The Gypsy’s Rose

Once there was a gypsy. Ferris was his name, and he was in love with the loveliest young woman in the whole of his tribe. The mere sight of Valara’s lustrous raven curls or the ruddy blush upon her smooth cheeks made his heart flutter so fiercely that it threatened to burst out of his chest every time she was near. The problem was that although he loved her with all his might, she always thought of him as her childhood friend and he was so bashful that he was never able to express the depth of his affection for her. And so, his tongue remained firmly behind his teeth.
One day he greeted her as she returned from working in the nearby city of Berkenswood, dancing for coins by the market booths of the wealthy merchants. He smiled happily, noticing that today her joy brimmed over, pleased at his beloved’s buoyant expression.

As they walked side by side back to the circle of gaily painted wagons in the forested clearing they currently called home, he inquired in his gentle voice, “What lifts your spirits so well today? It was a good day in the city, I trust, or you would not bounce so when you step. Something wonderful must have happened.”

“Oh it did,” she exclaimed breathlessly, clapping her hands together with an excitement that was worthy of a giddy child. “It really did! A most beautiful man came by the market today, a nobleman dressed in fine clothes and riding a tall white stallion. He got off his horse and stopped to watch me dance, Ferris, and you should have seen the look in his deep blue eyes! Oh, that such a fellow would come and see me dance! What’s more, he promised to come back and watch again tomorrow. He said that I was as graceful as a swan.”

She is indeed, thought Ferris, crestfallen at her words and acutely aware of the muddy color of his own eyes. Were he thinking clearly, he would have realized that they were nothing to be ashamed of, warm brown mirrors that reflected the quiet kindness of his nature, but his mind could only dwell on the breaking of his heart as the woman he loved swooned over a noble he could never hope to compete with.

Upon reaching the others as they bustled around the campfire, Valara wandered off to help her sisters stir the soup pot, though more than once Ferris peeked at them and found them laughingly chiding her for thinking so much of her mystery gentleman that she nearly let everyone’s dinner burn. When the meal was served, Ferris took his bowl and shrank away from the others, unwilling to disturb the others with his melancholy. Shrewd woman that she was, his mother noticed this and followed him to where he sat on a distant stump, toying with his food.

“What troubles you, my boy? Surely not the young Valara’s infatuation; she has barely met the man, and what nobleman would wish to wed a gypsy?” she asked him, setting aside her own food and embracing her son.

“Whether he would ever wed her or not, whether he knows it or not, this man has already stolen her heart and hidden it far from me.” He shook his head sadly, his shoulders drooping under the weight of his burden.

The elderly gypsy woman removed her arms from him and put her hand under his chin, lifting his face to meet her gaze. “She is in love with a dream, Ferris. She does not know him, but her fancy weaves wondrous things about him until she loses herself in her own daydreams. A dream is a difficult thing to upstage, my son, but not impossible. What you must do is prove your love for her beyond any doubt, and show that it is stronger and more sure than anything her own mind can cook up.”

Ferris looked up at her through his tousled mop of coal-black strands and gave voice to his befuddlement.

“How am I supposed to do that, Mother? What could I ever give her that might compete with what he can give her? Suppose he really does not care that she is a gypsy? She said he showed her favor.”

His mother sighed, and tucked a wayward hair back under the kerchief she kept wrapped around her head. Then she repeated an oft told tale among their people, a story she had rocked him to sleep with when he was but an infant.

“If she is chasing dreams, then you must hunt legends,” she told him plainly. “Remember the tale of the wizard in the valley?”

He nodded, wondering why she would bring up the subject at such a time as this.

“There is a valley hidden deep within these woods, farther than anyone ever dares venture, for those that do, rarely return. Only one person has ever done so, a merchant of fine silks that wandered too far one day, traveling between cities with his beautiful daughter. There was a keep in the valley, forbidding and dark, but the two of them had nowhere else to go because they were lost. He knocked on the door and it was answered by a man of dark visage and exotic appearance to whom shadows clung like garments. Not knowing what else to do, they entered, only to find that once inside, the evil man had no intentions of releasing his daughter. The merchant was desperate to free her, pleading with the wizard, offering himself and every worldly good he possessed in exchange for her. But it seemed his heart was made of stone, as if transformed by the dark magics he surrounded himself with.

Then it happened- the one thing that could spark compassion in his withered heart. The maiden wept, her tears touching him and filling him with the only remorse he has ever felt in his long and lonely life. But he still refused to release her without a price, for he still remained a self-serving man. He wanted something to remember her by when she left, a small token, he said. The merchant was to go out and seek the fairest rose in all the kingdom and bring it back to him. Then the maiden would kiss it and she would be allowed to go her way.

The task seemed simple enough to her father, and he agreed readily. But it soon proved more difficult than he had anticipated- each rose he brought back was found to possess a flaw, some small imperfection. A year and a day passed and the merchant despondently trudged back, ragged and tired, bereft of his riches as he had spent them traveling far and wide to find a blossom worthy enough to redeem his daughter. He knew that if the wizard did not accept it, then all hope was lost, for there was no place left to look and it was indeed the fairest bloom he had ever laid eyes on. When he arrived back at the keep, the wizard answered the door and he offered the rose to him with downcast eyes. To his great joy, the master of the keep was greatly pleased and accepted it, bringing him and the flower inside to where his daughter waited. The wizard knelt at the maiden’s feet and held the rose out to her, and she kissed it. After that, they were allowed to go home, and since then, the rose has resided in a place of honor in the wicked wizard’s home. That was 500 years ago, for you see, with the touch of the innocent girl’s lips, the wizard cast a spell so that it would never wither and remain forever lovely.” His mother put her hands on her hips and stared at him intently.

During the course of her tale, a gleam had begun to shine in Ferris’ eyes, stoked into fire by a daring he never knew he could muster.

“A gift like that would be worthy of Valara,” he said softly, a slow smile etching its way across his face. He leapt up, finding it hard to keep from shouting. “I’ll do it, Mother. I will go to the wizard’s keep and take the rose for my love. Then she will know how dear she is to me and I may ask her father for her hand.”

His mother returned his smile proudly, but uttered these words of caution. “Be careful, my boy, for very little is known of this wizard, and though it has been hundreds of years, you never know what you may find inside the keep. Now go and win over your beloved. There is food enough in our wagon. You can get a good start if you venture out this evening before the dark finishes falling.”

Ferris sped off to the family wagon, grabbing a bag and stuffing it full of provisions, mostly his mother’s travel cakes, but not forgetting to include all the tools he might need to get inside a locked keep. Then into the forest he went, having only the vaguest idea of where the valley lay. He only knew that it was deep in the heart of the forest, where the trees grew thickest and obscured all but the most tenacious light.

It was more difficult to find the valley of the keep than he had anticipated, and the young Ferris soon found himself without food or water. He began living off the land, not willing to go back empty handed, for his love deserved only his best. Months passed and he feared he would never find the place, but as winter began to set in, it came as a shock when he suddenly stumbled upon the valley with the keep looming like a monstrous presence its depths.

He trudged forward, undaunted by the task at hand now that his goal was in sight. When he reached the door to the keep, he held his breath and pulled the massive handle wrought in the shape of a serpent. Unsurprisingly, it did not budge. Ferris walked around the outside of the keep and spied a window in one of the walls that was not too high up. He took the rope from his pack and tied it to a large hook used for sneaking in through windows of places his people generally weren’t wanted. He did not find it troublesome to gain access and soon set foot on the cold stone floor.

It was dark inside, with the only light being what filtered in through the broken stained glass of the windows. Cobwebs hung in every corner, and the sound of rats scurrying away could be heard bouncing off of the stone walls of the corridor. It was not easy to find his way without a guiding light, but he kept a hand on the wall and kept going, hoping to somewhere find a clue as to where the rose was kept. He searched and searched, growing steadily more nervous when there was no sign of trouble, nor of occupation inside the keep. When he had almost reached the conclusion that the rose must have been a myth, or that it was no longer here, taken away long ago by someone that might have dared come before him, Ferris spotted a soft scarlet light peeking out from under the door of the highest tower.

A light? He wondered, cautiously approaching the closed door. When he stood in front of it, he put his ear to the weather wood and listened, finding no signs of life inside, just the warm glow beckoning him inside the room. Satisfied that there was no one within, he placed his hand on the handle. Nothing happened. He turned it, and the door surprised him by opening smoothly.

Joy of joys, before him rested the rose in a silver vase upon a small table draped with velvet. Its crimson petals radiated light, bathing the whole room in its splendor. Ferris took a step towards it, entering the room only to have his feet pulled out from under him and hung from the ceiling by tendrils of solid, ice-cold shadow. A voice whispered from behind him, and he craned his neck to find a face mere inches from his own, emaciated and possessing the pallor of a corpse.

“Why have you intruded in my home?” the wizard hissed, seething eyes boring into the gypsy as he hung quaking but defiant. “I can only presume that you have crept in here to steal from me.”

Ignoring the rush of blood to his head, Ferris told him the truth, speaking in length of Valara and her beauty, the noble who had captured her heart, and his determination to give her a gift worthy of the love he bore for her.

The wizard found his heart softening for the second time in his life, and titled his head thoughtfully at the young man he held trapped against his ceiling. He made a proposition.

“If you can solve the riddle I pose to you, not only will I release you, but I will speed you along your way with the rose you seek in hand,” he told Ferris, waving a bejeweled hand at the table. Then his face hardened, an effect quite frightening on so intimidating a countenance. “But if you fail to answer it correctly, you remain here forever as my servant, transformed into the likeness of a horse so that you may be my steed. I am in need of a fresh mount.”

Ferris nodded, not taking his eyes off of the wily wizard for an instant, determined to free himself and return to Valara. The wizard paced underneath him, stroking his beard and muttering to himself, trying to find the perfect riddle with which to trap the gypsy.

“Aha!” He smiled at last, looking up at the red-faced young man. “Solve this one if you can:

I can be quick and then I'm deadly,
I am a rock, shell and bone medley.
If I was made into a man, I'd make people dream,
I gather in my millions by ocean, sea and stream.

Ferris started to despair, for it was nigh impossible to think with all the blood pooling in his head. He thought and he thought, struggling against the senselessness that threatened to overwhelm him. His mind played out all of the rhymes and songs his people had taught him, the legends he had heard, but still came up short. Then it hit him. His mind drifted to the time he’d spent a day at the docks with some of his kin. They were all young and had ducked under the pier to play in the rocks and sand lining the water’s edge. That was it!

“Sand,” he gasped, flailing his arms at the wizard. “The answer is sand!”

For a moment the wicked one stood there, staring at him with his mouth agape. But true to his word, he released Ferris and the shadow dissipated, allowing the gypsy to fall dizzily to the ground. The young man stood up and wobbled, then stared at him.

“This belongs to you now,” the wizard told him grudgingly, taking the rose up delicately in his hand and handing it over. “Be sure your lady love cares for it well. Follow me and I shall see you to her.”

Still amazed that he had bested the wicked owner of the keep at his own game, Ferris followed mutely, stopping and staring in question when he was led to a large mirror.

“Say your beloved’s name, step through the mirror, and you shall find yourself instantly at her side,” instructed the wizard. “Now go and leave me to my solitude.”

Ferris merely nodded, and clutching the rose tenderly to his chest, whispered, “Valara,” and placed his foot through the glass with his body following close behind. He blinked and found himself surrounded by his kin, all of whom shouted in surprise and alarm at his sudden appearance. Looking to his side, he saw the woman he loved. Valara took one look at him and fainted. Catching her before she hit the ground, he knelt on the chilly forest floor and stroked her face with his fingers, whispering, “Wake up, Dearest, I’m back now.”

Valara awoke in his arms and looked up at him with tears pooling in her eyes.
“I thought you were gone forever,” she said. “You were away for so long.”

“You truly missed me?” he asked, a loving smile gracing his lips. “I thought you loved the beautiful nobleman.”

“I did also,” she answered, sitting up and throwing her arms around him. “But when I thought I’d lost you, my heart tore in half. Please do not ever leave me again.”

“Never again,” he replied with all of the love and tenderness he felt. “Never again.” She made a small sound of complaint when he pulled gently away from her arms, but her face lit up with wonder when she saw the gift he presented to her: the most perfect, flawless rose mortal eyes ever beheld, glowing with the radiance of not only arcane magic, but the magic of the love Ferris gave.

It was the very best kind of magic, and from that day forward they lived happily as man and wife, married in front of their friends and family, blessed by the kind of love that never dies.

That was breathtaking. You should be an Author. You got me hooked.

that was a beautiful short story