Stay, Sweetheart, Stay: A story based on a Romany folktale

Once upon a time, in a rural village not too far from Somewhere, there lived a beautiful maiden. Her lips, as tradition dictates, were red as berries, her hair golden like the sun, and her demeanour kind, sweet, and modest. Illyria – for that was her name – lived with her elderly father, nursing him through his illness. Days passed, and her father’s condition slowly worsened; weeks passed and he was blind; months and he could not leave his bed nor barely speak. Every day Illyria would feed him thin broth spoonful by spoonful, carefully wiping it from his chin, and every night she would tenderly tuck his covers round him and put out his candle.

Then one day, a travelling stranger came to Illyria’s house, seeking shelter. Illyria, eager for company, allowed the man to stay in her mother’s now-empty bedroom, and made the stranger welcome.

“I shall bring hot water to you each morning, and a hot meal will be on my table each evening after sundown,” she said, offering to take the stranger’s coat. “My father is very ill, so I would be grateful if you could leave him in peace.” And she indicated her father’s bedroom at the end of the hall. As the stranger’s coat slipped off his shoulders and his hat unshielded his face, Illyria looked at the pale skin, dark hair, and noble bearing of his chin, and asked him name and purpose in this town. His reply was in a voice as soft as silk and deep as the grave.

“I am a stranger; my name means nothing; my business here is my own.” And Illyria knew to ask no further.

The stranger would wake early every morning, before Illyria had time to supply him with hot water, and would not return until nightfall. On the first night he tasted Illyria’s simple broth, and on the second he brought home with him two rabbits and a pheasant. Illyria, grateful to him for his generosity, made stew for her father and the stranger, and made polite conversation at the table.

“Where are you from, sir?” she asked one night, having fed her father and seen him soundly to sleep.

“From a land far away,” he replied, and Illyria saw in his dark eyes a longing and a sadness. “Most have heard of it, but few travel there alone since the journey is too dangerous and they become fearful of it.” The stranger spoke the name of his country, and indeed Illyria knew it – but could not remember where she had learned about it, nor where it was.

“And when do you hope to return?”

The stranger made no reply – just his eyes spoke to Illyria in the darkness, and she saw in them an endless eternity of waiting. Saddened, she hoped to cheer the stranger with stories her mother had once told her – tales of firebirds, princes, tree spirits, demons, wizards, and good deeds. And the stranger listened, with rapt attention, at these fantasies. When Illyria had finished and the fire had died down low, he took her hand in his.

“Tomorrow night, I shall tell you tales from my country,” he promised, before turning and walking into the shadows of the corridor and into his room. But Illyria did not go to her room. Instead she stood, staring into the disappearing firelight, confused and consumed by a strange feeling that, like the name of the stranger’s homeland, she recognized but could not understand.

~~o0o~~

So, the next night the stranger sat before the fire with Illyria and began his stories. But these were not stories of fantastical adventures, mythical beings, and magical people- instead their heroes were normal people, with no magical powers but plenty of spirit, passion and ingenuity. The stories told of their challenges, their failures, their virtues and vices, their triumphs, and their deaths. The stories told Illyria how they lived their lives.

When the stranger had finished his tales, Illyria’s face was wet with tears of joy and sadness. Her sides hurt from laughing and her heart was heavy with grief.

“Will you tell me more tomorrow night, sir, please?” she asked, as the stranger rose from his seat. He smiled sadly.

“I have thousands upon thousands of such stories, Illyria. You can have as many as you like.” He turned once more to the shadows, but paused before leaving. “One kiss, Illyria, and you can have them all.”

And so, Illyria walked up to the stranger and pressed her red lips to his cold, pale ones, and for the first time felt the texture of another’s tongue against her own. When he pulled away the stranger smiled at Illyria.

“I am so lonely,” he said. “I meet so many people, each with their own stories to tell, but they never stay with me.” And he disappeared into his room.

Illyria checked that her father was still asleep, before she stole herself away to fetch and boil some hot water. She scented it with her mother’s rose oil and washed in it, before dressing in a simple white shift.

A candle was the only light she took, and it was the only light with which she saw the shape of the stranger beneath his bed-sheets; the only light by which she saw his pale, sleeping form suddenly wake up and grab her wrist in shock at the intrusion; and the only light by which she saw his naked body as he pulled her close to him beneath the covers.

~~o0o~~

The next morning, Illyria’s father died. In a voice that was barely a whisper he called for her, and she aided his passing with stories the stranger had told her, seeing his comfort in knowing that he was not alone in the trials of life and pains of death.

That evening the stranger was nowhere to be seen, and Illyria mourned her father’s passing and readied his body for burial on her own. Morning came, and the stranger returned. Illyria threw herself into his arms and grieved for her father while the strong arms of her lover surrounded her. When she had exhausted herself with crying, he carried her to her bed and lay her down, making her comfortable so that she could sleep.

“Don’t go, sweetheart, my love – stay with me, please,” she begged, her voice cracked.

“I cannot stay forever, Illyria,” the stranger replied, wiping the tears from her eyes with cold fingers. “I have work to do.”

“You will stay until I am better though?” Illyria asked, grasping his hand and kissing his lips. Blood, from where she had bitten her lip in angry grief, spread itself over the stranger’s mouth as they kissed – her pale lips and his red.

“Yes, I will stay that long,” he agreed.

~~o0o~~

Two weeks passed, and Illyria’s pain grew duller. She grew to love the stranger more, and each night begged him for more stories. Then one morning she saw that he had packed together his belongings and was waiting by the front door.

“I have to leave, Illyria. My duty calls to me. I cannot neglect it,” he explained, the terrible loneliness coming into his dark eyes once more. Illyria fell into his embrace and her tears wetted his shirt.

“Stay, sweetheart, stay,” she begged. “We are both so lonely.”

“I cannot stay any longer, my love.”

“Then take me with you!”

“I cannot, Illyria, it is not my choice to make…”

And her gasps and sobs rang out through her home, and she kissed him, and she began to understand. Slowly, the name of the stranger’s homeland formed in her mind; the stories made sense; how cold he was…

“Tell me your name,” she asked, half-fearful. “I love you, and I will go with you wherever that may be. If you leave me I will be as one dead and will pine away for you…” And they stranger no longer had sad, lonely eyes – they filled with solemn happiness as he drew her close to him.

“My name is Death. I am the inevitable, my love.” And he kissed her, holding her tightly as she breathed her last breath into his cold, pale mouth.

The original Transylvanian Gypsy folktale that inspired this story is called “Death the Sweetheart”. An online text of it can be found at http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/roma/gft/index.htm (Chapter IV. Transylvanian-Gypsy Stories, ‘Gypsy Folktales’, by Frances Hindes Groom, 1899.)