by Jill Jones
born, where you a all meet our
Dearest when we di ffering
to
Stunned, Alex went into the bedroom and picked up his well-used paperback copy of Emily’s poems. His hands trembled as he opened the book and fumbled through the pages for the familiar lines he sought:
But, I’ll not fear—I will not weep
For those whose bodies lie asleep:
I know there is a blessed shore,
Opening its ports for me, and mine;
And, gazing Time’s wide waters o’er,
I weary for that land divine,
Where we were born—where you and I
Shall meet our dearest, when we die;
From suffering and corruption free,
Restored into the Deity.
—Emily Brontë
Alex sat very still for a very long time. His face was burning and his heartbeat was fast and irregular. There was no doubt the words on Selena’s canvases, or at least some of them, had been penned by Emily Brontë.
The evidence was in front of him in black and white.
The question that remained was more difficult: Was this message something Emily had written, or had Selena or whoever penned the letter only used a fragment of Emily’s poem to illustrate a point?
Either way, Alex had to know what the rest of the message conveyed. And who wrote it.
That it was despondent was clear. That it spoke of death and hell and retribution could also mean it spoke of…suicide.
Emily’s suicide?
Good God.
Alex paced to the window and back to the table. He glanced at the telephone. He rubbed the back of his neck again. He thought of Selena. He thought of Eleanor Bates. He thought of a lonely, depressed young woman taking her own life a hundred fifty years ago in the old stone Parsonage less than a block from where he stood.
He thought of the cryptic message that lay in pieces in front of him.
And then he thought of an old woman named Matka.
An old woman who had invited, no, insisted that he come back to see her.
Alone.
In reference to the letter her granddaughter painted in all of her work.
Alex looked at his watch. It was not yet one o’clock. It took an hour to drive to Leeds. He had plenty of time. Carefully, he taped the pieces of the message together and slipped it into the envelope from the photo lab. Then without another moment’s hesitation, he snagged his umbrella from its hook and hurried out the back door.
“She should just be getting up from her nap.” The volunteer led Alex down the shining corridor toward Matka’s room. “Was she expecting you?”
“Sometime, but probably not today.”
The woman turned and smiled at Alex, glancing appreciatively at the bouquet of flowers he carried. “Maybe you’d better give me a minute alone with her. A lady likes to look presentable when a gentleman comes to call, you know.”
Alex leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the door, nervous energy screaming through his body. This was crazy. The whole idea of Selena’s painted message having something to do with Emily Brontë seemed so far out it was ludicrous. And yet, there was no doubt whoever wrote that letter had used in it a portion of Emily’s poem known as “Faith and Despondency.” And whoever wrote it did so in a handwriting that distinctly resembled Emily’s.
The coincidences were too incredible to ignore.
He wished he was standing in Selena’s studio instead of outside her grandmother’s room at the nursing home. He’d rather get his answers from her, but from her violent reaction to his snooping and his questions earlier in the day, he surmised it would be a futile effort.
And he knew something about the letter caused her deep and personal pain. As badly as he wanted to know about the painted fragments, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, cause Selena pain.
And so here he was, standing like a suitor outside a sweetheart’s door.
Only it wasn’t the sweetheart he was courting. It was her grandmother.
Crazy.
The volunteer came out of Matka’s room and held the door open for him, jarring him back into the moment. “She’s waiting for you.”
Alex returned the volunteer’s smile and went into Matka’s small room. The old woman was seated in the armchair with her feet propped on an ottoman. Shafts of afternoon sunlight streamed through the window behind her, brushed across her shoulders and fell into her lap where her hands lay, deformed and virtually useless. Next to her, in the corner, a tall round table held a number of small curios, a lamp, and an arrangement of dried flowers and herbs, all organized on top of a large lace doily, yellowed with age.
She looked up at him with unreadable eyes, scrutinizing him slowly, purposefully.
“Sit down,” she said at last, indicating a chair on the other side of the table.
Instead, Alex handed her the flowers. “I brought these for you.”
“Why?” Her voice was gruff, and her deep-set eyes harbored other, unspoken questions.
Alex donned his famous grin. “Because I always bring flowers to the ladies.”
She looked at him noncommittally. “Why don’t y’ put ’em in tha’ pitcher there by the sink? I can’t do nothin’ wi’ these hands anymore.”
He arranged the blossoms and placed the stainless steel pitcher on her bureau, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake in coming here. “How’s this?”
Matka slowly moved her head up and down, never taking her eyes off him. “Y’be here about the letter?”
Alex took the seat she had indicated before, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the denim of his jeans. He was on fire to know the message contained in the letter, and who wrote it, but even more so to understand the impact of those words on Selena. With any luck, this old woman would shed some light on both. He massaged his temples and looked up at Selena’s grandmother with tired eyes.
“Yes. The letter, and more.”
Again she seemed to size him up with her gaze. “What more?”
“About Selena. I must know—”
“About Selena y’ must ask Selena. I canna help y’ there. T’would be an intrusion int’ her life, would t’not?”
“What if she won’t talk to me?”
Matka’s head jerked up. “Won’t talk to y’? Why’nt she not?”
“I’m not sure. But I think it has something to do with the letter.”
Matka looked at him, a knowing, mysterious smile spreading slowly across her face. “Perhaps I can help you after all. Here. Hand me that,” she said, indicating a large, clear, crystal globe that rested on the arched backs of three miniature bronze dragons who nested amidst the antique lace on the table.
Alex reached for the object, which seemed to emit a soft golden glow where it was touched by the sunlight. It was cool and round and heavy in his hand. He placed it in her lap, wondering if she could clutch it. The ball balanced precariously in the palms of the twisted hands, but Matka didn’t seem concerned.
She stared into the globe. “’Tis been a while since I give a look in here,” she said in a low voice. “Might take me some time.”
Alex suddenly realized with dismay the old Gypsy was gazing into the crystal ball to tell his fortune. He groaned silently and remembered Selena’s warning that Matka might surprise him with her Gypsy mumbo-jumbo. Still, he didn’t dare interrupt her. Maybe if he humored her, she would eventually get around to telling him what he wanted to know.
“I see many things about your life,” Matka croaked. “You’ve been unlucky in love yourself, haven’t you?”
Alex blinked. “Uh, well, yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“Twice.”
Alex hesitated. “Yes. Twice,” he admitted at last, wondering how she knew that. He remained silent, allowing her to continue the hunt for his story. It was her way, he decided, of checking out his background.
“I see y’ surrounded by books and papers. Do y’ be a writer?”
“Teacher
.”
“More than a teacher. I see y’ be searchin’ for somethin’.”
Alex leaned forward. The old woman was remarkable. “Yes, actually, I am.” He watched the crone bend even closer to the ball, then slowly raise her head, her dark gaze boring into him.
“Selena’s got what y’ want.”
In more ways than you know, Grandmother, Alex thought.
She returned her attention to the ball, concentrating so long he thought for a moment she’d forgotten what she was doing. “Yes, Selena’s got somethin’ y’ want. But it isn’t the letter.”
Startled, Alex frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The old woman’s face crinkled into a smile. “Y’ve fallen in love with her, ha’nt y’?”
Alex didn’t answer, but he felt his face grow crimson, and Matka nodded with satisfaction. “Well, let’s see what comes up about tha’.” She resumed her contemplation of the crystal ball. “I see…possibilities for you with Selena. Hope. But there’s much work t’ be done.”
Alex stared at the old woman, astounded. She had seen the other things about him clearly enough. Had she seen a truth that even he didn’t know? Had he fallen in love with Selena? “What kind of work?” he asked, alarmed.
Matka raised her head. “Y’ must know about the letter and the curse,” she said matter-of-factly. “And then y’ must do somethin’ about ’em. Here…” She attempted to raise the ball toward him. “Take this and put it back on the table.”
He did as she asked as if in a daze, his blood pounding in his ears.
“Now,” Matka said, smoothing her skirts as best she could with her crippled hands, “I’ll tell y’ a tale, and listen well, for in’t y’ might find all that y’ seek.” She leaned back in the chair, her eyes seeing something far away and long ago.
“There once was a Gypsy king who lived in the land of Wales. Abram Wd be his name. His wife was the famous Black Ellen. Together with their sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters and great-grandsons and great-granddaughters, they moved about the countryside, campin’ on the banks of Tal-y-llyn Lake or the River Alwen.
“Rich he was, Abram Wd, rich in those things tha’ count. He had not so much money, but always sufficient, as the land provided for his every need. No, this Abram Wd was rich in family. He and Black Ellen had many, many children, who also had many, many children. Rich they all were, too, in the Romany tradition. Tied together by the unwritten laws tha’ all held sacred.
“Now, all was well with the descendants of old Abram and Black Ellen, until one day the eldest son of the eldest son, harkin’ down the line directly from the first king o’ the Gypsies, broke with the sacred law. Lo! His name was Mikel, and he was a trader of horses. He rode the countryside, capturin’ the wild ponies and tamin’ them before takin’ them to market.
“Now Mikel goes into a faraway land, as the horses are more plentiful there. He stays away longer than he ever has before, and his old father falls ill. So they send his brothers far and wide to find him, and when he is brought home, he is half lame from a fall from his horse. ‘Father,’ he says, ‘My life was saved by a miracle.’
“‘What miracle?’ says his father. ‘A Gorgio woman healed me, Father.’” Now, the Rom be wantin’ no more t’ do with Gorgio than Gorgio with Rom, and women, too, have been thought impure by some Romany traditions. So Mikel’s father was stern with his son. ‘Y’ must forget it,’ he commanded. ‘Y’ must go into tha’ country no more. Trouble will only follow. And now as I lay dyin’, I must be comforted to know my eldest son is here to become the new king.’”
Matka paused and cleared her throat. “Can y’ bring me a glass of water, son?”
Anxious for her to go on, Alex hurriedly poured some water into a glass and waited for what seemed like forever for the old woman to raise the glass to her lips, drink, and return it to him. At last she continued.
“So the old king dies, and Mikel is named new King o’ the Gypsies. Winter passes, and spring, and Mikel grows restless to ride again for the wild ponies. His lameness is gone now, and he is in full health and strength. He rides away, and again he is gone for many weeks. ‘Don’t worry tha’ I am gone so long this time,’ he tells his family. ‘I ride far and wide, for I must collect enough horses to count at market.’
“Now, when the heather bloomed purple upon the high moors, Mikel returned home. He brought many horses, and sold them for a pretty price. There was much gladness and rejoicin’. But his family sees he is changed. He knows new words. He can even read an’ write, something few Gypsies had ever learned until then. ‘Where did you learn these things?’ his brothers ask him around the campfire. “They were given me by a spirit on the moors,’ he replies, laughing. ‘Ask me no more, for I will tell y’ nothing further.’
“The next year, he does not go to the moors on the far side of the mountains, for there is strife and disputes among the men. Mikel stays with the caravan, but he is cross and easily vexed. But come the following summer, he returns again to the far country, and again his family enjoys good fortune from his ponies. When he returns, however, he seems strangely changed, and his brothers fear he is enchanted, or his mind is weak. Now, Mikel does a strange thing. It is the end o’ summer, and the ponies have all been sold. It is the time to make preparations for the winter ahead. But, no, Mikel does not do this. ‘Do my part extra,’ he tells his brothers, ‘and I will pay you well.’ And he leaves even as the snow begins to fall.
“The family waited and waited for Mikel’s return, until his brothers could bear it no more. ‘I will ride to find him,’ said the one who had found him before. And so off he rode, and he went straightaway to the same high moor, and there was Mikel, hovered shiverin’ by a campfire. His heart was heavy and his mind was numb. He spoke little, but offered no fight when his brother urged him to return home.
“There he remained for the rest of his life. Never again did he ride away for the ponies. He spent much time alone in the woods, and became ill-tempered when approached at the wrong time. At last, he seemed somewhat better, and he married a beautiful woman of the tribe. She bore one child, a son, but after that, Mikel could stand no more to look upon her or his son. Many believed he had gone mad, and indeed, it so seemed, until one day he brings his wife and son into his wagon.
“‘I have wronged you both greatly,’ he says, and he is in despair. ‘I have deceived you even as I tried to deceive myself tha’ I am still of the Rom. But I have not felt of the Rom for many years, since the days I traveled to catch the wild ponies beyond the mountains. I met there a Gorgio woman who healed me and taught me many things. I loved her and became one with her. I begged her to marry me, vowing I would forsake my Gypsy blood, but she sent me away. From that moment, I no longer wanted to be of the Rom, nor was I in my heart. I did not know the sorrow my actions would bring, but soon a curse befell me, a curse so strong it killed the one I loved.’”
Matka wheezed, and Alex handed her the water glass again, her last words still echoing in his ears:
…a curse so strong it killed the one I loved.
The old Gypsy resumed her tale. “Mikel shows his woman a letter, but she cannot read, and so he tells her what is in it. ‘She was with child…my child, when she fell ill. This message she left for me beneath the rock, and this grief and burden I have carried in my heart for many years. I returned and in time tried again to become of the Rom, but I cannot. I have betrayed our law, and I have brought a curse upon my house. I have not made you happy, wife, nor have I been a good father. I fear tha’ forever our line is fated to be unlucky in love.’
“So he stated, and so it has been. He died shortly thereafter, and the letter and its curse were passed on to his son. It is tradition, and a reminder to the Rom to respect and keep sacred our heritage. There has been no escaping the curse. In each generation since, there have been many tragic losses the likes of which had never visited the family Wd before Mikel’s trespass against the ways of the Rom.
“In my own time it was not me, but my brother, who was cursed with a loveless life. Selena’s father and mother as well suffered until death.
“And now,” Matka concluded with a heavy sigh, “it is Selena’s turn.”
Chapter 22
Alex stared at the old woman in disbelief. “You can’t be serious,” he said at last, his mind reeling. “I mean, this is the twenty-first century.”
Matka looked up at him sharply. “Don’t underestimate the power of this curse,” she snapped. “Tis likely t’ affect your life as well, if you love Selena, that is.”
Alex doubted that any such curse had power over him, and he didn’t want to think about whether or not he loved Selena. So he turned his thoughts in another direction. “This ancestor, Mikel, where did he live? How long ago did this all happen?”
“He lived about a hundred and fifty years ago, according t’ the tales tha’ were handed down t’ me. He was a Welsh Gypsy, and he lived wherever the Gypsies camped in the forests and fields.”
“And he traveled afar to capture the wild ponies,” Alex said, thinking out loud. “Do you suppose he might have traveled as far as Yorkshire?”
Matka’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose it’d be possible. What’s on your mind?”
“You saw there in your crystal ball that I am a teacher, and that Selena has something I want. Well, you are right on both counts. But in addition to being a teacher, I am also a student of history. I have been studying the life of a woman who lived in Haworth about a hundred fifty years ago and wrote many poems and a novel.”
“One o’ them Brontës?”
“Emily Brontë.”
“What does tha’ have to do with the curse?”
“Maybe nothing. But I have reason to believe that Selena has copied part of one of Emily’s poems into the letter fragments she puts in every painting. But I haven’t been able to get her to talk to me rationally about her work. Every time I ask questions about the contents of the letter fragments, she gets…very upset.”
Alex reached for the envelope he’d laid on the bed. “This morning I was in her studio, and I was able to copy a few of the fragments, although when she saw what I was doing, she got furious and threw me out.” Taking care not to loosen the tape holding the message together, he slipped it out of the envelope and placed it on Matka’s lap. “I have managed to piece together this much,” he said, then added carefully, “What I want from Selena is the rest of the message. I want to know where it came from, and who wrote it. I’m curious why she painted it into her work, and why,” he added, “she won’t talk to me about it.”
