The wild gipsy tunes.

The bright colors.

The enticing odors.

Dorcas had wandered into the gipsy camp in a venturous mood that day, out of simple curiosity. How she wished now that she had stayed on the main road and gone directly home to her family, as was her habit! But once in the camp, she had decided to buy a gift for her daughter from the gipsy peddlers. Ribbons, wooden beads, cheap jewelry and painted wooden figurines caught her eyes. It was like market day, but so exotic! But she had only a few coins in her small purse. She wandered further in, wondering what she could purchase for so little. Dark gipsy beauties went about the camp wearing tiny bells or golden hoops in their pierced ears and bracelets of polished coins on their ankles. They jingled and tinkled as they walked and skipped among the customers, some dancing, some playing fiddles and flutes. “They look lovely,” Dorcas thought with admiration, “but not as lovely as my daughter, Rachel.” Rachel needed no rings, bells, or bracelets. Her beauty shone brightly unaided. Dorcas took quiet pride in her Rachel’s good looks.

Then a dark eyed boy stepped into her path. He was barefoot and nut brown from the sun. He stared at her boldly, took her hand, and led her toward a one of the tawdry looking wagons. Curious and amused, Dorcas had followed obediently and even climbed the forbidding, creaking wagon steps after him. The interior was dim and reeked of incense and polishing oils, and seemed full of color and texture. She found herself confused and dazzled by the shine of glass and copper and smooth oiled wood.

“This one matches you,” sad the boy, speaking for the first time. He held up a small vessel of rose colored glass. Its surface was curiously cut into a web of thread-like lines that reflected richly the copper shine of nearby pots and goblets. Its small round mouth was cunningly fluted and scalloped. Dorcas extended her hand to touch the rim but the child, misunderstanding her gesture, released his hold, forcing her to take the object from him so that it would not fall and break.

“You say it looks like me? What do you mean?” She asked, humoring him.

“Your cheeks are pink and wrinkled like it is,” he answered innocently, “and your eyes shine like the glass.”

Dorcas laughed and rumpled the boy’s curly hair.

“You are a clever peddler already, young man,” she said with a smile, “although you shouldn’t tell people that they have wrinkles.”

Dorcas looked again at the small vessel in her hand. It was truly a captivating little thing. “I’m sure I can’t afford to buy it, even if I wanted to,” she said quietly, speaking more to herself than to anyone else.

“One penny,” said a gruff voice from the shadows of the wagon. Startled, Dorcas looked up, to see a large man in the back of the wagon rise from a low stool. He must have been seated there when she entered, quietly watching from behind his wares.

“One penny, and it’s yours.”

To be continued, maybe