A Perfect Curse

by Shereen Vedam

  Terrance nodded.

  They entered and approached the bedroom door. All remained quiet from within, so he eased the door open. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness inside.

  “There is a window over here.” His lordship pushed aside curtains and morning light flooded in.

  The sudden brightness blinded Mark, and he tripped over something on the floor. Expecting a fold of carpet, he instead found a mound of dust and ash at his feet. The room was littered with piles of dirt.

  Terrance made a face of mild distaste. “She spoke the truth when she said she needed a house cleaner.”

  Mark did not respond. Fear and disgust gripped him. Visions of Spanish girls being reduced to these piles overwhelmed him. His determination not to avenge their deaths, faltered. How could he let this woman continue to murder so many innocents?

  Given the opportunity, could he kill Anna Louisa de Rivera? Miguel had believed himself to be able. Shaking off the disturbing thought, he respectfully stepped over the dirt piles to search the room.

  There was a large bed by the window and a dressing area with a wardrobe and shelves. Terrance matched Mark’s movements, being careful not to step on any of the dirt as he moved about the room. The first indication something was wrong came from a muffled sound downstairs.

  Mark, who had been examining a minute line on the pattered wallpaper, glanced at Terrance. “I did not hear Paco’s call.”

  “We should leave,” Terrance said.

  Mark agreed, but then his fingers slipped into three identical depressions in the wall. “Wait, I found something.”

  “Be quick,” Terrance said. “I will check on Paco.”

  Mark pressed down and a lock clicked. The wall parted and within a deep cavity, gold glinted. He reached inside and something bitterly cold whisked past his shoulder. He swung around but the room remained empty. Shaking his head, he turned back to the cavity and pulled out the statue. He slid it closer, but when he lifted it, he almost dropped the heavy thing. It weighed almost as much as he did. Then the bedroom door swung open behind him.

  Expecting Terrance, he hefted the statue and turned, only to find Anna Louisa de Rivera in the doorway, holding her basket now filled with oranges. His heart thudded in terror, and he hugged the statue against his chest, unwilling to give up the Huntsman, now he had finally found him. Her gaze swung from him, down to his prize and back up, and her lips thinned with anger.

  He hung onto the statue though it weighed him down, preventing an easy escape. Her gaze suddenly veered to a corner of the room beside him and he eased away from the wall to check on whatever had caught her attention. There was nothing in that corner of the room. A trick? Or had Anna Louisa lost her mind?

  The lady flung her basket onto her bed and the oranges rolled out and over the side, bouncing on the floorboards, knocking against the dirt mounds. She stepped forward, blocking his path to the door. “The Huntsman belongs to me!”

  “He belongs to no one. He is a man and should be walking free, not bewitched to act as your slave.”

  Anna Louisa tilted her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. “Ah, now I see the resemblance. You are his descendant,” she said in her soft voice. “Your brother’s death should have been warning enough for you to stay in England, Señor Dimas.”

  Mark sucked in his breath, his chest swelling with fury. His grip on the statue tightened. It was a good weapon.

  “I would not try it, Señor,” Anna Louisa said. “You and your protégé’s interference have brought me enough trouble and have cost countless innocent lives.”

  She dared blame him for her unholy murders? “That is all on your head, Señorita. No one forced you to desecrate these girls.”

  She lifted an eyebrow as her gaze swept across the soiled floor. “I have had to strenuously defend myself against our rival for these past weeks. That meant I needed to replenish my strength. Grandmother said I would be destroyed if I did not act decisively.”

  Grandmother? Was there another de Rivera witch on the premises for them to deal with? Suddenly, he felt a chill against his right shoulder and his fear spiked as he sensed the insidious touch of the spirit world.

  Her attention shifted past his shoulder again, confirming his suspicions. “I am not wasting time, grandmother. Merely explaining why my room is so dirty.” She cocked her head as if listening, and then a cross look came over her face. She sighed and came over to him. She plucked the statue from him as if it weighed nothing. “I shall take that.”

  Mark lunged to retrieve it but with a careless wave of her hand, she cast a spell that paralyzed him. He could not move a muscle. He stood frozen, helpless, as the woman continued a heated conversation with the ghost of her grandmother, arguing about how she would not drain him as she had the others.

  Anna Louisa scrunched her face in distaste. “He is a man, grandmother. I do not want his male energy sullying me.” The spirit swung back to Mark, and his right shoulder shivered with icy cold, as if it was sitting there.

  Then Mark saw it out of the corner of his eye, an ethereal mist floating beside him. It caressed his right cheek and then swooped toward Anna Louisa.

  Anna Louisa was listening again and then said, “Well, you will have to feed on someone else. Besides, considering all the girls’ spirits I have gifted you with these past weeks, you should be sated. You are not the one who has been expending every last ounce of her strength fighting off our enemy.”

  Anna Louisa placed the statue on the dresser. “Yes, yes, I know. I deserted you when the French came. You have been starving for years. However—” She swung around to point at the air behind Mark. “—you have not extended a finger to help with my problem.” She waved her arms in obvious frustration. “All you do is harangue me and carry on about family duty while gaily feeding off my spoils.”

  Her gaze finally focused on Mark. “Your family has been an aggravation to my grandmother for a long time, señor.” She tilted her head at the wraith hovering near him. “Do you not recognize her?”

  Understanding settled on Mark. This specter was not any old grandmother, but the one who had changed his great-great-grandfather into a statue. Subijana de Rivera, the second wife of Cordero Juan Nero de Rivera, the witch who cast one of the three spells that fateful night, three hundred years ago.

  Anna Louisa, in combination with this ghostly witch, was a far greater threat than they had anticipated. He dreaded thinking of what might have happened to Paco and Lord Terrance. If they were lucky, they would have escaped. If not, Mark would have to carry their deaths on his conscience along with his brother’s.

  “So, now I have one more chore to complete.” Anna Louisa approached the dresser and sat. She gently stroked the golden Huntsman statue and whispered a command. The statue opened his eyes, and Mark’s sadness deepened. The Huntsman’s gaze speared him, but the witch commanded his attention.

  “Man of gold, sorrowful and weak,” she said in a louder tone, “tell me the whereabouts of the one I seek.”

  The statue sighed, and the mounds of dirt stirred as if a wind blew across them. “The lady you seek is in hiding deep,” the Huntsman said in a tone entrenched in woe. “She travels through the forest of Widow’s Weep.”

  Mark screamed No! but no one heard, except perhaps the Huntsman, who glanced at him with distress before he closed his golden eyes and returned to sleep.

  AT THE GYPSIES’ suggestion, Nevara, Belle and Mendal had dressed like Zincali, or ‘Cales’ as the gypsies preferred to call themselves. Mendal objected the most to the change in wardrobe, not so much for herself, but on her mistress’s behalf. Belle shushed her, saying it was the best way to remain inconspicuous, especially since they were taking their time travelling toward Seville.

  Instead of rushing after Paco, Lord Terrance and Mark, as Nevara urged, the Zincali family perversely chose to stop
at every village they passed to ply their trade. They would camp on the outskirts of any cluster of houses and the entire family would then head in on foot. The women went to earn coin telling bahi, which Nevara understood to be fortune telling. The grandfather went to entertain with his guitar or to trade a mule or two. The younger children, Nevara suspected, went in to practice their hand at stealing whatever they could.

  In fact, the whole family returned from such excursions with more items than they left with. Either the women’s fortune telling practice paid more than she imagined, or the Zincali’s customers parted with more than they planned.

  It soon became a routine that before the six remaining gypsies left, the Zincali grandfather would come up to the English women, lean heavily on his cane, and say in a grave voice, “Stay inside the cart. Do not trust anyone. Do not come out. Not for any reason. And speak to no one.”

  Once they agreed, the old gypsy would bid them adios and leave. By the third day, Nevara found this ritual rather endearing. The intensity in his dark eyes never wavered as he spoke those repeated words of warning.

  While the gypsies were gone, Nevara and her friends did as the old grandfather ordered and remained hidden beneath the covered cart with Earnest and the lynx. They only went outside after the Cales returned to camp.

  Belle and Nevara would then stroll about, always keeping within sight of their protectors, while Mendal helped with the meals. Nevara especially loved these outings, enjoying the feel of the crackly cork oak tree barks along this long stretch of forest called Widow’s Weep. She breathed in the deep rich scents of myrtle and rosemary and allowed her worries about Mark to drift away into the forest’s strong and supportive embrace.

  The lynx, in keeping with Mark’s instruction to stay close to Nevara, always accompanied her, Belle and Earnest on their strolls. The exercise was good for him, too, allowing him to stretch his muscles that were slowly healing. The hound wisely kept his distance from the lynx.

  Don Sabio, on the other hand, began to show his playful spirit as he grew stronger. He would roll over on his back and paw toward the hound as if inviting the canine to wrestle. As the hound cautiously inched closer to investigate, the lynx would leap into the air, a good two feet higher than even Nevara stood, and speed away. Earnest always fell for these ploys and gave chase, only to come racing back for Belle’s protection with Don Sabio practically at his tail.

  These seemingly never-ending, peaceful days finally brought them to the edge of Widow’s Weep where yet another village was situated. Belle, Nevara and Mendal were again left behind, well hidden within the trees, and off to work the gypsies went.

  The closer they drew to Seville, the more Nevara seethed at these delays for the gypsies to “ply their trade.” Inside the covered cart, the smell of dog and cat partly masked the sharp odor of stale gypsy clothing. Nevara, who had grown quite fond of Don Sabio, scratched him behind his ears and waited for the sun to inch its way across the sky.

  The lynx had recovered well from his wounds and spent most of the day staring mournfully out the back of the cart. Although he obeyed his master by staying at Nevara’s side, she could tell that he missed Mark. In this, they could commiserate because she, too, missed Mark enormously and worried about his safety, as Belle did her husband and the Cales, their father.

  Belle was dozing the day away with Earnest at her side. After a while, she became restless, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Nevara was wondering if she should wake her up when Belle’s eyes snapped open and she screamed.

  Nevara hurried to her side, as did Mendal.

  “My lady, are you all right?” the maid asked.

  Belle’s pupils were wide, giving her an eerie look. She clutched Nevara’s hand. “She is coming!”

  “Who?” Nevara asked, though she had a dreadful feeling she knew.

  “The witch.”

  “Lord save us.” Mendal crossed herself.

  “What about Mark?” Nevara asked, fear gripping her heart. Please be alive.

  Belle shook her head frantically. “Something is wrong with all of them, Mark, Rufus and Paco. They are inside a house, but they are like stationary dolls. They cannot move. We must help them.”

  “And get spelled ourselves?” Mendal asked. “What good would that do them, or us?”

  “She has a point.” Nevara did not care for the maid’s warning but she saw the sense in it. “Perhaps the Cales would know what to do. The gypsy grandfather seems knowledgeable about magic. He could advise us.”

  Belle reluctantly agreed, though she remained very pale and her gaze appeared tortured.

  “I will go and bring the gypsies back,” Nevara said.

  “No, it is too dangerous for you to go outside. You are the one the witch hunts.” She turned to Mendal with a pleading look.

  The maid shook her head. “I could not, my lady. Do not make me.” She began to visibly shake.

  Belle turned back to Nevara. “I will go.”

  “No,” Mendal shouted. “No, my lady, I will go.” She held up her hand when Belle would have spoken. “I will be quick, I promise. You must stay safe.”

  “Let us say a prayer for all of our safety,” Belle gently suggested.

  Mendal nodded and picked up her Bible with trembling hands. Shortly after, the maid scrambled out of the covered cart and ran toward the village in search of the Cales. As she disappeared down the path, Nevara recalled the grandfather’s orders for all of them to stay hidden inside the cart. With a thudding heart, Nevara hoped they had not made a mistake in sending Mendal out.

  “As soon as the family returns,” Belle said, “we must head straight for the de Rivera estate. There is no time to be lost. We can plan the rescue on the way.”

  Nevara nodded, wrapping her arm around Belle to offer what little comfort she could. Her own worry about Mark settled inside her like a hot poker in her chest that doubled in size with each breath.

  An hour crept by like a turtle crossing the beach. The sun had risen high and was beating down with waves of heat when Don Sabio whined. Nevara noticed his bowl of water had run dry. Her own cup, too, was empty. Belle offered to go to the stream and bring back some water. She promised to be careful and quick and that Nevara could watch her the entire time. Seeing the lynx sit with his red tongue lolling out made Nevara as thirsty as he looked, so she agreed.

  Belle took Earnest with her for protection and carried a pail. Hidden behind a cloth curtain, Nevara crouched at the cart’s rear opening. Her friend hurried toward the stream. At her side, Earnest lapped his fill and then sat up, his attention swinging to their right. Had Mendal and the Cales returned?

  Nevara followed his line of sight and saw another gypsy, one she did not recognize, approaching from downstream. She wanted to call out to Belle, but Earnest’s barks took care of that warning.

  Belle stood, lifting her heavy pail of water. She backed away from the stream, water sloshing. The stranger, too, stopped and looked toward Belle and then at the covered cart. Nevara, with her hand on the lynx’s scruff, stayed behind the covering so they could not be seen. Belle hurried toward the cart, leaving the pail on the ground and whistled urgently to her hound. Earnest hesitated between going up to the stranger and returning to his mistress and then ran toward Belle. Nevara breathed easier, for Belle was almost within reach.

  The stranger moved forward, hesitantly, and held up her basket. In it, Nevara saw oranges.

  “Sastimos,” the stranger said.

  Nevara recognized the familiar Cales greeting that meant, “To your health.”

  “Schej?” the woman asked.

  This, too, Nevara understood. The woman asked if Belle was a gypsy girl, a Roma.

  Before Belle could respond, the stranger shook her head and spoke in broken English. “You white blood. Roma in village said you here. Welcome. Want orange?”
She took a few steps forward and held out her basket.

  Belle shook her head.

  The stranger took an orange out and sniffed it. “Good.” Showing it to Belle, she proceeded to peel it.

  Could this be a traditional greeting, sharing food with strangers, or in this case, with someone she thought was a friend of the “blood?” The stranger popped a piece of dripping orange into her mouth and offered Belle a piece.

  Belle, again, shook her head.

  The woman’s glance flicked to the dog and then the cart. “Like to eat?” she asked. “Tasty. Good orange.”

  “No, gracias.” Belle backed up closer to the cart.

  A scowl replaced the woman’s smile. Her hand clenched the orange, dimpling its surface.

  Earnest growled and inched between the stranger and his mistress.

  “Good dog,” Nevara whispered under her breath.

  The lynx was on his feet, his hackles raised. If this was the witch, the animals were prepared to protect them. Like other gypsies, this stranger had dark skin and a leathery face covered in wrinkles. Her black dress was tattered and faded, too, and her shoes deeply scuffed and unclean.

  Mark had said the Zincali would rather grow vegetables in a bathtub than bathe in it. From this short distance and with the wind blowing toward her, she should be able to catch that familiar whiff emanating from this gypsy that went along with the Cales disdain for bathing.

  Nevara sniffed.

  The absence of the scent put her on high alert, and immediately her special sight flared, covering the woman in undulating black ribbons. She shut her eyes and shook her head, which throbbed as if a blacksmith had taken residence inside.

  Earnest’s barks intensified, and then Belle cried out. Nevara blinked and saw the stranger hold Belle by her arm and shove a piece of orange into her mouth. Earnest was slumped on the ground at Belle’s feet.

  “No!” Nevara released her hold on Don Sabio’s neck fur.

  The stranger swung around at her shout and the lynx leaped out at her. Nevara grabbed the closest heavy pot and charged after the lynx. Her blurry vision made it difficult to see, but she followed the animal’s snarls and lashed at a tall form to the right, praying Belle was still to her left. The pot connected with bone and their attacker fell back. Then a powerful shove sent both Nevara and the lynx sailing through the air to land hard against the ground several feet away.