Autumn

by Lisa Ann Brown

  Eli had a strange foreboding that Arabel’s questions were going to net her more trouble and unsettling information than she could have bargained for, and that whatever she might uncover from the Gypsies could haunt her at her very core.

  Eli only hoped Arabel would let him in on her discoveries, and that his loving heart could share her burdens.

  A Closer View, Upon Re-Inspection

  The sound of the goblet drums reached Arabel’s ears and she knew she was fast approaching the Gypsy camp. The drums pounded into the morning air, relentlessly beating out a stirring pulse to provide energy to the listless. Arabel found she was anything but listless or apathetic; she was keen to speak with Mireille and Baltis and to see if Zander or Xavier were available.

  Arabel wondered idly if Francesca was currently residing in the Copse. Arabel had learnt from Eli that Francesca travelled extensively and was often gone from the Copse for months at a time. The séance business was booming, by all accounts, and Madame de Lorimar made sure her daughter remained a much sought after medium via back to back and often non-stop bookings all throughout The Corvids.

  Arabel couldn’t imagine spending so much time away from home. True, she enjoyed day trips and short journeys, but to be gone from Crow’s Nest Pass for months at a time? That Arabel couldn’t fathom. Another reason to be grateful, she mused to herself, moving briskly to the beat of the drums. Arabel could see the first of the caravans now and the large, gaily decorated picnic benches that were scattered throughout the camp. Currently many Gypsies could be seen ambling about, tending to their various duties in the early morning.

  Arabel led Whipsie to a large public paddock and fastened the mare securely in a stall, giving her more carrots and a loving pat on the head. The mare graciously consumed the carrots and settled in to observe her fellow horses while Arabel made her inquiries.

  Two small girls rushed by Arabel, busy chasing a ratty-tailed dog with a ball, and behind them, an older lady, most likely their grandmother, scampered along too, calling after the children in mock consternation. The grandmother’s eyes, when they met Arabel’s, were merry, and she nodded a pleasant good-day as she passed.

  There were enticing aromas scenting the air and more music filling it. Guitars, girnatas and a few fiddles delivered rousing sounds; someone had a violin as well, and each musician took a turn showcasing their instrument. Arabel found the music to be as bright as the morning and the drums, ever pervasive in the background, held the musical incantation together in an unexpected but pleasant fashion.

  Arabel noticed that her presence was accepted and tolerated easily amongst the Gypsies but she also knew that eyes would be upon her at the slightest transgression and that she would only receive so much lenience from the Gypsy Council should further inquiries into her behaviour be warranted. She’d no intention, however, of displeasing anyone, and her interests today were limited to researching the Porchetto family and to checking up on the errant thief, Jonty Governs.

  As Arabel approached the Governs’ caravan, she saw a stooped, elderly man waving to her furtively. The man beckoned for her to come around and join him at the far side of the caravan. Arabel looked behind her, there was no one else there; the Gypsy man had definitely signalled to her. Puzzled, Arabel moved to where the man had pointed to, carefully treading through the mud and down the stony path. When Arabel passed to the other side of the caravan, however, she was disconcerted to see that the old Gypsy man had completely disappeared!

  Arabel quickly backed away from the hidden side of the caravan after noting there was nothing unusual to be found there and made her way to the front door. Whatever the man had wanted to show her, Arabel had no idea of, and no possible way now of ascertaining it from his puzzling behaviour. Arabel wondered if he’d been a spectre and she’d been unable to tell, which would, of course, be a first, but since strange events were happening with such regular profusion, Arabel could certainly entertain the thought that even the spectres could be shifting their shapes. She knocked upon the door and waited for a beat or two for either Jonty or Mrs. Governs to answer. But no one came.

  Arabel knocked again, listening hard to see if she could detect any movement or sound from within the structure. A long moment passed as she stood there, listening, but finally Arabel conceded that the two of them must be out somewhere; hopefully they were still within the camp. A tad disheartened, Arabel retraced her steps to the main encampment and threaded her way amongst the lively crowd toward the Frankel caravan. The bustle and brightness of the Gypsies cheered Arabel and she resolved once more to let nothing mar her appreciation of the lovely autumn morning.

  Several women smiled shyly at Arabel as she moved amongst them and Arabel grinned back, delighted that these slight overtures were being made. Ira clucked approvingly and sent Arabel a quick picture of the location of Jonty and Mrs. Governs. Apparently the mother and son were down by the spring, fetching fresh water for themselves and Mrs. Governs was currently chastising Jonty fussily about his reluctance to carry a pail in each of his hands. Arabel chuckled at the bird’s picture and sent him a hearty thank-you for keeping up with the thief’s activities when she could not.

  As Arabel approached the Frankel caravan, Mireille flung the door open and rushed out to greet her, enveloping Arabel in a warm and tight hug of welcome.

  “How lovely to see you, Arabel!” Mireille exclaimed in her bird-like, sing-song manner.

  “I seem unable to stay away,” Arabel returned, smiling, as Mireille ushered her into their home. Ira flew up toward the roof and Arabel knew he would wait for her.

  Baltis was standing in the kitchen pouring out lemon water. Arabel saw that he had three glasses at the ready on the sloped countertop.

  “Thought we’d see you today,” Baltis remarked, offering Arabel a welcome drink.

  “Thank you,” Arabel said, accepting the glass and drinking deeply.

  As usual, the Frankel caravan was filled with the vibration of comfort, stability and acceptance. Arabel gratefully sat at the table with Eli’s parents and related to them her recent discoveries about the more in-depth ties between her family and the Porchetto’s.

  “Do you have any idea when Raoul Porchetto passed?” Arabel asked eagerly.

  Baltis narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “If memory serves,” he said, “if would have been about three summers ago. That year we had all those fires in the Glen, the lightning fires.”

  Mireille nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “Yes,” she put in, “it was the lightning-strikes summer. I remember because one of the women who used to clean for Porchetto lost her job and she was most bitter about having to find another post.” Mireille frowned slightly. “She’d been there since his marriage and there were rumours she’d been his mistress at one point, but there were no children and she never publicly denied nor approved the rumour.”

  Arabel was intrigued. “Is this woman still in the Copse?”

  Baltis and Mireille exchanged glances. Baltis shrugged and Mireille spoke slowly.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “We can ask Raina, she always has her attention on the comings and goings of all of us.” Mireille smiled broadly. “She’s a regular busybody, that one, but if it serves your purpose, we can make use of her gossip-inclined persuasions!”

  “If you don’t mind,” Baltis said, “I’d prefer to sit this one out.” He gestured to the other room, the living room, where Arabel knew he did his painting. “I’m almost done the new work,” he continued, “just a few more hours ought to do it!”

  “How exciting!” Arabel exclaimed, interested to see how the work was progressing.

  “Come, I’ll show you, before you two leave me to cluck about with Raina,” Baltis offered, leading the way into the other room.

  The canvas dominated the space and the brightness and vibrancy of the work practically stole Arabel’s breath away as she stared in delighted fascination at the nearly completed scene.

  Baltis had been hard at work
perfecting the images until they fairly moved of their own accord in front of the onlooker’s gaze. Arabel’s eye was drawn to the numerous small figures climbing the mountainside. Baltis had completed the travelers and the detail he had fastidiously crafted onto their images was astounding. Arabel peered closely at one in particular.

  “Why, that figure looks just like Eli!” she exclaimed.

  Baltis grinned. “It is Eli,” he responded.

  Arabel moved closer to the work, scanning to see if she recognized the other figures. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “You’ve painted me!” Arabel cried incredulously.

  Baltis nodded. “Yes, Arabel,” he said, “I’ve painted us all on the mountain.”

  Arabel was puzzled but pleased. “You painted me in the picture. Why?” she asked.

  Baltis took a moment to respond, as if he was weighing his words, picking them carefully.

  “I’ve painted us within the picture to protect us,” he said gently.

  At Arabel’s inquiring look, he continued to explain to her in the same gentle manner.

  “When the dark times came and the fever broke out amongst The Corvids, I didn’t know how to protect my family.” Baltis sighed, his eyes disturbed, as he spoke of the past.

  “I would have left, taken us all to the Elmatuo Bridge to safety,” Baltis continued, “but the Dorojenja had taken control of the bridge and were already eroding the magic, and our very precious connection to the Ancients and the Contemplatives, the guardians of the other worlds. So, I painted us there. I painted Mireille, and our children, our loved ones, as many as I could, and I used the deepest magic I had been taught to do so.”

  Arabel was speechless. Was this the reason Baltis and Mireille had remained untouched by the fever which had claimed her own parents, and a quarter of the population?

  Baltis nodded, reading her thoughts in her wide blue eyes.

  “Yes, it worked. We were immune to the fever.”

  “But – how?”

  “’Tis not for me to say, Arabel; I am not even certain I know now why I knew to try. Now, now, that the troubles have started upon us again, I thought it would be prudent to follow the same route as before and make sure all of us have a path to safety, a magic link to a sacred and protected land.”

  Arabel felt tears prick the inside of her eyelids. She could not explain how touched she was by Baltis’ story and how much the unasked-for protection meant to her.

  “It is worth a try, regardless of the fact that we cannot physically travel to the Bridge,” Baltis finished.

  “You painted me in the picture,” Arabel repeated.

  Baltis smiled and moved to Arabel, giving her a nice, solid hug.

  “You’re one of us now,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  Mireille appeared, holding Arabel’s cape in her hands. “Raina will be home now. If we want to catch her in time for tea, we’d best be heading out.”

  Arabel took the cloak and quickly donned it, adding her stout black boots as they reached the door. The two women said goodbye to Baltis and moved down the muddy and uneven path to Raina’s caravan. Ira landed noiselessly on Arabel’s shoulder.

  “We’ll be lucky if we get out of there in an hour,” Mireille mused with a chuckle. “Raina does love to talk!”

  They wound their way toward Raina’s caravan, passing other Gypsies as they went, many of whom spoke briefly to Mireille and greeted Arabel with frankly curious gazes. Their eyes lingered upon Arabel. In particular, they seemed interested in her pet crow as the bird rode staunchly upon her shoulder. Ira’s beady corvid eyes returned the interested glances with a haughty air, and now and again he let out a brief chortle, which made Arabel smile.

  Mireille kept up her pace despite the chatter and soon she and Arabel had reached a small clearing where Raina’s caravan was situated. The Gypsy gossip’s home was a bright aquamarine colour with multi-coloured beads, shells and feathers decorating the outside of it, giving it a wildly unkempt look and a surprisingly strangely, inviting manner.

  Raina opened the door immediately upon Mireille’s knock.

  “Mireille! Why, you’re just in time for tea,” Raina said excitedly, glancing speculatively at Arabel as she moved away from the door frame in order to let her visitors enter.

  Arabel recognized Raina as the woman who’d come to the Frankel’s caravan and informed them when Klara’s body had turned up at the Great Torch, and who’d told them that Jonty Governs was wanted for questioning.

  “You’re Eli’s girl, from Crow’s Nest Pass, aren’t you?” Raina queried, peering closely at Arabel.

  “Yes, I’m Arabel Spade,” Arabel replied a bit stiffly, unsure how she felt about being known solely by her association to Eli, as opposed to being known by her own merit.

  “Right, Arabel Spade,” Raina murmured. “Your father – Patrick, isn’t that so?”

  Arabel nodded; her throat felt suddenly tight, as if she’d been swallowing sawdust.

  “Did you know my father?” she asked.

  Raina nodded slowly. “Yes. I knew him.”

  Raina ushered them into a small living room and gestured for Arabel and Mireille to be seated on an orange sofa while Raina herself perched enthusiastically upon a bright red stool. A peat fire burned merrily in Raina’s hearth and the cloying smell burned Arabel’s nostrils slightly.

  Arabel’s heart was beating fast as she waited for Raina to continue speaking upon the subject of her father, but she did not. It was Mireille, instead, who picked up the thread of conversation, leading it in the direction toward the answers they had come for.

  “Raina, what can you tell us of Yolanda Selivant? The woman who worked for Raoul Porchetto.”

  Raina looked at Mireille askance.

  “Yolanda Selivant? Been a mighty long time since anyone’s asked about her!” Raina replied with a sharp laugh.

  “Does she still reside in the Copse?” Mireille asked.

  Raina nodded. “To the best of my knowledge, yes, I’d reckon Yolanda is still livin’ hereabouts. Last time I saw her though, it was the good part of three years ago. She was living in the north side of the Copse, less crowded there, she said. Bit of a hermit now, I dare say.”

  Mireille was thoughtful. “She’s no children, isn’t that right?”

  “She’s on her own, as I recall. Never had any bairns, though some say she did keep old Porchetto’s backside warm many a season!” Raina laughed hoarsely at her own lame humour and Mireille and Arabel smiled politely.

  “What else can you tell us about her?”

  Raina peered at her visitors intently. “Now supposin’ you tell me what the use of this information is for, Mireille. Don’t you go asking ‘bout Yolanda and not telling poor Raina what sort of trouble the woman’s in!”

  “No trouble,” Mireille responded easily. “We just want to speak with her.”

  “About old man Porchetto.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a dark, odd man,” Raina said thoughtfully. “Never did understand what Yolanda saw in him. Mind you, he was a good looking man, but mean. Too powerful for his own good, I’d say.”

  “Some say he was the Dorojenja leader.”

  “Aye, some say. But he’s been dead now these last three years. Unless he’s taken hold of the mantle despite death’s dark grip, he’s no leader now.”

  “True,” Mireille said, smiling at Raina. “But there is the son, Paloma’s child.”

  “Saul,” Raina supplied.

  “Yes, Saul. Married, I heard?”

  Raina shook her head. “Never heard Saul got married.”

  “Can you recall the last time you saw Saul?”

  Raina took some time, thinking it over. Finally she responded.

  “Can’t say as I do, Mireille. Saul Porchetto kept to himself. Not even sure who his friends might have been.”

  Arabel felt a small twinge of disappointment at this news but was eager to pursue the lead they’d been given in regard to Raoul Porc
hetto’s former mistress, Yolanda Selivant. There was a lull in conversation as Raina went to procure tea for her company and Arabel sat quietly with Mireille, glancing around at her surroundings.

  Raina had continued her colourful theme indoors as well and the caravan was richly decorated with multi-coloured hooked rugs, brightly coloured paper lanterns and walls coated in the colour of sunshine. The caravan was basically one large room which Raina had separated into smaller spaces through the use of three, bright blue screens, giving her a kitchen, living room and sleeping area. Raina kept the place tidy and neat and the mish-mash of colour and fabric somehow matched Raina’s quirky disposition and belied her thin, shrewish looks.

  Raina produced a honey and ginger tea for her visitors along with tiny lemon biscuits for nibbling upon and Arabel found the biscuits were delicious, so she helped herself to a few, since they were in miniature.

  Raina was staring at Arabel with such a penetrating gaze that Arabel became uncomfortable. Arabel very calmly drank her tea and tried to ignore the curiosity the other woman exuded.

  “Your father made a lot of enemies,” Raina said to Arabel after some time.

  Arabel nearly choked on a lemon biscuit crumb. “Excuse me?” she said.

  Mireille patted Arabel on the back, a small but comforting gesture, but she made no move to intercede.

  “Patrick Spade,” Raina continued, “angered many Gypsy folk hereabouts and some have long memories and harder hearts to hide them in.”

  “I cannot fathom your meaning,” Arabel put in somewhat stiffly. “Please, if you would speak plainly.”

  “Your father was accused of spying on us, on behalf of the Dorojenja,” Raina responded succinctly, her sharp grey eyes hard upon Arabel’s face.