Autumn (8 page)

             
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.

             
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.

             
Once she was ensconced alone within her room, Arabel recounted the strange events of the evening. How very odd that the moment Eli’s parents had mentioned Jonty Governs, a manhunt for the man should be undertaken. This synchronicity was beyond any level of synchronicity Arabel had ever witnessed before. It felt like someone had been listening to their conversation or perhaps leading them in the direction necessary to have that particular conversation.

             
Were they being baited? And was there any truth to the path they were on? Or was it a convoluted misfire cleverly designed to keep them from the killer?

             
The crow had been adamant that answers were to be found at the Rosewood Inn and Arabel knew she needed to return there at once. She would leave Crow’s Nest Pass at dawn and somehow figure out how to not be missed, since she would be staying at least one night in Magpie Moor. But how to accomplish this feat? Arabel also realized she would be venturing out alone as it was relatively certain that Eli would not be given another day off to accompany her. Arabel felt a sharp pang of disappointment.

             
A knock on the door disturbed Arabel’s reverie. Morna stood in the doorway, cradling a mug of hot cocoa in her capable hands.

             
“Thought you could use this, miss, seeing as you’ve been out all night, probably catching chill!” Morna admonished in her fussy, overprotective and motherly way.

             
Arabel took the mug gratefully. Morna moved more fully into the room and began to stock up the fire in Arabel’s grill. It burned cheerfully and filled the room with heat.

             
“So your young man is a Gypsy, is he then?” Morna queried slyly, and Arabel ascertained that a desire to gossip was the real reason behind the thoughtful delivery of hot cocoa.

             
Arabel blew on the steaming mug to cool it. “He’s not my young man, but yes, Eli is a Gypsy,” she responded.