Autumn (39 page)

             
Arabel rose unsteadily to her feet. Ira hopped onto her shoulder and they began to make their way along the path back to Crow’s Nest Pass. Arabel sent a telepathic message to Eli, including mental visuals of what had just occurred, and she immediately felt him send concern, love and protection to her. Eli enclosed Arabel in a wave of light so strong that it took her breath away. Her heart felt fit to burst from the strength of the connection and a relief so sharp as to cut through glass soared through her thoughts.

             
Arabel’s steps were lighter than she could have imagined they would be after such an ordeal and as she and Ira picked their way back alongside the ravine, Arabel determined to stop by Chief Constable Bartlin’s office. It was time to let the Chief know that the psychic attacks and memory-wipes were originating from the Dorojenja’s secret society, and Saul Porchetto was undoubtedly at the head of them. Arabel hoped Mr. Akings and Sully had not been too illegible in their telling of Indra’s part in the tale, and she knew she would do her best to clarify any points the Chief was unclear on.

             
It had firmly gelled in Arabel’s awareness now that Indra had been an unwitting pawn used to murder his own beloved. The sick, dark feeling Arabel endured at this knowledge was difficult to bear. Had Alice-May known Indra to be possessed when he’d wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed until she’d lost her grip on life?

             
From the séance, Arabel knew that the ghostly spectre of Alice-May was conscious that Indra had been violently used to murder her, but at the time of her passing – had Alice-May felt betrayed by her one true love?

             
It was a chilling thought. Arabel could not imagine falling victim to Eli in death. How incredibly horrid to be murdered by the one you trusted the most; to be killed by the one whose very kisses promised to keep you safe and cherished. Arabel shuddered involuntarily.

             
At least Alice-May knew now, Arabel reflected, seeking small comfort wherever a kernel could be found, that Indra had been taken over. What was it that she had said?

             
“He used his body to betray me.” That was it. 

             
Perhaps, Arabel pondered, it was time for another séance.

             
Amelia-Bodean did not return to Crow’s Nest Pass for dinner.

             
Arabel sat alone in the dining room, desultorily picking at her food. Despite the careful preparation of the meal by Cook, and the elegant presentation by Morna, Arabel found that she had little appetite. Her stomach was unsettled and it mirrored her thoughts. What could her grandmother be doing?

             
Arabel had sent Eli a message a number of hours ago asking him to alert his parents as to her grandmother’s impending visit, and to see if they could assist in any fashion. But Eli had responded negatively, informing Arabel that Amelia-Bodean had not been spotted anywhere within the Gypsy encampment. In fact, Amelia Bodean had not been spotted anywhere within the borders of Ravenswood Glen nor had she been spotted in any of the other townships. Amelia Bodean seemed to have vanished after leaving Crow’s Nest Pass. She had left the house on foot and no one even knew for sure whether or not she had procured a horse to make her furtive journey.

             
Arabel was very worried. Had Amelia Bodean been waylaid by the Dorojenja?

             
Arabel searched for a link to her grandmother but her search proved undertaken in vain as she could not feel or sense Amelia Bodean anywhere. She must be in some sort of energy void, Arabel decided uneasily. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait, although simply sitting around and waiting for disaster to strike was not Arabel’s way to deal with adversity. Patience was not Arabel’s forte. She felt so useless. And nothing had really been gained this afternoon, either, when she’d gone to see Chief Constable Bartlin.

             
The Chief had listened to Arabel’s speculations and theories and had asked the most pertinent and appropriate questions but Arabel had taken her leave of his opulent offices with the distinct impression that unless the murderer was clearly and plainly a man, as opposed to the probable psychic wizard she thought he would be, the Chief would have little inclination to pursue him. The Chief had made it quite clear that it was up to the Gypsies to deal with any phenomenon which parlayed itself into realms not covered by the five senses. If he could not see it, nor touch, taste or hear it, the Chief was not that interested in challenging it.

             
Which left Arabel incredibly frustrated. But at least she knew now the limitations of the authorities and she agreed, in some part, that it was up to the Gypsies to destroy the evil. After all, the Dorojenja had at one point been trusted members of the Gypsy tribe and no one outside of the Gypsy traditions would even know how to disarm the great evils they deployed. Just as no one within the Gypsy encampment could be sure of whom the Dorojenja members were, currently or previously, unless they themselves belonged to the secret society.

             
Arabel wondered again about Saul Porchetto. She assembled what she knew of the tree of power in her head. Raoul Porchetto, at the head of the evil, the Dorojenja leader? Raoul had found out about Paloma’s affair with Markus Leon, and instead of directly going after Markus Leon himself, he’d enlisted the help of a young, pregnant and bitter Amelia Bodean. And whilst Markus Leon had died by his wife’s poisonous hand, Raoul Porchetto’s adulterous spouse, Paloma Porchetto, had disappeared.

             
Arabel shivered. Raoul would be Saul’s father, she reasoned, and he’d have taken over the Dorojenja’s, when? Where could she find a death record for Raoul? Only the Gypsies would know. Their births and deaths were not recorded by the authorities of Ravenswood Glen, proper. Arabel wasn’t even certain what sort of record-keeping system the Gypsies employed, nor did she have any inkling as to how fastidious their standards for maintaining such records might be.

             
Arabel knew she needed to visit the Copse again. She wished she could go right now but it was quite late, and as desperate as she was for answers, Arabel did not relish the thought of embracing the night-time shadows in the woods, alone, on foot. 

             
Much better to travel with Eli tomorrow, Arabel decided, and was warmed instantly by the mental picture of Eli, touched by the remembrance of his lips claiming hers. For a moment Arabel was content to let her awareness travel in the direction of her beloved and to breathe deeply in the calm and yet exciting sensations those thoughts provided. Arabel had lately spent so much time immersed in tragic thoughts of death and darkness that love and passion were appealing beacons whenever they appeared to distract her, and as usual, all thoughts of Eli brought Arabel joy.

             
Arabel sighed. A disturbing image of a very pregnant Amelia Bodean pouring brightly coloured poison into a lovely silver, bejewelled and enamelled cup disturbed Arabel’s reverie and sent her reeling back to the speckled, fragmented reality of the present moment. To distract herself, Arabel got up from her reclining position on the parlour settee and placed some sturdy, dry logs onto the fire. Arabel poked at the roaring blaze with the fire poker, absently churning the hot breath of the flame.

             
Arabel felt too restless for bed. She was too keyed up to simply sit quietly by herself in the parlour, reading, or staring into space, worrying about her grandmother’s disappearance. A step on the landing was a welcome noise. Arabel glanced up to see Morna entering the room, balancing a wooden tray expertly. On the tray sat a steaming mug of fragrant smelling hot cocoa. Morna smiled at Arabel.

             
“Thought you could use a wee treat before turning in,” Morna said as she placed the mug down next to Arabel and handed her a white linen napkin.

             
“Thank you, Morna, it’s just what I needed,” Arabel smiled.

             
The maid didn’t linger but stepped out of the room to get ready for bed herself and Arabel picked up the mug and blew gently to cool it. She inhaled the delicious aroma of the dark chocolate and took a small sip. It was even better than Arabel had thought it would be and she stared at the fireplace as she enjoyed the cocoa.

             
As usual, pictures began to form immediately as Arabel watched the flickering and dancing flames. Tonight, the writhing, elongated form of a woman emerged and Arabel surveyed the shape’s twisting, flexible contortions.

             
The incessant movement of the flame woman fascinated Arabel. The shape effortlessly bent and shifted; it had no reason to hold on to anything but its relentlessly fluid motion. Its very existence was based upon its own impermanence. Arabel felt something click inside of her brain. The impermanence of all things, she mused to herself. Shape to flickering shape to shape-shifters to shape to flickering shape. Arabel bandied the words in her head, feeling as if she was close to some sort of breakthrough.

             
The cocoa was almost done and Arabel yawned as the clock chimed the time – twice the bells of the old clock sounded. Arabel contentedly finished the last remnant of the chocolate and got to her feet. With one further speculative glance at the flames, Arabel left the room and made her way upstairs in the dark to her bedroom. A fire flickered here as well, tended by the loyal Morna.

             
Arabel’s soft nightgown was laid out prettily on the bed and a fresh basin of water and several hand towels were placed next to the tall wardrobe cabinet and dressing table. Arabel quickly disrobed and put on her warm and comfortable nightgown, then belted her yellow wrapper overtop. Arabel washed her face and hands, brushed her teeth and then climbed wearily into bed. She tucked her athame and the red stones from Baltis under her pillow and did not remove the protective ring from Mireille. Arabel made a further point of ingesting a teaspoonful of the herbal sleep remedy from the drawer next to her bedside and was then satisfied she’d then taken all of the precautions available to her to ensure her own safety and well-being.

             
Sleep overtook her almost immediately and Arabel saw herself standing outside of a small, faded blue cottage. The cottage was dark and hidden deeply within the foreboding and gloomy forest of monstrous and ancient trees. Which haunted forest this was, Arabel couldn’t be quite sure. But everywhere she looked, tall, green giants crowded up to the reach the sky; they groped and competed with each other for the highest peak, the bushiest of branches and the most extensive of root canals. The massive trees had been there long before the first settlers landed in The Corvids, Arabel would wager.

             
The forest was indeed old and the cottage not much its junior, judging by the drab and peeling paint and the neglected air its shabby exterior exuded. Arabel walked toward the cottage on a long row of stone steps laid within the grassy carpet of the forest floor. The scarce view of the sun began to sink into the sky; the hazy glare of the white-yellow orb descended quickly, leaving darkness in its wake.

             
The cabin was a one-story structure with a smoking, stout chimney stack protruding out of the matted roof. There were large bushels of numerous and varied flower offerings at the front door and what also looked like candles, foodstuffs and knitted blankets. Arabel approached curiously.

             
Should she have brought a token of respect, she wondered? There were no windows that Arabel could see but the door magically swung open at precisely the moment Arabel’s light step reached the cottage entrance.

             
The old Gypsy woman with the gnarled hands who’d read Arabel’s palm stood there. Her sharp black eyes surveyed Arabel with interest but no surprise.

             
“Hello, Paloma,” Arabel said easily, brushing past the old Gypsy and stepping into the cottage briskly. Inside the room, Arabel marched up to the figure standing pensively in front of the peat fire.

             
“Hello, Grandmother,” Arabel said.

             
There was a rushing sensation, a roaring in Arabel’s ears. It was so loud Arabel thought her head was about to burst and it was accompanied by an intense twirling in her belly. And then Arabel was thrust abruptly into her familiar yellow and white bedroom, returned to where she’d last remembered herself to be, back within her body.

             
The fire still lazily burned; the room was warm enough and the shadows were plentiful. Arabel quickly lit a candle on her bedside table to chase away the dark. Her heart was pounding. She wished the dream had not ended so abruptly.

             
But had it really been a dream? Arabel wasn’t entirely certain.

             
It had felt so real. And the physical sensations she’d experienced – was she really able to dream in such vivid, sensory detail? Arabel was inclined to believe that she’d just had an out of body flight, as the potion from Mireille protected her against evil whilst sleeping, but might be rendered impotent when it came to unprompted astral travel.