Foxglove

FOXGLOVE

by

~Severitus~

The sight of the old man was unnerving at first. His skin was browned with earth, and his face was weathered and pitted with age. The oddly colored rags that made up his clothing reminded me of the Romanian gypsies my grandmother had often warned me about. Indeed, his eyes seemed to shine with a strange light when he came across me on the road, hooped earrings jangling like tiny bells. I paused only a moment to consider his invitation, memories of my grandmother’s warnings flashing through my mind before the chill and the darkness of the surrounding woods made the decision for me.

The camp was relatively small, with only a few tents and six or so people in total. They were all dressed in the garish, multicolored clothing and looked at me with wide, world-wizened eyes. The two children stared at me as if I was the product of some fairytale come to life. I cast them a mischievous smile, and they giggled shyly, dashing off to hide behind one of the two rickety wagons. The old man led me over to a roaring fire where a younger man was busy carving a wooden flute, and a gray-haired woman was dozing on a ragged blanket. They didn’t match my grandmother’s descriptions of a cunning and dangerous folk at all. More or less, they seemed to be a quiet, comfortable group.

“So, tell us your name, stranger,” the old man said as he reclined near the old woman, loosening the worn leather laces of his boots. His dark eyes were shining brightly with the reflection of the fire as he watched me. I sat across the fire from him, my eyes taking in the entire camp.

“Reynard,” I replied simply, watching the man carving the wooden flute with unconcealed delight. A pair of old, gray horses were tethered not far behind him, their large black eyes focused on me with interest. My eyes suddenly focused on something strange just within my line of sight.

“What’s that for?” I asked suddenly, my gaze lingering on a tiny bundle of herbs dangling from a nearby tree by a piece of yellowed twine.

“That is foxglove, to keep the trickster spirits away,” he explained with a shrug, raising an old wine sac to his cracked lips.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” I said, intrigued. I’d always heard that gypsies were skilled in all things magical, and was more than a little curious about the subject.

“Aye, not many have,” he admitted, waving the wine sac toward the surrounding trees. “They come from the far east to play their tricks. Some of the eastern folk use these little pieces of paper with prayers written on ‘em to guard against the tricksters, but I say there’s more power in a name. Foxglove for fox spirits, wolfsbane for werewolves,” he said, and I only then noticed the second bundle hanging from a tree on the other side of camp. Wolfsbane, I presumed.

“Are these spirits…harmful?” I decided to ask.

“In a way, yes. More troublesome than anything though. Would you like to hear a true story about ‘em?” the old gypsy asked, his eyes brightening as he warmed to the subject. I smiled and leaned back on the blankets.

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“Ah, good, good. I don’t often get to tell my stories these days. Seems the children grow tired of hearing them over and over again,” he said, shaking his head at the children who now lay sleeping in the back of one of the wagons. He sucked in a breath, and began in a low, soothing voice, “One night, not many years past, a young man and his new wife were walking along a road deep in a forest some way north of here. They were crossing the countryside to visit the girl’s uncle, who had promised them both work and lodging. The moon was but a mere sliver in the sky that night, and the road signs were all too dark to read. The two had been traveling for days, and were by then very weary and hungry. Then one night they stumbled upon a traveling bard camped in a small clearing by the road. He was friendly and spirited, and invited them to share in the pheasant he had roasting on a large fire. The pair was relieved to have a warm place to stay for the night, and good food to share in the bard’s company.

“Come morning, they awoke to find themselves alone. The fire pit was cold and the bard was nowhere to be seen. So, they packed up their belongings and continued on their way. For hours they traveled, lugging their packs along as the sun rose higher in the sky. But after a while, they noticed that everything looked a bit familiar. The trees had begun to all look the same, and so did the rocks and shrubs along the road. Then, eventually, they came upon a small clearing by the side of the road. There they found an ashen fire pit, and a few white pheasant bones. The couple became angry and confused, for how had they ended up back at the clearing? The road they had taken was perfectly straight and had not a single junction. Thinking that perhaps they had missed a turn, they set off down the road once again. But yet again, with the sun long since having set, they came to the same clearing.

“This time, however, the fire was lit, and a small fox sat watching them from just inside the line of trees. Nobody knows how many days the young couple spent in the same routine. But each night the fire would be lit, and they’d catch a brief glimpse of the ghostly fox. The man and his wife weren’t seen again by human eyes until many years later, when they were discovered in a makeshift cabin by the road, having died of old age.

“It is said that the only way to escape that trickster spirit’s trap is to catch him, and force him to lead you on your way. Otherwise, you could be stuck traveling in circles for the rest of your life, a slave to the whims of the spirit fox,” the gypsy finished gravely. All through the tale he’d been waving his arms in enthusiasm, his eyes opened wide in the spirit of a true storyteller. I found it all incredibly entertaining, for I’d never heard a story told with such obvious passion and skill before.

“Have you ever seen one?” I asked, my eyes wide with curiosity. The old gypsy slowly shook his head, reaching once more to drink from the wine sac at his side.

“No, and I’m very grateful for that fact,” he said, though his eyes were twinkling strangely. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but my family and I have a long way to go tomorrow, so I’ll be off to bed,” he said, finishing with a great jaw-cracking yawn. He then rolled over and wrapped himself in the blanket beneath him. I followed his example and curled up for the night, though for a long while I sat watching the flames, remembering his story.

I left the gypsy camp before dawn the next day, slipping past the sleeping dogs and horses and casting the foxglove a smile as I went. It was just after the first rays of sunlight crept into camp that the gypsies began to awaken with a great many yawns and stretches. I watched the small troupe as they packed their wagons from behind a layer of dense forest. They’d called out my name a few times when they first awoke and discovered me gone, but didn’t seem overly concerned by my absence. I smiled as I watched them head off down the worn road, twin wagons bumping along and dogs barking happily. Turning from the view, I slipped off into the deeper forest in search of firewood. They’d be needing it when they returned in the evening, and the night after that, and the next one after that. I might let them go after a while, I’d decided. And my grandmother would definitely be pleased that I’d found such excellent entertainment.

~The End~