Short Story: Balkan Beat Box

Legends had been whispered at campfires for years in the valleys surrounding my home. A circus of Gypsies, but not the folk we'd known. The Gypsies I'd known growing up had been merchants, entertainers and hired help during harvests. Foreign certainly but nothing beyond the ken of a well versed man of the world. It was said that these others possessed magics untold, pathways to other worlds and strange devices that no wise man could fathom. They travelled far beyond our the world and brought back with them goods that defy description. Cloth that could not be torn, a flame held inside a bulb with no source of fuel or spark and a thousand fold other fanciful devices were at their command. Most educated persons regarded these whispers as nothing more than the idle talk of peasants and the fevered dreams of occultists and their kin. I pity them now for their inability to see beyond this grey world and into the next.

Talaitha had been around the camps of the Gypsy for as long as I could remember. She had the dark eyes of her folk and always seemed to be in a trance of sorts, peering this way and that at things unseen. Most of the villagers avoided her when the caravan pulled into town, fearing her witchcraft and Gypsy curses. I had always watched her from afar as a boy, hiding myself behind the skirts of my mother and ducking behind stalls as limb turned long and lean in the years to come. When the age came upon me my father passed his knowledge of metals onto me I began trading with the gypsies more and more often. Their metals were exceptional for this region and I could not go a season without bartering for at least some of their wares.

It was late in the harvest season and the caravan was soon upon it's way when I at last summoned forth the courage to speak with Talaitha. No sooner had I approached the camp when behind me leaf and dry grass stirred. Talaitha had been following me since I left my father's workshop. I was carrying to her the pinnacle of my apprenticeship, a trombone made of pure Gypsy brass and lacquered with English silver. She took me then lightly by the hand and bade me sit beside the fire. I sat, waiting with quivering anticipation for her next silken words. She asked me then what had brought me here. "To present you with this, my dear. A token of my undying affection." I spat out in a rush. It would appear that youthful mastery of language appears only in the privacy of ones room.

She smiled at me with that otherworldly glint in her eyes and told me thus. "A fine token it would make, you sweet young man. I could not decline such an offer but I know of a place where such a fine instrument would be better loved than upon my clumsy lips. Have you heard tell of the Balkan Beat Box." I replied that I had not. "Folk here may speak of them as Gypsy, a strange tribe even for our ways and versed in magics not known in these lands." A spark of early childhood campfires brought legend to life in my mind's eye and I nodded emphatically. "Come with me then, let us see if fate may bring us this joy."

She stood there, radiant in her tattered clothes and began casting about her person for some unknown reason. Upon her exclamation she pulled from a pocket a strange dark object. Putting the small blackened box to her face she began talking in a language I could not understand. No sooner had she replaced this thing back into her pocket than I blinked and found myself sitting far away from the familiar camps of her tribe. A queer array of light bled down from some source above my head and the air was stifled with the scent of tobacco, crowded with the din of people talking and hotter than any summer I'd known. The surrounding space was full of items beyond my knowing and people moving in such a rush that my head began to spin.

A cool hand lay upon my shoulder and soothing words swept into my senses, "Fear not, my sweet young man. Let me see that trumpet you labored over so fiercely and we shall see what the fates have in store for us. You must remain here, do not allow your eyes to wander overmuch. It is a forbidden thing, what I have done, and I fear what may pass if you are discovered." Seeing the intensity in Talaitha's eyes I believed her and passed the trombone into her hands. She walked across the floor to a dark skinned man who seemed pleased to see the instrument. A few tentative whispers upon the horn and then a note of such pure radiance that I may never hear anything quite so sweet as long as I live. The man smiled and nodded in my direction and I replied likewise, dazed at the strangeness of it all.

The rest of the people gathered near him and began playing music such as I have never experienced. So this is the legend, Balkan Beat Box, I thought to myself. They are no mere necromancers as legend would have you think, they are true magicians of the highest order spinning spells of drum and brass into enchantments that lasted well past the trailing note of that night. I had never heard such fire, such overwhelming passion played upon a stage and to this day I have never heard the like again. The time passed me by without knowing, each blast of the horn and beat upon the drum lining up with the next tune without pause. I danced with Talaitha upon that strange scene, sweat pouring out of my body as rivers into the ocean deep and I swooned at the joy of it all.

My body spent, my mind overtaken by the pulse of such a place I fell back into my seat and closed my eyes. The magicians had begun packing their constructs into dark casings and the crowd beyond was thinning. Talaitha took my hand once more and spoke, "You must return now, shall I retrieve your Masterpiece for you?". "I would not think of it, it has found it's place here in this magicians hands. It would be a sin to deprive him of my work and this night has left me with payment enough." The mystic smile crept back onto her face. "I thought as much. Come now, we must be off. Take my hand and do not open your eyes."

No sooner did I close my eyes than I felt air around me shift, a chill flowing up my legs and the scent of wood smoke in my nostrils. Alas, I felt no hand in mine and I finally cast my eyes about searching for the smile that had brought me here. It was no more, nor was there any sign of the caravan that had brought her into my life. I wept upon my knees and cried at the moon until I could stand no more. Slumber held me tight that night after I walked the lonely path back to my father's shop.

Morning next I sat in bed and pondered whether any sane man would hear my tale and do anything but laugh or refer me to Father Anders. I thought it might be wise to remain silent and have kept these words still in my breast until this day my son. Should you find yourself standing with a Gypsy girl deep in the night, armed with your intentions and the product of this family's craft, be careful what words you speak. They may lead you into dreams and madness, but a madness you will treasure all of your days.

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