I used to tell stories for money. I mean, I still do, but I used to have a pass-the-hat show at the Rennaisance Pleasure Faire out here in California. I taught a storytelling workshop and after hours, I’d tell stories for… well, let’s call it comfort.

You know: food.

Anyway, it’s 4 in the morning and I woke up with this on my brain. Something I would have told at Faire. I haven’t thought of a Faire-y Tale in a long while. Thought you might enjoy it.

Didya know I were married?

Aye, it’r true. At one time in my life, a married man I were. Ah, but somethin’ came along and changed all that. And that’s how I got this rose. Let me tell ya about it.

Ya see, a married man I were, and happily, too. As a sailor, it ain’t no easy feat bein’ married. Yer always off somewhere or another and findin’ a wife who’s gonna be faithful and true — and trust you t’be the same? — well now, that’s about as easy as winnin’ a kiss from the Bog Hag and livin’ ta tell the tale.

(I did just that very thing, but this ain’t th’time nor place for that story.)

Well, I were home from voyagin’ around and enjoyin’ the return afore I had t’set sail again when I met this beautiful gypsy woman, dancin’ along th’side o’th’road. An’ she looked at me with them dark eyes o’hers and she said unto me, “Does thou love me, handsome sailor?”

And I said, “Nay, fair one. I canno’love you, for I am a married man and to another belongs my heart.”

She danced and swirled and laughed, her black curls fallin’ o’er her eyes. “And what kind of woman could keep you from my arms?” this gypsy woman asked.

“One who is true to her promises,” I answered.

The gypsy laughed then. “And so you say I cannot be true to my promises?”

I shook my head, convinced I were speakin’ now t’some kind of faerie and not wantin’ t’make no offense, I said, “I am certain ya can, fair one. But my heart already belongs t’another. I can’t go givin’ it away t’strangers now. What kind o’man would I be?”

Then I said, “I shall love her until the end of my days.”

And the gypsy, she stopped right there, her dark eyes full o’dark fire. And she said, “Your heart belongs to another, eh?” She spat on the ground, then. “No man rejects my charms. And no living woman can keep a man from my arms.”

And with that, she laughed and danced away into the woods. I heard the echoes of her laughter as she danced around the trees and I wondered if Queen Maab herself had come out of the forest to play some mischief upon me. I gave it no further thought (not wanting to think any further o’ that great and dreadful Queen) and made my way back to my home.

Three days later, I were sent back out t’sea. It were a quick jaunt — only goin’ down to the French coast f’r some work f’r the Queen — and would be back in eight weeks. The work were easy and none too much to brag nor complain about. And when I returned, I rushed home to see my wife…

… but my home were empty.

… and my home were dark.

… and a gravestone were set in back o’th’house. And it had my wife’s name carved into it.

I fell there at the stone and I felt tears wellin’ up in my eyes. If only I had been at home… If only I had spent more time at home… and not jauntin’ about…

And that’s when I heard a voice behind me, full of laughter and mirth. And it said unto me, “Are I not pretty?”

I turned about and that’s when I saw the gypsy smilin’ down at me, her dark eyes laughin’ under her black curls. And that’s when I knew I were in trouble and I’d ha’ta’be speakin’ some pretty silver words ta save my hide.

“Fair one,” I said…

“Not fair enough for a sailor!” she cursed at me. And threw a rose at my chest.

“I ha’seen your dancin’, and it is finer than all I ha’e’er seen in all the world,” I said.

“Not fine enough for a sailor!” she cursed at me. And threw a rose at my chest.

“And I know one night alone with you would charm my heart quicker than mercury on a tiltin’ ship’s deck,” I said.

“Not quick enough for a sailor!” she cursed at me. And threw a rose at my chest.

Then, she said to me. “Look you there at the roses at your feet! Each one black and shrivelled from touching your foul skin!”

She laughed at me then. “You who rejected me for a frail and mortal girl full of flesh! I curse you now. With each of these three roses. For if you loved her so in life, so shall you love her so in death.”

I looked at the three roses at my feet, shrivelled and black. I dared not touch them.

“You will grieve her and love her until the end of your days,” the gypsy said to me, just as I had said those words to her. “And when you try to ease your grief, when you think you’ve finally wept enough for her, her face will come up in your dreams and you’ll whisper her name. You’ll never be free of her, little man.”

She laughed and danced away from me then.

“Never!”

Her last word echoed through my head. I looked down at the three roses, withered like raisins, and wept upon my wife’s grave.

* * *

Now, bein’ a sailor, I’m a man o’much learnin’, so I knew that if a curse could be put on a man, it could be lifted as well. So, I went on a ship bound to go as far as a ship could carry a man. I went on ships with many captains, lookin’ all o’er the world for a way to lift the curse that was put upon me. I spoke with wise men from India and Cathay, I spoke with witch doctors from the jungles far t’the south. I e’en found a way to speak to the men o’that new land, with feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. But none o’them knew how to break my curse.

Oh, they suggested methods, all right. But none o’them worked.

Finally, I were in Norway, and I heard o’an old woman who was wise in such matters. So, I spoke with her. And this is what she told me.

Layin’ in her sheep skin pelts, old as all the world could be, she looked at me with her one blind eye and she said to me this: “Oh, poor, poor faithful man. But not faithful enough, eh? You carried her in your heart wherever you went, but you never took her with you, did you?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Left her alone and some gypsy came while you were gone. Took her away from you, didn’t she?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, why is it you want to be rid of her now, oh so faithful husband?”

I opened my mouth to speak… but had nothing to say.

“Speak. Or I will aid you not.”

I shut my mouth and thought about what she said. Then, I told her, “I do not want to be rid of her, wise one. I want to be healed of my grief. For every woman I see, I see her. And every time I dream, I dream of her. And every time I speak a name, it is her name on the tip of my tongue. And the living should not have to live for the dead.”

The old woman smiled and blinked her eye. “You are a wise one yourself, sailor,” she said to me. “And I know how to break your curse.”

She pointed at the roses I still carried with me. “Those there. Those roses. One for each of your offenses. You will have to give each to a woman you could love true and tell her that you cannot.”

I shook my head. “I do not understand.”

“You’ll have to break her heart,” she said to me. “Three women you could love true. Love them and break their hearts, this is what you must do.” She paused, looking into my eyes. “Only then will you be free from the gypsy’s curse.”

And so, since that day, I have carried those roses with me. I gave two o’them away, tryin’ t’break my curse… but after the second, I found I just could not give away the third. And though I know what the old woman told me, and I know that it is true, I still keep it. For I would rather carry this rose and my own broken heart than give it away and break another’s.