Book of Stolen Tales (24 page)

Dina cried out when she came up behind me and saw them. We pushed forward through the knots of worms, both of us straining on the rope. Finally I clambered onto the shore at the edge of the island and flopped down onto wild grass growing between the reed beds. I rested my back against a weathered pole with a rusty ring screwed into it and took a few deep breaths.

Dina stumbled out of the water, her face drawn and pale. “One of those things is still on me. Oh God, I don't want to touch it.” Panicked, she shook her leg hard. I gritted my teeth and brushed the red worm off her. It lay squiggling on the ground. We did our best to clean our legs with handfuls of grass before putting our pants and shoes back on.

Reeds ringed the island, giving way to bare, damp earth. “She can't be here,” Dina said finally. “With all the commotion we're making, she'd have to be stone deaf not to hear us.”

The debris surrounding the caravan we'd seen from the far shore was even more appalling up close—traps, cages of all sizes, many with the rotted carcasses of animals still inside. Broken snares with tattered ropes. Heaps of dried bones. I stirred one of the bone piles with my shoe and unearthed snake vertebrae, turtle shells, and the delicate bones of other amphibians I couldn't name—frogs, perhaps. A string of mud-dwelling sucker fish had been strung up against a tree stump, the circle of cartilage that formed their mouths gaping open, ugly hooks still protruding from gills and lips. The stink of rotting fish along with the putrid swamp water was almost overwhelming.

“I doubt she ventures out much,” I said. “Lord help her if this is her food supply.”

Around back we found a rudimentary oven built with flat rocks and an iron grill. Beside it lay a small boat, a long pole wedged against one of the seats. The boat was made of rough fiberglass with the texture of cement and was covered with green mold up to the waterline. A painter had been fastened to the bow.

A few feet away from us the reeds began to whip around wildly. I grabbed a stick. As I parted the reeds something rubbery slapped at my hand. I swore and jumped back. The long body of a white snake thrashed desperately back and forth. Another flip of its body and I could see its yellow eyes bulging and red tongue flicking in and out. With every movement, its neck was squeezed ever tighter in a snare. It could be venomous so I didn't want to take the chance of freeing it. The snake's movements lessened until it grew flaccid and lay still. We hurried away.

Dina ran her hand over her forehead, leaving a muddy streak on her skin. “Can't say I want to meet her anymore.”

I got a tissue out of my pocket and brushed some dirt off her forehead. “Can't have you looking anything less than perfect to meet the fortune teller.”

“Thanks.” Dina smiled.

As we drew closer we could see the caravan had a set of wheels that had sunk into the ground until only the tops of their rims were showing. The paint, so bright from afar, was chipped and dirty. Incongruously, meadow flowers, rainbows, and birds darting among orange and pear trees decorated the sides. The windows we thought we'd seen had actually been painted on.

We rounded the last corner and found the entrance, a wooden ramp leading to a dark hole about five feet high and three feet wide cut into the side of the caravan. The door was missing. The frame had split, one dingy hinge fixed to it with a nail. Some protection from the elements came from a curtain made of snail shells threaded on strings.

Dina hung back. “You're welcome to go first,” she said.

When I knocked on the door frame, the sound echoed inside the caravan. We waited. No one answered. I knocked louder. Nothing.

Dina raised her voice.
“Est-ce personne ici?”

The doorway was too short for my six feet so I had to stoop. I could see nothing at first in the gloomy interior. Gradually my eyes made out shapes: more wire and wood cages piled on top of each other against the north wall of the caravan. One of them held a large snapping turtle. I couldn't tell whether it was dead or alive. A large piece of plywood rested on crates. On it, an assortment of rusty knives, old tools, fish hooks and lines, a net. I spotted a glimmer at the other end: an old kerosene lamp had been fixed to a bracket on the wall. The burning paraffin oil turned the air acrid and smoky.

A tall stack of rags appeared to be piled in a chair. Until it moved. A bony hand extended from the heap and beckoned me forward. As I approached, the rags shifted again and a woman raised her head. In doing so, the cloth draping her head dropped away.

The dome of her skull gleamed in the lamplight. Under heavy bluish lids she had the sharp black eyes of a raptor. Her face was thin as a cadaver's but her lips were a full and flaming red that could only have come from rouge or lipstick. From her earlobes dangled two large golden hoops. Dina gasped behind me.

“Mlle Lagrène,”
I began.
“Bonjour. Mon nom est John Madison et ceci est Dina.”
I gestured in Dina's direction.
“Excusez notre présence, mais …”

The old woman interrupted.
“Je m'appelle Mme Lagrène et pas Mlle.”
She flicked a glance toward Dina.
“Chez nous il n'ya pas de vierges. Emmenez cette femme!”

Dina understood the woman's insult and shuffled back, closer to the door.

“Vous”—
she crooked a finger toward me—
”venez ici.”

I took a few steps toward her and asked if she could tell us how to get to Renard's estate.

Her lips drew back in a ghostly smile, exposing sore-looking reddish gums.
“Venez, venez,”
she said to me. She glared at Dina again.

I tried to stay beyond her reach, shuddering at the thought of her fingers touching my skin. Her thin arm snaked out. On her middle finger she wore a silver ring with a gigantic ruby solitaire. I'm not exactly sure what happened next—perhaps a beam from the lamp caught the stone at a certain angle—but a streak of light flashed as Lagrène's hand swept toward me.

For an instant, the entire interior of the caravan appeared to transform. In place of the filthy walls and floors were patterns of vines and flowers on brightly colored backgrounds. Instead of the dirty cages, heaps of sugar candies filled sparkling glass containers. The ceiling glowed with hundreds of pinpoint lights, as if the caravan had suddenly opened to a starry sky. Lagrène's skeletal body fleshed out and seemed to grow in stature until she towered over me.

The vision lasted no more than a few seconds. I was once more in an ugly hovel. I shook my head to clear my mind. Lagrène grabbed my hand with a surprisingly powerful grip and pulled it toward her, turning it so she could see my palm. I was about to yank it away but thought better of it. She brought my palm close to her face and muttered something to herself. Then just as suddenly she dropped it.

“Vous cherchez la rue qui mène à la maison du marchant. Je peux vous montrer, mais cela vous coûtera.”

I shrugged off my knapsack and got my wallet out of the zippered front compartment, counting out the equivalent of twenty euros and handing the money to her.

She checked the amount and held out her hand again.
“Plus,”
she said.

I handed her another ten-euro note, raising my shoulders and holding out my hands to show I had no more.

Lagrène gave me the directions but lost me after the first sentence. I hoped Dina had caught all that because I certainly hadn't. I turned to check and she gave me a nod.

“Merci beaucoup,”
I said, turning back to the old woman.
“Je vous remercie de votre avis.”
I turned to leave.

“Un moment!”
Lagrène's voice rose almost to a shriek.
“Pourquoi est-ce que cet esprit sombre vous suit?”

Before I could figure out what she said, she spoke again in her high-pitched whine.
“Prenez garde. Elle vous videra en suçant votre vie comme je fais avec mes animaux aquatiques.”
She thrust out her finger toward Dina.
“Ne ralentissez pas jusqu'à ce que vous arrivez au monde souterrain.”

Dina stormed out of the caravan.

Outside, I found her pacing furiously back and forth.

“What did she say? Didn't she give us directions?”

“Oh yes. Exact instructions to reach the estate. She said keep on the path leading north toward the mountain then turn to the east and five miles distant we'll find a new road that climbs the cliffs. Do not err by going past it and taking the old Roman one. At the cliff top we'll see two pillars with the heads of horses where the forest begins. The drive running in between the pillars will take us to the merchant's house.”

“Good then. Sounds clear enough. What bothered you?”

“She asked why the shade follows you. She said it would suck the life out of you, just as she did to her water animals.”

“Alessio? How could she possibly know about him?”

Dina lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “She didn't mean Alessio. She meant
me
, and then cursed me. She said she wished I would not slacken my course until I reached the underworld. Why would she say that, John?”

“Don't pay it any mind,” I said reassuringly. “It's just gobbledygook from an old woman who's lost her mind.”

Dina didn't seem reassured. “Not everything is what it seems. I know that better than you.”

We retrieved the boat from behind the caravan. It wasn't overly heavy; Dina and I easily carried it to the shore of the lagoon. She was in such a hurry to get out of there, I think she would have carried it herself.

I knew now what the post was for and tied one end of the painter to the ring so once we reached the other side, the old woman could pull it back.

Dina brought the pole and jumped into the boat. I took off my shoes and with huge misgivings waded back into the water. The slime closed around my feet again. I gave the boat as strong a push as possible, grasped the pole, and hopped in. I stood up cautiously and pushed out. It was heavy going as the pole sank again and again deep into the muck.

When we reached the other side we almost embraced the horses. As we retraced our route back to the main path I kept an eye out for my pen. It was nowhere to be found. It could have been picked up quite innocently by someone walking the trail, but its absence only confirmed the wariness I felt.

By now it was past noon. We turned onto the main path as Lagrène had directed. A wind blew steadily. We'd been pushing the horses at a reasonably brisk pace, making good time, when Dina halted. I stopped beside her. We could see the trail bending to the east at the base of the cliffs; we were about three-quarters of the way there. Dina took in a deep breath.

“I love it here, out in nature. After being imprisoned like a nightingale in a cage I feel as though I've finally been set free.”

My own experience tended to the opposite. My first memory at age three was waking in the Greenwich apartment the day after my brother brought me back from Turkey. I can't remember what my life was like in the tiny Turkish mining village, or even the earthquake that split the sides of the tailing pond, drowning our village and my parents along with it. But I do have emotional memories of those early years. Unrelenting tension, discord, and turbulence.

The morning I woke up in my new home, Samuel was still asleep. I wandered over to the window and looked out on the bustling, noisy city. Blocks of buildings stretched as far as I could see; many appeared taller than the Turkish mountains of my home. In my young mind, the water towers perched on some of those buildings looked like witch huts and I trembled in fear. Later, Samuel explored the city with me and explained away all my fears. For the first time in my life I felt safe.

I'm not sure what prompted me to do it—perhaps those childhood memories—but I looked over my shoulder. Far back I could see a figure moving on foot, picking his way along the route we'd just traveled. Something about the way the man moved disturbed me. Shade billowed around him as if his own shadow were blown about by the wind. Dina gave her horse a gentle nudge to get it moving again. “Wait a minute,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Why? We need to keep going. We have a long way ahead of us.”

“Look.”

She turned in her saddle to see what I meant, squinting her eyes and peering into the distance. “A hiker. He's alone. Nothing to worry about.”

“Humor me. I'd like to get a better view.” After a few minutes his body came into better focus. His pace was slow yet determined. At first it looked as though he had three legs; then I saw a flicker of white as the third leg dipped and swung. The wavering shadow formed into a long dark coat flapping in the stiff breeze. He clamped his free hand on his black hat to keep it from blowing off.

The sun was still high in the sky, almost directly overhead, but as he moved along the path he left patches of shadow like ink blots dropping on the ground in his wake. Alessio's inexorable progress chilled me, as if he knew, in defiance of all reason, that we were powerless to outrun him even with our horses.

Twenty-Five