Queen of the Gypsies

Queen of the Gypsies(Phil Penne) The elders gathered in the wagon of Ferka, son of Boldo, who was protector to the king.

“The time is upon us. Magda, our queen, has passed, leaving no female child to rule in her stead. A queen must be chosen before the moon waxes full, lest we be without our matriarch.”

Yoska spoke. “We must follow Gypsy law. As Magda left no female child, a woman must be chosen from the camp. As written by the hand of Tevich, all women are considered equal for this task.”

Milosh shook his graying head. “Our task may not be so difficult as we suppose. There are only four women of proper age – Lyuba, Violca, Tsura and Nuri. Surely we can choose from a group so small.”

Ferka wrinkled his brow and sighed. “What of Flutre?”

Yoska scoffed. “Flutre? Flutre is the mind of a girl in the body of a woman. She is simple, she cares for the cats and chickens. She dances in the rain, and wears silly hats, and sings to trees in the forest. She is not fit to be queen!”

“And what if the people choose her?” asked Yoshka. “Gypsy law – she is an equal.”

Milosh pondered the problem, drawing long on his pipe and stroking his beard. At length he spoke:

“A queen must not only behave as a queen, but must also appear in that manner. I will turn the hourglass on it’s head and set it on my steps. Tell the five women – Flutre must be included – to dress in their finest clothes and meet by this wagon when the sand has stilled. Whichever of them looks as a queen shall lead us. Flutre has only rags; she will not pass for anything of regal bearing, thus we have no worries.”

The women gathered at the appointed time, bedecked in their brightly colored dresses, silver pins in their hair and adorned with chains of gold.

Alone under the cloudy sky stood Flutre, dressed in peasants clothes, standing away from the other women. Laughter and jeers rang through the camp at the mere thought that a woman dressed in such simple clothing would dare consider herself worthy to be the Gypsy Queen.

After much deliberation, the elders directed their attention to Lyuba, resplendent in her brilliant scarves and gaudy trappings. The people agreed; they too walked towards Lyuba, chanting her name.

Before the ring of Magda could be placed on Lyuba’s finger, and the crown of evergreen place on her head, an opening appeared in the clouds through which the sun appeared. A solitary ray of light came to earth, illuminating Flutre and none other. The people, the elders and the other women turned to witness this event. As they watched, a sound like the leaves of a hundred trees in the March wind met their ears. From the sky, multitudes of butterflies of every hue fluttered through the sky. They slowly descended, forming a cloud about Flutre’s body. Some nestled in her fiery tresses, forming flowers of ever changing color; others beat their wings about her face, the dust of which settled on her skin to create a shimmering rouge. The remainder clung to her ragged clothing, transforming it to a gown of impossible radiance, including a train of myriad colors that flowed behind her, floating a hand’s breadth off the ground. There was no denying the beauty of her living wardrobe; it looked as though spun from a rainbow.

The people of the camp first stood in silent awe, which grew to quiet murmurs, building from there into thunderous cheers. The other women stared on in stunned disbelief. The elders stroked their beards and watched in helpless silence.

And Flutre, Queen of the Gypsies, smiled.