Once a Gypsy Read online

  Ayre picked up the brass key and sat it down on the table, in between a set of deep, long scratches. She lifted the dainty teacup and poured the bones out into her hand. “Do you want to know what your future may bring?”

  Helena shook her head. A glimpse of what was to come could do nothing to help her. Or would it?

  Ayre smiled at her knowingly. “Why do you say no, lass?”

  “I… I got no questions.”

  “Now we both know that you aren’t speakin’ true. You have many questions, or you would’ve never entered this place.” Ayre pointed to the door. “Just take a look at your cousin and her lover. They wanted no part.”

  “How do you know who they are?”

  “My friend, do I need to show you who I am before you’ll believe me? Are our souls not the same? Do you not feel what I feel when we’re together?”

  Helena stopped. The woman walked her fingertips across the table and brought them down upon Helena’s skin. Helena’s arm hairs stood on end, as if an electrical current had passed from Ayre’s touch. Ayre looked up at her from between matted strands of hair as an orange flame flickered in her sky-blue eyes.

  “There are very few like us—that truly have this uncommon gift.”

  Helena drew her hand back from the woman’s touch. Chills swept through her. “Are you puttin’ me on?”

  “I know you have many questions. I’ll always be here for you.” Ayre shook the bones that rested in her hand. From under the table, she pulled out a white rabbit’s pelt and smoothed it out on the table. “First, let me read the bones for you. Perhaps not for the future, but instead for your character—they will likely show you have little to fear. At the very least, they will tell us much of what you will need to know for the days to come.

  “Let me begin by saying that most of us who have the forshaw have a tool that we use for interpreting the signs. Some of us use bones, as I do, some numbers or books, others use oracle cards, and others have the gift of the true sight—the sight that needs no tool for divination.” Ayre’s gaze bore into her. “You, Helena, have the true sight.”

  “What do you mean? The true sight?” Helena had to ask. “Do I have no power over the forshaw? Will I be plagued with visions of doom and death forever?”

  Ayre smiled a reassuring smile. “You simply need to learn your craft, and things will get easier for you. Did Ogak tell you nothing?”

  Helena shook her head. “She didn’t tell me much. Only that things weren’t as they seemed.”

  Ayre’s eyes sparkled with thoughtful curiosity. “’Tis strange… But if Ogak said such a thing, it must be true.”

  “Do you know what she was talking about? What she meant?”

  Ayre shook her head. “Let me read your character, we will learn more. And remember this is your character, not your future, so be brave, my friend.”

  The bones rattled in Ayre’s hands, sounding like macabre glass. She cast some of the bones, and they landed haphazardly upon the pelt. There were strange markings on each of the porcelain-colored pieces: harsh black lines, straight and unwavering. The marks of the ancient runes.

  “Aye…” Ayre mumbled as she poured the rest of the bones back into the dainty tea cup. She kissed her fingers and raised her hand reverently to the sky. “Mala nu sedi.”

  Helena recognized the prayer: “To the hands that heal.” When Mam had been healthy, she had said it often.

  “This one here.” Ayre pointed at a bone that was engraved with a mark that looked almost like an n. “This is the Uruz, the ox. You are coming into a time in your life where there is great strength, freedom, and courage. There is untamed potential within you.” Ayre grinned like a child with a secret. “It can also mean sexual desire.”

  Helena’s cheeks burned as her thoughts went to Graham.

  Ayre’s fingers moved to the next bone, which carried a mark like a sideways v. “Kenaz. The vital fire of life and transformation—you have the power to create your own path.”

  Ayre took Helena’s hand. The same electrical current ran through her touch as before, but Helena resisted the urge to pull away. “Why do you think people come to see those with the gift?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They come to people like us because they want a change. They want to see hope, light at the end of the tunnel.” Ayre pulled her hand back and motioned to the Uruz bone. “It’s empowering to know that you have strength. Isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” Helena twisted the edge of the pillow between her fingers.

  “Most people who come here are at odds with their lives. They are without jobs, going through break-ups, or have lost a loved one. No one who is truly happy steps within these walls.” Ayre motioned up at the rows of liquor. “We have a responsibility to promote goodwill, to bring happiness into their lives. However, as you well know, there are times when there is no light, no happy ending. Sometimes we see things that they may not want to hear.”

  Ayre pointed at the last bone that lay on the rabbit pelt. The bone had a line and a sideways v, the mark almost like a lowercase b. “This is Thurisaz, the thorn. This is an omen of things to come… This is your darkness.”

  Fear blew through Helena like a biting winter wind.

  “Do you want to hear what it means?”

  “Will it change me? Or my future?”

  Ayre smiled. “You’re a smart woman. I can see why the goblins picked your father for the gift.”

  “What?” Helena asked. “Da has the forshaw?”

  “He does, but he doesn’t know. He has a very weak gift—it’s more of what people call déjà vu… a bit of a feeling he gets, rather than a clear message. He passed you the gift, and you were very blessed—you have a strong essence.”

  “What… what of the other children? Will they have the forshaw too?”

  “It’s hard to say. They may or may not have the gift. It’s selective.” Ayre traced her finger around the bone with the b. “My friend, there are things in this world you cannot change. We only see the future as it may be, but we have little power to change the fates. Usually what will be shall be.”

  If she couldn’t change the future, then at least she could know what was in store, for good or bad. “What does the bone mean?”

  “This last bone, Thurisaz, is a reactive force, a force for destruction and conflict. It is reversed, which is more ominous. There will be a compulsion, betrayal, hatred, torment, spite, and lies.”

  As the words tumbled from Ayre’s lips, Helena moved back from the table. “You said this was a character reading… not my future.”

  “I know, lass. This is a force that you will have to control, a force that lives inside of you. Only you can control your inner darkness.” Ayre dug in the pockets of her skirt and pulled out a card. Its edges were curled and soft with age. “You’ll have many questions in the coming days. If you need me, this is how you can reach me. Day or night, don’t hesitate.”

  Chapter Ten

  The sunrise broke over the tree tops as Helena walked toward the fire ring. The antique percolating coffee pot jingled in her hand. The children were nestled tightly in their beds, dreaming of all the wonderful things that would happen in the days to come. She wished she had their innocence in sleep, but since meeting Ayre, Helena’s dreams had failed to bring anything but nightmares.

  Droplets of water slipped down the side of the tin coffee pot as she sat it upon the ground near the fire pit. Yesterday’s flames had ebbed, leaving only a few glowing coals in their wake. She set a cluster of dried grass on the coals and blew until she had coaxed the tired flames to life. When the fire was ready, she lifted a bit of kindling and placed it on the hungry flames. Their orange forked tongues licked up the kindling and reached toward the sky, looking for more to consume. Pulling the grate over the fire, she set the coffee pot on top.

  As she waited for the coffee to boil, Helena’s mind filled with thoughts of what the forshaw would mean for her and her family. The gift could bring much if she
used it as Ayre had advised—she could be altruistic, giving hope to those who needed it the most, and it could give her another way to provide for her family. With her new job and the gift, she and Da could quickly pay back what was owed.

  Heavy footsteps sounded from the trailer. The door squeaked and Da popped his head out. “I thought I heard ya. Whatcha doing, gra?”

  She brushed the dirt from her fingers and stood up. “Nothing, Da. Just started the morning fire and gettin’ some coffee goin’. You sleep okay?”

  He stepped out and gently clicked the door shut. “I didn’t find much rest. I got to thinkin’ ’bout the new job.” He stepped to the trailer window and pressed his face to the glass, as if checking to see if the others were asleep. “Are ya happy, gra? Is this something ya really want to be doin’? I know you’re a bit different from the other girls, but I feel like I forced this job upon you, tellin’ ya we needed the money and all.”

  “Nah, Da. I’m real happy. I like the job.”

  “You know you don’t have to work if you don’t wanna. You can get married and start your life. You don’t have to be sticking around to help your mam and me. It ain’t right for you to be holding back from living just to keep us all in line. We’d go on without ya.”

  Envisioning a future where she stood behind a sink, washing the dishes with a wee one scrambling up her legs while another squirmed in her belly, made her shudder. She was already living that life. She had already raised children. To think this was all life offered filled her with a profound, gut-wrenching sadness. There had to be more than breeding and hand-to-mouth living—like Graham said, the best thing to have was passion.

  “Don’t be daft, Da. There ain’t no reason for me to be movin’ on. I like it here, I like helpin’ the fam.” She rubbed the last bit of dust from her fingers. “I like this… the simplicity. I just don’t like the thought that this is all there is.”

  Da gave her a weak, depressed smile. “Did I tell ya about when I was in the clink?”

  Helena shook her head as Da picked up a few pieces of kindling and pushed them into the growing flames. “I had a lot of time to think when I was trapped in there.” His eyes gleamed with unspent tears. “I want you to know that I believe in ya, gra a mo gris. You’ve always been real special to me. And you’re a smart one. I know it would make your mam happy to marry ya off, but I want ya to do what is right for ya.”

  “Da, but I don’t wanna get married. I want to take the exams so I’ll have a choice and to find out who I am. I want a chance to be on my own and help people—maybe be a nurse or somethin’ someday.”

  “I know, gra…” Da picked up a stick and poked it into the fire, sending up sparks.

  “But you don’t want that for me… do ya.”

  “It’s not that. I want ya to follow your heart, but ya can see where that led your sister. Now she’s got no fam… She’s got nothin’.”

  “Times are changing, Da. We can change.”

  “No one can have it all, gra.” He stabbed the fire again. “But if this is what you want, I can talk to your mam. Maybe with a little coaxing I can get her to agree to let you take those blasted exams. If nothin’ else, at least ya can do ’em. I can’t promise that even if ya pass, you’ll get to go to university.”

  “Just gettin’ to take the exams would mean the world to me, Da.”

  He smiled weakly. “Just remember, gra, with good grass a foal can outrun its mare.”

  • • •

  The crisp paper lunch bag hung at Helena’s side as she made her way into the manor. The scent of freshly fried sausage and onions seeped through the thin paper. Hopefully Graham would like the Dublin coddle she had prepared for him. For dessert she had whipped together a simple gooseberry crumble from fresh berries she had picked near their camp. It was early in the season, but she had found just enough of the plump little green berries to make a dessert for two.

  It felt strange to cook for someone outside her family, but in an odd way it felt good. Was this what new wives felt? A sense of pride in creating something her husband would enjoy?

  Mary and the receptionist stood by the front desk chatting as she made her way into the entrance hall. Mary’s black summer jacket hung over her arm as if she had just arrived.

  Helena waved at the pair. “Ladies.”

  “Helena,” they answered in unison and then returned to their conversation.

  Helena walked around the corner and sent a glance back at the women. A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders, and she gave a surprised squeak as she reached up to push the offender away. Her fingertips brushed against the strong muscles of his chest and, even before she looked up, she knew the man was Graham. “Ach… Excuse me, I was…” The warmth of his skin seeped into her fingers and moved down into her core.

  Graham smiled. “Good morning, Helena.”

  “Aye.” She struggled to find words as she dropped her hand. She couldn’t draw her gaze away from the thin line of flesh that peeked out above his slightly undone white linen shirt.

  “Is that my lunch?” He motioned to the bag in her hands.

  She looked down at her hands, the simple action breaking the spell he had unintentionally cast. “Aye. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Helena pushed the bag at him.

  “I am.” Graham smiled wickedly and took the bag. “I hope you’re going to eat it with me.” He opened the door to the servants’ hall that led to the kitchen. “I have to admit I’ve been thinking about you… and your cooking all night.”

  Helena’s cheeks flushed. “There’s a gooseberry crumble—”

  A high-pitched woman’s scream pierced the air.

  “What the bloody hell?” Graham put his hand up protectively. “Stay here.”

  “No.” Helena moved toward the scream, which had come from the kitchen.

  The swinging door squeaked as she walked in, Graham at her side. He pushed ahead of her and moved around the massive stainless steel tables. When he turned back to her, his face was a ghostly white, and he blocked her view of the rest of the kitchen. “You don’t need to see this.”

  “See what?” Helena stepped around Graham. A brunette woman, one of the kitchen staff, stood by the counter, her hands over her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks. On the floor at her feet was a gray-haired man with bushy sideburns, surrounded by a pool of dark red blood. Chester’s toque sat crookedly on his head. His eyes were open, and his mouth was shaped in a surprised o, like he was trying to say something that would never come.

  The woman’s whimpers filled the kitchen as she drew her hands over her face, blocking her view of the carnage.

  Graham brushed his hand reassuringly over Helena’s arm. “I think he’s gone.”

  Her feet scraped on the tile floor as she moved back from his touch. The cold stainless steel counter stopped her. “Oh, shite. It’s really happened. It’s come true.”

  “What’s come true? Are you okay, Helena?”

  She couldn’t bear to look at Graham—to let him see how sick she felt.

  She should have said something to Chester. She should have warned him. Instead he lay dead at her feet.

  Her fingers trembled as she made the sign of the cross. “Ain dha moniker o Gaater, dha Kam, ain dha Mun'ia Gradum, staish amen.”

  Graham followed her lead. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

  The woman looked out from behind her hands. “Why? Why would someone want to hurt Chester? He ain’t done nothing to no one.” Her breathing quickened, and she started to hyperventilate as she stared down at the man on the floor.

  “Let’s get you both out of here.” Graham motioned for Helena.

  “No, I’m staying.” Helena stood immobile as she tried to make some sense of what had happened in the room. “You need to take her out.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He led the hysterical woman from the kitchen, leaving Helena alone with the dead Chester.

  She felt a faint breeze against her
skin in the confined kitchen, and chills rose on her arms.

  “You did nothing…” a man’s ghostly voice said.

  Helena’s jerked with surprise. “What? Who’s there?”

  “You knew…”

  Helena carefully stepped around the body and looked around the kitchen, under the cabinets and prep tables. No one was there.

  “You said nothing…”

  She turned and dropped to her knees next to the dead man. “Rest in your grave. Rot in your dirt. Spit and tears. Washed away!”

  Just in case the ghost was gypsy, Helena whispered the same prayer in Cant. “Gwili dil uwi. Slocka dil gloyday. Smay a lugil. Swunni nalk! Begone, foul spirit. You are not welcome!” she said.

  Above her, the metal spoons trembled.

  From the far recesses of the kitchen, bells jingled, the sound growing closer and closer. A horse snorted. Helena stood up and ran toward the door. She turned the corner of the counter.

  In front of her, between two prep counters, a coach driven by a headless fairy stormed to a stop. Six black horses, all with blood-red eyes, drew in wheezing breaths. Candles burned along the coach-a-bower’s length, each one mounted in a human skull—surely the heads of the fairy’s victims.

  It was the phantom from her childhood ghost stories. It was the Dullahan.

  The death carriage squeaked as the headless phantom stowed his whip, which was made of a human spine. The black steeds stomped and shifted impatiently, and droplets of blood dripped from their heaving sides.

  The Dullahan stepped down from the driver’s seat. Under one of his arms, the macabre phantom held his ghostly green head. The beady, fly-like eyes flickered around the room and settled upon the man who lay upon the floor.

  The phantom’s empty hand lifted, exposing gnarled bony fingers. He opened his fingers, exposing his fleshless, skeletal palm, and whispered an eerie incantation.

  A shadow oozed from Chester’s body and slid across the floor. The soul’s dark fingers clawed at the black and white tiles, frantically searching for something to hold, but Death called, and the soul was forced to answer.