Chapter Two: Mysterious Gypsy

As you descend the grassy bank down to the river, you stop. It was your favorite place to play, you'd seen it as your boat went by a couple of days ago and you'd come back every day to sit beneath the quiet trees and strum your guitar, composing tunes. But today you hear music already coming from the river, and as you get closer you can see boats moored to the trees. These weren't your boats, your 'family,' as that's what you called them, were moored at least a mile futher along the river. You slip, your long, wavy, corn-colored hair falling over your shoulders, and your guitar shifts slightly on its strap, but you quickly regain your balance. You now see where the music's coming from, a man with long hair and sunglasses is sitting against a tree, strumming his own guitar, he looks over his shoulder at you, after hearing you slip to make sure you're ok. For a moment you stare at him like a rabbit caught in car headlights, but then he smiles and takes off his glasses, and you smile back, and continue down the bank to meet him.

"Hey," he greets you, with an Irish accent. "A fellow musician?" he asks, noticing your guitar.

"Of sorts," you reply. "Do you mind if I?" you ask.

"Oh no," he smiles, and you sit down beside him. You pull your guitar to your front and begin to pick a tune on the strings. The mysterious gypsy quickly picks up the tune and strums along with suitable chords.

"Roux," he introduces himself.

"Barley," you reply.

"Barley? As in the corn?" he asks.

"I imagine so," you reply, changing your picking to strumming. "I was born on the full moon of September, the barley moon." You both play for a moment.

"To tell you the truth, it's nice to have someone else to talk to, I mean, the guys are ok, but it's nice to talk to someone who's not a river rat," he says.

"Then you'll be disappointed," you say. He grins.

"I should have known by your clothes," he says. "They don't look like tradition townspeople clothes." You're wearing a flowery shirt, and long gypsy skirt.

"Our boats are moored about a mile off, but I come here to play." A little girl runs up to Roux, she's dressed in a dirty skirt and cardigan.

"Pony, sing me a song about a pony," she requests. Roux starts strumming.

"Once upon a time there was a green pony, who didn't have a name, and didn't have a home," Roux sang. "And he wandered from place to place, every day alone."

"Why's he alone?" the girl asked.

"Because everyone wants a white pony and not a green one," says Roux. "Are you gonna go and play now?" she nods and runs off.

"A green pony?" you ask.

"Sure, why not? Color of Ireland," Roux replies.

"Fair enough," you say. "I should really be getting back. How long do you think you'll be staying here?"

"A week, maybe two, if I find a reason to stay," says Roux, you get to your feet.

"Then I might see you again," you say. Just as you turn to leave, Roux gets up and stops you.

"Wait," he calls, and walks over to his boat, and takes something out of a tin, he walks up to you and turns you around so your back is to him. It's a necklace, which he places around your neck, and fastens.

"A pretty necklace, for a pretty gypsy." You smile your thanks and walk back happily to your boat.

A mysterious gypsy, a handsome, myserious gypsy. There had been something in his eyes, and his voice, and you knew fate would cross your paths again.

"Pretty necklace," calls Bion across from one of your boats. Your 'family' had adopted him a few months ago in France. He'd felt the call of the river, as your father said, and left his quiet life in town. He was sweet, but you weren't interested in him, he was the only other person of your age that you knew.

"I know," you reply. "I met a pretty handsome gypsy a little while ago." You put the guitar on the boat.

"Where?"

"There's another family about a mile down the river, he'd taken my playing spot."

"And he gave you a necklace?" Bion asks, leaning forward, his dark hair tied up loosely with an elastic band.

"He did. Problem with that?"

"Have you told your father?" Bion asks.

"No, not all other travellers are a threat, don't you think we've got enough enemies already, without making enemines of others of our own?" you ask.

"He should know," Bion answers, taking a stack of baskets over to another boat.