Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  But even enchanted moments don't stretch out forever, and this one ended quite abruptly when Remy suddenly gave an exclamation. 'My God, of course.' Moving away from me, he picked up the dream book, where it lay on the grass, and opened it. 'I wondered why he did this,' he said, turning a page, and I stared at him and could not find anything to say because I was still feeling so dazed from our kiss and had no idea what he was talking about. Devil's arithmetic had fled from my mind.

  'Why did he stick these pages together? And these?' he said, fingering the edges of the pages.

  I shook my head, looking at him, at his head bent over the book and the sun making sparkles in his hair, the strength of his shoulders under his green T-shirt, the shape of his big, long-fingered hands. A little thrill went through me.

  'We've got to get these unstuck, Fleur. Don't you see?'

  'I suppose so,' I said dreamily. I didn't really care about the mystery, not right now.

  He smiled up at me. Something in his eyes told me he knew what I was thinking, but all he said was, 'Have you got any idea how we could open them without tearing them?'

  'You could steam them open,' I said, and laughed, thinking that was just what they did in old mystery stories.

  'Good idea if we had some boiling water,' he said. 'But as it is – well, I've got my Swiss Army knife – I'll have to try with that. It's not going to be easy. Fleur, darling – can you hold the page for me?' He'd not said the English word darling, but the French one, chérie, that's all soft and whispery and slips in under your ribs like the sweetest thing ever, and I could hardly believe someone had actually said it to me. I managed to stammer, 'Of course, no problem, no problem at all,' and tried to stop shaking and hold the page still for him while he carefully, very carefully, began to slit it open with the sharp blade of the knife.

  High king

  It took a while, because it was soon clear there were not just two pages stuck together, but four. But at last they fell open. I have to say my mouth fell open too. Not because there was something amazing hidden there, but because there was nothing. The pages inside were blank. No ink or pencil sketches. No words.

  I was about to say, well, back to square one, when Remy did a strange thing: he took the book from me and ran his finger over the page. He said, 'I thought so,' half to himself, half to me, and then he walked off, the book still in his hand.

  I said, 'Hang on, what's going on, where are you going, wait for me!'

  But he hadn't gone far, just out of our willow hideout, and down to the river. And he was doing an even stranger thing: holding the book up to the sun. Or rather, the pages we'd unstuck. I began to say, 'What on earth are you doing?' when the question died on my lips because I saw what he was doing and why.

  In the direct sunlight, you could plainly see that the pages were scored. It was as if someone had used a needle or maybe the sharp end of a biro cap or something, to draw invisibly on the page. And there were two smallish wobbly circles, scribbled in with other shapes and lines within them. Something was written under the circles. Not words, just letters, and two numbers: D.D. F.S. 03.

  'Can you see them, Fleur?' Remy's voice was full of excitement.

  'Yes. Of course. So? They're just random circles.'

  'But can't you see? He's drawn coins. Two coins. Or maybe two sides of one coin.'

  'What?' But now I looked at it again, I could see it, though the drawings were bad.

  Remy said, 'Yes, the detail's hard to see, but that's what they are, I'm sure of it. Fleur – I think that's what he found. A coin, or coins. Coins that could prove Riothamus was here – that link him definitely to the legend of Arthur.'

  'How?'

  'Coins usually have the name of the ruler of the time on them,' he said. 'Maybe they were minted for Riothamus – for Arthur – and so they have his name or his title on them. Probably a picture of him too, and his symbol on the back. I've seen Gallo–Roman coins in the museum in Avallon. They're like that, with the king's face on the front, and his symbol on the back, and his name or title in Latin or sometimes even Greek. And they are also not as perfectly round as coins now. They were not made by machine.'

  'What would his symbol have been then?' I asked, awestruck by how much Remy knew about things I've never even really thought about.

  'Well, Arthur means "the Bear" – Artorius in Latin – and so, maybe, if that was the name of the king we only know by his title of Riothamus, the High King – then maybe that's what would be on the back of the coin.'

  'If only we could see the detail properly,' I said. 'Why couldn't Raymond have drawn these properly, with ink or pencil?' But even as I asked the question, I knew it was stupid. It was obvious why. Because he didn't want anyone else to know what he'd found. Because he most particularly didn't want a certain someone to know. That was why he'd hidden it in the dream book, which itself had been hidden away in the pantry. I suddenly remembered what he'd said, in his letter from beyond the grave: And seek always the dream, for it is not always a dream. Had he intended that as a hint, a clue to us, to me particularly? That must have been why the letter had had to be kept secret from anyone else.

  But there had been no hint in his letter that he felt himself to be in any danger. He'd just wanted to make sure that the right sort of person got the dream book – if first they found out about it, and worked out what it might contain. But he wasn't about to give them any more clues than that. It was almost as if, if they didn't find them – if Mum didn't find it, that is – then it did not matter.

  'We can see it better quite easily,' said Remy. 'Do you have a pencil?'

  'A pencil? No.'

  'A pen? Lipstick, eyeliner, anything?'

  'Make-up on a picnic?' I said.

  'Why not? Plenty of girls would.'

  'And you'd know, would you?' I couldn't help feeling a stupid little twist of jealousy as I spoke, pretending to sound cool.

  He gave me a sideways smile. 'So I hear,' he said, reaching over to stroke my hair. 'Well, I will say it is very inconvenient of you, Fleur chérie, not to bring your makeup, but never mind. We will try something else.'

  'What?' I was struggling to keep my voice as calm as his, but it's a struggle and I knew I risked sounding aggressive. Mum is always telling me I shouldn't bark at people just because I'm nervous, but I can't help it.

  'Charcoal would be the best thing. Ash might work too,' he said, and off he went heading up the path towards the woods, and I had to hurry to catch up with him and Patou. But when I did, he took my hand and we walked together up the path.

  We found some charcoal a little way into the woods, from a spot where someone had once lit a fire and there was still a scattering of both charcoal and ash. Remy took the most usefully shaped piece. Putting the dream book on his knee, he began very gently to rub over the scored drawings with the piece of charcoal, and as he did, the drawings began to spring to detailed life. Inside one of the circles was a rough drawing of a man's profile, with a strong nose and a fierce eye and a head of curly hair, with a kind of circlet thing sitting on his brow. Around the edge were some letters arranged in a circle. Some were faint, but you could still see the first three letters plainly – R I O – and the last three – M U S. The other circle must be the other face of the coin: a sketch of a bear-like animal standing on its hind legs – and squashed in a corner next to it, another word: ABALLO.

  'Aballo,' said Remy, softly, after a little silence. 'Do you know what that is?'

  'No.'

  'It was what the Romans called Avallon. It must mean the coin was minted in Avallon, for Riothamus. For Arthur. My God, Fleur. We might be looking at the actual face of King Arthur himself. Can you imagine what that means?'

  'I suppose I do,' I said dryly. 'It means the biggest news story in ages.'

  'Yes,' said Remy, and he sounded breathless. 'If Raymond really found these, then he stumbled on one of the most important archaeological discoveries of all time.'

  'Why didn't he take a photo of the coin?'


  'Raymond didn't have a digital camera, just an old-fashioned film one. Someone's got to process the film for you and might see what you've taken a photo of.'

  'Okay, but where did he find the coin?' I said. 'There's nothing to tell us that. And more importantly, where is it now? The only other things on these pages are the letters and numbers. What do they mean?'

  'I don't know,' he said, helplessly.

  A thought struck me. 'There's another stuck-down page further on, isn't there? Let's get that open. Maybe there'll be more info there.'

  He did this one rather more quickly than the other. In a few instants, we were staring at what was revealed there. Not a sketch, scored or drawn in – but a small piece of very thin blueish paper, folded in two. Remy pulled it out, gently, and unfolded it.

  If I'd been expecting a map – a secret treasure map of where that coin might be hidden – then I was doomed to be disappointed. What I saw instead was a little square, printed with the words Hotel du Lys, Terrebonne, and a picture of one of those fleur-de-lis symbols, gold on a dark blue background. That was all.

  We looked at each other, dumbfounded. Then Remy said, slowly, 'You know, I think it might once have been stuck down on something.'

  'Like what?'

  'I don't know. A coaster? A box of matches? A bottle of shampoo?'

  'A bottle of shampoo?'

  'You know, things hotels give you free when you stay in them.'

  I wondered how often he'd stayed in hotels, if his mother never wanted to go anywhere. But it made sense, still. Sort of. 'Oh, right. Could be. But why? I mean, surely you're not telling me he's hidden the coin in a hotel somewhere! What for? And where the heck is Terrebonne anyway? Is it around here?'

  He shook his head. 'Never heard of a Terrebonne around here. But it could be anywhere. France is a big place.'

  'It could be anywhere.'

  'I'm afraid so. In fact, Fleur, the only Terrebonne I know of for sure is in Canada. It's a suburb of Montreal.'

  'Canada! Remy! You've got to be joking! You can't be telling me he hid the coin in a hotel in Canada, for God's sake!'

  He laughed. 'I'm not. I don't know. No, of course it can't be that. There is probably a Terrebonne somewhere in France. We'll have to find out.'

  'I'll look it up on the internet when I get back,' I said, 'but it still seems strange, don't you think? I mean, hiding things like that in a hotel?'

  'Maybe he didn't hide them there. But maybe it's a clue of another sort, to lead us on.'

  'Like a kind of trail, you mean? Maybe he's got something else stashed there, like a map of where everything really is.'

  'That's a good idea. Yes, maybe it's that.' His eyes were sparkling.

  'But what about the rest? Those letters and numbers, I mean?'

  He shook his head. 'I don't know. Where he found them, and when maybe? Say 03 could be a date – a month, or a day, or a year – then the letters could refer to the place.'

  'D.D.,' I said. 'F.S. Remy! F.S. might mean Fontaines Salées, you know that mineral spa, which that woman on the internet reckoned was the most likely place where Riothamus might have gone to be nursed from his wounds by the female healers there, just like Arthur is nursed by the ladies of Avalon.'

  He shook his head. 'I've been there with Mam. The guide said the spa was deserted by the fifth century, so when he was alive it was all ruined. The barbarians had destroyed it the century before.'

  'But I bet people still knew about the healing waters, even if the buildings weren't there anymore! I bet they still used them!'

  'Maybe. But in the museum it says they've done many digs there and though they've found lots of stuff, there's nothing that dates from the fifth century. There was an ancient sacred well where they found hundreds of Gaulish and Roman coins, for example, but none from that time. And certainly none like the one on these pages.'

  'Still,' I said stubbornly, 'they might not have looked in the right places.'

  'I don't think they looked at all,' he said. 'I mean, as far as Riothamus is concerned. As far as I know, they don't even know about the theory that he might have been Arthur. No-one in Avallon even bothers to link in with the legend. It's strange, isn't it? The only place in Europe actually called Avallon, and it makes nothing of it.'

  'That's because the British hijacked the whole thing,' I said. 'Or, anyway, that's what that lady on the internet said. Anyway, Remy, I still think Les Fontaines Salées is the most likely spot for Raymond to have found the coin. But what is D.D.? I don't understand. He spoke of a dream about the Lady's House, but that would be M.D.L.D., wouldn't it – Maison de la Dame – or maybe M.D. for short, but not D.D.'

  'Domus Domina,' said Remy suddenly, and seeing the puzzlement on my face, added, 'Latin. It means the Lady's House in Latin. And the initials for Les Fontaines Salées are the same in Latin as in French because in Latin it's Fons Salsus, or something like that.'

  'How do you know? No, don't tell me. You've read tons more than me. You know heaps more than me. You're a brainbox.' It was his turn to look puzzled, and I laughed. 'Don't worry. It's just Australian for a bright person.' I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. It was funny how comfortable I felt with him – like the best of best friends – but thrilled too, nervous, shy, excited. Weird. But I didn't have the time to think about that. Not right now. It had happened, that was all that mattered.

  'Anyway,' said Remy, smiling at me, 'if it is that, what it could refer to is not the Lady's House, in our woods, but the ladies' buildings at the spa. They had different sections for men and women in Roman times, you see. One of those might be what Raymond thought of as Domus Domina.'

  'You are a brainbox,' I said, happily. 'Well, darling genius, how about a plan then? What do we do next, do you reckon? Go to Les Fontaines Salées?'

  'Not today. There's a daily bus goes to St-Père, the village near it. But it leaves early. We've missed it.' He looked teasingly at me. 'I am afraid we might have to go back to our original plan. I hope that does not disappoint you too much.'

  I frowned. 'Original plan? What are you talking about?'

  'Picnic. Swim. Talk. Kiss,' he said and suddenly swooping, he lifted me right off my feet and started running down through the woods back to the path, with me laughing and yelling and telling him to put me down at once, he was making me feel dizzy, and he'd crack his spine, I was too heavy, someone might see us, he had to put me down! He was laughing too and panting, and Patou was yelping excitedly behind us, tongue hanging out, dark eyes glittering with pleasure. If anyone had seen us, they would have thought we were mad. Maybe we were, mad with blind happiness and fun and the brightness of the day. Because we didn't know that the darkness was already reaching out to claim us.

  One perfect day

  I find myself wanting to linger on those hours, to stretch them out again and again in my memory, to keep them safe, to keep us safe in that dream-bubble of sunlight and laughter and love, before the storm broke ...

  But you can't wind back time. You can't freeze-frame it either. Life isn't like a DVD with a selectable menu. Pity. Some scenes I'd choose to stay in for ever and ever. I reckon that's what heaven is. You have the same perfect day over and over again, except that each time it happens, it's like a surprise, you don't know what's going to happen, and that's what makes it perfect. Again and again and again.

  'That's like the goldfish theory of heaven,' said Remy laughing that day when I told him my theory (it's an idea I've had since I was a little kid). We were sitting having our picnic by the river, after having had our swim, and more than one kiss, I can tell you, and now we were ravenous, eating up all the sandwiches I'd brought, and the hard-boiled eggs and cold spicy sausage and potato salad he'd brought (a really nice one, with herbs and mustardy vinaigrette, not mayonnaise). We'd started on the fruit and biscuits I had and the remains of his mother's poppyseed cake, and we were feeling pleasantly full and completely happy just talking about this and that and everything. Like ideas of heaven.
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  'But wouldn't you like it to be true?'

  'I'm not sure,' he said. 'Oh, not because I wouldn't like to have a perfect day again and again – but because I hope there would be more than one to relive ...' He was lying on his side in the grass with his chin cupped in his hands, looking at me, that golden gaze of his brushing over me like the bits of sun that reached us in our willow hide.

  'Oh, so do I,' I said, flushing and stammering a little. 'Of course, but it would do to begin with, and maybe not everyone can have more than one perfect day and maybe nearly everyone in the world can have one – or at least perfect hours or even minutes or something – and that can be the thing, you see. That's what you get in heaven, if you're going to go there.'

  'Well, then, let's hope we do. Go there. One day. A long time away, because I quite like it here on earth for the moment,' he said, with a little smile, and hoisted himself onto his feet. 'But right now, I feel like going for a walk, don't you?' He reached his hand down to me.

  'Oh, Remy, you're so energetic! Do we have to? I feel like going to sleep.'

  'What a waste of your perfect day,' he said, teasingly. 'Imagine if you get to heaven and most of your perfect day you spend having a nap, over and over again!'

  'I know some people who'd like that,' I said, but I allowed him to haul me to my feet. Hand in hand, we set off down the path, but not towards the house, and not up into the woods this time either. Instead, we followed the river the other way, round a bend and on and on, following it as it wound its silvery way, with Patou nosing happily ahead of us on the path. This way along the riverbank we passed by meadows where cows grazed, and riverside gardens full of vegetables and narrow orchard strips. We saw an old guy with a cap jammed on his head working in one garden. He heard us coming and straightened up and stared at us with suspicious blue eyes as we came close. Remy smiled and called out Bonjour, monsieur, and the old guy gave a reluctant sort of smile back and grunted Bonjour, m'sieu, m'amselle, but stayed there leaning on his fork looking after us until we had passed completely by. Clearly he thought we were only waiting for an opportunity to come in and steal his precious vegies. We thought it was very funny and laughed like drains. The next section of land was a lovely bit of orchard that was quite deserted and Remy, with a twinkle in his eyes, said we should have a look and see if anything was ripe. But though there was plenty of fruit on the trees – plums, Remy said – they were all quite hard and small and none of them ready, so we were saved from becoming exactly what the old man had feared we might be, orchard-raiders, vegie-plot robbers.