A Circle of Crows (18 page)

"When major catastrophe occurs, and continues on without let up, it's at first as if I am living in a fog, just going through the motions of life, not really aware of much of anything. Indeed, there are several days when I cannot recall a single detail,” she said as she began moving old boxes around and searching. “But there comes a time, when no matter how much pain I may be in, that I must get back to living. Especially if there is someone depending on me, or if there is nothing I can do about the horrendous situation."

The inn's business had dramatically dropped off over the past year as they had spent nothing on advertising or attempting to attract weekenders. Sam was pitching in, but even between the two of them, it was becoming a close call. She had a trust fund from her parents, but she had always hoped to pass it onto Morgana without touching it. Spying what she had been looking for—an antique oil lamp to replace one broken by an overactive child in the Winter Room—she saw it.

A book with a leather bound black cover and bearing the initials M.F. She sat down on the closed apple barrel and opened the book.

Childlike cursive writing filled the book, along with drawings—drawings that appeared to come from a disturbed mind. In one picture, a little girl no more than five years old by the looks of the picture, was lying in a beautiful four-poster bed, but instead of draperies surrounding it, every square inch was covered with magpies. They were all staring down at the little girl in her bed. Rachael felt horrible for the child who drew this, and wondered what could have happened to cause her to draw such a ghastly scene.

She turned a few more pages and saw an older girl, maybe nine or ten, stepping out of a beautiful ornate mirror, while waiting on the other side were two people, presumably her parents. Their arms were outstretched in welcome, and they looked relieved.

Then the identity of M.F. dawned on her.

Moira Fitzgerald. Her grandmother's maiden name.

"Crikey, Gran. No wonder you were so daft. You weren't being evil, in your own twisted way, you were trying to protect us.
You
were the only child ever to return. How did you do it?"

She closed the book and put it under her arm. Then she lifted the lamp with her other hand and couldn't wait till Sam returned home from his trip to tell him what she had found.

Chapter 32

Colin led the way through the rubble-filled path, followed by Raena, with Christian bringing up the rear. Since they were not sure it was safe, they had spoken little. They were also trying to concentrate on the trail to reach the divergence in the paths by dark.

Rae felt as if they were being followed. Out of the corners of her eyes, she kept seeing flashes of something, but as quickly as she would turn, it would be gone. Colin and Christian felt it as well, although they had not spoken of it as of yet. Being trackers and hunters, they both knew that the unnatural lack of sound in the crevasse was not normal, even for this desolate of a terrain.

Colin had lit his torch and instructed them to do the same. As he did, he turned to face them. “I can see the separation in the paths.” Then he glanced at the open map in his hands. “We will be heading to the right."

As they reached the fork, the paths could not have been more dissimilar. The one to the left widened out within a few hundred yards and they could see vegetation.

The right path, however, looked even more ominous than the one they were leaving. Although it seemed to widen as well, it opened into a forest. Brambles and overgrown vines had filled it in. However, they could see the the footprints left by some creature which had continued to use the path, despite its overgrown state.

"We may have to use the machete if it becomes impassable,” said Christian softly. He handed Rae his scarf. “You had best cover your head. If you get caught by one of those brambles, your wounds will rip open and bleed again. A Sepulchar wound has unusual poison to keep it from healing for many weeks afterwards. I know.” He lifted his sleeve to reveal a six inch, pink scar.

She nodded and tied the scarf around her head, then they headed into the tunnel of vines. They extinguished their torches and Colin lit a small lantern, which cast a beam in front of his horse, albeit only a few feet.

Then they heard something in the underbrush, a fluttering sound, and it was coming closer.

Colin turned and yelled over his shoulder, “Heads down, stay together!” He urged his mare to hurry, but a slow canter was all she could manage over the roots and fallen logs.

Rae was trusting her horse to keep up with Colin's, since she could barely see him through the dark thicket.

The path widened and the brambles disappeared, and then
they
were upon the riders. The magpies were dive-bombing from all directions, attacking the horses and bloodying their necks, with several on Rae's head, almost as if they could smell the wounds she had received from the Sepulchar and were in a frenzy to reopen them.

"Light up!” yelled Christian from somewhere to her right. In the black cloud of birds, she had lost her sense of direction. Using her small sword, she was swinging at them from all angles, but was achieving little.

She felt them first; large gusts of wind dispersed the birds into swirling circles around her. Then she smelled them. It was the scent of dead animals she had come across on her horseback rides back home. The huge black body was upon her, and it swung at the birds with its tail, swatting them away like pesky insects.

Its foot came at her middle with its talons out. Just as it came within striking range, Rae saw a blaze of fire six inches from her body—Colin's arrow had lit its foot on fire.

The Sepulchar screamed in fury and Rae's horse reared and backed up, then she was falling.

When Rae opened her eyes, she had no idea how long she had been unconscious. As she stared up the hill from where her horse had tumbled, she could see the glow of a fire and flickering shadows. The screams of birds and beasts filled the night.

Her horse was nowhere to be seen. Something was obscuring her vision. It took a moment for her to realize it was the blood from her wounds streaming down her face. She wiped it off with the scarf, then stuffed it into her pocket.

She climbed up to the top of a small hill and peered over into the clearing.

Christian was loosing blazing arrows at the Sepulchar above him, beating its wings in midair. To the left, Colin was holding off another beast with a flaming torch, but both men appeared to be tiring. The birds were all perched high above the battle, just watching, as if awaiting their turn to feed when the prey became carrion.

Knowing she had to help, Rae slithered over to Christian's horse and removed the reins. She took the scarf and dragged it through her hair till it was dripping with blood. Mounting the horse, she screamed at the top of her lungs while holding the scarf high in the air and twirling it in a circle while blood flew and splattered all around her.

Both Sepulchars stopped their attack and turned to gaze at her. Unable to help themselves and frenzied by the sanguineous smell, they both flew toward her in unison.

"No!” was screamed somewhere to her right.

When they were only feet away from her, she lit Christian's torch and held it to one of them, and it caught fire.

Taking advantage of the surprise, Christian began to pelt the other with flaming arrows—all hitting their target—since its attention was elsewhere.

Colin mounted his horse and charged the other, then thrust his torch onto it.

Both Sepulchars rose higher and higher, swirling, flaming tangles of black flesh, till they reached the canopy and collided with the branches, then the foliage caught fire.

The crows took flight.

"We have to get away from here. There is a stream to the north,” Colin directed.

He reached up and swung in front of Raena on his horse.

She buried her face in his back as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Amazed that in spite of all the danger around her, she knew she had never felt anything better in her entire life.

Rachael sat on the couch with her legs curled under her like a cat, listening for sounds from the girls’ bedroom. She could hear nothing and Chloe lie still and quiet at her feet. Outside, she could hear the crickets, so she assumed no danger was imminent.

She could hear Sam clunking around on the second floor. Sometimes, he walked all night when he was plagued by anxiety. He had moved into the Spring Room upstairs, which was next to the Autumn Room, for several reasons.

Mostly, because he couldn't bear the loneliness of the cottage anymore, and since Eva always wanted to sleep with Morgana, it settled that problem as well. He also felt someone should be close to the mirror in the Autumn Room, in case it began to show signs of opening again. She could hear Solomon's claws tick on the hardwood floors as he followed his master's directionless pacing.

"I think I'll buy him a treadmill,” Rachael said, speaking to herself an alarming habit she recently acquired, “at least his walking would serve a purpose then."

She reopened her grandmother's book and began to examine the illustrations again. She found herself thinking about the book throughout the day as she worked around the inn, and was taking every chance she could get to read it again, sure there was a clue somewhere within its pages to the other realm.

Inside the pages of the book, there was a picture of a great keep by the sea surrounded by magpies; another of an old, decrepit-looking book lying on a table next to candles and a silver grooming set; one of a creature ... this one was very abstract and unclear, but the beast was white and all around it shone a bright light. Beside the picture of the creature was one of the girl at nine with her hands over her ears. In the background of this picture, there was a tapestry of ornately beautiful colors and an equally highly decorated mirror. The girl looked surprised and anxious as she stared at the creature's glowing form.

Very little writing was in the journal. Her gran's untidy scrawl was sparse, just as her speech had been in life; well, other than the tales she told anyway.

"But they weren't tales, were they?” she said absently to Chloe.

She got up and Chloe followed, her bell sounding very obtrusive in the stillness of the inn. She turned on the news for background noise before exiting her suite.

She began to stroll through the inn, not really sure exactly what she was looking for, but there was something bothering her in the back of her mind.

In the sitting area, she glanced up at the picture above the mantle. It was a portrait of Gran Moira and Grandpa Ewan. The portrait was painted when they were in their thirties. She was amazed at how attractive they were at that point in their lives since most of her memories were of them as elderly. Grandpa was in his traditional Scottish kilt, and Gran was seated, prim and proper and smiling weakly for the painter.

She walked into the library and above the mantle was a picture of her parents, also painted while they were in their thirties. Anna and Patrick MacBeth were painted in the same fashion as her grandparents, with her father standing and her mother sitting. “We had better get a portrait done soon, or it'll be too late for our thirties.” A lump formed in her throat, realizing this might never be possible if her sisters were not recovered.

She started up the creaking staircase, and scrutinized each painting. They had been there all her life, and she had never so much as given them a second glance. There was a portrait of the sisters as little girls, all dressed in Victorian dresses to match the inn's decor. It had to be done from a photograph, however, since by the time they were ten, they couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes and as for three year old Bella, two was about her limit. Beside it was a picture of a sea cliff with a cave partially filled with water, while huge, white-tipped waves crashed into the overhang. This one was done by Gran, as were many of the other paintings in the inn.

She walked up to the second floor and rapped at the Spring Room door. She heard footsteps and Sam opened the door abruptly. “What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I was up here, so you don't go shooting me or something."

"What are you up to, Rachael? You're rarely wandering about at this time of night. Something eating at you—other than the usual pile on our plate?"

"I don't know, Sam. I just can't put my finger on it. I was looking at the journal again, and thought I would look at the paintings Gran made for the inn."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

Rachael inspected Sam's face, which showed black circles under his eyes, along with the beginning of wrinkles. One year ago, he looked all of twenty-one. “No, I'll come and get you if I find anything."

She continued into the Winter Room, where the soft white lights entwined in the replicated tree were shedding a calming glow. She had always liked this room, the one in which she had painted a mural of a snowy forest landscape, and the color scheme of light blues, white and gray were always calming to her.

Her gift of drawing had been inherited from Gran. Neither her mother or sister were capable of even drawing stick people.

She sat in the rocker and stared at the painting above the fireplace in this room. Gran's again; this one of a beautiful woman with long black upswept hair, dressed in nineteenth century clothing, staring at herself in a mirror.

The mirror.
Quickly opening the journal, she leafed through the pages until she found the one with her nine year old gran stepping out of the mirror and into her parents’ arms. She glanced back and forth between the book and the painting, and yes, they were the same. It was the same mirror. Which could mean nothing, of course, it may have been just Gran's generalization and recollection of a mirror, but it was the first thing she had come across in months, and she felt something she rarely permitted herself anymore ... hope.

She got up, walked to the hallway and stopped dead. Had she heard something?

She froze, listening with her whole body. There it was again—cawing. Sounding far-off, like it was coming from a distance. She ran into the Autumn Room and looked wildly about, then she skidded in front of the mirror and stopped. Her own harried reflection was all that she saw. She rushed over to the window and opened it, looked out, expecting to see them filling the night sky, but ... nothing.