"Gypsy?" Squall had regained some of his good humor.
"They're not actually gypsies," Irvine revealed. "Even though Christy likes to believe they are. They're a local family who used to be in the carnival business who pretends to be gypsies to get money from the gullible tourists."
"You just say that because you're too superstitious to go near them," his fiancee retorted. She turned to Squall. "He is so superstitious that he goes crazy over black cats, ladders, spilled salt. You should have seen him when those locals told us that we'd be cursed if we went to the castle. You'd have thought that I was trying to make a pact with Satan from the way he acted--I was simply trying to go to work."
"Christy, that stuff is both powerful and ancient. You don't know what it could do. And I'd rather not find out by accident. But, that has nothing to do with the fact that you're so damned gullible."
The remainder of the trip was accompanied the couple's good-natured bickering. When they finally reached the fair, their silent guest had almost freed himself from his inner turmoil, at least long enough to enjoy the day. He was impressed with the rural market, which did seem to have an extensive collection. Squall, Christina, and Irvine threaded through the lines and stalls, sometimes stopping to look and sometimes just passing without a second glance the merchandise laid out on the tables. Squall trudged patiently as Christina and Irvine bought vegetables and fruits for dinner, and they faithfully gave advice on his selection for gifts for his family. All the while, Squall struggled to keep the clouds of depression that had fell over him after seeing that portrait that morning at bay.
Just after lunch, they saw a tiny dark-red tent sat off to the side of the fruit stalls. In front of the tent sat a tall willowy woman with long black hair, wearing a full purple skirt and a gold earring in her ear. Christina rushed to embrace the older yet beautiful woman. "Edea!" she said in greeting after the embrace.
"It is good to see you, my dear girl," Edea returned in her soft melodic voice.
Christina pulled her gypsy friend toward the waiting men. "Edea, this is my good friend, Squall Loire. Squall, this is Edea Krameri."
"Please to meet you," Squall offered politely. Edea was staring at him intently with her unusual amber-colored eyes.
"Come," she said softly. "I shall read your fortune for you for free, since you are Christy's old friend."
Squall hesitated. "I don't know..."
"Go on," Irvine laughed. "It'll be fun."
Squall did as the old woman bid, and stepped into the tent. Inside was the typical set-up of a gypsy fortune teller, complete with a drab velvet table cloth under the gleaming crystal ball. Squall sat down across from Edea, and looked straight into her eyes. "I don't believe in this stuff."
Edea shrugged good-naturedly. "There are a few who come to me who are not believers...until afterwards. Give me your hand."
Squall did so and suddenly felt chills up his spine. He watched as Edea looked into her crystal ball and then back to him again before closing her eyes. She murmured a moment before her eyes lids flew open and snatched her hand away. "You do not belong here," she croaked, a look of fear on her face.
He was taken aback. "But you said I was to come in," he reminded her.
She shook her head emphatically. "That's not what I meant!" She took his hand again. "This is not your world, young man. You are lost, pulled into this place by demons, hell-bent on destroying you as you did them!"
Don't fall into a time warp!
"What?" he faltered, incredulous.
"Do not let them," she told him sternly. "Find her---and save yourself."
I promise
With that, she swept out the tent, making a hasty excuse to Christina and Irvine as she hurried past.
"What happened in there?" asked Irvine Squall emerged a second later, his face paler than usual.
"Nothing. Just usual gypsy stuff."
Christina and Irvine stared, speechless, as their friend strode past them toward the rented car.
*****
Squall knew that something weird was happening with him but the truth of the situation eluded him. He thought about what Edea had said, the fear she'd felt, and how he'd felt the truth of her words inside himself, ever since he'd arrived in France. You do not belong here. He knew that it was more than a carnival fortune-telling but he had no words to describe what was happening. He had felt. . . different since he'd gotten there, as if he were shirking his duty for an important labor. He couldn't explain it to himself, let alone to his friends. Edea's words kept ringing in his ears. Find her...and save yourself.
That night, the dream returned, stronger, longer and much more realistic. He rationalized that it was the stress and activity of the market that brought it on. Or maybe Christina's coq au vin. This time, as he ran through the darkened halls, he knew he was searching for someone, not something. The owner of the voice whose cry for help urged him on. His senses seem much more keen on this night of the dream. His surroundings were much sharper, the shadows of danger, the cold stone walls, all washed in silver moonlight streaking through the eerie vaulted windows. He could smell all the light odor of wood and oil, the dampness of the stone. And his ears seemed to magnify the voice that called to him, the soft voice frantic with unshed tears and terror. His dream-self could picture her in his mind's eye: the long dark hair framing the pale face, its lovely features twisted by fear, those dark dark eyes a beacon in the nothingness as he continued to follow her call. Please, she seemed to scream to him, Come for me. You promised to meet me. I'm waiting.
Squall awoke drenched in sweat, and panting for the breath that had escaped him in his dream. He was shaking as he scrambled out of his bed to look out the small window that overlooked the town from a gentle hill north of town. In the pre-dawn light, when the whole world seemed to cast in a rose-lilac glow, the castle in the distance seemed to shine the brightest, like a beacon, like the eyes from the dream. The light was a halo around it, highlighting it as the answer, the key, to all that haunted Squall, to all that had haunted him all his life. He pulled the curtains back over the windows and sank back to the bed.
*****
"The weather is usually so...nice," Christy amended the next afternoon, sitting at her easel, now transported back to the castle. As if to contradict her point, a loud crash of thunder rumbled, jarring them. "As I said, it is usually so nice, but it seems we're in for a freak thunder storm."
Squall, staring intently at the huge nameless painting which commanded one wall of the study, shrugged. "I guess the farmers prefer it to no rain."
Christina nodded absently, brushing back a strand of her honey hair which had escaped the serviceable ponytail. Unlike her usual sleek ensembles, today she was dressed in old blue jeans and tank top under an over-sized men's shirt which was doubling as a smock. With her glasses perched on the bridge of her straight nose, she was carefully and expertly removing the layers of dirt from the "Lady in Blue" portrait of Rione de Coeurtille. It was times such as these when Squall truly admired her calm hand and sharp eyes. With a stroke of a thin-bristled brush, Christina was able to return the painting's true beauty. "Okay," she sighed in satisfaction, rising from her wooden bench. "Come look, Squall. What do you think?"
That I've found her. Rione's portrait was now restored to its former glory, the complete face and shoulders clearly visible as the eyes had been the day before. Squall drank in every detail of the exquisite piece of art. He noted the thin streaks of gold which threaded through her dark mane, framing the face, and the way the half-smile seemed on the verge of laughter. The painting's name had been earned from the fact she wore an embroidered gown of pale blue velvet, its texture artfully displayed against the cool pale-metal of her unusual ornamentation, two silver rings hung from a silver chain. Even the eyes seemed more alive, and Squall could swear he saw his own blue-gray irises reflected back from the black pools.
"Should I interpret your silence as a good thing?" His in-the-flesh companion asked archly, watching him as he regarded her handiwork.
Tearing his eyes away from the canvas, he focused on Christina who stood next to him. For some reason, Squall began to feel as if she were the one who was unreal, the one he was viewing from some ancient tableau. But that was ridiculous...wasn't it?
"It's great," he complimented. "Very--life-like."
"Isn't it," Christina agreed, wiping her hands on the tail of her make-shift smock. "Of course, I can only take credit for the fact that it can be seen, not the portrait itself. She's lovely, though."
Another crash of thunder broke into their conversation, much heavier and closer. Christina rolled her eyes. "I bet you it's pouring outside! And I bet that that idiotic fiancé of mine forgot to bring the laundry in off the clothesline."
Squall smirked. "What do you see in that guy anyway? I mean, he's nice and all, but--"
Christina let out a nervous chuckle. "I have no idea, myself. He infuriates me most of the time and he's an incorrigible flirt, but..." She smiled softly, a dreamy smile reserved for people in love. "I couldn't imagine not seeing him tomorrow or the next day, or next year or...well, you get the picture."
"I do." Squall unwillingly glanced at the dead princess, then up at the unnamed painting. Something about it had suddenly struck him as odd. The way the joints of the wood on that wall fit together didn't seem right. "Hey, Christy, what do you think of this?" He stepped over to the corner and ran his finger down the seam. It was wider than most--just by a breath--but he could discern the slightest cold breeze.
Christina stepped over, cocking her head to one side as she knelt to examine the lower part of the seam. "There's cold air coming from the seam," she stated in concordance to Squall's opinion.
"Exactly." He grabbed the putty knife from Christina's art supplies and jammed it into the tiny crevice. Christina squawked in surprise and disagreement until she saw Squall triumphantly swing open the whole wall, revealing a secret passage. The squawk melted into a chortle of shock.
A dark stairwell of cold stones wound up in a spiral as far as they could see. "Holy sh...," muttered Christina. "How on earth did you know that was going to happen?"
Squall wasn't sure himself. "I just...did," he admitted.
The professor's big blue eyes were gleaming with the prospect of exploration, her adventurer's soul overruling all of her common sense. "You wanna explore it?" He stood, transfixed, breathless, at the edge of the opening, peering into the darkness. He felt a small tug as if pulled by invisible string to go deeper, deeper, into the unknown of the passage. He knew that his something dreadfully important was somehow waiting at the top. Finally, Squall nodded slowly. "Let's go."
"Wait a minute!" Christina grabbed hold of her friend's arm to stop his impulsive descent into the passage. "We need to get some kind of light source," she reminded him. "Or else we'll fall and break our necks."
"Oh, yeah." A quick search of the gloomy study turned up a few candles and Christina's tiny portable flashlight. "Now, let's go."
Huddled close together, Christina and Squall cautiously wound up the spiraling stairs. Christina kept glancing around suspiciously, secreting fearing what lurked in the shadows. The long spiral curled around on top of itself, and the illusion of virtually no return-path startled the young professor when she dared a glance. The height was also frightening. She held tighter to Squall's arm, muttering at him to slow his rapid steps.
"This isn't a race, you know," she grumbled quietly.
To him, it was something far more important. When the spiral came to an end, they found themselves in a small round turret, bare except for a heavy wooden door. Bravely, Squall pushed through the door, despite Christina's yelp of disapproval as he plunged headfirst into the unknown. Christina quickly followed.
The young professor exhaled sharply as she was assaulted by frigid drops of water and howling winds the moment she stepped through the heavy door. It banged shut loudly behind her, tormented into action by the same gusts which tore at her messily arranged hair and oversized smock. Christina squinted against the dark and the wind to see clearly where she had found herself. A long narrow walkway of stone lay before her, another turret at its end. Tall sides surrounded the walkway, on which she leaned to stay upright. When she unintentionally glanced down over the high sides, she gasped again. "We're on the walkway," she whispered into the wind. "The closed-off section where they always see--her!" Christina had to blink a few times to convince herself that she hadn't seen the ghostly princess a stride away, her long black hair billowing in the breeze.
"Squuuaaalllll!" she screamed against the wind, struggling to cover the length of the walkway, searching for her missing friend. Where had he gone to? The only place she could figure was the other turret, so on she headed down the path, fighting the wind and rain.
Hearing his name wailed in worry, Squall paused on his hurtling trek to the second turret and turned to see Christina fighting valiantly against the storm which was battering the countryside. He raced back to meet her half-way down the way, holding out his hands for her. She smiled gratefully and grabbed tightly to one arm for support. "Next time I want to go exploring," she shouted at him. "Tell me no!"
Squall gestured to the door. "We might as well, now that we're here," he told her. She nodded. After a mad dash, huddled together, the friends were under the fragile of the turret's overhang as Squall pushed against the aged door to force it open. It flew open with a resounding thud as it made contact with the stone wall, the young man tumbling to the floor with the loss of support.
"Are you all right?" Christina questioned, flicking on her tiny hand-held flashlight since the rain had made the candles useless.
"Yeah," he assured her, rising back to his feet. He brushed the dust off himself, glancing around. "No much here, huh?"
Christina nodded. "It is sparse." The room was almost empty compared to its size, only an old throne-like chair sat upon a dais and an old, old mirror whose surface was coated in grime. Both were gilded, but made dark by years of neglect, locked away in the high tower of Ultimont's castle. Squall couldn't stop the rush of sadness which swept over him. He had been so sure that whatever had been haunting him was somehow connected with this lost room, and that by finding it, he would find her...whoever 'she' was who would save him.
Shivering in her soaked clothing, Christina gaped at the once-magnificent room, a room fit for a queen. Briefly, she wondered why that such a room--obviously meant for holding court--was perched so high, its entrance hidden behind a huge wall. Her flashlight's beam bounced off the dusty walls which had once been clean and vibrant, their paints fading to somber grays and browns with age. Suddenly feeling very afraid, Christina pivoted to search for Squall. He was kneeling a breath away from throne, a look of puzzlement on his face. "Squall?"
He hadn't heard his long-time friend, nor had he registered her since he'd seen the shiny object calling to him from the blackened floor. Now, in his cold hands, he held a heavy silver pendant which had been shaped into the curious emblem of a roaring lion. Like a hot brand, the heat of the cool metal seared his palms, yet he held tighter to the trinket as he straightened. When Christina turned, her flashlight beam glanced off the mirror and onto the pendant, accidentally drawing Squall's attention to the old looking-glass. From the pendant to the mirror trailed his eyes as he stepped closer to it. Without thinking, the young man suspended the heavy pendant around his neck, the silver chain burning through his damp clothes. Stormy eyes caught their own reflection in the dark mirror, and the shadows around him melded into something else as he saw himself somewhere far away, in a stone-ridden field, in the bleakness of pre-dawn, battling. Both pairs of eyes widened as the sneering blond warrior, his opponent, made an arc with his sleek weapon, slicing into Squall's tender flesh. He gasped, sucking for air as the phantom images still danced through his mind and his hand flew to his unmarred forehead.
"Squall!" The edge of panic in Christina's voice was enough to break the tether between him and the mysterious mind-images. Hand still to forehead, he looked away from his simple reflection to the woman at his side. He slowly lowered his hand as he turned, Christina's eyes widening in shock. "What the hell happened to you?" she wanted to know.
"What do you..." He left his question unfinished when he caught sight of his self in the aged mirror. As the images had bespoke, a long diagonal slash scarred his forehead, still slightly red and tender-looking. His hands were speckled with blood.
"What did you see!?" Squall asked fervently, harshly grabbing Christina by the arms, shaking her as he demanded an answer. "Tell me! What did you just see?"
"I saw you," she said worriedly. "Just you, kneeling, then you straightened and look at the mirror. I called out to you and when you didn't answer I came over. That's all. What's wrong with you? Stop that!" She wrenched from his hold, shaking furiously. "What is it?"
For a brief moment, Squall thought about telling her everything: about
the dreams, about Rione's ghost and about the crazy things he'd just seen.
But he didn't. Instead, he reached out to her as he'd never done before
in the whole course of their friendship. He clasped her hand tightly in
the need for comfort. "Help me, Christy," he whispered, using his free
hand to touch her flushed cheek to make certain she still existed. "I think
I'm going insane."
*****