Curiosity Killed The Cats
At the base of a tree were two children, Robin and Poppy, with their backs against the trunk. The field before them was lush green with orange feathery rushes growing. A heavy mist hung in the air, ready to grab at them with its ghostly fingers.
Robin was the eldest by two years. Poppy had recently passed her thirteenth birthday. As a treat their parents had brought them to the countryside for a fresh break away from the city.
They had spent the morning prowling through the desolate hills of Dartmoor. Robin climbed the tree earlier, he had seen Little Callon—the picturesque village where they were staying—and was the first to spot the white rabbit.
The sight of it created a game in Robin’s mind. They ran after it without a second thought to where it would lead them. Like Alice, they sought after an adventure down a hole to a world of talking animals and live decks of cards. After the rabbit scampered into a hole they gave up the chase, returning to the tree.
“Wot we doing now?” Poppy asked.
“Don’ know.” Robin replied. It seemed he had lost any inspiration he may have had and was using his favourite sentence to emphasise this.
In silence, each felt as miserable as the day began to look. It was then that a hollow beating, quite faint, disturbed their peace. For a moment they did not react. When it came again, Poppy turned to her brother.
“’Ear that? Sounds like a drum or something,”
“Nah.”
Poppy stood. She surveyed the area and saw a strange procession of people, dressed in bright clothing that contrasted against their surroundings, in the next field. At their head was a boy of about ten with a drum. Next came a girl, not a day older than Robin, with hands tied. On either side of the girl were two stout women—guards’ ominous expressions forbidding escape.
“Jus’ a bunch ’f gypsies,” her brother commented, with an air of scholarly knowledge.
“Do they live ’ere?”
“Well I don’ know. Go an’ ask ’em, why don’ you?”
Robin strode towards the field cautiously. The people did not alter their gaze to look at him. He was about a hundred yards away from them when Poppy joined him.
The beating of the drum dominated the atmosphere, booming like a death toll. The gypsies continued up a hill and then trailed into a dark wood. Robin caught a flash of adventure. He grabbed his sister’s hand and pulled her along.
“Wot’re you doing?” She complained.
“We got to see where they go. Might get a look at wot no one else ain’t ever seen.”
Poppy reluctantly let her brother tug her along.
By the edge of the wood they found the worn path taken by the gypsies. They held back, waiting for the drum beats at their weakest. They followed, in gypsy suit, one behind the other.
The march lasted no longer than five minutes. Each time they caught sight of the last gypsy they paused, ignoring the swish of branches smacking their faces as they proceeded.
At last they came to a clearing. Robin stopped fast and pushed himself and Poppy against the thickest tree. From there they watched the goings-on.
Stone slabs had been placed in a wide circle in the middle of the glade. The gypsies, eight in total, stood around these slabs, each facing a newly dug hole. Fresh earth lay in a pile beside it with two shovels stuck in. The drummer halted. At the sight of the hole, the girl—tied up—whimpered. The two women pushed her forward and the girl screamed, falling into the pit.
“Please!”
Robin covered Poppy’s mouth.
“They’re acting,” he whispered, half-heartedly. This did not convince either of them. “P’raps she stole a family ’eirloom wot was precious an’ being punished like.” He let go of his sister.
“’Eirloom? So she’s a crim’nal?”
Robin shrugged his shoulder. “Don’ know.”
The girl was shrieking. A swarthy man clicked his fingers at the two women. They nodded in acknowledgement and took up the shovels. With precise sweeps they began filling up the hole, which was evidently a grave.
The drummer started up again, the pounding of his drum was like the last beatings of a dying heart.
“She being buried alive?”
Robin didn’t answer. Poppy nudged him and was shoved back in return. They were both terrified, though neither wanted to admit it. Poppy turned away in disgust. If they had watched the drummer boy, they would have seen tears, flowing freely, run down his cheeks.
“Robin, please can we go back?”
The girl was crying hysterically, it was muffled by the earth covering her.
Poppy covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut. For how long she stood there, she did not know. She felt Robin slip his arms around her, comforting her with his words.
“’S all right. They’ve gone now. Come, we ain’t got much time.”
“Eh?”
He led her around the tree to the clearing. They had a perfect view of the gypsy graveyard.
“No! We ain’t doing nothing. If they want a crim’nal buried, they get to. We ain’t got no business of it.”
“Well... you wouldn’t like it ’f it were you down there an’ I didn’t come an’ get you.” Robin argued.
He quickly sped to the grave and squatted. He pushed at the earth in a vain attempt to save the poor soul beneath it. Grudgingly, Poppy copied his movements. Soon they were sweating. Their brows were smeared with dirt where they had wiped away sweat.
As the body of the girl became almost visible, Robin climbed down beside her. Poppy kept a lookout. The girl was still buried but Robin managed to lift her head.
“Hello? You wake up now. We’re going to save you.”
He shook the girl gently. She was cold as ice, her dark features filthy. But then she coughed. She had swallowed a mouthful of earth and splattered it out with saliva. She gasped with shock, taking in deep breaths.
“Hush! You’ll only go an’ bring ’em back.”
She glanced around her to find him gazing sympathetically at her. She was helped to her feet. Robin was about to call out to Poppy when there came a sudden thud.
“Poppy? Wot’re you up to?”
There was no reply. He raised himself out of the grave only to come face-to-face with the dark man. He was grabbed by the cuff of his T-shirt. One of the women carried the unconscious Poppy in her arms.
“Poppy!”
“She can’t hear you,” the man said. His accent was thick, making it difficult to understand his speech.
“Lemme go!” Robin struggled in the man’s grasp.
Poppy was dropped into the grave with the girl, who immediately screamed.
“Please! Don’t do this!”
Robin joined his sister and the gypsy—the man had pushed him back in. He was about to wake Poppy when something hard struck him on the head. The girl hollered and was silenced by the same shovel used to hit both Poppy and Robin.
The gypsy women filled the hole. The dark man smiled with satisfaction. The drummer resumed the death toll.
*inches away from Myth*
