Pyromancist (2 page)

“Four. I saw the glow from across the water
when I went out to get the boat.”

She turned her back on him so that he
wouldn’t see the anxiety in her eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she
opened the overhead cupboard and removed a mug. It was hard to ask
her next question.

“Did you check on me before you left?” she
said softly.

There was a long silence. When Clelia finally
faced Erwan again, she saw compassion in his eyes.

“Did it happen again, grandchild?”

“Yes. I woke up in the woods this time.”

“I see.” He stared intently at his tea.

She gripped the edge of the table. “What if
it’s me, Erwan?”

He looked up. “You didn’t start that fire.
You were fast asleep when I left.”

“But I could have gone before, taken the
dinghy and been back before you noticed the flames.”

“Clelia, grandchild, it was a long time ago.
You haven’t started a fire since you were three.”

“But who’s to say it’s not starting
again?”

Angst tied her stomach in a knot. In the past
month, fifty houses had been burned mysteriously. The village was
swamped with police, firemen, and forensic experts who couldn’t
determine the cause of the fires. The villagers suspected arson. If
they had known about her supernatural ability to involuntarily set
objects alight, even if it only happened to her as a small child,
they would have had her on the proverbial stake in the blink of an
eye, condemned as the witch they accused her mother of.

“Clelia, it happened twice. You were just a
baby.”

Clelia bit her lip. She knew Erwan wanted to
believe it as much as she did. Once, while playing on the beach,
she saw a boy kicking a dog. When she told him to stop, he laughed
and picked up a stick, starting to chase the helpless animal. She
couldn’t exactly remember everything, but Erwan said the stick in
the boy’s hand caught fire. He had a fright, threw it down and ran
away. The second time was when she was almost trampled by a horse
while visiting the stables with Erwan. Then the hay had burst into
flames. Erwan told the bystanders that he had dropped his pipe.

Now, one house after the next was burned to
ashes, from the same time her sleepwalking had started. And the
dream. Clelia hadn’t told Erwan about her dream. Deep down she knew
that the dream, the sleepwalking, and the fires were somehow
connected, but she was too petrified to voice the thought for fear
that it might be true.

She became aware of Erwan watching her, and
when she met his gaze, he said in a quiet tone, “They say Josselin
de Arradon is back in town.”

Clelia’s body went colder than the icy
Atlantic. Although she had never said anything about her feelings
for Josselin, Erwan wasn’t blind. He was a wise old man who didn’t
need words to see the truth. Clelia reminded herself of this as she
carefully pushed her emotions back. She tried to show nothing of
her shock. She even managed to keep a straight face when she said,
“Really? When did he get back?”

“Yester night.”

“That’s a surprise,” she said, not quite
succeeding in sounding casual.

“They say he’s not alone.” His voice held a
measure of sympathy and warning, Erwan’s way of preparing her for
bad news. “He’s with a woman.”

She lowered her eyes and started wiping bread
crumbs from the table into her hand. “I thought he was in New
York.”

“Ay. That’s where he came from.”

Swallowing her hurt and disappointment so
that she could speak in an unaffected tone, she said, “Why would he
come back, after all these years?”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s finally ready to face
his demons, or maybe he brought the woman to make her mistress of
his home.”

“Mistress of his home? You still speak as if
he’s royalty.”

Clelia disapproved of social casts, something
Erwan had not completely let go of. Actually, a lot of the
villagers still honored their ancestral barons and earls.

“Our predecessors may have chopped off the
head of the king, but the lad’s got a duke’s blood flowing in his
veins, and nothing can change that.”

Clelia dared to glance at her grandfather.
“And you think he found a wife and brought her here, to make a home
in his childhood house?”

Erwan looked at her regretfully, as if it
pained him to say, “A woman can heal a man in ways doctors and
therapists sometimes can’t. But don’t forget, there is still his
castle.”

Yes, of course. Josselin de Arradon was heir
to his grandfather’s castle that stood in near ruins in the forest
of Brocéliande. When his mother married his father, a high-ranking
officer with a poor income, the family didn’t have the means to
sustain the expansive land and the enormous stronghold. Instead,
they moved into the big house near the sea. After Josselin’s
grandfather’s death, his gambling addiction having financially
crippled the heritage, the castle was left to waste away in that
enchanted forest. Could it be that Josselin had found the means to
restore it back to its former glory? Or did he find the means to
heal his heart? Clelia found herself suddenly envious of the woman
who had such magic at her disposal.

“And have you seen him?” she said, busying
herself with rinsing the teapot.

“Nay.”

After the de Arradon family tragedy, no one
ever expected Josselin to return. A shiver ran down Clelia’s spine.
Snow cried softly at the door.

“I’m late for work,” she said, drying her
hands. “I’ve fed the animals and there’s Pintade Chouchenn in the
oven for lunch.”

She kissed Erwan on the cheek, threw her
flip-flops into her backpack and pulled on a denim jacket and her
red rubber boots that stood by the backdoor. Their veranda steps
gave access to the beach at low tide when their boats would be
stranded, but at high tide the stairs were flooded and they could
take Erwan’s fishing boat and the dinghy straight out to sea.
Outside, she tossed her bag into the motorized dinghy and untied
the rope from the metal peg. She climbed in, started the engine and
steered the boat across the Gulf in the direction of the mainland.
At low tide, she had to take her bike and pedal across the bridge
that connected the Presque Isle to the village, but across the
water was quicker, and navigating the dinghy always had a calming
effect on her. As she looked back, she saw Snow standing on the
steps. She could hear his howl over the roar of the engine.

At Larmor-Baden she tied the dinghy to the
jetty, changed into her flip-flops, left her rubber boots in the
boat and made her way through the small harbor and past the luxury
tourist hotels to the town square. For some time she stood watching
the black frame of what used to be the mayor’s house, still
steaming in the fresh morning, smelling of melted plastic and wet
wood.

A few people who passed by greeted her by
name and some stopped to verbally ponder the mystery of the
pyromania that was sweeping through their quiet village. The bakery
opened at seven, and by then a small crowd of elderly people,
talking in hushed Breton had gathered at the tables on the pavement
with espresso and croissants to watch the firemen go through the
debris.

Clelia followed the tar road away from the
smell of destruction and walked toward the bus stop in front of the
library that would take her to the stables in Carnac where she
worked. She more helped out in the tourist office that offered
horseback rides than what could be called a job, but it was all
that was available in a village with nine hundred inhabitants.

It was on the bend of the long stretch of
road between the square and the library that she paused to lift her
eyes to the abandoned house. She hadn’t looked at it in nine years.
For three-thousand-two-hundred-and-eighty-seven days she had walked
this road, first to school and then to work, never turning her head
as much as an inch. Not because of the horrific nightmare that had
played out behind the shuttered, sad windows, but because of
him
. Because of Josselin.

For as long as she could remember, she had
been in love with Josselin de Arradon. Secretly. All through
school, she had watched him, so strong and defenseless at the same
time. Josselin was four years her senior and the most beautiful
being she had ever seen. He had bronze skin with black hair, and
eyes so gray they glowed in his head. Those eyes had captured her
with their pain and intensity. While she admired him from a
distance, he wasn’t aware of her existence.

Josselin had only spoken to her once. It was
on a summer day after school. She had wandered to the dense forest
at the back of the schoolyard because she knew that was where she
would find him. She stood behind a tree and watched him–studied
him–the movement of his hand as he smoked a forbidden cigarette,
the manner in which he pulled his fingers through his dark hair,
and the way he laughed loudly into his gang of friends, even if his
eyes cried, or blazed.

That day, however, he wasn’t with his
friends. He was with a girl. Her name was Thiphaine and she was the
most popular girl in school. She was blonde, slim, and beautiful
with blue eyes and red painted fingernails. Clelia watched from her
hiding place as Josselin slowly backed Thiphaine up until her body
pressed against the trunk of the witch tree. It was a thuja
occidentalis but the townsfolk had baptized it so because of its
twisted and crippled branches. The setting was eerie for a romantic
adventure, and yet, it suited Josselin. He seemed right at home,
while Thiphaine looked around nervously. His hand went to her
cheek, his palm huge, dark, and rough against the porcelain
paleness of Thiphaine’s face, while his other hand slipped under
her blouse. His gray eyes looked like melted steel when he lowered
his head.

His shoulder-length black hair fell forward
when he pressed his lips to Thiphaine’s and he moved his hand from
her cheek to brush it back behind his ear. Clelia remembered the
deliberate movement of his jaw, the way the muscles dimpled in his
cheek, the hand under Thiphaine’s blouse, all the while maintaining
his composure while Thiphaine came undone under his caress. The
beautiful girl made low moaning sounds. Her knees buckled, but
Josselin, without breaking the kiss, grabbed her waist, pulling her
so tightly into him that her back arched, keeping her up with his
arm while he made her weak with his touch and his tongue.

Watching them ignited both yearning and pain
inside of Clelia. The hurt she felt speared her heart. The aching
in her soul was suddenly greater than the heat in her pores and on
her cheeks, but she couldn’t tear her stare away from the forbidden
sight. It was Iwig, a boy from her class, who broke the painful
spell when he discovered her behind the tree.

“What have we here?” he said.

His eyes darted to the distance where
Josselin and Thiphaine were embracing. He knew what she had been
doing. He was a tall, blond boy with a strong build, and Clelia
disliked him for his habit of hunting abandoned cats with his
pellet gun.

“A peeping tom,” he said, taking a step
toward her.

When she tried to back away, he grabbed her
long braid and tugged it roughly, causing her to yelp.

“Not so fast, witch.” He grabbed her arm and
hauled her so that she stumbled into him. “You like to watch, don’t
you?” He grinned. “How about a taste of the real thing?”

She opened her mouth to scream, but he had
already brought his down and kissed her so hard that his teeth
split her lower lip. In reflex, her free hand shot up, aiming for
his cheek, and collided with its target. The force of the blow shot
Iwig’s head back and froze him in his action, but only for a
second, before Clelia saw his arm lift. Not able to free herself
from his grip, she cowered instinctively, but instead of his fist
coming down on her, another pair of arms grabbed Iwig by his
shoulders and flung him to the ground.

When she looked up, she stared into the face
of Josselin, and what she saw was frightening. His features were
twisted into a terrifying expression, and before she could say
anything, Josselin bent down and lifted Iwig by his jacket lapels.
Iwig’s legs dangled, flapping like fish on soil, while his arms
flayed in the air as if swatting flies. Josselin let go of one side
of the jacket, his fist arching and hooking under Iwig’s chin,
while at the same time unknotting his other hand from the fabric of
the jacket. The impact sent Iwig flying through the air. When he
hit the ground, she could hear the loud thump as the air was
knocked from his lungs. Josselin moved forward, his arms away from
his body, his fingers flexing, his shoulders pushed forward, until
he stood wide-legged over the submissive body of Iwig. Iwig lifted
his hands in front of his face, mumbling pleas for mercy.

“If you ever touch a girl in that way again,
I’ll hang you from a tree under a pack of wild boars and watch them
eat you from your feet up to your useless dick, until they rip your
stomach open and your insides fall out,” Josselin said.

He spoke very softly, but the woods had
suddenly gone quiet. His voice all but echoed in the absence of the
sound of birds and wind. From the corner of her eye, Clelia noticed
Thiphaine who stood to the side, hugging herself.

“And if you ever lift your hand to a woman
again, I’ll cut off your balls and make you eat them and then I’ll
feed you to the boars. Do you understand?”

Iwig tried to scurry away on his elbows, but
Josselin stepped on his jacket.

“I asked if you understand.”

“Yes. Yes,” Iwig said. He had started
crying.

When Josselin lifted his boot, Iwig scrambled
to his feet. He didn’t look at Clelia before he ran down the path
in the direction of the school. Only then did Josselin turn to her.
She shook from head to toe while Josselin studied her quietly.
After a moment, he walked to her, took her chin in his hand and
tilted her head.