Book of Stolen Tales

by D J Mcintosh

  One of the horses lifted its head and whinnied and I felt an unexplainable jolt of fear. The horses moved closer together, as if in a tight group they could better defend themselves. The sheep huddled in the same way. A cluster of fireflies burst up suddenly from the grass and scattered.

  Something had disrupted the tranquil pastoral night. I concentrated hard to detect it. I could hear something moving along the rough ground. A swishing sound, barely perceptible. A black cloud sailed across the moon. I peered in the direction of the sound but the gloom prevented me from seeing anything.

  My brother, Samuel, was a scholar of ancient cultures and not given to flights of fancy. A brilliant man who pursued his studies rigorously, he was also open-minded. I’d been thinking about him a lot, especially since Dina had told me about Mancini’s interest in necromancy. What would Samuel have thought? The answer came rushing to me then, under the stars, on the edge of this great plain. Once, when I asked him about Babylonian beliefs, he’d said, “Their old gods aren’t dead, you know. They’ve just withdrawn to hidden places.” He smiled then as if to make light of it all. “Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time studying Mesopotamians. And yet on occasion when I’m in remote landscapes where the arid desert seems endless, I sense their presence. They are neither evil nor good and are driven by urges and desires we cannot comprehend. We Westerners like to think our spiritual allies are caught up in our lives, whether to save us or wreak vengeance on us for our sins. But the gods live outside any moral codes. Humans mean nothing to them.”

  I had the same feeling now. That some formless power existed and I was helpless in the face of it. I tried to snap out of my discomfort, and I began to walk in the direction of the strange sound when my fingers tingled. I tried to flex them but my hand had grown too cold and stiff. A heaviness descended on me as though my body had suddenly filled with sand. I turned around and struggled back to the cottage, my legs dragging so slowly it was like pushing through deep layers of mud.

  I managed to wrest the door open and tumbled inside. Hanzi turned in his sleep and murmured. The coals from the fire glowed in the stove. Hanzi’s old enamel kitchen clock ticked comfortingly. Our empty glasses sat where we’d left them on the table. Everything was peaceful. The tingling faded but I stayed awake the rest of the night, falling asleep only when the sun rose reassuringly at dawn.

  When Dina woke me, Hanzi was already bustling about. The welcome aroma of coffee drifted through the cottage. While we drank it, Hanzi added a couple of hard-boiled eggs to our food cache and ushered us on our way. “You have a long way to go today,” he said. “You must start now.”

  Twenty-Three

  November 23, 2003

  Les Alpilles, France

  Dina sat splendidly astride her horse, her long hair loose, tousled by the breeze. She looked over her shoulder every so often and gave me an encouraging smile. A good night’s sleep had left her refreshed. Her sorrow of the night before had vanished and she seemed genuinely happy.

  As for myself, despite Dina’s good spirits and the scenic landscape, the feeling of trepidation from last night still clung to me. It had nothing to do with the prospect of curses. A malignance hung in the air, a disturbance in the natural order of things. We’d taken every precaution by spending only cash and not using our real names, except with Hanzi. But I was sure that I’d felt Alessio nearby last night.

  We crossed local roads and passed through many fields. Vineyards cropped up as the land began to ascend in a gentle rise. We arrived at the little abandoned shack Hanzi told us to watch out for and turned onto the trail he recommended, which descended into a wooded area. The forest was made up of the kind of thick scrubby bush and weedy trees that grow on poor soil. Before long, our route narrowed to a rough path winding beside a stream. I dug into my shirt pocket and found my ballpoint pen inscribed with the insignia of the New York Knicks. I dropped it on the path. When we returned this way, we’d see if anyone was behind us and whether they took notice of it.

  Clouds blocked out the sun. It grew cooler. The bush became much denser. I remembered Hanzi’s description of getting lost in the marsh and thought, even here, how easy it would be to lose our way. Up ahead, Dina halted her horse and twisted around to talk to me. “The path dwindles to nothing ahead. I’m not sure what we should do.”

  “Is there any way forward?”

  “Yes, but it’s marshy. I don’t know if the water is just on the surface or deeper.”

  Without waiting for my reply, she jumped off her horse and led him forward, testing the area gingerly with each step. She appeared satisfied the ground underneath the water was stable and remounted. I remembered Hanzi’s advice to trust the horses. When the stallion plunged ahead, I figured we were safe.

  We picked our way along, taking a labyrinthine route that headed vaguely northwest, in a strange country under difficult circumstances. Finally, I was elated to see a small rise. I shouted to Dina. She waved and quickened her horse’s pace. Indeed, the path magically reappeared as the land rose and we entered a thicket of gorse and willow.

  Yellowing leaves rustled behind us as we made our way through the grove. Odd, I thought, since there was almost no wind. We had to hold up one hand to protect our faces from the slapping branches as we passed through. Once we’d cleared the trees and the land was high enough to get a good look at the surrounding area, we’d regain some sense of direction. We might see, as well, whether anyone was tracking us.

  We soon broke through the scrub and pulled to a stop. In front of us lay a large lagoon of black brackish water. In the middle of the turgid span sat an island covered with vegetation and debris. The dwelling centered on it brought a gasp of surprise to our lips. An old caravan painted in garish colors—lime green, canary yellow, scarlet, and indigo.

  “This must be Lagrène’s house,” Dina said finally. “But how on earth do we reach it?”

  Twenty-Four

  The lagoon was smooth as black glass; not even a ripple stirred its surface. Nothing ruffled the plants either, as if the trees and reeds surrounding the little lake had been composed in a permanent tableau. It reminded me of the dead calm preceding a hurricane.

  “Is she in there?” Dina asked. “She might not even be home.”

  The caravan with its absurdly fanciful colors looked abandoned. I couldn’t see any movement through the windows.

  “She must have some way to get over there.” I searched for any sign of a boat or raft on the island or the shore but could see nothing.

  “Maybe she flies over.” Dina laughed. “I wonder how deep it is.”

  “The horses will tell us that.” I grabbed the mare’s bridle and walked her down to the edge of the lagoon. The water looked oily, as if it were thickened with deposits. Yanking off my shoes and socks and rolling up my pants, I parted the reeds and took a few tentative steps into the sludge at the water’s edge. It was cold and murky. I coaxed the mare to follow me in. She stretched her neck down to sniff at the water and refused to budge. “Hell,” I said. “There’s our answer.”

  The lagoon stank like an open sewer. No wonder the horses didn’t want to go near it. The remains of weathered gray tree trunks with tips like broken spears stuck out of the water. They seemed to form a vague double line leading from the shore to the island, and I guessed an avenue of trees had once lined a drive leading up to the rise. If that was the case, the path between the rows of stumps might be more solidly packed than elsewhere underneath the lagoon.

  I led the mare to where Dina waited. “Why don’t you stay with the horses? If I tie the leads together I can loop one end around the tree trunks. That way, if there are any danger spots I can use the cable to pull myself out.”

  Dina looked at the still expanse of water and glanced nervously back to the dense clumps of bushes and trees. “I’m not staying here alone.”

  We secured the horses to the willows. I tied their blue leads together and fashioned a rough noose at one end. We both stripped down to our underw
ear, leaving only our shirts on; the rest of our gear went into our knapsacks. My apprehension aside, the sight of Dina’s lovely bare legs and what was above, inadequately covered by the thin fabric of her underwear, got my testosterone shooting into overdrive. Good thing I’d started out first and she’d be behind me.

  When we ventured into the water I tested the first few yards. My feet plunged unpleasantly into muck. It rose over my ankles until I found relatively solid footing. After a few throws I hooked the loop onto the first tree trunk about twenty feet from the shore. Dina pulled the line taut behind me. The water rose to the middle of my calves and then the pond bed seemed to level out. Lifting my feet produced a sucking sound; bubbles and greenish rotted matter floated up to the surface with every step I took. I thought I could feel live things slithering around my feet and my lips twisted in distaste.

  As I approached the first tree stump the muck gave way to spongy water plants. My feet sank a little lower into the morass but it provided a kind of soft mat to walk on that was preferable to the mud. I looked behind and was glad to see Dina steadily sloshing through the water. The length of cable lying on the water surface trailed behind her like a long blue snake.

  Slogging through the water toward the seer’s house, I remembered a story I’d come across when I was a kid called “The Witch in the Stone Boat.” It left an indelible impression on me, probably because of the terrifying picture accompanying it. I’d found the story in a book stowed away in the bottom drawer of an old dresser and had no idea how it came to be there. Now that I’d learned more about fairy tales, I knew it was by the English fairy-tale collector Andrew Lang.

  I could still recall the description of the witch, stooped over her long pole, her sinister figure in a small boat moving through the mist at night toward the ship carrying the prince and his bride. The witch stole into the young woman’s body and banished the radiant bride to the underworld. It terrified me at the time and I insisted for weeks after that Evelyn leave my light on at night. One day the book went missing. I knew she’d thrown it away.

  I surveyed my progress. Two more tree trunks and we’d reach the other shore. I pulled the loop off and, casting it toward the next stump, stepped forward. The mat of waterweed underfoot vanished. I plunged deep into muck and this time it swallowed my legs past my knees; it felt like a vacuum sucking me under. Something bumped against my ankle. I heaved my leg out and up came what at first looked like a large ball of wriggling red yarn. I’d stepped into a nest of long red worms and they’d risen to the surface, writhing around my skin. I batted them away furiously with my hand, which only dispersed them. They floated on the surface, trying to crawl up my thighs.

  By Henry Justice Ford from The Yellow Fairy Book

  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 s
teps 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.