Tilly Evan Jones

How Matilda came to be.  A short story to be believed, or not…

My name is Matilda Evan Jones. I am an Irish Traveler.  Often, I am confused, by non-travelers, with the Gypsy.  But I am not such.  My kind has always been traveling in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control.  We are not Gypsy, we are, and will always be, Travelers.

Even so, we share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with this country’s own native tribes.  We are persecuted for our beliefs, and often find ourselves hiding in order to survive.  Survive we do.  We make our way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of our minds and our bodies.
My own Gram had a sight, the ability to see past the veils of this world into others, and could reach into the soul of another to understand and hear their hidden secrets.  From her I received these gifts, and with them, I make my own small living, as I too travel.

We look to the other world for our spiritual delight.  Mab, Queen of all the Fairies we call our own, and the Fairies we are cousin to.  My ancestors danced with the Fairies on many a midsummer eve, and many a hallowed eve, ensuring our prosperity and comfort.  Together we drew down the moon, and made the small magic’s that kept our world turning.

I can tell you many a tale of my five decades here on this earthly plane, tales of visits with my cousins, tales of time spent with this United States own native people, and tales of my travels, sorrows, and joy.  But I will begin, with just the small beginning.  To say how I came to this vast and wonderful land of ours, this Western glory.

My Ma; as a Lass, came across the great ocean on a merchant ship bound from the port of Liverpool, in the year of 1825, headed to a port of New York City.  Her passage was paid by a grand and fine Lady, and for this Lady my Ma fetched and carried, helping to achieve all of the fuss and froofa that great Ladies must have.

Her private time was little, but one fine morning she happened above decks, to stand with the salty breeze blowing through her hair, and the feel of the sun on her face.  A swell rocked the deck, and she tumbled, crying out in alarm.

Now above her was the man who would be my Da, a Traveler as well, who had hired on the ship to earn his own safe passage to the America’s.  He worked the sails, climbing up and down the masts, doing all those things that sailors do.  Hearing her cry, he looked down, and saw her coppery curls glinting in the light, and her slight form tumbled about the deck.  And she, lying on that deck looked up into the sky and saw himself, sun browned and lean, hanging above her.

Quickly he clambered down the mast, and rushing to her, helped her back on to her feet.  Looking into one another’s, faces they knew, with their souls that they were meant to be together.

Later that evening, my Ma once more crept above deck, to find Da, waiting, where her heart knew he would be.  And thus I was created, and still to this day, I hold in my mind a connected memory of the sound and smell of salty waves rocking against the wooden sides of a ship, and the sight of stars shining down into the water.

I have more tales to tell, if those you would choose to hear.

Sincerely;
Tilly Jones