Long ago, in Spain, there lived a Romani woman by the name of Vadoma. The woman was grand-daughter to the Elder Woman of her tribe, and as such, was an apprentice to magical practices of her people. This was customary with the Romani women, or Calì. More so if said woman was to eventually take her place as the tribe's Wise Woman.
But presently, Vadoma had other things on her mind, as she admired one of her tribe's most skilled smiths. His name was Mircea, and she longed for the day when she would become his wife under the law of the People - that is, if he ever noticed her.
He was always working, always too busy to give her a second glance. He was a man of focus, with a will made of something stronger than the iron and steel he forged daily.
Just thinking about him hammering hot metal to his will caused a thrill to rush up her spine. She had to have him. She had to make him hers before any of the other girls figured out how.
"And tonight's the night", Vadoma murmured as she caressed the petals of a red carnation. Her hazel eyes watching her prey intently from afar.
With a smirk, she tucked the flower into her long, black tresses and closed the curtain. She could still hear Mircea hammering away at the little make-shift forge of their camp.
After the sun had set, Vadoma gathered a few things into a basket, and set out to the caves near by. There, at the mouth of the main cave, she produced a flint, a candle, and a lock of Mircea's hair. She smirked as she recalled how she procured the latter, then gazed up at the full moon as her silvery light entered the cavern in a solid beam. The circle was cast.
Vadoma struck the flint and lit the candle, her intentions clear in her mind's eye. She took her target's hair in both her hands, and as she waved them over the flame, she called to the moon.
She did this dance on her knees for hours; tears began streaming down her face as she supplicated to the moon for her desires. She didn't care how many more nights she had to do this, she would not stop until she was Mircea's wife.
The hours passed and the sky began to lighten, heralding the coming dawn. Exhausted, Vadoma gazed up at the fading moon. About to give up, she heard someone call her name.
From the sky came a woman's voice, carried by the breath of the wind.
"You will have your tan-skinned man", the Full Moon, from the heavens, said.
Vadoma's tears ceased and a look of pure elation illuminated her face.
"But", the Moon added, "in exchange for this, I want your first born son".
'For, one who was willing to sacrifice their son for the sake of not being alone, surely would not be missing him', reasoned the Moon as she awaited the girl's response.
After some thought, Vadoma agreed to the terms and the Moon proclaimed: "Then, it is done".
Not long after this took place, Vadoma and Mircea were wed, and soon expecting the arrival of their first child.
Nine months passed, and the day arrived for Vadoma to give birth.
Inside a makeshift tent that lay a hundred feet outside the camp, alone she strained.
Mircea lay quietly within their wagon, straining to hear the first cries of his child. Finally, after many silent hours, they cut through the late night air.
As was the custom of the Romani, Vadoma would remain in the tent, with her child, for three weeks.
At which time, the child would be baptized, given his public name, and the unclean tent burned.
Nineteen days after that, Vadoma herself, would be able to rejoin her family.
For now, the baby boy had been given his first name - a name only his mother would know - Mirza.
But as the days passed, Vadoma's joy turned to concern. The boy was pale, and his hair so fine it was almost transparent. As she nursed him, she prayed to God that no illness had befallen him.
From the heavens, the Moon grew more impatient with each passing night. The child had been born, but the woman had not yet presented him to Her, as per their deal. Instead, it seemed the boy would be baptized in the name of the Christian God.
This, She would not have.
The evening of the Twenty-first day arrived, and with it Mircea and the Elder Woman. Since Vadoma was still unclean from childbirth, it was the Elder Woman who entered the tent to retrieve the child. Vadoma was fast asleep, with the baby resting on her chest.
Despite the lack of light, so as to not disturb the child, the old woman could tell the child was in good health by his weight alone.
He was scooped up into the old woman's arms and carried out of the tent without a sound. Outside, the Elder Woman wrapped him in clean linens and carried him to her wagon to be prepared for his baptism, early the next morning. Until then, the father was not allowed to touch him.
Father and great-grandmother went to their respective wagons, once they reached the camp, without so much as a "good night".
When the Elder Woman reached the inside of her well-lit wagon, she uncovered the child and gave a gasp of surprise. What had her grand daughter done?!
Shame and worry filled her old bones as she mustered up the courage to give the news to her son-in-law. She could not keep this from him, much as she cared for her granddaughter.
She covered the child back up and made her way to Mircea's wagon.
She knocked feebly, and the little wooden door creaked open.
"What is the matter? You can't have prepared the child so quickly", he whispered.
The Elder Woman shook her head and in the light that leaked from the open door way, she uncovered the child.
Mircea stared at the infant, first with shock, then grief, then anger and disgust.
The child's skin was pale and translucent - not cinnamon, like his - and the hair on his head was white like the fur of an ermine. His eyes were gray, instead of olive.
"That is the son of a gorgio, not mine!", he hissed.
"I know, I know", said the Elder woman in a piteous voice.
She knew what would befall her granddaughter - it was Mircea's right, as she'd betrayed their wedding vows. Even worse, she had not been unfaithful to him with another Caló - she'd mated a gorgio, a non-gypsy.
As for the child, she pitied him. He was innocent in all this, and yet, his fate resided in Mircea's hands. Hands that were, at the moment, looking for a good, sharp knife within the wagon.
From the wagon, emerged the enraged Mircea, and he stalked past the old woman and child. His steps were heavy and aggressive as he made his way straight to the tent where Vadoma lay.
He tore open the flap and pinned Vadoma down with his knee. She gasped for air and fought hopelessly against his weight on her stomach.
Mircea then grabbed a fist full of her raven hair and yanked her head back, exposing her neck to the cold steel he brandished.
"Whose child is it?!", he snapped, pressing the blade harder against the flesh of her throat.
"He's - your - son", she gasped, "I - s-swear - it-!"
"No", he hissed, shaking his head, "that is no son of mine".
She insisted, tears leaking from her eyes and gasping for breath. Mircea removed the blade from her throat and raised it high above his head.
"You have betrayed me!", he shouted, and plunged the knife into her chest.
Vadoma choked out a feeble cry, then died.
Mircea let her head drop back onto the pillow irreverently and left the tent, the knife still buried deep in Vadoma's heart.
"And now, the bastard", he murmured as he made his way to the Elder Woman's wagon at a much calmer pace.
He knocked at the old woman's door and she answered with the child in arms.
Her ancient eyes immediately spotted the blood on his hands and she fought back the tears that threatened to break her composure.
Quietly, she handed him the child and closed the door. It was only after she heard his footsteps fade away that she finally broke down.
Mircea walked towards the cliffs that hung above the caverns near by, and arriving at the precipice, he held out the child. He looked away and was about to release him over the edge, when there broke through the night, the child's cries.
Pity gripped Mircea's heart and he brought the baby to his chest. He cradled him there for a few moments, thinking.
"Poor creature… You are innocent, but I can not bear to keep you", he whispered.
Having said this, he walked away from the cliff and deeper into the brush of the wilds. There, within a particularly dense thicket, he abandoned the child.
Once he'd returned to the camp, he roused his two donkeys, readied his wagon, and set out. He was sure that, come sunrise, the entire camp would know of his shame. And so, he left in search of a new start.
In the thicket, the child cried unconsolably. He was cold, alone, and frightened.
Where was his mother? Where was her warmth and the steady beating of her heart? Why had that man just left him there?
Suddenly, there was a light, and the leaves of the brush rustled gently. Soft steps came towards him and into his field of view came the face of a pale, glowing woman.
Her skin was translucent, her hair was white, and her gray eyes stared lovingly into his.
"Shhh… there, there", she cooed as she lifted him from the dirty linens.
Gently, she wrapped the boy with the shimmering sleeves of her gossamer robe. He stopped crying and simply looked up at this new woman, babbling sleepily as her warmth and her silvery light engulfed him.
"Sleep, my child. Mother will care for you now, my sweet Mirza".
