Autumn

by Lisa Ann Brown

  When Arabel re-appeared, dressed now in a simple brown riding habit and stout black boots, with her hair tied away from her face, she looked so much like a pixie woodland creature that Eli laughed in earnest approval.

  “Arabel, the witchy girl, the pixie maiden,” he said softly, repeating the nicknames she’d heard throughout her life. Arabel jerked away from the touch of his hand upon her shoulder.

  Eli moved back in surprise. “I don’t mean to offend you,” he said immediately and Arabel relented, giving him a small smile.

  “Just don’t throw any sticks at me, and we’ll be fine,” she said.

  They left the house and Eli helped Arabel up onto the stallion he’d borrowed from the Murphy stable. The horse was a sleek black beast with a frisky nature and a love for speed. He would make good time on their journey.

  “Come on, Jovah,” Eli said, snapping his wrist lightly on the reins. “Let’s be off,” and they commenced the hour long journey into the deeply thicketed woods of Ravenswood Glen.

  Arabel sat behind Eli, her arms wrapped tightly around his frame, her body closer to his than she’d ever been to a boy before. There were no colours this time, but there was sensation, and Arabel was glad of the dark shield of night-time. As she held onto Eli, she felt something snap into place within her.

  It felt so right to hold onto him; she, who’d never really had anyone to hold onto before. Arabel smiled into the fabric of his jacket and a sense of delicious enjoyment overtook her. This, she realized, was the heady delight of infatuation.

  Eli was very aware of Arabel’s arms around his waist and he wished he could return her embrace, although he couldn’t very well turn around just then and kiss her as he’d like. Soon, he promised himself. He hadn’t slept well last night. He’d been haunted by visions of Arabel and her enticing beauty. In the dream she’d been entreating him to kiss her, to make love to her. And he’d been resisting. More fool, I, Eli thought now, grinning in the dark, her hands warm against his belly.

  The moon hung high overhead and their way was facilitated by its pale white light. Once they’d entered the woods Eli slowed Jovah down to a canter and farther in he walked him. Eli hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Arabel there was mud. There was, and as promised, an abundance of it. There’d been too much rain lately and it had turned this part of the forest into a veritable mud pit. Arabel was glad of her sturdy black boots as they’d withstand the muddiest of conditions but she’d be holding her riding habit up as high as it would go to prevent ruining the hem.

  There were lights in the distance and Arabel could hear the beat of a drum. The forest was alive with people and activity and her heart leapt in excitement. She was here, deep in the forest to search the Gypsy lair and her adventurous spirit revelled in the knowledge. Arabel was so used to being alone that it felt strange to have a companion. But this new sensation of partnership she took in stride, it had fallen into place so effortlessly; she would do nothing to jinx it.

  They dismounted a short distance away from the cluster of caravans and Arabel looked around in amazement. Torches burned every few feet and the main meeting ground was filled with brightly dressed women and men. The Gypsies were sitting on benches sharing stories or playing card games of chance around fold-up tables, and children; everywhere there were children, running through the trees playing chasing games or sitting on wide laps with satisfied grins.

  A dog or two scampered between the children and a cat meowed nearby for scraps from a spit being turned by a toothless old man. He nodded to them and Eli returned the motion. Everywhere Arabel looked, the forest teemed with life, with energy, with spirit. Arabel found she was smiling as she surveyed the scene.

  “How magical it is!” she whispered.

  Eli took Arabel’s hand and led her through the maze of Gypsies and down a side path well worn and slightly less muddy. They walked past groups of caravans, past more torches and playing children and barking dogs. A chorus of guitars serenaded them as they passed a group around a fire and the beat of the drums echoed a primal, sensual rhythm.

  Arabel felt her blood heat. There was something so seductive about the music, the scent of the pines, and the feel of Eli’s strong hand within her own. Arabel felt alive in a way she’d never felt before. It excited her and she felt truly reckless, free for once of the heavy feeling of responsibility that weighed upon her all the rest of the time. Until this very moment, Arabel hadn’t realized just how tense her shoulders were, or how hard she’d been trying to figure things out, and how much her head ached from the resulting effort.

  Arabel squeezed Eli’s hand and he turned to smile at her.

  “That’s my parents’ caravan, on the left,” Eli said, pointing to an indigo coloured structure deep within the forest greenery. Arabel felt a twinge of nervousness. She suppressed it and they approached Eli’s parents’ home.

  Before Eli could knock, the door was flung open and a small woman with exotic features and a deep red dress of billowy silk enveloped them both in a fierce hug.

  “Mama!” Eli laughed, returning her bear hug. “This is Arabel.”

  The small woman flashed a generous smile at Arabel immediately.

  “Welcome, Arabel,” she said and Arabel was delighted that her voice was musical, almost sing-songish, as if she was a shrill, lushly feathered creature, a corvid in human form. The imagery smacked Arabel immediately with its accuracy.

  Eli’s mother was dark of hair and features and extremely bird-like. She was beautiful in a way Arabel had never seen before. Her beauty wasn’t the sculpted, coiffed and shiny patina of those who paraded for praise at the Priory or the slick, pretty manner of the primping salesgirls. Rather, hers was an earthy beauty made more graceful for the setting of night-time stars and bonfires out of doors. Arabel was nothing short of enchanted.

  “I’m Mireille, and this is my husband, Baltis.” Eli’s mother clasped Arabel’s hand to Baltis’ hand and Arabel felt another kind of shock run through her. It was a new sort of sensation, one she couldn’t actually place, but it had a good energy to it, as opposed to creepy or evil, so Arabel went with it unresistingly.

  “You have the Sight,” Baltis observed, grinning at her.

  And yes, Eli shared his father’s features, including the cut-glass cheekbones, Arabel noted.

  Arabel nodded as Baltis and Mireille ushered them into the caravan, which was more spacious than it had appeared from the outside. The caravan was divided into three separate areas, kitchen, bedroom and small living room. All of the rooms had arched doorways with beaded curtains but no actual doors, and throughout the space ran smooth, dark wooden floors. The living room was painted in a bright, toasted pumpkin hue and boasted a small peat burning fireplace and a much beloved looking dark brown sofa with sagging springs and numerous throw cushions in cream and orange.

  What Arabel could see of the bedroom was that it was a small nook rather than an actual room, and had charming pale green coloured walls. A plump looking straw and feather mattress on the floor dominated the room. The dark wooden floor was covered completely here with a thick knotted rug of forest green, which the bed then mostly covered. A small circular window was across. The caravan was staunchly bohemian and Arabel loved it.

  They moved into the bright kitchen and Arabel was delighted that it was painted in a solid canary yellow and had a small pine table with four pine chairs in the center of the space and a clay oven to their right. Candles stood in large stone holders on the table and the room was welcoming. There were two small windows and a slanted looking counter space which was crowded with spices and herbs and drying plants.

  A fragrant aroma filled the kitchen and Mireille motioned to the large black pot overtop of the clay oven, which was fuelled by a peat fire. The smell of the peat burned into Arabel’s nostrils and she was glad to pass by the black pot as Mireille motioned her to smell it.

  “I’m preparing some herbs for the Priory market tomorrow; I’ll send some home with you. Good for sleepi
ng.” Mireille said in her sing-song manner, the magnetic smile never leaving her heart shaped face.

  Eli settled into a kitchen chair and Arabel followed suit. Baltis was up at the slanted counter pouring them some lemon water as Mireille tended her herbs. Arabel glanced around in curiosity. The walls of the caravan were covered in artwork, some of it good, some of it flashy, and some of it truly inspired. Arabel found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the image of sunflowers against a sinking red sun. She stood up, to better see the image.

  The picture seemed to draw her in until Arabel swore she could actually feel the last warmth of the rays blessing her skin and she began to squint against the strength of the fading red light. Arabel felt a rising relaxation within herself, and the deep calm centeredness of peaceful being stealing over her mind and her senses.

  Baltis looked over Arabel’s shoulder. “It’s a magical place. I painted it from memory.”

  Arabel turned to look at him. “It’s very good,” she exclaimed. “I feel like I’m actually in the painting! What place is this?”

  “Nowhere you can go to now,” Mireille broke in mysteriously, leaving Arabel puzzled.

  Eli smiled at Arabel. “I’ll tell you later,” he promised, patting her hand.

  Mireille noted the pat with interest. “So, what brings you bright young people out to see us this fine autumn evening?” Her wry tone indicated the rest of the sentence she left unspoken, “when you could be doing anything else, alone, together?”

  Eli ignored his mother’s unspoken message and instead filled his parents in on their quest to find out whether any Gypsy women had gone missing in the last year or so.

  Mireille and Baltis took some time to mull it over, finally coming to the conclusion that they’d heard tell of no strange female disappearances. All of the Gypsy women, thankfully, seemed to be accounted for. Those who had left The Corvids entirely, well, they could only presume those women were safe.

  “There was that one young man, short fellow, longish blonde hair, cleft in his chin…” Mireille shrugged. “It’ll come to me. He went missing but he’s the wrong gender for the killer to desire. ”

  “Governs, Jonty!” Baltis broke in, waving his lemon water glass in excitement. Arabel felt this was a game he and his wife played all of the time. Psychic tennis.

  “Yes, Jonty Governs. What a rascal. Well, he disappeared after shucking about with his ramshackle magic show, stealing people’s money!” Mireille clucked her tongue, a frown upon her visage.

  “Bad seed, yes, and he lived here, well, I’d say almost three years,” Baltis exclaimed, “and one day – poof! He was gone, his caravan was gone, everyone’s horses were gone, the community chest funds – all gone.”

  “Without a trace,” Mireille finished soberly.

  “When did he go missing?” Arabel questioned.

  “Last summer,” Baltis answered, as a feverish knock sounded upon the door of the caravan, followed by the door being yanked open unceremoniously.

  “Come quick, Baltis, Mireille, they’ve just found the missing girl’s body!” a thin, pinched faced woman squealed sorrowfully. “They think one of the Gypsies did it!”

  “Raina!” Mireille jumped to her feet, “Where?”

  “Who? Who do they think did it?” Baltis yelled to Raina’s disappearing back as she fled away from the caravan in her mad dash to inform all of the others in the Copse.

  Raina’s faint response sounded back to them, “Jonty Governs! Crow’s Nest Pass!”

  The caravan door slammed shut and a brief second of silence ensued.

  “We’ve got to go!” Arabel jumped to her feet and Eli did the same. They were caught in a warm embrace by Mireille and Baltis kissed Arabel’s cheek.

  “Travel safely,” Baltis said, slipping a string of cold red stones into Arabel’s left hand and closing her fingers into a fist around the jewels. “For protection,” he added lightly.

  Mireille handed Arabel a flask, still warm from the stove. “One spoonful a night, you’ll sleep, untroubled by demons,” she kissed Arabel’s other cheek. “We’ll see you both soon.”

  Rushing back to their horse, Arabel and Eli didn’t dare speak, for both were aware that all around them lurked an energetic throng of heady, intense danger threaded through with a sick excitement. Eli took hold of Arabel’s hand.

  Arabel could feel the chalk in her mouth and she knew the grey swirling energy was nearby. The Gypsies were all being infected. One they had called their own had been accused of murder; one they had called their own was being hunted down right now. Where had he been since last summer? Where would he go? Would he come back to the Copse? Who would be the one to find him? And what would they do with him?

  Arabel shuddered. Poor girl, she thought now. Poor Klara, and poor Klara’s family.

  “I can’t feel Klara. I hope she’s gone to another plane.”

  Arabel nodded. She liked the feel of his hand in her hand.

  “It’s her sister who’ll do the grieving now,” she said.

  They quickly rode in silence back to Arabel’s township, Crow’s Nest Pass, where the Great Torch lay with another dead girl’s body draped boldly across its base. One dead girl they already knew the identity of; poor missing Klara, found too late to save.

  Arabel clutched the stones in her hand. They were now warm. She could feel them buzzing, almost like they were charging her up with some energy, infusing her with their flickering beam of buzzing. It was a sensation she’d never experienced before. It was incredibly odd but not negative in any way. Arabel leaned her head down onto Eli’s back. She breathed deeply of the night air; the pines, the fading scent of incense, the various bright green mosses, and the faint horsey smell of Eli’s jacket filled her nostrils. It was not an unpleasant combination.

  They made good time despite the mud and it seemed as if everyone from The Corvids, with the exception of Eli’s parents, had come to see the spectacle of poor Klara’s demise. The crowd jostled and shoved for a better eyeline position.

  Eli was tall, especially seated on horseback as they were now, so they moved off to the side where they could see clearly but were not affecting anyone else nor in earshot of anyone else. Eli wanted to keep their observations to themselves. Who knew who or where the spies were, or indeed, if they could even be seen with the naked eye.

  A crow landed upon Arabel’s shoulder, much to her delight. It poked its beak into the curtain of her shiny black hair and gave her a loving coo-like sound, as if the clever bird was imitating a lovebird. Arabel laughed and placed a tentative hand upon the birds black feathers. It did not resist her and actually butted its cheeky head against her fingers, like a cat.

  Without warning, it then let out a series of three loud and insistent cries: Caw! Caw! Caw! It delivered its jarring sounding cries directly into Arabel’s left ear.

  “Too loud!” Arabel sputtered, moving the bird hastily onto her right hand from her shoulder.

  The hypnotic bird seemed to wink at Arabel. It moved its head from side to side, then up and down, as if measuring her. Arabel met its gaze unyieldingly, unblinkingly. She listened for its message.

  Again the crow chose the loud Caw! Caw! Caw! in Arabel’s ear but this time it was a bit softer and she was prepared for the volley of audio impact. The crow shuffled its feet upon her hand and fluffed out its feathers, preening. It waited to see if she understood.

  A slow smile adorned Arabel’s face. Eli watched, enjoying the interaction immensely. He longed to touch the bird as well, just once, to feel the shiny blue black-ness of its rich feathers. He wondered what message it was sending and if Arabel could interpret it, as it had made no sense to him.

  “The Rosewood Inn,” Arabel spoke triumphantly, turning to face Eli, her blue eyes bright with insight. “We have to return! Right now, if we can,” she added and she began to ponder the logistics of it, to mentally review whether or not she still had any nights left on her freedom week so she could disappear for a few more. Unfortunately
she realized she would need to go home to check in, just to see.

  The crow fluffed its feathers once more and then took flight, digging its claws into Arabel’s arm briefly as it departed. The bird scaled what appeared to be a dizzying ascent of great height in a fraction of the time it should take and then began to imperiously repeat its calls.

  This time, a murder of crows appeared to join the solo bird and they proceeded to caw in their off-key voices as well, each sounding its jarring, mocking cry as another bird finished so that the chorus was incessant and went on for well over twenty minutes. The birds dipped and dropped in the sky and turned about as a group, swirling in a thick, black circle of aerial trickery.

  The massive crowd which had gathered at the Great Torch to view Klara’s defiled body were fascinated, completely caught up in the black bird’s show of solidarity and the further impending doom they cackled and cried prophetically about.

  Man on the Run/Man Overboard!

  Grandmother Amelia Bodean was waiting for Arabel when Eli dropped her off. Arabel realized her freedom week must have ended, judging by the way her grandmother was pacing the front parlour, wearing out the weave of the olive green rug while waiting for Arabel to appear. Amelia Bodean pounced on Arabel as soon as she heard her errant granddaughter‘s arrival and the click and turn of the brass door handle.

  “It’s a quarter to twelve! Where have you been, girl?” Amelia Bodean sputtered, her reading glasses slanted and awry, having fallen down low on her nose, giving her the strange look of an unkempt librarian.

  “Sorry Grandmother, I was at the Priory. They’ve found the missing girl. She’s dead.”

  Amelia Bodean sank heavily onto the bench in the front hallway as if her legs could no longer sustain her weight.

  “Poor girl,” she said and was quiet for a long moment. “You must remain close to the house for the next while. We best not take any chances, what with some maniac running around kidnapping and killing young women!”

  Arabel grimaced to herself. There was no use trying to change Amelia Bodean’s mind by convincing her that maybe the rumours were right; that it was two different, jealous men stalking their own beloveds, and not a random killer out to slaughter innocents and complete strangers such as herself. Arabel knew better than to try to influence Amelia Bodean, however, having failed at that endeavour many times prior. Quite simply, this meant Arabel would need to sneak out. And not get caught. This made things challenging, certainly, but hardly impossible.