The Gypsy & The Cad - Pt. I

A Dyscrasic Tale of Sanguinity for Rosalie and Lostway

The cad was riding westward
One cold February morn
From the bed of some young maiden
Whose looks had faded with the dawn,
And he was nursing at his sore head
And his family’s waxen scorn,
When he spotted a young Roma girl
Sitting down amidst the corn.

The girl was dressed in red and black
With a veil o’er her hair –
All bells and beads and olive skin,
Eyes ardent, black, and rare –
And perhaps it was the wine last night,
But he’d ne’er seen one so fair,
And she charmed him with a smoky smile
As he reined in his mare.

So he jumped down into the grass
And took her by the arm,
Then greeted her and kissed her hand
To win her with his charm.
“Oh, sir,” she purred. “You must aid me,
Or I’ll surely come to harm.”
“But why, my dear?” he said to her.
“Explain, and pray, be calm.”

He sat down in the corn with her
And took her by the hand.
“The wolf,” she said. “Has tortured me
And chased me from my land.
Oh, sweet gentleman,” she charmed him.
“You must aid me best you can!”
And she ran her fingers o’er his cheek,
Her skin warm and dark as sand.

“How may I?” he soon answered,
Won by her enamoured eyes.
“For I have no sword to slay it,
Though if I did, then I should try.”
“You do not need a sword,” she said.
“Just take me with you as you ride,
For there’s a barrow close to here
Where Oberon resides.”

“My dear, sweet girl,” he told her.
“I fear you quite out of your mind,
For Oberon’s the Faerie King:
We could not find him if we tried.
And even if we could,” he said.
“Then I’d rather be struck blind,
For it’s not for mere mortals
To go calling on his kind.”

“My boy,” she said. “What’s wrong with you?
Have you forgotten who we are?
We have not met like this before,
But I’ve seen you from afar.
You’re young,” she said. “That must be it:
He’s not their king, but ours,
And he alone can arbitrate –
Come now, it is not far.”

He stood up stiffly from the corn
Still reeling from the slight,
But although his head was spinning
He knew somehow she was right,
And he had so many questions,
But it did not seem polite,
And, anyway, words failed him,
He’d drunk far too much last night.

So he helped her slowly to her feet
And onto his white mare,
And he mounted up before her
And drew close as he would dare.
She wrapped an arm about him,
Brushed her fingers through his hair
And kissed him softly on the throat
As they rode away from there.

They rode for what felt like an age.
They rode the whole day long,
Until the sky was filled with dusk –
The air with evensong –
And with her sleeping on his shoulder,
He did not feel so strong
To see the barrow in the twilight
Where Oberon belonged.

He woke her gently from her sleep,
As they approached the mound
At the gateway to the kingdom
Of the lost, the mad, the drowned,
And she took his hand to comfort him,
But did not make a sound
As they slipped into the hillside
And were swallowed by the ground.