Cupid's Arrow (7 page)

Dear DH,

Thank you for your message and for taking time to help decipher my dream. Your advice is very useful, I will try to follow it. I was wondering, have you ever had a case where a dream really was a premonition of something that was going to happen? And have you ever known people to separately have the same dream?

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,

Caroline

It was weird, signing myself as someone else, but then, that's what the internet's like, isn't it? You're never sure that people really are who they say they are, if you don't know them personally, I mean. Dreaming Holmes, for example, could be anyone at all. Man, woman, even child, who knows?

The rest of that day passed pretty quickly. I actually fell asleep for a while, a heavy, dreamless, jet-lag sort of sleep. I woke with gritty eyes and a thick tongue and for an instant when I opened my eyes, couldn't work out where I was or what I was doing. It was almost like I was another person. It made my heart beat a bit faster, with fear or excitement, I don't know exactly. Then I got up, splashed water on my face, stared at myself in the mirror and suddenly thought of that boy, Remy. He must have been as surprised as I was, suddenly hearing a voice in a spot he thought was deserted. What had he thought of me, yelling at him like that? How embarrassing. What on earth would I say if I saw him again? I wondered who he was. He must be a village boy. But no, he hadn't come from the village, but from the other side. From the woods I'd seen up the slope from the river. Maybe he lived up there. Or maybe he'd just been walking his dog.

When I went back downstairs, I found Mum in the kitchen, tossing a salad. She'd pulled something out of the freezer and it was going round and round in the microwave. She said, 'I was just going to come and wake you. Dinner's nearly ready – veal stew, the label said. And there's a frozen meringue thing for dessert, it looks great. Hope you're hungry.'

I sat at the big table and had a glass of very cold juice while she got everything ready. It was a beautiful evening. Mum had left the windows open and a lovely soft little breeze was blowing into the kitchen, smelling of roses and warm herbs. That same breeze carried sounds from outside: a cow mooing, someone laughing, a tractor in the distance, a dog barking. Perhaps it was Patou. Or perhaps not. I said, 'Mum, I went for a walk down to the river earlier.'

'Did you, darling?' She pulled the stew out of the microwave. 'Ouch, this is hot. Well, was it a nice walk?'

'It was lovely. I went for a swim.'

'Really? That's great.' She put the food down in front of us, cut up some bread. 'That's to soak up the sauce. Couldn't be bothered cooking spuds, I'm afraid.'

'I saw a boy there. A boy and his dog. Patou. I mean the dog was called Patou. The boy's called Remy.'

'Oh, I'm glad you've met one of the locals,' she said, smiling at me. 'Did you have a good chat?'

'No, not really,' I said. 'I only just met them.'

'Oh, okay. I guess you might meet them again in the village,' she said vaguely, ladling out stew onto her plate.

'I don't think they live in the village,' I began, but Mum wasn't listening. She said, 'You know, I did a quick three-card spread.'

'What? Oh, right, about Wayne Morgan.'

'Yes. And do you know what?'

'Tell me,' I said, forking up some of the meat. Yum! It was delicious. Tender, with a creamy, lemony, peppery sauce, herbs and mushrooms. Most of my friends hate mushrooms but I love them. Especially tasty small ones like these.

'I asked the cards,
what needs to be fulfilled
? And I drew the Empress first,' she said, her eyes shining. 'That is wisdom. Then I drew the Ace of Cups. From that I understood I should have an open heart, a trusting heart. And then the Lady of the Lake herself – the High Priestess. You know how she represents self-trust, intuition and balance. And sometimes they say the Lady of the Lake's name is Morgana. That's close to Morgan. So ...'

'So it means you're going to give Wayne Morgan the notebooks,' I said, glad I'd kept the news of the other notebook to myself. 'Jeez, I hope the cards are not telling you fibs, Mum, and he's really a big crook.'

'If he was a crook of any size, he'd have asked for something valuable,' said Mum, with dignity. 'I mean, something you could actually sell. And there are lots of those kinds of books here. Besides, I've had a look at the notebooks. They're interesting to anyone who's fascinated in how writers work. But they're not valuable, as such. They wouldn't fetch money. Not much.'

'They might one day,' I said.

'Maybe. But a crook doesn't go for that sort of thing. They want returns now, they don't want to wait for maybes and ifs. He is genuinely interested, I'm sure of it.'

'Hadn't you better wait till you meet him before you say for sure?' Honestly, sometimes I think it's me who's the adult and Mum who's the kid. She does live in a funny old dream world sometimes. Much more than I do, even with the dreams I have.

'Of course. But I feel more settled about it now. And that's the main thing. Hey, how about that cake then? Ready for it?'

'Sure thing.' I was pretty full of stew and bread and salad, but you can always fit in cake, yeah? That's what I reckon, anyway. And that cake was something else. You might not think a frozen meringue cake would be that nice but you'd be wrong. It had this gorgeous coffee ice-cream sandwiched in between hazelnut meringue and then a layer of chocolate ice-cream and roasted sugared hazelnuts on top and it was just one of the best things I'd ever tasted. We had it with more of the whipped cream. Well, why not go the whole hog, eh? And we were just so full by the end of it that we could hardly move to make coffee. But just as Mum got up to put the kettle on, there was a big thunderous knock at the door and we both jumped almost out of our skins.

'Who on earth can that be?' said Mum, looking at her watch. 'It's nearly nine.' It didn't look that late because Mum had said that in summer in Europe it doesn't get really dark till ten o'clock or something. But she got up and went to the door and I trailed after her, remembering what had happened to Raymond and scared for no real reason. A killer would hardly knock at the door, would he?

The next moment, I felt really silly because there on the threshold stood this thin little woman in her early thirties or so, with big specs and blondish hair scraped back with clips, dressed in jeans and a neat shirt. She said, 'Good evening. My name is Marie Clary, I would have come earlier but I have been in Vezelay all day. I clean here three days a week,' she added, helpfully, as we looked blank. 'I came to see if everything was okay and if you needed anything.'

'Oh, I see,' said Mum. 'No, no, we don't need anything. Thank you. We have everything we – But, Madame Clary! It was your stew and cake we just ate, wasn't it?'

'I hope it was satisfactory,' said the woman, with a little smile.

'It was excellent. Delicious. Wonderful. Wasn't it, Fleur?' I nodded. Mum went on. 'Madame, we were just about to have a cup of coffee. Would you, perhaps like to –'

'Thank you, yes, Madame Griffon,' said Marie Clary, briskly coming in. She'd obviously hoped to be asked.

'Please. My name is Anne.'

'And mine is Marie. I heard you are from Australia. You speak very good French. No trace of an accent.'

'I was born in France. My parents are French. They went to live in Australia when I was a small child.'

'Ah. That explains it. You are bilingual then. How marvellous. Your daughter must speak French well then too?'

'No,' I said, blushing, 'I understand just about everything, but I do not speak well. I–I am too slow when I speak.'

'You do not speak too badly at all,' she said judiciously, 'and if you practise you will speak even better. You must make friends here. You will soon learn to be quite fluent,' said Marie Clary, sitting down at the table with a decided air. 'I will introduce you to –'

'Fleur has met someone already,' said Mum, ignoring my glare. 'A boy called Remy, and his dog. Does he live in the village?'

Behind her big glasses, Marie Clary's blue eyes swivelled to me. She said, 'No. Remy Gomert does not live in the village.' There was an odd expression in her eyes. 'He and his mother, Valerie, live in the woods. She is, well, they don't mix very much with the rest of us.'

'I see,' said Mum, who clearly didn't.

'She's an artist. An illustrator. She used to do work sometimes for Monsieur Dulac,' said Marie Clary, sipping on her coffee. 'She has a thing about the world outside this little valley, though. Won't go anywhere else, hardly even to Avallon. Remy does the shopping for her. She is, you might say, a hermit. But then, poor thing ...' She paused. 'When you have a face like that –'

'Like what?' said Mum, wide-eyed. She can never resist a good gossip. Well, not many people can. Certainly not me. I was all ears, just like Mum.

'A terrible thing happened to her back in Quebec, in Canada, where she comes from, originally. Someone set fire to her house and she got badly burnt. She got over it, but one side of her poor face – well, it didn't heal up really well, you see.'

'My God, that's awful!'

'Even worse, her husband and her brother died in that fire. Remy was a baby when it happened, thank the Lord he wasn't in the house, he was at her sister's, that's why he was okay. That's what I heard, anyway,' said Marie Clary, leaning forward. 'If you meet her, just remember not to ask any questions.' She looked at me. 'And if you see Remy again, don't tell him you know. He's a good sort of boy, but a bit strange, if you know what I mean. Spends too much time by himself in those woods with that dog. He's seventeen, but he's never gone to school. I mean, his mother teaches him. Very clever she is, apparently, and he has done well in his studies, I believe, but still, is it right, I ask you? And they don't have electricity or TV or anything like that at their house. I think you shouldn't try to live outside your own time, it's not natural. And how will he cope, out in the real world, once his mother, well... ?'

Mum shook her head. 'I suppose he will, somehow. Young people are very adaptable.'

'Perhaps you are right,' said Marie Clary. 'Still, Fleur,' she said, turning to me, 'I think we can introduce you to other young people as well, yes? Julien and I don't have children, sadly, but my sister Angele, she has twin girls and a boy, very nice they are, I am sure they would like to meet you. An Australian! Well! They will want to ask you a million questions. Many young people in France dream of going to Australia. The last frontier, yes?'

'We live in a city,' said Mum, smiling, seeing that I was struggling to answer. 'So for us coming here is like the last frontier. Avallon. The land of King Arthur.'

'Oh, that,' said Marie Clary, getting up. 'Monsieur Dulac was very interested in all that.' Her vague tone suggested she didn't share that interest. 'Anyway, I'd better get off home. I am glad you are well-settled. I will be in tomorrow to clean, and Julien will come to do the garden. We usually arrive about eight. I have a key, so you do not need to let us in. I knocked tonight because I didn't want to give you a fright.'

Mum and I looked at each other, smiling. She was clearly not at all aware of what big a fright she'd actually given us!

Not long after Marie Clary left, we went up to our rooms. Before I went to bed, I stood in my pyjamas at the window, looking out over the park, as I was now calling that big garden. There was still a bit of light left, a kind of grey light that made everything look a bit strange. The big trees loomed in that half-light like frozen giants with many twisted arms, and the grass rippled gently under the little breeze. It looked like a scene from a dream, or rather from some movie that's trying to look like a scene in a dream.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a hint of movement towards the back of the park, just behind one of the trees. In the next instant, I saw a shadow slip out from behind the tree and head across the lawns. I only glimpsed it for an instant, but I saw it was a dog, moving very quickly, intent on something. Then, in the next instant, I nearly hit the roof, for out of the night came the most piercing and weird sound you can imagine – something that was like a mixture between a scream, a bark and a sneeze, something alien and cold and wild that made the hair stand up on my head and my palms prickle with needly sweat. I couldn't, for a panicked moment, think what it might be, then suddenly remembered hearing a similar kind of sound once, when we were on one of our country holidays. A fox. It was a fox's hunting call...

The dog had also stopped dead at the sound. It sniffed the air, once, twice. And then, much lower than the fox's scream, I heard another sound. A human one, this time. A long, tuneful, low whistle. The dog turned tail then, and headed fast back across the way it had come, running down the garden till it disappeared from sight among the rustling shadows. But not before I had seen that its thin, elegant body glistened silver-grey in the light. It was the little whippet, Patou.

I don't know if it was because I'd had that nap earlier or because I was jet-lagged, or in a strange bedroom in a strange house, or because of everything that had happened, but I found it hard to get to sleep that night. All sorts of things kept churning round and round in my head: Raymond's notebook, the boy and the dog prowling around our backyard, and the thought that Raymond's killer was still out there somewhere, the image of a woman with a ruined face hiding in the woods so no-one would see her, the fox's scream, Morgana Avalon, Wayne Morgan and even King Arthur disappeared into the misty borders between history and legend, perhaps somewhere near here, perhaps somewhere far away.

Everything seems magnified at night, and things click together in ways that seem absurd in the light of day. But by the time I finally fell into a light, agitated half-sleep, full of frustrating bits of dream, I had made up my mind. I would go and see if I could find Remy Gomert's house. Okay, so I know I'm curious – sometimes Mum says far too curious for my own good – but I can't help it, it's the way I am, and that's that. I can no more stop trying to find things out than I can stop breathing.

I woke from an annoying dream, in which I was trying to text someone but the wrong words kept coming up on the mobile-phone screen, into bright sunlight flooding the room and the sound of a vacuum cleaner somewhere outside. I looked at my watch. It was past nine o'clock. Marie Clary must have started her cleaning. I got up, had a shower, flung on some jeans and a T-shirt, and after a moment's thought, took Raymond's notebook from under my pillow and stuck it in my back pocket. I didn't particularly want Marie Clary to find it when she cleaned up the room. She'd know I'd been snooping around. I put on my shoes and went out. I could hear the vacuum cleaner going in a room down the hall, but didn't see Marie Clary as I went downstairs to get some breakfast.

No-one was in the kitchen, but the toaster was out on the bench, and a coffee plunger and some coffee in a packet were sitting next to it. I made myself a cup of coffee and some toast out of half-slices of baguette, and turned on the radio. There was a bit of music, then some local news – not much from what I could make out: council stuff and a concert to be held in Avallon and some guy found dead in his office in Vezelay from a heart attack the night before. That sounded a bit spooky. I could just imagine the scene, the poor old secretary entering the office to discover the boss stiff and cold in his chair.

I finished my breakfast, turned off the radio and went in search of Mum. She was in the library, of course, and already knee-deep in books. She didn't question me when I said I'd like to go for a walk that morning. 'Sure, sure,' she said, vaguely. 'I might need you later, but not right now. Oh, Oscar Dulac rang. He and his fiancée should be here by lunchtime. Nicolas will be coming too. Marie Clary's making something special. So be back by one o'clock, okay?'

I nodded. Oscar's fiancée must be that woman with the navy-blue eyes, whose photo I'd seen in his room. And Nicolas was coming too, was he? My intuition about him was right, I thought. He'd fallen for Mum. Poor him. Mum gets lots of fellas buzzing around her but she takes very little notice. I can't remember the last time she went out seriously with anyone. I used to hate her going out with anyone when I was a little kid and I guess that's why she stopped. Now, well, I don't think I'd mind, but maybe she just got out of the habit. She goes to dinner sometimes with people but that's as far as it goes.

I went out of the house and headed down the back of the park, keeping a wary lookout for snakes. Luckily, the one I'd seen yesterday didn't make an appearance, and all I saw were lots of bees and a few birds darting about. I went down to the river but didn't go in this time, instead heading straight up the riverbank path and cutting up towards the woods.

It was very quiet, except for the faraway whine of a chainsaw, somewhere in the distance. There was a slight breath of wind ruffling the tops of the trees. As I reached the edge of the woods, even that stopped. I stopped too, suddenly uncertain. What the hell did I think I was doing? I was chasing some dream-phantom, some weird little idea born of lack of sleep and night imaginings. The boy and his dog hadn't been doing anything wrong last night. And he had behaved very well really when he'd caught me paddling about in the river in my undies. Much better than a lot of boys I knew, who'd have made a big deal of it, teased me, maybe pinched my clothes or otherwise made things even more embarrassing than they already were.

But like I told you, I'm curious. I've got to know. And there was something about that boy and the story of his mother that drew me. I can't tell you why, only that it sounded like a mystery. And I can't resist mysteries. I want to know why, how and who. It's the way I'm made and also why I think I'd be good at the job I want to do when I'm older.

Anyway, I got over my hesitation and plunged off down the woodland path. There was nothing scary about this wood. It wasn't like the forest in Raymond's book, or like the forest in my nightmare. The trees were tall but not thick, and the light fell through their leaves in a soft glitter that lay scattered on the path like coins of fairy gold. It smelled lovely in there, a sort of green, rich smell, and as I went further in, I could hear all kinds of rustles in the undergrowth. Not frightening rustles, but the sort that make you know there are all kinds of little lives going on in there – birds, rabbits, squirrels, hedgehogs, badgers, whatever – as if you're in some kind of Beatrix Potter book or
Wind in the Willows
and at any moment some busy little creature in a waistcoat and a hat is going to pop out from behind a tree and say 'I'm late, I'm late'. Or is that
Alice in Wonderland?
I forget. Whatever, I really liked that wood. I almost felt at home in it.

I was just thinking that I didn't really know how far into the woods Remy's mother's house would be when suddenly there was a crashing in the undergrowth to one side of the path, and before I had time to do anything but stop dead, something big came charging out of the bushes, directly across my path. I could not move; literally could not move a muscle. And neither could the deer, just for that one instant of time. We looked into each other's eyes, and time stopped.
My God, how beautiful you are, how utterly beautiful.
He – it must be a he because of the antlers – was a beautiful light brown, which, in the light falling softly through the leaves above him, was transformed to a blond that was almost white. His eyes were very dark. He looked at me, panting slightly, then turned swiftly and disappeared into the undergrowth on the other side of the path. I could hear the sound of him fading away among the trees.

Wow, I thought, wow! How cool was that? All at once it made me feel so happy that I started skipping off down the path, just like a little kid, my heart thumping happily. This is just the best place, this wood, I love it, I want to ...

And all at once, there was Remy. I hadn't heard him coming. I hadn't seen him. But there he was on the path, the dog by his side. And in his hand – I stared, I couldn't believe it at first –
he carried a bow.
A bow-and-arrow bow. Strapped to his back was a quiver – that's what you call it, isn't it? – a quiver full of arrows.

I stared at him and he stared at me and suddenly instead of being afraid, I was full of rage. I launched myself at him, yelling in English, 'You were trying to shoot him! You creep, you were trying to shoot him! That's why he was scared! That's why he was running!' I was beating at him with my fists as I was yelling, and at first he was obviously so surprised that he didn't do anything to defend himself. But Patou was growling and yelping and if I'd thought twice about it I might have known she would try to bite me. But then he grabbed me by the wrist, not painfully but very firmly, and he told Patou to get down, and then he said, very calmly, 'What are you talking about?'

'The deer,' I said, half-sobbing. 'The stag. You were trying to kill him.'

'Ah,' he said. 'I see. You thought because I have the bow that I –'

'Why else? And he was running.'

'I do not kill deer,' said Remy, quietly. 'I was practising. Target practice.'

'On a deer!'

'No. No.' His voice hardened. 'On a tree. I did not see the deer. He must have been further in the trees. He may have been startled by my shots, it's true. But I did not shoot at him. You must believe me.'

I looked at him searchingly. What I saw in his eyes convinced me he was telling the truth. 'I–I ... Sorry. He was just so beautiful,' I said, lamely, wishing I hadn't started all this, wishing I was anywhere but here. 'His colour – he looked almost white, in the light.'

'Really?' he said, and something flickered in his eyes. They were an unusual colour, a kind of golden brown, several shades lighter than his hair, and surrounded by short, spiky black eyelashes. His cheekbones were high, his nose strong and straight, his mouth hard but full. He was really, really good-looking, but in a weird kind of way, not in a mainstream 'handsome' way at all. Hard to explain, but when I looked at him, I felt like I was in a kind of dream, like we weren't really strangers, but had known each other for ages.

He continued softly, 'Then it is a good omen,' and the way he said it made me feel odd and shivery, but also annoyed, because it's the kind of thing Mum would say, because she believes in all that stuff about omens and fate.

So I said, 'What's a good omen? Cos he was just a deer, that's all.'

'But a
white
deer,' he said. 'You're in legendary country here. Don't you know the stories?' He didn't wait to hear my answer, but went on. 'In medieval stories, when someone sees a white deer, it means they are going to have an extraordinary adventure. And that they won't rest till they find out exactly what it is they want, in their truest heart.'

I wanted to scoff and say that it was all rubbish, just stories, not real life, and that anyway, that stag wasn't really white, it was just the way the light fell on his coat, but I couldn't for the life of me open my mouth, I could only stare at Remy like an idiot.

He smiled and said, 'I suppose now we should introduce ourselves officially, don't you think?'

He was just so poised and cool about it, not at all flustered by the weirdness of what had been going on, as if he was a lot older than me, not a boy just a year older, from what Marie Clary had said. She'd said that he'd been home-schooled and maybe that was why he was like that. I don't know. Anyway, I nodded, and trying to sound as cool as him, I said, 'I'm Fleur Griffon. And you're Remy Gomert, and you live in the woods.'

The golden eyes flickered again. He said, sharply, 'Who told you?'

'I knew you were called Remy yesterday, when you ... er –' I hurried on. 'Anyway, Madame Clary told me your full name, she is cleaning for us, and ...'

'You asked her about me?' I couldn't read his expression. A shiver of anxiety and something else surged through me but I managed to say, 'Oh no, she was just gossiping, telling us about everyone in the area and –'

'She told you about my mother, of course,' said Remy quietly. I nodded. He said, 'And you thought you'd take a look at the mysterious lady in the woods. See if she was as bad as they say.'

I flushed at his tone. 'I did not! I just went for a walk and –'

'And then the white deer crossed your path,' he said, his tone changing again, his eyes bright with something I couldn't put a name to. 'Well, then. That's settled. I'll take you to my house if you like. You are friends of Raymond's from Australia, aren't you? Don't look so surprised – you think you are the only one who listens to gossip? Maman will be pleased to meet you. She and Raymond were good friends.'

I was so bewildered by all these changes of tone, the sudden offer, and by his very presence, that I couldn't find anything intelligent to say. I managed to stammer, 'Thank you, I – that's very kind and . ..'

He took no notice of my reply, but set off up the path with Patou scampering at his heels, and I had no choice but to follow. Well, I suppose I did have a choice, I could've turned and run away fast in the opposite direction, not wanting anything more to do with someone who looked and talked like he did and made me feel so odd. Maybe you might think that's what I really should've done. It's true, I don't trust people easily. But something profound had happened to me, here in this wood when I saw the white deer. And so I went tumbling helter-skelter into something that, if I'd applied my usual practicality or even any normal sensible sense of self-preservation at all, I'd have fled from as fast as I could.