Bleeding Heart

           

As we head toward Halloween, a season of the supernatural and masquerade, here is an original fairy tale about the illusion of control and the consequences of taking matters into our own hands.

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In a time when magic still quivered above the earth and wishes were sought through enchantment, there lived an old woodcutter and his wife whose desire for a child had never been fulfilled. They kept to themselves in the forest, for whenever they brought their wares to the village, children’s laughter filled the market and made the old woman long all the more for a little one. One day as their cart wended its way home, she wept, “Dearest husband, my golden braids have become a silver crown. I fear I will never be a mother.”

Drawing her close, he whispered, “Dear wife, can you not be content with my love?  Fear grows only itself, not a child.”

That very night, the old woman awoke to the jingle of a gypsy wagon rolling through the wide meadow between the forest and the village. Surely it was the fortune teller she’d seen in the market. Silently she slipped out of bed and crept down the steep stairs. Pushing, aside a basket set upon the hearth, she lifted a loose stone. Underneath was a small pouch of golden coins. Clasping the coins close to her heart, she hurried through the dark wood until at last she came into the lavender light of a full moon spread across the field.   

Running beside the wagon, she held up the pouch and pleaded with the toothless crone, “Tell me, will I ever have a babe of my own?”

The fortune teller drew her horses to a halt and opened the old woman’s palm. “Yes, I see a daughter, and her name is Lavuta.”

“The name is strange,” said the old woman, “Are you sure? My hope has drifted away like a dream in the morning light.”

“I am sure,” said the fortune teller, exchanging the clinking pouch for a wrinkled sack of seeds.” Plant these in your garden by the door, and in the spring a daughter, will be yours.” She shook the reins and vanished into the distance.  

The old woman hurried toward home clutching the charmed sack, but at the edge of the wood an owl swooped from the top of an old oak and startled her. Raising her arms above her head, the seeds scattered. She fell to her knees in tears, for there was no way to reclaim them.         

When she opened the cottage door, her husband was kneeling beside the loosed stone. “What have you done with our bit of gold?”

The old woman confessed.  

“Foolish woman,” he pounded his fist, “sorcery plays only tricks, and now our small treasure is gone for naught.”  

But in the spring a babe was born, a daughter with jet black curls.  

“What name shall we give this child?” asked the old man.  

“Lavuta,” the old woman said for fear another name would break the spell which had brought this long-awaited gift despite her fumble.    

“Why this odd name?” her husband tilted his head.  

The old woman lied, “It has such a melodious sound.”   

“Very well, Lavuta,” said her husband, “for she will be the song of our hearts.”

As Lavuta grew, she picked up her little skirts and danced for her parents in front of the winter fire.     

“Oh, child, how you warm our hearts,” her mother said.  

In the spring she waltzed about a broom made of sticks as she helped her mother sweep the cottage.  

“Someday you will make a happy home of your own,” said the old woman.  

Summers she wandered the woodlands and sang as she picked bouquets for her family.     

“You have the voice of a lark,” said her father, “and your maiden beauty rivals the petals you’ve put in our hands.”

On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, Lavuta awoke to the sound of her own name. She rose from her bed and followed the call out the door, through the black tunnel of the forest and into the meadow where a full moon spilled its silver upon the dewy grass. At the center of the field, under the twinkling stars, were a dozen gypsy wagons around a blazing fire. The silhouettes of men and women whirled before the flames. They clapped and shouted, “Lavuta, Lavuta.”  Irresistibly she drew near.

At the core of the ring was a handsome young man with a shock of dark hair. He cradled a violin beneath his chin and sawed upon it like her papa sawed a log. Music soared towards the heavens with the sparks, music Lavuta seemed to know by heart, and in an instant she understood. Her name was the Roma word for his instrument shaped like a voluptuous lady. And out of its long throat, the young man caressed the very melody of her soul.  

The old woman awoke from a nightmare in which she heard Lavuta’s name.    Seeing only the curves of her daughter’s body carved in the feather bed, her fears gathered like a great storm cloud ready to burst. She scurried, gasping for breath, down the path to the meadow.    

There were the wagons, and there was Lavuta, her cheeks flushed as she danced in front of the fire. Her eyes flashed as she circled the fiddler as she’d circled her broom. Her voice harmonized with his instrument like a lark calling its mate. The old woman pushed through the throng and begged, “Please, please, don’t enchant my daughter.”

A large man in a leather vest stepped forward and silenced his people. “Old woman, it is we who have been enchanted. For this we give your daughter a gift.” He summoned the wise woman of the clan from the far side of the flames. The toothless crone laid a necklace made of golden coins around Lavuta’s neck.     

Without any thanks, her mother yanked Lavuta’s hand. “We must go.”

They spoke not a word as Lavuta fingered the necklace and looked back at the young fiddler. At the edge of the meadow, the old woman turned to her daughter and whispered,” We cannot accept this gift. I fear it’s laced with sorcery and will only play us tricks.”  She tore the chain from her daughter’s throat and watched its coins scatter under the big oak.     

Lavuta fell to her knees and sobbed. “Is it magic to fall in love?”

The old woman pulled her daughter to her feet, “It’s magic that brought you to me, and magic I fear will take you away.” They walked home as if struck dumb by a curse.  

The old man and the old woman had grown too deaf to hear the departing bells of the gypsy wagons, but with the morning light, they saw Lavuta’s bed was again empty. Hand in hand, they trudged through the wood, stopping at its edge. Before them new grass waved in the wind. In the dappled sunlight under the oak, was a blanket of brilliant pink flowers.  

The old man fell to his knees and plucked just one blossom. “Is this where you spilled the fortune teller’s seed long ago?”

“Yes.” His wife stared.  

Something sparkled amidst the blooms, and she stooped to reclaim what she knew must be the scattered coins of the necklace.     

“Foolish woman those coins are the price you paid for this.” Her husband held out the flower in his hand.

The old woman gasped at the petals shaped like a miniature heart dripping a single tear of blood.

And this, so they say, is how the wildflower, bleeding heart, found its name.