The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  We rounded the corner just in time to see the disaster unfolding. The Supernova taxis skidded into one another in slow motion like bumper cars and ended up in a messy cluster in the ditch, dented and disabled. A lone tire rolled away from the scene. An oozing oil slick glistened in the light and a layer of fog hovered above the road and drifted into the nearby woods. Five hundred metres earlier it had been completely clear. Belmondo wandered out of the fog with a stunned expression, his helmet with the bubbles dangling limply from his hand. His bewildered teammates emerged behind him in obvious shock.

  At that moment a breeze picked up and the fog partially lifted, revealing an odd character walking nonchalantly away from the scene with a device that resembled a giant leaf blower strapped to his back, wisps of fog coming from the mouth of the device. As he walked into the woods, he pushed a pair of protective goggles up onto his head and a slimy grin stretched across his well-tanned and now very familiar face.

  We offered to give the Champagne Supernovas team a lift to the control point where they could arrange towing and decide how to get home. The rally was definitely over for them, and I felt a pang of guilt that a dirty trick, likely designed for the Partypoppers, had done in the unlucky Champagne team. We backed away from the oil slick and returned to the main road, where the detour sign was mysteriously gone and traffic flowed normally into Aix. Blag glanced at me, raised a unibrow, and slowly shook his head. He said one word: “Margot.”

  Twenty

  At the control point it was a sad gathering of Supernovas who had been eliminated. No bubbly beverages were being popped today. The Partypoppers had a sombre look about them as well, given what they had just witnessed.

  “I wanted to beat them, not destroy them,” muttered Blag to me after we dropped off Anatole Belmondo and his navigator, “but the Marauders ... that’s a different story.”

  Margot and her gang were laughing and celebrating like the rally was a done deal. A few of her nasty-looking crones broke into an impromptu performance of “We Are the Champions,” a little prematurely, I thought. The only non-participant in the jollity was Leo, who sat on a rock in his own little world, playing his guitar and singing something so quietly, no one else could hear. My curiosity got the best of me and I walked over while Blag, Dizzy, Henri, Maurice, and Mink were angrily discussing the Marauders’ tactics and fantasizing about revenge while waiting for the next leg to begin.

  “And I’ll tell her I adore you,” Leo sang sweetly. He stopped suddenly when he heard me approaching, looking embarrassed.

  “Hi,” I said, “nice song.”

  “Oh, thanks,” he said, “it’s nothing, really.”

  “I’m Mac. I know you’re Leo, I saw your mom introduce you.”

  “Hi Mac, nice to meet you. Yeah, that’s my mom. The eyepatch was just a little embarrassing. You’re from California, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go there. The beaches look amazing and I want to see a canyon.”

  “I live in a canyon, Upper Mandeville. You should visit some time.” I immediately felt insecure, but Leo smiled and the feeling went away.

  “Oui, that would be incroyable.”

  “Leeee-ohhhh!” A crusty voice that could wake the dead called out and Leo shrugged.

  “My mother.” He smiled conspiratorially.

  “I figured.”

  “Mac, let’s hit it, kiddo,” Blag barked at me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’d like to hear you play some more.”

  “Okay,” he said, “as long as ma mère isn’t around. She’d say I was conspiring with the enemy or something silly like that.”

  I laughed. “See you in Saint-Paul behind the battle lines.”

  Leo picked up his guitar and shook the curls out of his eyes. My heart did a little skip and I hoped I wasn’t staring.

  “Conspiring with the enemy, were you?” said Blag when I got back in the cab.

  “No, more like infiltrating to learn their innermost secret strategies, Sgt. LeBoeuf.”

  Blag laughed. “Oh, so young Leo maps out their routes in his songs, does he?”

  “Ha, ha, let’s go, big boy.”

  The clue for the final leg of day one was about to be delivered. “This is the longest part,” said Blag. “It’s pretty much a straight shot, so I’m not expecting any of the usual Margot nonsense, but you never know. We’ll have to really book it to stay close.”

  Flowered stones a tale to tell, walk and you’ll be seeing well.

  I had no idea what this could mean, and apparently neither did Blag. “Listen, let’s just head for Saint-Paul. We already know that day one ends there, and you can work on the clue on the way, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” I replied.

  Dizzy and Mink waved at us from Dizzy’s trombone-mobile as they took the lead. Maurice and Henri followed, and we brought up the rear. As we headed for the highway and the final stage of day one of the rally, I thought of how much I had missed in the beautiful ancient cities of Aix and Avignon. The Roman architecture, or “architexture” as Rudee called it, the views from the surrounding hills, Picasso’s chateau, the cool streets with their cafés and shops. I had to bring something back for Penelope! I’d been too absorbed in my maps and clues to appreciate any of it. The fate of the Bordeaux Bombes and the Champagne Supernovas was a cold reminder of what a serious business this rally was. At some point, when it was over, I was going to have to have a little chat with Dizzy to see exactly what he was thinking in selling this crazy event to my mom as some quaint tour of the charms of ye olde south of France. I guess Dizzy was desperate to find a navigator for Blag, who really was an excellent driver, and yes, maybe he figured I would do a good job. But then I recalled someone using the word “cutthroat” to describe the rally and I had to wonder. It was a blur right now, and I had navigator work to do.

  I watched the French countryside roll by, the olive groves, cherry orchards, and vineyards. I found myself daydreaming of home. I love my home in the canyon with its butterflies and bougainvillea, the deer that visit at night and the lemon tree in the backyard. I wondered if Leo really would visit sometime. What was I thinking? I didn’t even know him. And he was a Marauder!

  “Hey nana, come back,” said Blag teasingly. “Any ideas on that clue?”

  The clue was completely baffling me. The first line seemed to contain the essence of it. “Flowered stones” — what could that mean? There were flowers and stones everywhere, although truthfully, about the only flowers in bloom this time of year were the yellow mimosas.

  “Look, Blag, sheep!” I said excitedly. You didn’t see that too often in southern California. “Better slow down, looks like a few are heading for the road.”

  “Stupid creatures,” said Blag, slowing. “I’ll go around them.”

  It was then I saw the shepherd at the rear of the flock, driving them toward the road and making it impassable.

  “I don’t know, Blag, they’re on both sides of the road now.”

  He stopped the cab and slammed his fist on the steering wheel as the lamb parade continued. “We don’t have time for this, kid, we’d better think of something.”

  The sheep kept coming, quickly filling the road behind us, meaning we couldn’t back out of this situation either.

  “See if you can find the moron responsible for this,” said Blag angrily, “or I’m going to start making sweaters.”

  “Okay, hang on,” I said. The flock was pressed against my door, so I climbed out the window. Not a shepherd in sight. I passed through the flock, now hardly able to see the outer edges of the mass of bodies. They were so innocent and gentle, I couldn’t be mad at them, even though I knew that our rally chances were fading by the minute. We had to finish the first day within a certain time or we were out of contention. As a few pushed their woolly heads into my legs and baaaa’d, I spotted the shepherd, far away from the road. He appeared to be herding the sheep toward the car, and then I saw his tanned face an
d greasy grin. He waved at me across the bodies, a giant ham-filled croissant in his hand, and I knew we were sunk. The shepherd, the fake cop who’d pulled us over, and the man who created the oil slick that ended the Supernovas rally were all the same person, and it was someone I’d met on my last trip to France. Etienne Brouillard, the professional troublemaker who’d been part of a plot to destroy Paris’s greatest monuments and turn the city of light into a city of darkness, was back and trying to help the Marauders win the rally!

  Almost all of our remaining time was gone and we both knew it. Blag was morose and mostly silent on the road to Saint-Paul. There was no way we could make up the time and still qualify. We were still many miles away from the walled village of Saint-Paul de Vence when I saw a strange-looking character on the roadside ahead, standing in the middle of nowhere. He wore a long robe tied at the waist and carried a staff. A little old-school, I thought, but maybe this was the real shepherd. As we got closer, I could see how dishevelled he was, and just as we were about to pass, he lifted his hand as if he was flagging a taxi. To my surprise, Blag slammed on the brakes and pulled over onto the shoulder in a cloud of dust and gravel. Then he backed up.

  “Might as well get a fare, make some dough, if we’re out of this rally,” he said, sounding resigned to our fate. It seemed like an odd choice, but it wasn’t my cab. Even odder was our passenger.

  “Bless you, fellow travellers,” he said quietly.

  “Bless you too,” I said, sounding ridiculous to myself. Blag shot me a “who are you” look.

  “Where to, buddy?”

  “I go where the road meets the horizon,” the man replied seriously.

  “Great, that’s where we’re going too,” muttered Blag. It was my turn to give him a “really?” look.

  After an awkward silence, the stranger said, “You seek something that you believe is beyond your grasp.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You got that right, daddio,” said Blag with a snort of disgust.

  I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t resist a glance toward the back seat. The stranger had his eyes closed but he gave me a jolly thumbs-up. Weird.

  “There is always another path.” He sounded a bit weary, like he was tired of having to point this out to the uninformed.

  “I wish there was another path to Saint-Paul de Vence,” said Blag, “maybe one that involved flying or teleportation, whatever they call it.”

  Our passenger hummed to himself and seemed to be meditating when I looked back again. Blag shook his head skeptically.

  “There is a moment, a fleeting one, which is granted to us if we are open to it.” So Yoda, I thought, but somewhat entertaining and harmless.

  “When you pass the stone church on the right,” our passenger said, sounding grave, “the sun will reflect off the steeple and reveal, for that one fleeting moment, la route ancienne in the woods behind the church. This, my fellow travellers, is your moment.”

  I have to admit to getting a chill listening to this little speech as Blag and I exchanged a “this is really getting weird” look. But then, right on cue, there was the stone church, and then the light reflecting off the steeple. The church bell chimed and an opening in the woods appeared where the trees had looked like solid green. It was about to disappear when I shouted, “Blag, now!”

  I’m sure it was against his better judgement, but with nothing to lose — except maybe our lives — Blag swung the car hard to the right, bouncing off the shoulder of the road and landing on a narrow path that headed straight for a wall of trees. We’d missed the opening, I thought in terror, but it was too late.

  “May the road rise with you,” said our back-seat driver, sounding very chipper.

  We barely touched down as we hit another rise in the road and became briefly airborne. I closed my eyes and thought about my mom and dad, in Paris, probably sipping a coupe de Champagne at the Hôtel Costes bar, hoping for a sighting of Johnny Depp, secure in the knowledge that their little girl was dreamily enjoying the simple pleasures of the idyllic south of France.

  “Owww!” I’m not sure if Blag or I yelled louder as we landed in pitch black. It felt like the forest had sucked us into the trees that blurred past way faster than could be considered safe. I gripped my seat and clenched my teeth, and when I looked at Blag, he appeared frozen in place, his eyes transfixed on the way ahead. Our lights were off, the wind rushed past in a roar, and the path was a tunnel through the darkness. Blag made no attempt to slow down. Or steer. This is not good, I thought, but I knew it was too late to do anything but go along for the ride. We didn’t speak.

  When it started to feel like the road through the woods was endless, I saw a pinhole of light, rapidly growing larger. Seconds later, we flew out of the woods, like we’d been shot from a cannon into full blazing sunlight. Blag regained the wheel as we rolled bumpily past a tiny cemetery and through the stone gate to a beautiful walled village.

  When we stopped rolling, Blag shut the car off and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. I had to get out and get my feet on solid ground. I stepped out onto an ancient stone street and looked down at the cobblestones, marvelling at their patterns of flowers. I looked back at Blag with a goofy grin on my face and saw that the back seat was empty.

  Twenty-One

  I was mega excited to share my discovery with Blag, but he remained at the wheel, eyes closed. I looked around us and saw the little cemetery we had just passed, jutting out into the surrounding countryside. I guess when a country is as old as France you’ve got a lot of dead people to accommodate, but it did seem that cemeteries were becoming a motif on this journey. Soft clouds drifted overhead, a few birds sang, and the hiss from the cab’s overworked engine slowly gave way to silence. We had rolled to a stop just inside the gate to an ancient walled village. Above the gate, set into the stone, was a saint-like figure, looking not unlike our vanished passenger. I spotted a pendant dangling on a chain from the mirror that hadn’t been there before. It depicted an old man carrying a child across a river and said, “St. Christopher.”

  “He’s the patron saint of travellers,” said Blag, breaking his silence, “or he was until he got demoted.”

  “Demoted? Isn’t it a permanent position, you know, once a saint always a saint?”

  “No, it’s like the Brazilian soccer team that got moved to the second division. The fans cried ‘bogus,’ people rioted, but c’est la vie.” This seemed like a bit of a stretch, but Blag was in a weakened state after our thrill ride through the forest.

  “So that’s who led us through the woods?” I know I sounded doubtful.

  “I dunno, but I’m going to thank Chris anyway. I mean we’re here, wherever here is.”

  I smiled as Blag blinked and looked around. “I think here is Saint-Paul de Vence.” He looked stunned. “Check this out.”

  Blag slowly got out of the cab, steadying himself like he was on the deck of a ship.

  I pointed to the patterns of flowers on the stone street. Blag slowly grinned. “I think you’re right, kiddo,” He looked at the town ahead of us, strangely quiet. “What’s the rest of the clue say?”

  “Walk and you’ll be seeing well,” I replied.

  “Care to take in the sights of Saint-Paul?” he asked, and started up the hill, leaving our car parked at the town gate.

  Saint-Paul defined quaint. It was one tiny street after another of charming shops, cafés, and houses with colourful laundry strung outside of second-floor windows. Rising voices greeted us as we rounded the corner past some civic buildings. In the centre of the town square a gathering of people of all ages surrounded a stone well.

  “I guess we’re ‘seeing well,’” I said and Blag nodded, smiling as the crowd saw us approaching. They broke into a cheer.

  “Partypoppers!”

  We were draped with garlands of flowers, symbolic of our first-day victory in the rally. Amid the cheering, Blag whispered, “If you tell Tawdry I was wearing flowers around my neck, I’ll be seriously unhappy.�
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  “Your secret is safe with me, Monsieur Lafleur.” I was more grateful for the hot cider and croissants that came with the flowers.

  A whining engine drowned us out and a tank-like taxi rolled into the square, barely squeezing between the ancient buildings, scattering people and pigeons. Margot jumped out and stood, hands on hips, glaring at Blag. The crowd quieted like it was expecting to witness a duel. “High Noon at Saint-Paul” continued when I spotted Leo, still in the passenger seat. I suppressed a smile as he waved to me, looking more than a little amazed.

  The two remaining Marauder cabs pulled in behind Margot just as Dizzy and Mink rolled up to the square from a narrow street on the other side of the well.

  “Well, well, well, someone must know a magic spell,” said Mink, obviously surprised but happy to see us.

  Dizzy rushed up to me with a look of concern. “I was worried when we lost you. I guess I should have had more faith in your navigational skills, Mademoiselle Mac.”

  I shrugged, not ready to venture an explanation for our strange journey. “Thanks, Dizzy. I think we got lucky on this one.”

  Blag and Margot were still having an adult staring contest when Margot did that ridiculous gesture where you point at your own eyes, and then as if to say “I’m watching you” point at the other person. To my complete surprise, they both burst out laughing at the same moment. Margot’s next gesture involved miming raising a glass, and Blag seemed more pleased with the prospect than I would have thought.

  Twenty-Two

  It was as if the vicious competition that is the rally de taxi was forgotten, or at least put aside for another day. Margot and Blag exchanged a burly bear hug and she appeared downright jovial as she shot a stream of tobacco juice between her teeth and onto the “flowered stones” of Saint-Paul de Vence. Leo emerged from their cab, looking as bewildered as I felt, grabbed his guitar from the back seat, and made his way toward me. If the Marauders needed an advantage, I thought, here it was. An artiste with curly brown hair and a shy smile. Dizzy, Mink, Maurice, and Henri warmly greeted their arch rivals, who it turned out were named Pépin, Baptiste, Félix, and Armand. Together with the locals and the rally fans from around the country we made quite a procession through the streets of town and down to the gate on the other side of Saint-Paul, where the other drivers must have arrived.