Mireille laid her hand on top of Arabel’s, as if to stop her from protesting, or perhaps to offer more quiet comfort.
“My father was not a spy!” Arabel returned hotly.
Raina leaned in closer toward her. “How do you know?”
Arabel could not answer. The truth was, she did not know.
Raina waited a moment, then leaned back, satisfied. “You see, even his own daughter is not sure.” She sighed, a long gusty sound which seemed all the louder in contrast to the utter quiet which had fallen within the caravan.
“Tell us what you know, Raina,” Mireille finally said.
“Patrick Spade appeared out of nowhere. His folk weren’t from The Corvids. One day, there he was, pokin’ around the Copse, charmin’ the young ladies, makin’ friends with our youths. He got himself in real good with a few of us; he seemed harmless enough. There were more than a couple of young Gypsy girls lookin’ to find favour with him - he was a fine looking man! – but he only ever had eyes for your mama, Violetta. Folks say he took one look at her, and that was that. His heart was lost forever. “
Arabel listened to Raina with her head throbbing and her heart clenching. Arabel realized the woman was a gossip, but who could be better to listen to than she? In order to elaborate upon the history of a man Arabel had barely known, the father she had lost at six years old, Arabel steeled herself to listen, to question intelligently, and to not fly off the handle at what she was told.
“When all the troubles started and the bridge was lost, some say they saw Spade in the forest with the darkness, leading others in the rites of terror, binding them to the darkness of a Dorojenja wheel.”
Mireille broke in. “No one was ever able to identify Patrick Spade as being a member of the secret society, but there were many rumours of his involvement.” She turned to Arabel. “I’m sorry, Arabel, that we must speak of this. I wish I knew for certain what – if any – your father’s involvement was.”
“And my mother? Was she also accused of being a spy for the darkness?”
Raina shook her head. “No, there was never any question of Violetta being involved. “
Arabel remembered suddenly the hesitation she had witnessed when she’d asked Baltis and Mireille previously about any of the fever victims having ties to black wizardry or to the Dorojenja.
“You knew this,” Arabel said to Mireille. “You knew he’d been accused of spying on the Gypsies for the Dorojenja. Why did you not tell me?”
Mireille looked deeply into Arabel’s troubled blue eyes. “It is not my desire to fill your mind with statements based on hearsay, opinions raised without conscience, nor truths we can neither prove nor disprove.”
Raina snorted. “What she means, Arabel, is that no one knows for sure. The ugly stain marked Patrick Spade but when he fell to the fever alongside your mama, most folk said if there was ever any dark-rooted evil in him, it died the day he did, and that’s why no one tells of it. His death restored his reputation but the question of his involvement still remains unanswered.”
Arabel felt feverish herself, as if the information was heating her blood, and not in any good or pleasant sort of manner. Her head ached and the caravan felt cloying to her all of a sudden. Arabel was beyond pleased when Mireille reverted the topic of conversation back to Raoul Porchetto’s mistress, Yolanda Selivant.
“The north side of the Copse, Raina, that’s where you understand Yolanda Selivant resides?”
Raina nodded, finishing up her tea with a loud smack of her lips. “Last I heard, she’d settled down there, and comes to camp only every couple of months for supplies.”
Mireille finished her tea as well and got to her feet. Arabel stood as well, relieved that the visit was nearing its completion.
“Thank you for the tea, and the information. Those biscuits are delectable – you must give me your recipe!”
Raina showed the visitors to the door and she and Mireille hugged goodbye. Raina turned her grey eyes upon Arabel.
“You look just like your mama,” she said approvingly.
Sifting, Threshing and Plucking
Arabel said nothing for a long time as she and Mireille wound their way back to the Frankel caravan. Everything within in Arabel refused to believe that her father could have had any ties to the Dorojenja, and neither could she fathom that Patrick Spade would have been so completely loved and adored by her mother had he been a practitioner of black wizardry.
“No one knows for sure, Arabel,” Mireille said quietly and Arabel knew she was speaking of her father.
“I know!” Arabel defended vehemently, wishing she’d heard the rumours from Mireille and Baltis, as opposed to finding out from Raina. “He could never have been a part of the terror and darkness - he just couldn’t!” she insisted.
Mireille did not reply. She understood Arabel’s distress and was astute enough to realize there was nothing she could say or do to ease the sting of the information they’d just been privy to.
They walked in silence and shortly Ira came swooping down from the sky to land upon Arabel’s shoulder with a loud clucking sound. The bird bent his black beak to Arabel’s head and butted her softly, his version of a cuddle. Arabel stroked Ira’s gleaming black feathers, comforted by the corvid’s chortling presence.
As they approached the Frankel caravan, Mireille turned to face Arabel, placing her hand lightly upon Arabel’s shoulder.
“You must have courage,” Mireille said blithely. “You must have courage enough to peer into dark places and not be frightened by the blackness that finds you there.”
Arabel nodded. “Yes, courage,” she repeated.
Mireille embraced the young girl swiftly before opening the door to the caravan.
“I’m sure Eli will be happy to accompany you to see Yolanda,” Mireille said.
Arabel had forgotten all about Eli’s request for healing balm, despite her earnest promise to remember, but before she’d taken five steps away, Baltis came rushing down the caravan steps with a small tin in his hand.
“Healing salve,” he said, thrusting the tin into Arabel’s hand.
Arabel wandered back along the path to the main Gypsy social area. It was lunch-time now and many were claiming their place at the various picnic tables and the wafting aroma of their meals made Arabel realize she felt ill at the thought of food. The lemon biscuits she’d consumed at Raina’s were sitting hard in her belly and Arabel wondered if her stomach muscles would ever unclench. Arabel’s thoughts were confused and her very heart felt heavy within her body.
Slow steps brought Arabel back to the caravan Jonty and his mother lived in. Once again, the strange old man lurked at the side of the caravan, appearing exactly as before, and he beckoned furtively at Arabel to follow him. Perplexed, and a tad irritated, Arabel ran to the hidden side of the caravan that the old man gestured toward to see if she could be quick enough to see what he so obviously desired to show her.
This time, Arabel saw the man pointing to a deep hole in the ground, a steep incline that seemed to lead to a series of underground tunnels. The tunnels appeared to have been hidden but now their cloaking foliage and natural buttresses had been shifted, and the great hole of the tunnels gaped widely.
Intrigued, Arabel moved closer for a better view. A brief second later, Arabel was shocked when Ira suddenly let loose a volley of protective cries, launching himself off of her shoulder and flying angrily toward the pointing Gypsy man. Arabel quickly glanced behind her to see what had Ira so irate but before she was able to view anything, a sharp whack to the back of her neck sent her stumbling against the hard edge of the caravan.
Before she could regain her equilibrium, something heavy and hard smacked the back of Arabel’s head, knocking her unconscious, and she fell down, down, down, pushed headlong and deliberately into the waiting hole in the ground.
Deep In The Dark Harsh Belly Of The Beast
Arabel floated uncomfortably in the confused state between unconsciousness and wakefulne
ss.
Her head pounded with severe headache and her entire body felt numb. It was as if all of her muscles had gone lax and a deep, enticing slumber had filled her very veins.
I’ve been drugged, Arabel realized foggily, as she struggled to open her incredibly heavy eyelids and fought to bring her mind and body back to full operating power. She tried for several agonizing moments to regain her motor skills, but it proved to be currently a useless endeavour.
By wiggling her fingers slightly, Arabel was able to ascertain that she’d been not only drugged, but tied up as well. Her wrists were tied up in the front of her body, and not behind her back, which was a good start in her bid for freedom, and Arabel noted fuzzily that her mittens had been removed. Thankfully there was no gag in Arabel’s mouth but her weak attempts to call out for help were muffled by a swollen tongue and a strange inability to form words.
What have they done to me? Arabel wondered numbly.
She could feel a cool breeze from somewhere, chilling her legs, and she vaguely comprehended that she was lying upon her back on a hard, cold slab of what seemed to be limestone. The last thing Arabel could recall was the old Gypsy man beckoning to her from the hidden side of the Governs’ caravan; everything else was subdued within a distant fog of confusion.
Arabel tried to send a telepathic message to Ira, to Eli, to Mireille, but every time she tried to formulate words, it was as if sand flowed within her brain cells, muffling her intentions, and she could not articulate herself. She could barely comprehend her own thoughts.
Panic threatened to overtake her mind and Arabel reprimanded herself as strongly as she was able to do in her weakened and incapacitated state. She knew that if she gave in to the panic, precious moments would be lost in her attempt to free herself from this strange situation of danger she’d awakened to find herself in.
Arabel wondered what drug her captors had administered to her body and how it was possible that her enemies could fill her brain with such drivel that she was largely unintelligible, even to herself. Arabel realized it was potent magic she had been subjected to and she was fairly certain she was currently a prisoner of the Dorojenja’s secret society.
Arabel’s eyelids finally obeyed the signals her brain was frantically sending and fluttered open weakly. Arabel could barely see in the shrouded darkness but a faint sliver of light appeared to be coming in to the room she was held captive within from under a door several paces away. The air was fresher than she would have imagined and it felt almost as if she were out of doors, despite that fact that Arabel could see she was held captive within an enclosed space.
Outside of the door, a shadow fell and rose, and Arabel realized that someone had just passed by her dark prison. She listened intently for footsteps or voices, but the shadow had moved on and it appeared that no one was very interested in her at the moment.
All the better for me, Arabel thought, as she attempted to coax her fumbling fingers to work the knots loose on her wrists. It was slow going work made more difficult still by the lingering effects of the drug, as well as by the fact that the knots were most securely fastened and Arabel currently had butter fingers for digits.
It’s useless! Arabel thought to herself as the anxiety and terror rose up again sharply to fill her fog-coated mind and turn her attempt to rescue herself into an abysmal failure. A sudden, racking sob filled Arabel’s chest and she had to force herself to breathe slowly in and out for several moments in order to keep the panic at bay.
Someone will find me, Arabel thought pseudo-hopefully. Ira will lead Eli to me, she reasoned. But a dark, hollow pit in her stomach had Arabel concluding that she wasn’t certain anyone would locate her, and a massive sorrow engulfed her, leaving her thoughts as black as the room she was held captive within.
A solitary tear slid down Arabel’s cheek. She shut her eyes in despair. The drug continued to weave its way throughout Arabel’s system, beguiling her to slip into further dreamless slumber, urging her to lose her will and slide into mental submission to the evil forces surrounding her. The chill now intensified within the room and Arabel began to shiver involuntarily. A wind was blowing but she could not see where it originated from. Her teeth started to chatter and Arabel resolved to try again to loosen her wrist bonds.
For several moments Arabel tried unsuccessfully to make headway on the tight knots but she realized there was no way she’d be able to undo the wrist bonds. Arabel brought her feet up to her chest instead and began to work on the knots binding her ankles. These bonds appeared to be fractionally looser and Arabel was encouraged to persist in her attempts to free her feet. The wind began to rustle something in the room, it sounded like papers, but Arabel could still not see anything, despite the fact that her eyes were now fully accustomed to the darkness.
The rustling sound continued and Arabel felt something move past her quickly, a darting shape she could not clearly make out. Everything within Arabel was tense, constricted and anxious. The wind was picking up and she realized she was going to freeze to death if she stayed here for too much longer. Arabel’s cape was warm, as were her boots and hat, but they were no match for the wind and Arabel swore she could smell snow. The darting shape moved again, and Arabel was perplexed.
“Hello!” she called softly. “Is there someone there?”
There was no immediate response and Arabel wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. She listened intently, however the room was quiet but for the exception of the chilly autumn wind. Arabel tried again to see where the wind was coming from, as this might be her escape route, but the room was too dark and her eyes were weary from the strain. She set about again to loosen the bindings on her ankles, biting her lip in frustration as the knots refused to give way.
Arabel’s thoughts were becoming clearer and it seemed as though the drugs were perhaps wearing off. The sluggishness in her veins had given way to the chills of her body and Arabel struggled again to send messages to Eli and Ira, and to protect herself by repeating the spells Xavier had taught her. But try as she might, it was as if someone had thrown a blanket over Arabel’s ability to control her own mind and she realized she’d fallen victim to the same sort of memory-wipe that Zander and Jonty had been subjected to. While Arabel hadn’t lost any memories – she didn’t think so, anyhow – she certainly couldn’t remember how to call her loved ones, nor was she able to utter the Gypsy spells which could assist her in her escape.
The darting shape ran past Arabel again and she cried out, “Stop!”
The shape halted. Arabel peered at it in an almost bubbling hysteria. To know she was not alone in this dark prison was comforting and yet frightening at the same time.
“Hello,” she repeated. “What are you?”
There was no response but the darting shape moved closer to Arabel. It was very small and low to the ground. Some sort of animal, Arabel figured. She cleared her mind as best as she could, given the drugs within her system and her general mood of panic, so that she would be able to speak to the creature. Arabel’s gifts had always extended to the animal, insect and creature realms, so she was fairly certain she would be able to make contact, even if the creature did not relate to others with words.
Her unknown companion moved closer and Arabel saw now that it was some sort of rodent, probably seeking shelter from the elements. The small creature sniffed at Arabel’s legs and she sent it messages of greetings and asked for its assistance. All Arabel could think was that rodents had sharp teeth and right now, she needed something sharp to saw through her bonds. The creature was now close enough that Arabel could see it.
It was not tall, nor large, but a small hybrid between a rat and a mouse and it appeared friendly. The images back from the creature were pictures of the Copse and Arabel knew now that she was still within the Gypsy camp. The creature was sort of furry and it had a long tail which brushed against Arabel’s feet as the rodent willingly obliged Arabel by beginning work on sawing its teeth through the rope which bound her. Arabel sen
t a message of thanks to her new small friend and tried again to contact Ira.
This time, Arabel’s efforts paid off and she was able to get a message out to her bird. Arabel let Ira know that she wasn’t exactly certain where she was, but it seemed she was still within the Copse and she’d been drugged, and did not know how long until her kidnappers would return. Arabel could feel the bird responding to her message but the sand within her mind prevented her from reading and understanding the answering cries.
Arabel shook her head in confusion, hoping to clear out the muddling effects of the drugs, and whatever disorienting spells had been cast upon her, but the physical act of shaking her head did little but aggravate the intense headache she’d been subjected to since waking. Arabel realized she’d been hit very hard on both the back of her neck and the back of her head. She knew there were tender lumps in both spots but there was nothing she could currently do to ease her discomfort. And she couldn’t understand Ira.
A fresh wave of panic held Arabel in sway for a second or two as she wondered if she had lost her ability to communicate with her beloved black familiar. The anxiety didn’t last however, as Arabel’s trust in the bond she shared with her bird and her faith in the bird itself were strong enough to mitigate any lingering traces of doubt in regard to her abilities.
It is only this strange place, with its incapacitating drugs and dark spells, Arabel thought, that is leading me to question matters I normally would not even ponder.
The furry creature was still busy at Arabel’s feet and Arabel was free to try to pick again at the knots of her wrist bindings. The rustling within the room was getting louder and Arabel wondered that nothing had flown by and hit the two of them yet. The wind was howling and footsteps now ran in pairs outside of Arabel’s prison. Shouting was heard and the footsteps ran unrelentingly past Arabel’s door. She wished she could make out the words being yelled, but she could not. Whether it was the din of the windstorm or the evil head-as-sand-spell she’d been doused with, Arabel couldn’t tell, but the normally easily intelligible shouting was now gibberish to her ears and her frustration at the situation mounted.
Autumn Page 28
