The Werewolf and the Gypsy Queen

By Rick Hartford

Click Romanski, dressed in a dirty white safari jacket and wide brimmed canvas hat, lit a cigarette and got out of his rusting International Scout. He had been following the poachers from a distance and now he had seen they had left the road, their tire tracks disappearing into the forest.

Click sat on his haunches and sifted through the dirt with his fingers as his assistant Clementine went to the Scout to get the Polaroid camera.

Click wiped the sweat off his brow and squinted into the distance.

“What do you see, Kemosabe, Clementine said as he returned.

Click looked up at him. “We’re not far behind them, Clem. The earth here is so dry and fine the tire tracks will blow away in a light breeze. Good thought grabbing the camera. Now we’ll have something to compare it to once we catch up with them.”

The two men had been chasing the poachers for two days. These were not natives trying to feed their families, as some apologists would have you believe. They were soulless mercenaries, pure and simple. Click had seen their work. Butchers. For what? A horn that some oriental with ED would sprinkle into his tea? Click wasn’t going to lose any sleep over killing the poachers, if it came to that.

Click was also a gun for hire, although he was working on the side of the angels. He was leading a company of retired Gurkha soldiers in a race to stop the poachers before they killed the last of the Black Rhinos. The poachers weren’t the least bit reluctant about killing anybody who threatened to stand in their way. Click went down the path to where Sgt. Rex, the head of the Gurkhas, was standing. “Assemble the men, said Click. "We are going to make a sprint to the plateau. We will have a distinct advantage attacking from higher ground.”

Click looked over the company of Gurkhas. They were looking nervously about, fingering the safeties on their weapons.

“What’s the matter with them?” Click asked the sergeant.

“The forest is haunted,” Sgt. Rex said.

“Oh really? How so?” Click surpassed a smile. “I was under the impression that your men were hard core, afraid of nothing.”

“There is a legend about a beautiful young gypsy woman who traveled with her family through this very forest,” Sgt. Rex said. They were Roma, thieves and grifters all. It was their way and it was the only life the wild and young woman knew. They were traveling through the woods one night in a stolen carriage laden with jewels and gold when the family was attacked by wolves. The young gypsy girl was the only one to escape immediate death, fleeing into the dark recesses if the woods. The wolves. were hot on her trail and she knew that it was just a question of time when she would be surrounded by the blood thirsty beasts. But just as she was about to collapse in exhaustion and despair a creature of the woods came to her and took her hand.

It was a werewolf, offering the beautiful girl protection and eternal life if she took his hand in marriage. She accepted. Now they roam the forest together, drinking the blood of the fools who venture into the woods at night. We say, let them have the poachers. The Ghurkas marched away.

“Well, I guess we’re on our own, Clem,” Click said.

“What do you mean, “we” Kimosabe?”

Meanwhile, about two thirds of the way up to the plateau, the poachers’ Land Rover had stalled out in a bog. The leader of the poachers, Ronzoni, was at the wheel, while his partners tried to push the vehicle to higher ground. They weren’t having any luck. The tires spun and refused to grab either forward or backward. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Ronzoni snapped at his fellow poachers, all covered with mud.

“Oh,” the other three poachers said in unison, “Ronzoni sono buoni!” Ronzoni rolled his eyes.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” he said as he got out to help the three other poachers. The Land Rover sank deeper and deeper into the muck and the poachers were up to their chests in the muddy slime.

They finally gave up and waded back to solid ground where they sat on a downed tree trunk, exhausted.

Before long the night came.

The poachers lit a fire and huddled round it, eating some jerky and drinking sour tea.

There was a full moon.

Fernando, one of the poachers said. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, we’re pretty much done with this racket, seeing we don’t have transportation,” Ronzoni said. I guess that we walk out of here and go home.”

The poachers got up and left.

The werwolf and his gypsy bride strode hand in hand through the forest. “Ah, darkness us upon us, my dear! I wonder what poor soul will walk into our web tonight?”

“Wolfie, I have a great idea,” the gypsy woman said. “Why not skip the blood and gore tonight? It’s a beautiful full moon. Why not tex-mex and margaritas in town?

“Your wish is my command, dear,” the werewolf said.

They kissed again and walked out of the woods, hoping to make happy hour.