an alluring pile of soft silken garments?stockings, petticoats, garters. Her fingers coveted the costly garments. With reluctance, she closed the drawer and nibbled at her lower lip.

        Being in this house was bringing out the worst in her; the Gadje part she couldn’t deny, no matter how hard she tried. Her father had been wealthy landowner, so she’d been told. Perhaps not as wealthy as the one whose home she had stolen into now, but rich enough. He’d been a selfish, greedy man, so they said, a bad influence even among his own people. Devil seed, they sometimes whispered about Zara when she was a child. Devil’s child. It wasn’t enough that her mother had born a babe from a Gadje man. Such things could be forgiven. It was his reputation that had tarnished her standing in the tribe.

        All her life, Zara was cautioned about not giving in to her carnal side lest she become like her father--evil--given over to the desires of the flesh. It wasn’t fair. She was expected to walk a straighter path than the other children of the tribe. If she showed the slightest yearning for a pretty bauble, it was blamed on her Gadje blood and she was chastened for it, where another girl in the camp would be petted and fussed over for wanting that red silk shawl or that gold locket. Her uncle was the only one who took her part against the other children during the many squabbles. Her mother and grandmother always made her apologize for any disagreement. Not because they thought her guilty, but because they knew that her tainted blood could be brought up by the others and Zara would be exiled if she made trouble among them. And as she was but a child, her mother would be exiled too.

      

Zara didn’t resent her mother or grandmother for their caution--not much. It was hard to hold a grudge against the dead. It did little good. Uncle Lothar took her hunting or he’d let her tag along as he made his rounds to the cottagers to ply his tinkering skills. Aunt Sapphira gave Zara hugs when Cousin Rhys wasn’t watching. Rhys was the leader of their caravan, the oldest male since grandfather had passed on.  He watched Zara incessantly. She knew he was just waiting for a reason to make an example of her to the other children for her wickedness. Lothar always defended Zara against the bully Rhys had become as their chief, but Lothar died last spring, and after his funeral Zara was finally cast out and left to fend for herself.

      A bare branch rattling against the window startled her out of her ruminations. Zara refolded the pretty red silk stockings, placed them reluctantly in the drawer and closed it. Red silk was her weakness. Crimson, the color of blood, the color of the cloak from the Hellfire Club her mother had kept tucked in the bottom of her trunks and took out only late at night when she was alone in the wagon and she thought Zara was asleep. If her father had truly been a rapist, as they claimed, then her mother had secretly been in love with her assailant. A woman didn’t pine after a man who had shamed her and abused her body. Zara saw how her mother fondled the cloak and held it against her cheek, as if mourning the loss of a lover, not a villain. When mother died Lothar burned the cloak, refusing to let Zara have the token of her father’s so cherished by her mother. He spat on it, and cursed the man who wore it, frightening Zara with his vehement response.

      Shoes, girl, sensible boots, and then you must away!   Zara moved across the room in her bare feet. Her stockings as well as her shoes were destroyed. She nibbled her lip, and touched the clean bandage wound around her wounded palm. Surely the lady wouldn’t miss a pair of stockings when she had dozens. Would such a grand lady begrudge a poor girl a pair of stockings from her horde? The lady was probably in London. It was the place that all grand ladies preferred to the country. And surely the woman had other stockings with her.

      The trunk in the corner caught her eye. If there were boots, they might be in there. She opened the trunk and found a sturdy pair of riding boots. Soft black leather--it was like butter beneath her fingers. Zara grabbed them and closed the lid of the trunk, lest her eyes behold something else that her hands might itch to possess. She sat on the bed for a moment, hesitating, resisting the wicked urge to take those red silk stockings. She needed stockings, but not silk ones. Oh, and they felt so lovely against her fingers! There were woolen stockings shoved in the back of the drawer, banished from sight due to their bland, serviceable appearance.

        Zara’s hands fisted about the lovely red silk. She bunched the fabric up, resisting the call of her conscience to put them back in the drawer. If you’re going to steal something, choose something useful, she heard her uncle’s voice in her head.

       She bit her lip and counted to ten, fifteen, and on to thirty.

       In the end, it didn’t matter. Stockings were stockings she told herself as she gathered up her bag and treaded carefully from the room in her new black riding boots. She closed the door, and crept carefully down the hall, listening for the telltale sound of the cottager below the stairs.

      Once she was in the hall, she couldn’t resist peeking in the other rooms before descending to the first floor and making her exit. The house intrigued her. It seemed as if the hallway went on forever. There were doors and more doors as she gazed down the long hall. Zara shook her head. She must appear the simpleton to be so fascinated by a mere house, yet, having grown up in a camp wagon the notion of inhabiting such a grand, expansive home, of staying in one place for more than a week or a month, was vastly appealing.

       Zara entered the room across the hall from the one she had just exited. It was a masculine room, probably the lord’s chamber. The furniture was covered with white sheets to protect it from the dust. The curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out the light. It was a beautiful, peaceful chamber.

       Oh, to have such a room all to myself. The room was wider than three camp wagons put together and twice as long. All of this space for one person? She set her pack on the floor and stood in the center of the room. She held out her hands and spun about slowly. This would be a  place to dream, to be free. To sway to the music in her soul unobserved.

       That was one thing she could not do at the widow’s house, dance. It was in her blood. Her mother had been a dancer. And yet, the widow’s kindness in taking Zara in required a respect for the old woman’s beliefs. Widow Kendall frowned on her urge to move unrestrained, and so, Zara restrained herself, lest she give the woman cause to regret having taken her in.

        She closed her eyes and lifted her arms above her head. The boots with their slight leather heel were cumbersome, not allowing her feet to turn as easily on the carpet as if she’d been barefoot. She was not about to remove them. Zara forgot her loneliness for a time as she let her soul flow through her body, allowed her mind to cease its endless prattle of worried thoughts and recriminations. She gave herself up to the dance.

        A loud clanging of a door reverberated through the manse, stopping Zara’s movements. Someone was here. Probably the old man from the cottage below the hill. She froze and whirled about quickly to gather her bag and find a hiding place. The curtains were drawn. She considered them and just as quickly dismissed the idea. If the cottager came in and opened the drapes, she’d be exposed and hauled off to the nearest jail for trespassing. There was the dressing screen, but it proved equally flimsy. She could hear footsteps echoing on the parquet flooring of the hall below the stairs. She heard low muttering, turned to the door, and stifled a gasp. She left it open. She didn’t dare close it now. The sound would alert them that someone was in the house.  The muttering grew louder, more distinct as the person climbed the stairs and walked slowly down the hall toward the opened doorway.  

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

Serial Writing, Anyone? A Gift of a Free Novel

When I was younger, I remember radio shows featuring "A Chapter a Day" events where one chapter of a book was read aloud for about 15 minutes of air time. I loved those old serialized books .

In honor of the good ol' days, when it wasn't all about the almighty buck and how many people liked you on Facebook, I have decided to make one of my own novels free on  my website. http://lilysilver.webs.com/     The entire Novel will be free, and there will be two to three new posts a week until the novel is finished. If you wish to follow along on this journey, then please click the link and add my website to your browser. I will post the newest post at the top of the page each time for your convenience.

About the Book: The Gypsy's Curse is a book I began writing in 2010. It is nearly completed, but not quite. That's the beauty of it. Having readers tune in every week for a new excerpt is a motivation for me to finish the book.  The story takes place in England during the Romantic Period of art and literature, about the same time as the Regency Period. It also takes place in the romantic Lake District area of England. Zara, a gypsy, has been cast out of her tribe as it is believed she bears the 'Devil's Mark'. She is half gypsy and half Gadje blood. She is taken in by a kind old widow and lives with her on her small farm. When the widow is murdered, Zara is the suspect, and she must flee for her life. She finds refuge in an old manor house that has been closed up for a few years. The owner is a widower racked by guilt over his wife's violent death. He is a werewolf, and believes he killed her. While Zara is hiding in the house, he decides to return to the place to confront his demons. At first he doesn't realize the woman appearing to him at night is a real person. He believes it's a ghost . . .

To get you started, here is the first excerpt of "The Gypsy's Curse" Copyright Lily Silver 2012   Prologue
The sheriff marched resolutely to the center of town, hammer in hand, and the decree tucked under his arm. He stopped at the billet post, dug into his coat pocket, and produced two thick nails. He slipped them into his mouth, the blunt ends in, sharp points hanging out, and pressed the decree against the wood board. The sound of his hammering echoed about the village square as he posted the warrant given him by the local magistrate.
Wanted for questioning regarding recent murder in Lexford Woods:  Young woman of gypsy blood described as short, slim, with dark hair and bright green eyes, of approximately a score in age. The gypsy is known to frequent these parts with a local caravan, but has recently been traveling alone. Distinguishing features include a scar on the left side of her face, above the eye, and a fresh wound to the hand. The woman is armed, and considered a prime suspect in the murder at the farm of  Widow Kendall and her visiting nephew, one Jasper Leeds of Hampsell Place.
        Once finished, he marched straight toward The Griffin’s Lair for a shot of whiskey. It might be an hour shy of noon, but he sorely needed a shot of courage after the grisly scene he’d been called to this morning at Widow Kendall’s farm. The bodies of the poor souls were still swimming before his eyes, the jagged wounds, the slashed flesh and the horrified open eyes.
        Worse for it, the stench of their gore stuck in his nostrils. Even with a sound washing with plenty of lye soap, he doubted he’d be able to escape that putrid smell of human innards split wide open like a gutted deer for weeks to come.
        Wanted for questioning!  Ha, that was a bunch of rancid tripe on the part of the magistrate. All that fancy talk of evidence, motive and guilt verses innocence was fine and good for a man like Magistrate Collins, who sat behind a desk all day and didn’t have to hunt down a vicious killer himself. When face to face with evil a man didn’t argue with the devil, he took action and saved the lives of those who depended upon him.
         If he caught the little whore she’d wish she’d never been born. Question her about what, for pity’s sake? Why she’d mutilated two God fearing souls in the middle of the night.  He shook his head. The world had worked just fine without these intelligent blokes always throwing a cog in the works and bringing everything to a dead halt with their grand talk of rights and habitual corpses! Oh, she’d hang for sure when they found the bitch. He’d hang her on sight and send a message to all her kind to stay away, for good.
 Chapter One
The Lake District, England, 1816
         The Devil’s Mark! That was their excuse. That was the reason she’d been thrust out into the world of the Gadje, coldly cast out of her tribe and exiled from the family she’d known and loved.
          Zara trudged on through the woods. She pulled the woolen shawl tight about her shoulders, and pushed on. Her progress was slow as she was walking into the wind. She was tired and hungry. She’d spent last night in a cave, without a fire, lest the townspeople see the flame and discover her hiding place. The cave had been damp and cold. She finished the last of the bread and cheese she’d taken from the Widow’s kitchen before setting out on her long trek to parts unknown.
         It was late autumn. Snow would soon be dusting the woods. The small streams and creek beds would freeze over. The rivers would remain a source of water throughout the winter, but most rivers were surrounded by towns and farmsteads. As a child of nature, she knew she must find shelter soon or she might die from exposure to the harsh winter nights. Lothar taught her how to track animals and trap game from the time she was able to walk. Her uncle had unwittingly given her the tools to survive without being dependent on another. Thank the fates for Lothar and his practical, pragmatic nature. He gave her knowledge to the woods and the creatures that inhabited it that most girls of her tribe would envy. He took her with him on his forays into the bush to trap dinner, when other girls were kept close to the fire to learn other skills from their mother’s knees. But winter’s harsh pall left even the best trappers in her tribe with empty pouches when they returned to camp. That was why the caravan traveled south for the winter months.
         A deer had come across her path at dawn, when she was filling her cask with water at the icy stream, but Zara had no weapon with which to bring down such a fortuitous bounty presented to her from the wood spirit. She had no gun and no bow and arrow. Just a knife, a large hunting knife Lothar had given her when she was ten years old. Even if she had such weapons, she didn’t think she would have been able to fell the gentle eyed doe. Like her, the animal was alone in a world full of hunters, alone and without hale companions or the protection of a great horned mate.
         She stopped for a moment to recover her breath and examine her hand. Her fingers were numb from the cold. The bandage was stiff, almost frozen to the scored flesh. At least the cold weather had offered her some assistance. The outer bandage was dried from the cold; there would be no fresh flowing blood to give the hunter’s hounds a trail to follow.
         As if in protest to her hard won peace of mind, deep baying echoed the distance behind her. Zara smashed her lips together and hurried up the steep hill, as uncertain of her destination as she was of her present bearings. She returned to the woods two nights past, after awakening in the farm house to find the widow and her reprehensible nephew dead beside her. She had no memory of what happened. She’d awakened on the floor of the parlor just before dawn, with Lothar’s knife in her dominate hand, and the painful gash splitting the palm of her other hand.
        Zara knew she’d be blamed for the murders, regardless of the mysterious circumstances, simply because of her origin. A gypsy, even a half blood gypsy was always blamed for any misfortune that fell on the people nearby. If a pig or goat went missing, a horse took ill or a barn burnt to the ground, it was always the gypsies, so the Gadje claimed.
       Some villages were better than others, more accepting of their visits. They were tolerated and allowed to trade with the town for a week or driven on without even being allowed to rest their horses by angry Gadje men with guns. Each time they set up camp in a new place, the men of her band made wagers amongst themselves as to how long it would be before the Gadje showed up with guns and pitchforks, demanding that they move on to the next town. It was her misfortune to be banished when her tribe was traveling through a hostile region instead of a more tolerant one.
       As she crested the rise of the steep hill, Zara leaned against a stark, majestic oak to recover. There was a sharp stitch in her side. The silver steam of her rapid breath wreathed about her in the cold air. She was so tired. Her chest ached and she feared she might be courting the dreaded lung sickness after spending two nights out in the cold, damp November woods with no fire and no shelter. She’d walked hard for days, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Kendall Farm as she could. She didn’t dare stop to rest until she found a shelter, as she feared if she stopped too long, she would not have the will to get back up and keep going. An abandoned barn or cottage would see her through until spring. By then, perhaps the locals would have forgotten she had resided with the Widow Kendall for a time and she would no longer be hunted like an animal by the people of the town. In the spring, when the snow melted, she’d head south and try to find a caravan traveling northern to take her in. It seemed a good plan, to her fevered mind, and she scanned the valley below for a possible refuge.
       The landscape below was very beautiful. In spring and summer, it would be a veritable paradise. It would be a wonderful place for the caravan to make camp, and perhaps stay for longer than a week or two. A picturesque lake was banked by tall willow trees. The lake skirted a fenced in pasture. A deep longing burgeoned forth unbidden. This would be a delightful place to live, in a small cottage near the lake, nestled between the two hills, a cozy place---Zara gasped. She covered her mouth and made the sign with her dominant hand to ward off the evil eye. She was alone, but still, it wasn’t good to let her Gadje blood rise to the fore. And settling in one place, setting down roots was foreign to her mother’s people, it was his father’s influence, his taint in her blood that made her yearn for such wanton things.
       She turned her mind back to the task before her, finding shelter before nightfall. There had to be a farm nearby or some estate, if there was grazing land below. She studied the beguiling landscape. Not one building. She squinted, and placed her hand over her eyes. Perhaps, just past that stand of trees on the opposite end of the valley . . .?
      The sun was lowering in the sky. It would be dark within hours.
The Gypsy's Curse: copyright Lily Silver 2012

To continue the story, click the link here to go to my website; lilysilver.webs.com/  and if the free reads page does not come up immediately click on that tab.

There are five posts up at present.