Autumn (19 page)

             
“Did you see that?” she asked Mireille. Mireille looked up from her knitting and shook her head.

             
Arabel spotted it again. “There!” she cried out, pointing eagerly toward what now looked to be a multitude of floating, blue-white spectres who were quickly gaining ground on them and moving toward the carriage. In a moment, Arabel and Mireille would be surrounded by the floating blue-white beings.

             
Arabel heard rapturous singing, a high lilting soprano carried softly upon the wind, as if the very trees were serenading them. A wave of serenity overcame her; a soft, white, billowy curtain shrouded her vision. Hands grasped her shoulders.

             
Arabel quickly righted herself once more upon the carriage cushion; she’d just about fallen off of the seat, as she’d been so thoroughly and hypnotically riveted by the floating blue-white spectres. Arabel peered closely at them; they looked to be the ghosts of women.

             
The spectres spooked the horses and the carriage took off on a slightly more adventuresome path than the Gypsy driver intended.

             
The man yelled back to Mireille and Arabel. “Hold on, ma’ams!” he shouted as he worked diligently to maintain order with the nervous beasts.

             
Arabel sent a quick whisper of reassurance to the horses, and she was relieved when she felt their complicity. She gazed out at the blue-white beings.

             
The spectres appeared to be ageless, blue-white skinned, dark haired women.  Each spectre wore a long, shimmering white shroud which mostly covered their black, auburn and brown hair and fell to their floating bare feet. The spectres white and black eyes were alight with a speculative, penetrating and somewhat burning look that Arabel could not quite interpret. The green coloured waves of energy coming off of the spectres were neutral and Arabel and Mireille waited to see what the creatures desired of them. Arabel heard Ira cawing excitedly overtop their heads; she mentally felt the bird’s exultation and was therefore unafraid.

             
An auburn haired spectre floated inside of the carriage, joining Arabel and Mireille. Up close, she was stunningly beautiful and her radiant skin seemed to be pulsing softly with an extraordinary blue-white brightness. The shimmering, white shroud moved around her long frame like small dancing light beams, as if the fabric was not fabric at all, but merely electrostatic waves pretending to be solid matter.

             
Arabel could scarcely breathe. These beings were unlike any spectres she’d ever encountered.

             
“What are you?” Arabel whispered to the auburn haired ghost.

             
The ghost smiled. “We are the Ondines,” she announced mysteriously, rendering Arabel more inquisitive than ever. The Ondine spoke with a precisely measured, old-country-sounding sort of accent that Arabel could not quite place and the timbre of her voice was as mellifluous and enchanting as her ageless, ghostly beauty.

             
“You are forest spectres?” Mireille asked in wonder. “Nature sylphs?”

             
“We are the Ondines,” the strange creature repeated, smiling sweetly at them, and then without another word, she left them. Arabel and Mireille watched in regret as the Ondine floated effortlessly through the interior carriage wall and back into the dark woods.

             
A low keening broke out amongst the floating Ondines that sounded like ancient words of magic. As Arabel listened intently to the keening, it was if she was thrust momentarily back into a fragment of some other life where she had known the chant, and had repeated it many, many times. Unprompted, Arabel began to hum along in the same key as the Ondines.  Mireille watched, quietly, saying nothing.

             
The Ondine who had spoken with them floated back inside of their carriage. The auburn haired beauty smiled at them, her skin and her entire being glowing so steadily and brightly that Arabel felt she must look away. The Ondine would surely blind her.

             
“We watch over the forest. We watch over the trees. We watch over the bodies of water. We protect and we serve the Ondines,” the creature intoned reverently and then disappeared in an instant, blinding, shocking flash of white.

             
Arabel and Mireille quickly glanced out the carriage windows. They were amazed to see that all of the floating blue-white spectres had vanished. The silent woods enveloped them.

             
For a moment, neither woman spoke. A hushed air of reverence hung within the carriage interior. A wave of beauty washed over Arabel. She felt light, as though she herself were floating. She relaxed and then the somewhat unsettling feeling of recognition she felt over the Ondine’s chant began to once again puzzle her.

             
“Had you prior knowledge of these creatures?” Arabel questioned Mireille.

             
Mireille hesitated. “I have heard tell of them,” she finally said, “but this is the first time they have granted me an audience. I believe the one who spoke to us is their leader.”

             
Arabel nodded. “I feel as though I remember them, perhaps shared kinship with them, from a place inside of me, a place I had forgotten.”

             
Arabel said nothing further, as she did not comprehend this half-fragment shard of memory and presently the sound of Mireille’s knitting needles echoed within the carriage as the two women continued on their journey in pondering silence.

             
Arabel peered tirelessly through the caravan curtain, as if she expected that the Ondines would magically re-appear, but there was nothing to be seen in the inky darkness despite her relentless vigilance.

             
Outside, in the cold autumn air, the forest braced itself. It began to snow.

             
A quarter of a mile from their destination, the caravan ceased its swaying motion and Arabel and Mireille prepared to walk the last leg of the journey. The snowflakes fell hard in wild, abundant abandon and soon both women were coated in a thorough white dusting, as if they’d been rolled in flour. Ira flew overtop, his black body disappearing against the enveloping darkness as he swooped past them.

             
The Gypsy driver unhitched the horses and walked them, moving slowly through the fat flakes a small distance behind Arabel and Mireille. The caravan was left at the end of the road; it would be fetched once the road was clear of mud and snow.

             
Their passage was slow; the inky darkness and the relentless curtain of snow hindered their progress. Arabel could hear nothing but the crunch of their footsteps as the ground quickly amassed the frozen precipitation and the trees became covered in a white blanket that glistened and shone slightly eerily under the faint sliver of existing moonlight.

             
Arabel heard a wolf howl mournfully in the distance and she shivered. The wolf was in distress; it had lost its mate. Arabel could hear and feel its pain and she was thankful when the rest of the pack joined in with the anguished howling as she knew then that the poor wolf was not alone in its sorrow. The sounds of the cries were somewhat nerve-racking however, and they added to the tension that Arabel was once again uneasily submerged into.

             
Arabel sent a quick mental message to Eli; she hoped he was well and she missed him desperately. It seemed as if it had been a long time since they’d shared their magical goodbye at the back gate of her house and celebrated their newly-found love for one another at the Inn. It felt as though their farewell had occurred years ago, but Arabel knew instinctively that such was the sneaky illusion of time and the trials of repeated separation.

             
Ahead, several bright orange flames glowed steadily and Arabel was able to view the first outline of the Elders Lodge they were headed toward. She saw that the Lodge was a long cedar log building, completely devoid of windows, with a flat roof and impressively carved double cedar doors. Torches had been placed outside the entrance on either side of the double doors and they glowed welcomingly to the travelers, emitting a friendly orange light.

             
Arabel wished she could feel welcome but she just felt cold. She’d had no response from Eli and she did not comprehend his continued silence. Arabel glanced at Mireille. Eli’s mother was deep inside of her own thoughts; her dark eyes were shaded and Arabel sensed that she, as well, had tuned into the nervous energy and was not as confident of the outcome of the tribunal as she would like to appear.

             
Ira landed upon Arabel’s shoulder just as they reached the front doors. Mireille turned to Arabel.

             
“Remember,” she said gently, placing a hand upon Arabel’s arm, “be honest. Just tell your truth. No one can expect any more than that of you, my dear.”

             
Arabel nodded. Her throat was tight and she couldn’t respond verbally. Ira batted her ear with his beak, provoking a weak smile from her. Arabel stroked his feathers softly and prepared herself mentally for what was to come. She suddenly remembered she had lemon water stowed away in her haversack and she quickly took it out and drank heartily. The citrus water helped ease the burn in her throat and center her fluttering pulse.

             
Inside the building it was incredibly noisy, especially after the surreal isolation and eerie silence of the forest. The Elders Lodge was filled to capacity with brightly dressed Gypsies and it appeared to Arabel that everyone who could quite possibly attend, had done so.

             
Arabel knew the Gypsy folk were gathered expectantly to hear what she had to say in her own defence to their inquiry and it was time to explain herself. Arabel tried to convince herself yet again that she was glad this moment was finally happening. She knew that sometimes, the quicker the resolution, the easier the acceptance and ability to move past the incident.

             
  Arabel took a deep breath as she and Mireille stamped the snow from their boots, removed their outerwear and hung their capes along with all of the others on the large rack inside of the door. Mireille took hold of Arabel’s hand firmly and led her further into the room.

             
The Lodge consisted of a lone room with seven long, carved, cedar wood benches running the length of it. A huge stone fireplace took up the whole of the far back wall and the room was warm but not oppressive with heat. The walls of the Lodge were cedar log and unadorned. Bright candles and torches lent a cheery light to the space but Arabel could tell the mood was at odds with the lighting.

             
Everyone seemed to be staring at her. Arabel’s hands fisted involuntarily at her sides and she was grateful for the crow upon her shoulder. Ira proudly, if not somewhat insolently, stood sentry on Arabel’s left shoulder, giving all who dared stare at her the beady-eyed glare of an undaunted and loyal  feathered familiar. A hush descended upon the vast room once the Gypsies all became aware that Arabel Spade had entered the Lodge.

             
Mireille grasped Arabel’s hand tightly and they moved toward the far end of the room, nearer to the huge stone fireplace. At the head of the middle cedar bench, by the fire, separated slightly from the others, sixteen distinguished looking Gypsies sat. All wore badges of purple somewhere upon their person and Arabel took this to be a symbol of their rank. Arabel sensed they were the Gypsy Elders.

             
Arabel was surprised to see Madame de Lorimar sitting with the other Elders, peering at her with a vague sort of recollection from within her dark, sharp eyes. Madame de Lorimar was dressed as usual in a brightly coloured, highly flamboyant sari and matching headdress. Arabel had had no idea that the Madame was an Elder, but she realized it did make sense that the prominent woman should hold a position of power amongst her own people.

             
The other council members were strangers to Arabel and from her quick scan she could discern no immediate pattern or symmetry to their energy. The Elders were an oddly assorted group comprised of members of varying ages, genders, and dispositions. Some appeared to be quite young so Arabel construed that the privilege and duty of being an Elder did not refer in any real sense to ones chronological age, but perhaps, rather, to ones level of intuitive ability, accomplishment and overall mastery of Gypsy arts and vast heritage of magic.

             
Arabel felt Eli’s warm gaze upon her. She turned around quickly and spotted him sitting a small distance away, flanked by Francesca de Lorimar on one side and his father Baltis on the other. Arabel could barely breathe.

             
Eli’s brown eyes searched Arabel’s and she felt the strong waves of his compassion and reassurance penetrate her senses. Eli moved to stand but Francesca placed a hand warningly upon him and he reluctantly remained seated. Within her mind, Arabel heard Eli’s loving voice advising her to stay strong and reminding her that she was bathed energetically in his love, admiration and protection.