I’ve had a recurring dream: I was a gypsy dancing barefoot in the sand by a bonfire. The fiddle played faster and faster, driving me to spin and twirl until I could see nothing from the sweaty, matted hair that stuck to my face. I only stopped when I could feel eyes watching me through the fire.
I don’t know who he was, but I could tell he was different. He wasn’t the same entity from my other recurring dreams. No, that soul possessed me, waiting calmly until the time came for us to be one. This one was different. I could tell it hungered for me. Hunting me by moonlight, never going past the flames for me to see his face.
The melody has lingered in my head for nearly a decade. I have never heard it once on any CD or streaming service. I wonder who waits for me impatiently on the other side of the fire.
The other recurring dream has stopped. I know who the man is that rests his chin on my head and brings my soul peace. That dream plagued me from the summer of 2002 until the fall of 2015. Over and over again, the dream would happen. I would walk out onto a balcony and a dark shadow would come behind me. He would wrap his arms around my waist and my head would rest against his chest, feeling as though all was right in the world. He would kiss the top of my head before resting his chin on me. We’d spend countless hours in each other’s space, enjoying the company of our silence while listening to nature watching the world pass by. Whenever I’d look up, I’d see dark hair and a shadowed face.
But the dream that still haunts me. There is no peace.
I can feel the wet sand between my toes. I know I wear a thin chain ankle bracelet that if I lose, it would be devastating for me. My skirts are long layered and linen. However, the richly dyed skirts are fading in color. I wear a cream top that has been refitted to fit my size. Outside my camp there are whispers that I’m a fae or a changeling.
I know he does not belong. But still he lingers near. Prowling the fire’s edge, waiting for the embers to die down.
I don’t know if I want to face who’s been hunting me since 2003.
I know who plays the fiddle. He plays it for me. The music keeps him alive, for without it he won’t see. The fiddler keeps to himself only playing his music. Watching the rise and fall off my chest. Knowing when the melody has been too much. He will never stop. He’ll only slow the pace so I may catch my breath.
The hunter in the flames waits for the day when the music stops. When my life will no longer be mine and I will have to comply. I don’t know who you are or why you’ve picked my camp, but I have a gypsy’s heart and there’s no way to tame it.
