The Story Behind The Gypsy
It was quiet out, when it came. The village was silent, the only sound that of the
wind ruffling through the leaves of the forest trees, and the smooth, even rumbling
of a caravan passing through. The only people on board were survivors, survivors
of a disaster that had torn the very foundation of their lives apart. The refugees
had blank, unheeding eyes, and they were as skinny as sticks.
"W-Water," one muttered, shaking and tugging a wet, unwinding blanket tighter
around his shoulders.
Staring out at the forest, another person, a younger girl, twirled a feathered pen in
her palms. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes blank. Grayed. Haunted. The
held within them a story, one so frightful it was...heart-wrenching. Her eyes met
nothing except the outside world, which she was bitterly aware of, and the journal
on her lap, the last thing that tied her to her former life. So many bodies, bloated
by rotting in water...so many dead...so much water...
Carefully, shivering as the cold burrowed under her skin, the girl looked up at the
other blank flaces. She shivered, and then, suddenly, the caravan was pulled open
by a second, black, old style carriage.
An old, wiry figure stepped out, and looked over the refugees carefully, inspecting
them. They turned to the caravan driver with icy eyes, "We would like to take a
refugee among us. One that still breathes life." Their manner was malicious, angry.
"S-S-Sure," the driver stuttered, "Pick an orphan, any orphan." Before the girl
knew it, she was pulled away, her bare knees scraped by the dirt road as she was
dragged along.
"You are one of us," the creature hissed, "A person who balances nimbly between
the line of the spirit world, of the heavenly gates, and the dirty, tragic human
world. Leave your past behind and become one of...us."
"Y-Yessir," the girl muttered, speaking for the first time since the disaster had
changed her life.
Carefully, pausing, hesitant, the girl stepped inside the carriage. It was much
bigger inside than it appeared. There were chairs and beds and even a primitive-
looking refridgerator.
"Good evening, Girl," an older female waved from a sofa. Black hair fluttered over
her blue eyes, "You're a gypsy now, huh? You sure she's a gypsy, Pyta?"
"Quite," the wiry figure nodded, "She is still alive inside, and I can feel the
connection. She has seen the gates of death, she understands it. Tell us your
name, Girl."
"M-My name is Aesa," the refugee shuddered, looking shamefully to her feet. The
older girl grabbed her by her rags and thrust her into a seperate room, and left her
there.
It was -- amazing. There were glittering jewels and shiny, glass beads, silk robes
and...it was...awesome. Aesa knelt to her feet, and ran her fingers under a smooth
necklace made of golden beads. Cautiously, she draped it over her head. Next was
a silken purple kimono, and the jewels piled up. Eventually, the older woman came
in. She pressed a head jewel to the girls forehead with her thumb.
"What's this?" Aesa inquired, touching the jewel lightly.
"It's what symbolizes who you are. With it, you can pass through the gates of death
and back, you can balance between earth and heaven. You can also, for awhile at
a time, change your shape into that of a certain animal, and one only. For me it is
the otter, for Pyta it is the rat, and it varies between the other gypsies that share a
caravan with us."
"T-Thank you," Aesa blushed, and carefully knelt to her feet in a respectful kneel. She looked up, still unbelieving.
Carefully, her mind ran through. The sea formed the shape of a monster...crashing
down, tearing apart, pulling away. Aesa had gotten sucked into the cold, clammy
waves and had drifted for miles on the fierce, angry black sea. Shivering at the
memory, she looked up.
-------
Now as the gypsy sits in the room, you'd never know her desolate past. She holds
her head high, her jewels glittered, and the silk of her kimono shining in the
candlelight. In one graceful move, she reaches for your palm, and runs a finger
through the crevices.
"I see fire, I see..." she looks up, and smiles gently, "I see a whole new future." An
otter is curled up under some blankets, and a rat nibbles on some cheese. And
soon, a majestic cat will join them. But not yet.
She isn't done with her reading. She feels the smooth glass of the crystal ball and
looks inside. Swirling inside...images...and suddenly, Aesa shrieks. The ball slips
from her hands, and it crashes loudly on the wooden caravan's floor. She has seen
something, something that reminds her of her dark past.
What does she see? An angry ocean perhaps, or maybe even she sees your death,
the end she was so close to feeling.
"GO AWAY," she snaps, and slams the carriage door shut, shoving you out. When
you're safely gone, she sits down and balls, slammng her fists and shrieking
painfully. The otter has vanished, and so has the rat, away from the usual shrieks.
Sometimes, memories are too difficult, too difficult to bear...
Any reminder is unwelcome.
-------
(Extra to original story.)
"So Pyta," the elder woman inquired, shaking out her long hair, "Do you think that
you made a good choice?"
"Completely," Pyta grinned, "You know that journal she always holds, what's in it?
Do you know? She's never showed it to us, in the year that she's been here. Do
you think there's some desolate secret within?"
"There's only one way, to tell," the woman, who's not old at all, probably only
twenty or thirty, withdrew the book.
Pyta looked it over, carefully. The waterstained cover, the leather binding, the
pages blotted with stains from water, blood and tears.
"Open it," the female murmured.
To be continued in next journal entry...
It was quiet out, when it came. The village was silent, the only sound that of the
wind ruffling through the leaves of the forest trees, and the smooth, even rumbling
of a caravan passing through. The only people on board were survivors, survivors
of a disaster that had torn the very foundation of their lives apart. The refugees
had blank, unheeding eyes, and they were as skinny as sticks.
"W-Water," one muttered, shaking and tugging a wet, unwinding blanket tighter
around his shoulders.
Staring out at the forest, another person, a younger girl, twirled a feathered pen in
her palms. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes blank. Grayed. Haunted. The
held within them a story, one so frightful it was...heart-wrenching. Her eyes met
nothing except the outside world, which she was bitterly aware of, and the journal
on her lap, the last thing that tied her to her former life. So many bodies, bloated
by rotting in water...so many dead...so much water...
Carefully, shivering as the cold burrowed under her skin, the girl looked up at the
other blank flaces. She shivered, and then, suddenly, the caravan was pulled open
by a second, black, old style carriage.
An old, wiry figure stepped out, and looked over the refugees carefully, inspecting
them. They turned to the caravan driver with icy eyes, "We would like to take a
refugee among us. One that still breathes life." Their manner was malicious, angry.
"S-S-Sure," the driver stuttered, "Pick an orphan, any orphan." Before the girl
knew it, she was pulled away, her bare knees scraped by the dirt road as she was
dragged along.
"You are one of us," the creature hissed, "A person who balances nimbly between
the line of the spirit world, of the heavenly gates, and the dirty, tragic human
world. Leave your past behind and become one of...us."
"Y-Yessir," the girl muttered, speaking for the first time since the disaster had
changed her life.
Carefully, pausing, hesitant, the girl stepped inside the carriage. It was much
bigger inside than it appeared. There were chairs and beds and even a primitive-
looking refridgerator.
"Good evening, Girl," an older female waved from a sofa. Black hair fluttered over
her blue eyes, "You're a gypsy now, huh? You sure she's a gypsy, Pyta?"
"Quite," the wiry figure nodded, "She is still alive inside, and I can feel the
connection. She has seen the gates of death, she understands it. Tell us your
name, Girl."
"M-My name is Aesa," the refugee shuddered, looking shamefully to her feet. The
older girl grabbed her by her rags and thrust her into a seperate room, and left her
there.
It was -- amazing. There were glittering jewels and shiny, glass beads, silk robes
and...it was...awesome. Aesa knelt to her feet, and ran her fingers under a smooth
necklace made of golden beads. Cautiously, she draped it over her head. Next was
a silken purple kimono, and the jewels piled up. Eventually, the older woman came
in. She pressed a head jewel to the girls forehead with her thumb.
"What's this?" Aesa inquired, touching the jewel lightly.
"It's what symbolizes who you are. With it, you can pass through the gates of death
and back, you can balance between earth and heaven. You can also, for awhile at
a time, change your shape into that of a certain animal, and one only. For me it is
the otter, for Pyta it is the rat, and it varies between the other gypsies that share a
caravan with us."
"T-Thank you," Aesa blushed, and carefully knelt to her feet in a respectful kneel. She looked up, still unbelieving.
Carefully, her mind ran through. The sea formed the shape of a monster...crashing
down, tearing apart, pulling away. Aesa had gotten sucked into the cold, clammy
waves and had drifted for miles on the fierce, angry black sea. Shivering at the
memory, she looked up.
-------
Now as the gypsy sits in the room, you'd never know her desolate past. She holds
her head high, her jewels glittered, and the silk of her kimono shining in the
candlelight. In one graceful move, she reaches for your palm, and runs a finger
through the crevices.
"I see fire, I see..." she looks up, and smiles gently, "I see a whole new future." An
otter is curled up under some blankets, and a rat nibbles on some cheese. And
soon, a majestic cat will join them. But not yet.
She isn't done with her reading. She feels the smooth glass of the crystal ball and
looks inside. Swirling inside...images...and suddenly, Aesa shrieks. The ball slips
from her hands, and it crashes loudly on the wooden caravan's floor. She has seen
something, something that reminds her of her dark past.
What does she see? An angry ocean perhaps, or maybe even she sees your death,
the end she was so close to feeling.
"GO AWAY," she snaps, and slams the carriage door shut, shoving you out. When
you're safely gone, she sits down and balls, slammng her fists and shrieking
painfully. The otter has vanished, and so has the rat, away from the usual shrieks.
Sometimes, memories are too difficult, too difficult to bear...
Any reminder is unwelcome.
-------
(Extra to original story.)
"So Pyta," the elder woman inquired, shaking out her long hair, "Do you think that
you made a good choice?"
"Completely," Pyta grinned, "You know that journal she always holds, what's in it?
Do you know? She's never showed it to us, in the year that she's been here. Do
you think there's some desolate secret within?"
"There's only one way, to tell," the woman, who's not old at all, probably only
twenty or thirty, withdrew the book.
Pyta looked it over, carefully. The waterstained cover, the leather binding, the
pages blotted with stains from water, blood and tears.
"Open it," the female murmured.
To be continued in next journal entry...
