InkTober 2020 (written)

2. Wisp

There hadn't been such a feast in a long time. The autumnal equinox is the last chance for such merriment before winter comes, and everyone lives this night like there's no tomorrow. Across the land, bonfires illuminate the night, and even the darkest forests ring with laughter.

The flames reach for the heavens, taking with them the music and the yells of the camp. Among the wisps of smoke, skirts spin in a whirlwind of color and bells, lean bodies swinging on an upbeat song. Tambourines and chimes ring at every step, leap, and spin, and the audience watches in awe as the dancers go around the fires in perfect sync, forming a wide circle. Farmers and merchants from nearby villages always join the camps for the festivities, to delight their senses.

For none can dance like the gypsy women.

Revealing blouses, vaporous skirts, melodic cries, and laughter, carry a freedom none other than the nomads will ever possess. Graceful movements, sun-kissed skin, and ebony locks undulate among the wisps of smoke, seeming to bend them to their will.

Fire consumes and enchants them all. Plumes of flame rise in the center of the circle of dancers, creating a mystical setting. Their eyes shimmer like stars, their hearts burn with passion, and the lightest touch of their skin sear. The tips of their long wisps of hair seem singed by the crimson light. Like the fire, they are as beautiful as they are dangerous. Carried away by the music, they become wisps of smoke themselves, graceful, surreal, dancing to the will of the wind and the beat of the drums.

Men lose their way around them. Farmers sometimes disappear into the night, consumed by the fire. When gypsy women turn into plumes of smoke, they follow them among the trees and fall into the teeth of the fire. Wisps of ebony hair, smelling of pine needles and sandalwood, can lure the most faithful husbands.

Beware. If you hear their laughs, do not follow them among the trees on the night of the equinox. For if you see the gypsy women dancing, like wisps of pine needle and sandalwood smoke, they will stick to your skin. Like the shine of the bonfire, their sight will singe your heart. Like a red-hot iron, their touch will sear your skin. Once you have seen them, it is already too late. You can never forget the gypsy women.

Beware. For you will see them dance in every wisp of smoke that will ever curl before you from that day onward. And like such wisps, you cannot contain them. They cannot be controlled, predicted, or held for too long.

If, despite my warning, you happen upon them, embrace that night like none other. For as a wisp, the moment will be fleeting. Let the smoke envelop you and cherish the fragrance for as long as you live. Seek comfort among the women of your village, but know that you will never find another like the wisp that burned your heart.

For there is nothing more beautiful than when gypsy women turn into wisps, on the night of the autumnal equinox.