Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  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.

  White deer

  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 h
and – 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.

  At first sight

  I didn't follow him for very long, because he soon stopped and waited till I'd drawn level with him, and then said, smiling, 'Sorry, I was walking too fast. It's a bad habit of mine. Forgive me.'

  'No problem,' I said, trying to sound jaunty, and trying to keep up with his long strides as he walked on. 'You speak English really well, you know. Where did you learn it?'

  'Didn't they tell you? We come from Quebec originally – that's the French-speaking part of Canada – and my dad was French Canadian, well, part Huron too, you know.'

  'I don't. I don't know anything about Quebec.'

  'Okay. The Hurons were the indigenous people around what is now Montreal, the main city in Quebec. Dad's family on his mum's side is Huron but on his father's side they're from one of the old French Canadian families. But my mother's an English Canadian who went to university in Montreal, where she met my father. We speak English at home as well as French. Mam speaks it well, too, of course. Everyone's bilingual in Quebec. You have to be.'

  'How long ago did you leave Quebec?' I asked.

  'I was three. I hardly remember it. My father –' he glanced swiftly at me – 'I suppose village gossip has already told you, but let's get this out of the way now, eh? My dad and my uncle were killed in a fire. Mam was lucky to survive. And I wasn't hurt because I was staying at my aunt's place. I was playing with my cousins. And before you ask, they were policemen – my dad and uncle, I mean. They never found the person who set the fire, but from what Mam has said it was probably a criminal who wanted revenge on them for something. Someone they'd arrested or imprisoned. Nobody knows. But after the fire Mam decided she couldn't bear to stay in Canada. She'd been to Avallon once before, and thought it was a place of healing, so we should come and live here, far away from everything that had happened. That's all I really know. Mam doesn't talk about it. So don't ask her.'

  'Of course I won't,' I whispered, chilled to the bone both by the story and the matter-of-fact way he'd told it. And yet, if it was me, I could not bear not to know more. It would torment me, in more ways than one. I didn't have any terrible secret like that in my past, only the mystery about my father – and I'd tried to find out more about him, and where he was now, from Mum and my grandparents, but in vain. That was an ordinary sort of mystery, but this was something else.

  He must have understood what I was thinking, because he said, 'There's nothing I can find out, nothing I can do can bring my dad and my uncle back, or make the hurt of it less for my mother. I've learnt it's best to leave it alone. And living here means she can have some peace. She
loves it here, you know. She walks and paints and reads. It really has been a place of healing for her, and I don't want to do or say anything that will change that. Do you understand, Fleur?'

  I nodded. There was a lump in my throat. And it wasn't just because of what he'd said about his mum, but because he'd trusted me with it, as if I was a good friend, a friend he'd known for a long time. And I felt that too. But that's what was so strange, because I'd only just met him. Yet it felt so natural, being with him. 'I–I totally understand. I never knew my father. He left us before I was born. Mum told me once that he'd said he worked for the secret service. He used to go off for days at a time and not tell her where he'd been. Finally he told her he was an intelligence agent but he couldn't tell her more. She believed him but then later after he'd left, she decided it was probably a lie. I've thought that maybe he was a crook – a swindler, I mean – or maybe he was married and had another family somewhere. Maybe I have lots of brothers and sisters somewhere I don't know about. I don't know. He never contacted us again, anyway. I know his name, but that's about all. Haven't even seen a photo of him. Mum hardly ever talks about him. When I was younger, I used to try to get her to talk about him, but she got so upset I learnt not to. I'm still curious – I'd like to know something, because, you know, when you get older, you wonder even more where you've come from. I've thought of trying to do a proper investigation myself, somehow. But there's Mum to think of. And something else stops me.'