The Moonstone (Enchantment Book 1)
Read The Moonstone (Enchantment Book 1) Online
Authors: Evelyne Contant
Enchantment
The Moonstone
Book 1
Évelyne Contant
Copyright
©
2016
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an event or a person is a coincidence.
Enchantment
Volume 1: The Moonstone
Copyright © 2016 by Évelyne Contant
Translation from the original French by Monique Damus
Concept and creation of the title page by Gabrielle Pelletier at Boudesign
The jewel on the title page is a creation of Only Sonum
English First edition February 2016
French First edition November 2015
All rights reserved. All reproduction, copy, resale, and transfer of the contents of this book, either in whole or in portions thereof, in any form whatsoever, is prohibited without written consent of the author.
The author recognizes the physical and intellectual property of the following brands or personalities who are mentioned in this novel:
Fanta, Ghirardelli, Radiohead, Facebook, Beatles, Google, Ford Coupe, BMW, Indiana Jones, Marilyn Manson, Digital Daggers, AC/DC, Donovan, Ed Sheeran, The Contours, Macallan “M”, Moby Dick, Chevel SS
Acknowledgment
I wish to thank all those who contributed to the success of this novel. Thank you to my boyfriend Michael who supported me, who gave me the time I needed to write this story, and who listened patiently all those times I questioned the intrigues: your precious advice was always appreciated. Thank you to my mother Lucie for having told me stories of magic and fantastic creatures to tuck me in at night when I was young: you sowed the seed of imagination and from it grew a forest! Thank you to my father Jean-Marc for having taught me that with perseverance, anything can be accomplished. Thanks to the reading committee group: girls, you who were my first readers, I will never forget our crazy suppers and our sundae party: you gave me the confidence I needed to believe in this adventure. Thanks to Suzie, Martine, Geneviève, Patricia, Vénus, Catherine, Anne-Marie, Francine and Chantal. Thanks to all those who inspired me without even knowing it, with a thought for me, or a smile, you all have a small part in this story.
Contents
For all those who believe in magic,
or who would like to believe, this story is for you.
“ …
She was among the recent ghosts, and walked haltingly from her wound. The poet of Rhodope received her, and, at the same time, accepted this condition, that he must not turn his eyes behind him, until he emerged from the vale of Avernus, or the gift would be null and void. They took the upward path, through the still silence, steep and dark, shadowy with dense fog, drawing near to the threshold of the upper world. Afraid she was no longer there, and eager to see her, the lover turned his eyes. In an instant she dropped back, and he, unhappy man, stretching out his arms to hold her and be held, clutched at nothing but the receding air. Dying a second time, now, there was no complaint to her husband (what, then, could she complain of, except that she had been loved?). She spoke a last ‘farewell’ that, now, scarcely reached his ears, and turned again towards that same place…
”
Ovid,
(The Metamorphoses)
book 10
Prologue
August 1998…
It’s late and darkness descends on the city. The crickets chirping in the warm, perfume-filled summer night predict the coming of another sunny day. It’s a perfect summer night, that is, it would be if it weren’t for the tiny blonde who creeps out of her warm and cozy bed for a midnight stroll. The little lady is hardly four years old and goes forward, sleepwalking barefoot along the gloomy road. Alone, and unconscious, she continues her quest guided by the arms of Morpheus. She does not see the lights that flit around her, nor the nocturnal glow of animal eyes, the animals that have come to watch her from the side of the road. She dreams of stars and of planets and doesn’t feel the gravel as it scrapes at the soles of her feet. She lifts her arms to the sky as if to reach for the stars in her dreams, the trees bending ever so slightly in toward her to answer this tiny queen of the night. Finally, scores of curious creatures softly and silently follow every step the sleeping girl takes. The scene, not unlike one in a fantasy film, has no spectator other than the entranced girl. She is entirely in communion with nature. Suddenly, a bluish glow surrounds her hands and enters her body, as if it were a firefly. As if it were a magnificent star that had lost its way. But, as with all beautiful things, there must always be a brutal end. Her nocturnal quest guides her to a main thoroughfare and suddenly there is a truck hurtling fatefully toward her. It is such a gentle dream, and it ends so abruptly. Large, wrinkled fingers wrap themselves around her, pushing her forcefully into the bushes. She is instantly startled awake and stares with horror into the rheumy eyes of an old woman. The woman disappears just as quickly as she appeared, crossing the road behind the truck and escaping from view. The truck driver has no clue he has narrowly avoided tragedy. The young girl searches for the woman, hears the tires of a car spin, a door opens and the desperate voice of a woman comes to reassure the terrified child.
“Lou! Where were you, sweetheart? Mommy was so frightened. You should never leave in the middle of the night like that! Oh, sweetie!” said the woman, who is visibly overwhelmed and tearful.
“Honey, she’s a sleepwalker, she probably wasn’t aware of a thing. I told you to lock the door,” said the much calmer voice of a man.
The little one can’t remember a thing, not the animals, not the trees, or the mystical glow, not even the truck, nothing, except of course those cloudy eyes.
2015…
I wake up with a start, like I do every night. Short of breath, with a pasty mouth and an enormous lump in my throat. I’ve had another nightmare, but an even darker one this time. Every night I have the same dream, every night I go deeper into the abyss. It is dark and stiflingly humid and I can never remember where I am. The air has a pungent taste to it and breathing is difficult. In the depth of the darkness, there are always two sinister eyes that appear, and a hand that yanks me towards who-knows-where while sinister laughter surrounds me. That’s the dream that has pulled me from my sleep every night for years. I get up to take a sip of my nightly beverage, Fanta. Yeah, I know, Fanta isn’t what I should be drinking at night, but it’s my guilty pleasure. Just as I start to savor the bubbles on my lips, there’s a light tapping on my window. Madame Nyx, of course, she never misses a night, her sixth sense must detect my night terrors and she always arrives like clockwork. I open the groaning window to let in the small black and white cat. She is endearing despite her missing eye and frail body. She’s different, and so am I. Well, I have both my eyes and I don’t have a wooden leg, but it has been said that I am one of a kind, a real dreamer! I’m indifferent to the status quo and ordinary folk don’t seem concerned with me. I found Nyx when she was tiny and she could still fit in the palm of my hand. I saw her little paw sticking out of a flowerpot on the back yard balcony. I can still hear her tiny meowing when she saw me sitting there stargazing one summer night. It’s been twelve years, and she’s always been faithful. I would have loved to have put a roof over her head, but there was no way my mother would have gone for that- she’s allergic to cats, at least that’s what she told me when I tried to bring Nyx inside. She grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and gave her to my Dad who quickly got rid of her. Nyx was always a drifter though, spending her days God knows where, but in the evening she usually comes back to my window. You should see her expertly climb the tree next to my house and glue her nose to my bedroom window, ever the acrobat. She is agile, which is certainly not the case for me; in fact, I’m rather awkward. Gym was never my favorite subject at school; I always looked like a houseplant trying to run. My father always told me: “Lou, sweetie, all you have to do is stick to it and one day you’ll be running marathons.”
Since then, I’ve always trained, but I’ve never run more than three kilometers. I don’t want to disappoint him, so I try to see life the way he does and I persevere. I’m not your typical girl. Here in Vermont girls are pretty and know how to show it off. I am what most people would call ordinary: blonde, yes, and blue eyed too, but I can’t be convinced to wear mini-skirts and high heels. I’m more the ripped jeans and hoodie type. Most of all, it has to be comfortable and I wouldn’t have a clue what to choose in a fashion boutique anyway. My mom has always had great fashion sense, but I prefer my own personal style…having none! I’m twenty-one and should probably have some sense of style, but that’s one of the advantages of working in a library, I can just be me.
I love books; in fact, reading about non-existent worlds is my only real pastime. Most of the time I can relate more to the characters in my books than I can to the real Lou Mills. I don’t think that I’ll work at the library forever, but I have to stay there at least long enough to earn enough money to visit Greece this coming winter. I am completely fascinated by mythology and I am desperate to finally take the six-month trip that has been haunting me since childhood. After that, I will come back and study history at the University of Vermont. That’s what my parents expect me to do, and I certainly don’t want to disappoint them. They both have well-established careers; my mom is an interior designer and my father is a video game creator. I didn’t get the creative gene from them; I can hardly draw a stick man.
A velvety paw brings me out of my reverie and I take Nyx in my arms while sliding back under my covers. Just as I am slipping back into the arms of Morpheus I hear distant laughter. I get up to close my window; there’s no way I want to be woken up by kids partying all night! As I get closer to the open window, the sounds become clearer and it is definitely laughter that seems to be coming from the abandoned house next door. The little house is pretty close to mine; there is a diagonal path leading there from my house. As it is summer, I can’t see through the foliage, but I can make out a faint glow.
When I think of that house, it always gives me goosebumps. When I was young, I loved to take the path, as it was a shortcut to the village. One morning I got up with the intention of getting some books and I took the path as usual. As I passed by the normally empty house, my heart skipped a beat. From the window I saw the face of a woman staring back at me. Her face was the kind that could haunt you for decades. She had greasy white hair that fell over her hunched shoulders. She held her hand to the window and kept staring at me. She was wearing what seemed to be an ancient nightshirt, long and pure white which only added to her ghost-like appearance. But the most terrifying part was her stare; she had rheumy eyes and no pupils. For an impressionable child, nothing could have been more frightening. To this day I still have nightmares and I never used that path again. Until today, no other sound or light has come out of that house. I am sure there must finally be new owners and I hug Nyx tightly before falling asleep almost instantly.
