The Gypsy Prophecy - JPWaddle

The Gypsy’s Prophecy by JPWaddle 10/2023 ©

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 A Lady Aurora Short Story

 

It was time! Aurora stood and closed her mother’s precious timepiece. Its delicate ticking echoed in the silence as she took a tentative step out of her room. Trying to suppress the sound of her own ragged breath, she tiptoed on stocking-clad feet, holding her sturdy boots tight across her chest.

 

All was quiet. The tall grandfather clock at the end of the hallway marked the half hour past midnight. November first, she whispered, her voice filled with anticipation and excitement. All Saint’s Day, when the veil between the dead and living was merely a curtain waiting to be drawn back.

 

The young gypsy who arrived last month to camp on the estate grounds for the winter was adamant. It had to happen tonight. If not, the chance to communicate with her parents would be lost like sand slipping through an hourglass.

 

The golden locket’s weight on her skin gave her courage, its warmth spreading through her teenage body. It was more than mere jewelry. As she clutched it in her hand, the past and the present melted together, leaving a tangible link between herself and the spirits that awaited at the gravesite.

 

The day before, she had agonized about what items to bring to contact their specters. Her father’s pipe, still carrying the comforting scent of his tobacco, brought back memories filled with laughter and wisdom shared over botany books on evenings in the glasshouse had been a simple choice.

 

Standing in her mother’s bedroom, she had spent hours letting her trembling fingers grazed over each cherished objects as tears fell freely. The carved ivory comb infused with gardenia oil had fallen behind the jewelry box and when she held it against her cheeks, a great wave of tenderness mingled with grief engulfed her as she recalled when it glided through silky golden strands.

 

She shook her head, bent on her mission. All she had to do was to lay these on her parent’s graves and call their names three times. She could hardly contain her excitement, her heart pounding in her chest as she imagined the possibility of connecting with her parents once again. She did not want to dwell on what would happen after that. The gypsy girl had been evasive before grabbing Francois’ coins.

 

She shook her head, bent on her mission. All she had to do was to lay these on her parent’s graves and call their names three times. She could hardly contain her excitement, her heart pounding in her chest as she imagined the possibility of connecting with her parents once again. She did not want to dwell 0n what would happen after that. The gypsy girl had been evasive before grabbing Francois’ coins.

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Out of sheer habits, she reached to lift her skirts off the ground, but the rough fabric of François’ trousers grated on her fingertips. A cheeky smile lifted the corner of her mouth as she recalled their fiery arguments and his stubborn resistance when he adamantly refused to lend her one of his suits. Finally that afternoon, conceding defeat amidst raised hands thrown into the air, he had delivered one in a brown paper-wrapped package to evade suspicion from Sophie, the new maid.

 

A dark curl tickled her neck, and with impatient fingers, she stuffed it back in his tweed cap. Her persistence as always paid off. The thought of traveling with restrictive skirts and heavy petticoats on frosted paths made her shudder. Inhaling deeply, she felt an exhilarating rush fill her lungs. To add an extra touch of rebellion, she had discarded her corset under François’ superfine shirt.

 

Men had it easy for sure; she huffed incredulously. Such freedom of movements! With a surge of envy, she imagined herself living her life, striding full of confidence in masculine attire, as light as a bird. It didn't matter that these hung on her like if she were a scarecrow. This was a clandestine outing, not a display of her fashionable taste at one of the grand houses.           

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Oh, of course, François had been mad. He always scowled at her lately, regardless of what she did or say. It hurt her feelings that he avoided her as if she carried some awful disease since the last ball before her parents’ demise.

 

Memories clicked in focus with every step she descended. Her family’s garden illuminated by torches, music flowing from the open French doors. The funny look on his face when he had complimented her new gown. His soft brown eyes had been lit with intensity when he enveloped her in his arms. Her confusion when he had suddenly brushed her lips with his, filling the air with unspoken tension.

 

Embarrassed, she had flinched away from him. When her attempts at teasing were met with silence instead of the usual laughter, she had covered up the awkwardness of the moment by making fun of the kiss, hoping to bring back their lighthearted banter. There had been a flicker of disappointment on his face as he released her and walked away without speaking.

 

She bit her lip in frustration. What had happened to him that night? What was that all about? They had grown-up together. He was her accomplice in mischief always there with a joke, always ready for an adventure.

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Anyway, best friends did not kiss each other. That was disturbing. She shrugged. It was his bloody business if he still wanted to act weird around her after all this time. He would come around, she decided. For now, she relished her victory on their latest headbutting, but again, she always won; she sniggered.

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With determination fueling every stride, she floated down each step of the majestic central staircase. The golden locket's weight on her skin gave her courage. She did not need to open it. The black and grey photograph of her loving parents was etched on her memory.

 

It had been such a long wait; she sighed. Months filled with longing and anticipation, but now, as she stood by the grand window on the first floor, gazing at the moonlit sky and its dancing shadows, an overwhelming sense of purpose washed over her. This was it; she would not fail. She would bridge the gap and conjure her parents’ spirits.

 

As she reached the gloomy entry hall, she froze. Was there someone hidden behind the large armor in front of her? Or worse, even, were there rats? She held her breath and counted to ten. Not a sound! She exhaled, shaking her head, ashamed of her cowardice.

 

Every tip-toed step took an eternity to reach the side entrance. She paused again and listened. Any noise now could shatter this fragile plan. She prayed that luck would be with her and that her guardian would not stir from slumber when she dared to turn the rusted key within its ancient lock.

 

She cringed, imagining how Lady Muriel would wail at finding her dressed like that. Well, she was not the mean woman’s perfect daughter. She knew her curls were wild, the golden color of her eyes strange, so nothing the old nag had to say bothered her.

 

No wonder Aurora spent most of her hours hidden in the glasshouse, losing herself in the study of her father’s poisonous plants. Her keeper made no secret of wanting her to get her in shape before the next season of endless entertainment, hoping to parade her like a cow at the market in front of all the eligible bachelors.

 

Opening the door, Aurora turned and stuck her tongue out, looking upstairs to where the bedrooms were. It was a childish gesture; she admitted with a grin. Despite Lady Muriel’s wishes, she had no intention of conforming in order to make an advantageous marriage.

 

Oh, non, non, not her! Her sister Camille had flown the nest two years ago and was now far away with her diplomat husband. Like her, Aurora was determined to marry for love. She would choose her equal, someone mature and supportive of her passion for botany. Until then, she would not be told what to do.

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Once outside, she pulled the door closed behind her and crouched to tie her boots. A silent shadow detached itself from the blackness of the wall beside her.

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“So, you did not chicken out after all, eh? You are a rare one, little Aura. I thought for sure with this weather you would have stayed in bed like the child you are.” François’ mocking tone bellied his own apprehension.

 

The intermittent moonlight played on his handsome face, casting it in shadows, highlighting his furrowed brows as he took on her appearance. “And you actually had the audacity to wear those darn things. You brat! Most inappropriate!” He hissed.

 

As if slapped by his disapproval, she reared back and stumped her foot. “Don’t you dare lecture me, Monsieur le Viscount Beaulieu. You think a few clouds would scare me? And do not call me a child. I am only two years younger than you. Being seventeen doesn't make you more grownup. Now, stop talking. We need to hurry to get to the cemetery before dawn.” She slid into her long overcoat, her shoulders shaking from exasperation and cold.

 

With an elegant Gallic shrug, he shoved her hand under his arm and buried his face in his scarf. Aurora admonished herself for not having thought of bringing one.

 

They had rehearsed walking down the path for weeks, taking turn wearing a blind-fold to make sure they would be prepared if there were no moonlight. Sensing her companion’s tightness, Aurora tugged on his sleeve and softly thanked him for being there, but he continued to stare straight ahead, as he murmured something back; the words lost in his muffler.

 

The moment they rounded the bend of the narrow trail leading into dense woods overlooking the sea, an electrifying bolt of lightning ripped through the sky with ferocity, illuminating their surroundings with an otherworldly silver sheen that seemed to mock their presence. The towering silhouette of the manor stood sentinel atop the hill as a silent warning to retreat within its secure walls. As if sealing their fate, a bone-chilling clap of thunder erupted like a wrathful deity’s roar of disapproval.

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François’ body froze, his muscles tensing like a coiled spring, ready to snap. He leaned closer, whispering into her ear. “Should we go back?” His tone betrayed a hint of shock at the rapid deterioration of the weather.

 

“Non, we have to do this!” Aurora responded, her voice quivering with a mix of determination and fear. Their shared burden was evident in her trembling words. “For both our sake... We need answers.” She pleaded; her eyes wide with desperation. “We have to continue.”

 

Nightfall swallowed them once again, leaving only the chilling realization of their vulnerability, but the urgency of their mission hung heavy between them, making it hard for either of them to relax. They exchanged nervous glances, knowing that this journey could lead them into more danger than they had thought.

 

“Fine! Perfect weather for All Saints’ Day!” François hissed, accelerating his steps. Desperately tried to mask his trembling fingers with feigned nonchalance, he failed miserably, his attempts at composure crumbling under his mounting apprehension.

 

As always, seeking solace amidst chaos, he clung to poetry like a lifeline - reciting verses in hushed whispers, as if hoping for some divine intervention or guidance in this perilous endeavor.

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"I am the darkness–the widower–the un-consoled,

The prince of Aquitaine in the ruined tower;

My sole star is dead–and my constellated lute

Bears the black sun of Melancholy.

You who consoled me in funereal night,

Bring me Posilipo, the sea of Italy,

The flower that pleased my grieving heart,

And the trellis where the vine entwines the rose. 1

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“My goodness, François, can you not find something a little less dreadful to quote?” She admonished him. “Ah, we are almost there. See the fires? That the gypsy camp. Not much longer before we can see the gates of the maritime cemetery.” She said, hugging herself closer to him, not sure if it was to gather warmth or to seek solace from his proximity.

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As soon as the words left her lips, a sudden, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the night as shadows danced eerily among gnarled trees. An icy wind cut through their clothes and, as if whispering dark secrets, leaves rustled, and waves crashed.

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They spun around, startled, to find a wild-eyed old woman emerging from the darkness beyond the graves. Her disheveled grey hair glowed, seeming to brew a storm of its own. From the depth of her leathery skin, black eyes as deep as wells and filled with ancient wisdom stared at them.

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With each trembling step she took closer to them, the ground beneath her feet crackled and sizzled. Fear gripped Aurora as François pushed her none too gently behind him. But there was no protection against whatever dark magic emanated from this wretched creature.

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With an owl-like tilt of her head, and shaky breath, a low hum escaped from her cracked lips like an otherworldly melody as she swayed in the moonlight.

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“What do you want? Leave us alone!” François’ voice quivered with terror as he stumbled backward.

 

The crone’s gnarled hands reached out towards them, their bony fingers trembling with age and malevolence. As she did so, François turned and pulled Aurora in his arms, tensing with a mixture of protectiveness and dread.

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As she approached them, they could see how the years had ravaged not only her body but also any semblance of humanity left within it. The tattered rags that barely clung to her emaciated frame exuded a sickening stench.

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As she convulsed under the moon’s pale glow, her eyes rolled back into her head, leaving only vacant white orbs that made François gasp and Aurora want to retch. The crone’s presence was suffocating, as if darkness itself had taken physical form in front of them.

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Her voice, a chilling blend of whispers and guttural growls, slithered through the air like venomous snakes. It sent shivers down their spines, making their skin crawl with revulsion. Her eyes, once again black, oozing malice, pierced their very souls. The sight of her twisted smile revealed rows of sharp, yellowed teeth which repelled them in horror.

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She pointed at Aurora. “You, my little dove. Oh!! How much you will suffer! Monsters are at your heels, howling for your blood, clawing at your sanity. Not long now, before the mad wolf finds you. Beware of his hidden cruelty. He will enjoy shattering you beyond recognition.” She cackled as another lightning flashed in the sky. Paralyzed by fear, they stood still.

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As if by magic, the woman transformed in front of them into a young, vibrant black hair beauty. Her voice softened and whispered. “Listen to me, child. The monster slumbering within you will destroy the dark one and his minions, but first it has to grow, feeding on your pains and despair. Do not be afraid and learn to nurture it. Your survival depends on it. ”

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A sudden gust of wind whipped through the forest, causing debris to swirl around them like restless spirits seeking revenge. The atmosphere became heavy with an oppressive darkness, unseen eyes watching them from every shadowy corner.

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Cold sweat ran down Aurora’s back, chilling her further, raising goosebumps on her skin as she realized just how trapped they were in this nightmarish encounter with the mysterious woman.

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As the thunder rumbled, a frightened young buck jumped among the tombstones. Unfazed, the old hag once again transformed, turned her hypnotic glare on François. He leaned forward, hands clenched into fists.

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“You, my fiery boy, will waste your life in search of what can never be. Only when your soul will be strong enough to give her up will you be free! Another waits for you, far beyond the horizon.”

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As she spoke those words with perverse delight, dark tendrils snaked out from beneath her tattered cloak. They writhed in a macabre dance, brushing against their trembling bodies like icy fingers tracing over raw flesh. A sickly-sweet laughter escaped her parched lips as she reveled in their horrified reactions.

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“Go back home, children. There is nothing for you among the graves. Your people were wronged, but revenge will claim you in its own time. The Fates cannot be denied. Wait for the one, little dove. He knows where to find the monsters which lurk in darkness.”  

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Finding her voice, Aurora protested. “You.. well, you do not scare me, old woman. This is nothing but gibberish. Do you want coins to let us pass? Is this what this is all about?” She cried.

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“Aura, don’t antagonize her. She is mad.” François pressed anxious.

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Aurora stomped her foot in frustration while the old woman cackled. “That’s it, little bird,” she taunted. “Grow the rage within because soon you will realize you have the power to unleash mighty storms, leaving trails of devastation behind you. Watch and remember this!”

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With a flick of her wrists, she twirled leaves and branches into the contorted shape of a large feline, its back arched, as he faced wild dogs. A dove above morphed into a raging falcon and swooped down, screeching as talons ripped through canine flesh and sinew. Aurora’s eyes widened in disbelief as she struggled to comprehend what was happening.

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Shadows danced around them as wisps of fog slithered across the ground like ghostly apparitions. When thunder boomed overhead, the woman disappeared in the rising mist.

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Breathless and terrified, they sprinted through the darkness 

without exchanging a single word. The storm intensified and crashed, drenching them, echoing their racing hearts.

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When they stopped to catch their breaths, gasping amidst swirling and creeping fog clinging to the manor’s walls, silence imprisoned them until François shattered it with trembling words:

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“Did you see... did you see how she .. puff, just like that?”

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As his voice broke, a shiver ran down his spine, causing his body to tremble. He pointed towards where the woman had vanished just moments ago, his hand shaking violently in the air.

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Realization struck both friends like a thunderbolt, their faces draining of color as they comprehended the gravity of their situation.

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They had ventured into forbidden territory – a realm where mortals were never meant to tread. How could they have dared believe they could summon the dead? They must have been mad.

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Aurora’s mind raced with visions of impending doom and punishment for meddling with forces beyond human comprehension. Had they unleashed something malevolent? Was this just the beginning of a nightmare they couldn’t escape?

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Her thoughts spiraled into self-blame and remorse; she cursed herself for ever entertaining such reckless curiosity and now feared what consequences awaited them both.

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François regained control and made her promise to tell no one. As he clasped Aurora’s trembling hands, tears welled up in his eyes as he whispered brokenly, “Aura, we can never speak of this again. Ever! Swear it! It’s the insane asylum for us, if we do.”

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He held her close as she sobbed her agreement. After a brief peck on her cheek, bittersweet with regret, he urged her to go back inside. Her heart felt heavy with sorrow as she obeyed him and locked the side door behind her.

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The first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting an eerie glow on the room as she jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.

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The haunting images of her nightmare wrapped her mind like a suffocating spider web as she questioned her own sanity. Had it all been a figment of her imagination? She let out a ragged sigh filled with hope. It was nothing more than a bad dream. She was safe in her bed.

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But as she turned on her side, a gut-wrenching moan escaped from deep within as she caught sight of muddy boots and rumpled trousers strewn across the floor beside her bed.

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Her fingers tangled in disheveled locks as she strained to recall fragments of the gypsy’s prophecy. Predictions of rage, monsters lurking in shadows, and the promise of unrelenting pain made her retch in horror. The sudden image of her older self, thrown in darkness while a man raised his cane over her, his face contorted by rage, burned in her mind.

 

Her whole being resisted the weight of it all as it settled upon her chest. In an explosive burst of fury, she jerked upright and jutted out her chin in defiance. The fire in her veins consumed any trace of fear or doubt; madness danced in the depths of her eyes.

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If this was what awaited, so be it.. She had been warned and would prepare herself for war when the time would come.

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1. “El Desdichado” by Gérard de Nerval. This poem is a part of his collection “Les Chimères” and was published in 1854