Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  Past the orchard the river curved again, then straightened and now you could see, in the distance, the spire of a church, and a vague huddle of roofs that announced the next village. We would walk there, Remy said, it wasn't very far, and it had a nice little café where we could rest and have a cold drink. I said I didn't have any money with me, but he laughed and said that was okay, he thought his wallet could stretch to a drink or two. But 'not very far' by Remy's standards was hardly what I'd call that close and it wasn't for nearly another forty-five minutes later that we finally walked into the village.

  It was bigger than Bellerive, but still pretty small. It was centred around a little square where the church stood, and the Monument aux Morts, or monument to the war dead that Remy told me you see in every French village, and the Mairie, or council building, which also was the local post office. And the café. Remy was right. It was really nice. It was a small square building, with whitewashed walls and green-painted shutters, door and window frames. There were tubs of bright flowers on either side of its front door, and at its windows, and two or three tables set out on the footpath, under green umbrellas. One of these was free, so that's where we sat, trying to ignore the curiosity of the other customers, who were obviously locals. We had a couple of really cold Oranginas, a sparkling drink that's sort of like Fanta except not so bright orange, and it actually has real orange in it. Though we'd eaten so much at lunchtime, Remy also insisted on ordering a couple of beignets as well because he said they made them fresh here and they were just fantastic. Well, they were. Beignets are fried cakes, sort of like donuts, only lighter, dusted with sugar and often with fruity fillings in them, like apricot or apple or berries. These ones were filled with apricot and they were scrumptious.

  Well, after an hour or so sitting in the shade of the umbrella eating and drinking and talking and pretending not to notice the other people, we decided we'd better start getting back, cos it was already nearly four o'clock and Remy had to get back to his place to help his mother with some chores. And it would be a long walk back. So off we went, back the way we had come, past the orchard and the old man's vegie garden (he wasn't there) and the meadows and along the way Remy told me a bit about the river, and all the creatures that lived near it, and in it, and how it was a little tributary of a bigger river called the Cure, which in Gaulish times was revered as a magical river, kind of like a gate to the immortal Otherworld (which was often seen as being down through deep water). Les Fontaines Salées spa was in the valley of the Cure, and it was probably the presence of healing springs like those that had given the river both its reputation and its name, which, just like in English, meant healing, or health-giving. He said there were lots of little wells and springs that people visited in the valley of the Cure, and even after the Gauls had become Christians, they kept up those traditions. Wells that had been sacred to some Gaulish god were often turned over to a Christian saint or to the Virgin Mary. He said there were quite a few of those, because Our Lady, as Catholics called her, had been very much loved by country people – and one day he'd show me his favourite, a well-shrine with the most beautiful little statue of Mary, not far from here, just the other side of the village where we'd just been. The well was supposed to be bottomless, and people still went there to make wishes and ask for help in times of trouble, just like their ancestors had done since way back when.

  I'd heard Mum talk about this kind of thing often enough and it had usually gone in one ear and out the other. But it was different listening to Remy. Well it would be, you might say, because I was in love with him and in awe of him and Mum, well, I love her, too, of course, but she's Mum, you know, it's different. Anyway, it was lovely listening to him and half-taking in all the info but mostly just thinking how gorgeous he was and that I was so lucky and that this perfect day would only be the first of many and that we would spend so many together and that somehow it would all just go on and on and on. I didn't think about the future or what would happen when Mum and me had to go back to Australia because I was sure that somehow things would work out, and that anyway I didn't want to think about that right now. I had certainly completely forgotten about why we were in Bellerive in the first place, all the fears and unease I'd felt even just this morning when Wayne Morgan had spoken to me. Even my bad dreams evaporated. All that was brushed away under the spell of that one perfect day and so I went happily on that fateful path without even a shadow of unease.

  We collected our bags from the willow hideout. There were some kids there splashing about in the river and Remy said hello to them. They were village kids – two of the girls were Marie Clary's nieces – and they were friendly but also obviously stickybeaking at me and Remy together, giggling and pointing a bit. We weren't going to let them see us kiss so we walked a little way into the woods to say goodbye. Then I gave him the dream book because I thought it would be safer hidden at his place than at Bellerive, no-one would know it was there. We made plans to meet the next day at eight o'clock at the village bus stop to catch the bus to St-Père and go to see the famous spa. It was exciting making plans but not really because I was dead keen to really follow up this Arthur trail, though it sort of interested me, but because I knew, I just knew it would be another perfect day with a perfect boy.

  I walked back to the house in a happy sort of daze, and went straight in through the back door, which was wide open. I could hear voices in the kitchen, so I knew the adults must be back from their excursion to that stone coffin place. I decided I would try to sneak past without being noticed, cos I didn't really feel like talking to anyone else just now, I just wanted to live in the moment for as long as possible. But the kitchen door was open and Mum caught sight of me as I went past in the corridor and she asked me to come in.

  There was quite a gathering in there sitting around the table chatting, drinking wine and eating nuts – Oscar and Christine, Wayne Morgan, Mum, and a man I had never seen before – a short, thin, bright-eyed middle-aged man dressed in unremarkable clothes. Mum said, 'Laurie, this is my daughter Fleur,' to the man, and he said, 'Well, well, I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss,' in a strong American accent.

  'Oh, hi,' I said, uncertainly. Laurie? Did we know a Laurie?

  'Laurie is a film producer, darling,' said Mum, brightly. 'He optioned one of Raymond's books a few months back. He just arrived this afternoon. He's come to see whether Bellerive could be used as one of the locations.'

  'It's very exciting,' said Oscar. And he really did look excited, his face was flushed, his eyes bright. 'I know Uncle had almost lost hope of any of his books making it to production. He was really pleased that you were getting on so well with finding the finance.'

  'Oh well, it's early days, early days yet,' said Laurie. 'But we'll get there.'

  'The film industry is quite a difficult one, of course,' said Wayne Morgan pompously, and that started him off on some great long story about how once he'd thought he might get into film production but this and that – and blah blah. The others listened with various degrees of attention while I took the opportunity to sidle out, pleading tiredness and the need to take a shower, without Mum getting the chance to ask even one probing question. But I'm sure she knew what I was feeling. Her glance at me as I left told me that. She can be very acute sometimes, when she comes out of her dream world of myths and legends. Quite sharp, in fact. But all she said was, 'Dinner'll be about another half-hour, okay?'

  'Sure, I'll be down then.' I could smell something roasting in the oven and to my surprise found that I felt hungry all over again. Honestly, I'd eaten like a horse today, I thought as I stumped up the stairs and went up to my room. I didn't go and take a shower, though, I just lay on my bed and thought about Remy and imagined all sorts of things and without even knowing it I started to slide into a little drowsy dream, in which what had happened today and our walk and everything merged into Remy and me walking along a green road, yes, the green road I'd dreamed about before, and there at the top of the hill was the wall, and the door.
We walked up there, and we stood together before the door, then he turned and looked at me and there was the oddest expression in his gold-hazel eyes, something weird, and suddenly I was uneasy and I said, No, wait, but he had already turned the handle of the door, and opened it, and I saw that beyond was – nothing. A blank. Not black, but white. Quite white, like thick, thick fog. I yelled, No, but he was already stepping into it and then the door moved and with a great clang and a crash ...

  A great clang and a crash. I woke up, with a yell. Someone was banging and crashing and shouting downstairs. I didn't stop to think, but jumped up and ran downstairs, expecting – well, I don't know, I was still fuddled from the dream. But it was the door. The front door, and someone hammering on it, shouting my name.

  I reached the door a couple of minutes before the others did. I learnt later that's because they'd gone out into the garden. I opened it. And there on the doorstep was Remy's mother, Valerie. I couldn't believe it. The gentle, smiling woman I'd met the other day had transformed into a raging fury, all her face taken over by the sinister snarl of its burnt side. She shouted, in English, 'You! You! How dare you!'

  I took a step back, my panicked gaze taking in her wild, crimson face, the bicycle she must have come on in such a hurry flung onto the gravel driveway behind her, the twitching of her hands. I faltered, 'I don't know what you mean.'

  She advanced on me. 'What have you done to my son? What have you done to him?'

  I felt my blood run cold. I hadn't known you could really feel that, but it's true. You can. I said, 'I'm sorry, I don't know what you –'

  'He always understood, before. Why he should keep away from this wicked world. Why he should not interfere. Not now. Well, I won't have it, do you hear! I won't have it! I want you to leave him alone. Leave him alone, do you hear!'

  Panic clutched at me. My hair prickled with cold. 'But Mrs Gomert...'

  'I want to see your mother. Right now.' She crashed into the house, breathing hard, her face full of rage, her eyes shooting sparks. She looked mad. Possessed. I was really scared that she might even try to physically attack me. I stepped back. I said, 'Please, Mrs Gomert, I don't understand. Please, tell me what this is about.'

  'You came into my house. I trusted you. But what are you really here for?'

  She was mad, I thought. Stark. Raving. Bonkers. Tears sprang into my eyes. 'Please, Mrs Gomert, won't you tell me what I –'

  'I want to see your mother. Now!' The last word was a shout.

  'Who wants to see me?' said Mum's bewildered voice, behind me. Even from the garden, she must have heard the commotion. She stared at Valerie Gomert. 'What is going on? Who are you? Why are you shouting like that at my daughter?'

  Valerie Gomert's expression changed. Not completely – she still looked very angry – but her features relaxed, just a fraction. She said, 'I have come here to ask your daughter not to have anything more to do with my son.'

  Mum looked astonished. 'I'm sorry? Oh, you must be Remy's mother. Oh, I see.' She looked from me to Valerie. 'But I–I don't understand. What happened?' The question wasn't to Valerie, but to me.

  I shook my head. 'Nothing. Nothing happened. I don't know. I don't understand. Remy and me, we had a good day. A perfect day.' I looked at Valerie Gomert. 'Please, please believe me. We did nothing wrong. Nothing.'

  Her face flamed. 'I have forbidden Remy from seeing you again. Oh, and don't think he won't obey me. He is the dearest boy alive and he will never go against me. He knows what I have suffered. What I suffer.' She turned to my mother. 'I want you to tell your daughter that she is not to see Remy again.'

  'Hang on,' said Mum, crossly, 'this is just ridiculous. Why you think I would do such a thing I have no idea, especially as you're not making any sense –'

  'What's going on?' It was Oscar's voice. He was followed by Wayne, Christine and Laurie, all trying to look discreetly concerned and failing, and instead looking more like agog onlookers at a school fight than anything else.

  Mum said, 'This lady seems to think my daughter's done something or other to her son,' and Oscar said, 'Oh, Valerie, my dear, whatever is the matter?'

  Valerie looked at him, at the others. From red, she had gone very white. Actually, not white. Grey. The bones seemed etched into her skin. Her eyes seemed to stare into the shadows beyond us, a pulse twitched in her throat. She looked sick, old, terrible. She whispered, 'Keep away from me. Keep away from my son. Do you hear?' and then, before anyone could move a muscle, she had fled out of the open front door, flung herself on her bicycle, and pedalled wildly away.

  'Sweet Mary Mother of God,' breathed Laurie, watching her disappear up the drive. 'Who in blazes was that?'

  'A poor woman called Valerie Gomert,' said Oscar, distractedly. 'She's a bit... well, you saw.'

  'But who is she?' said Christine. 'I don't think I ever saw her before in the village.'

  'No. She doesn't live in the village. She lives in the woods. She's almost a hermit. One of Uncle's friends. Well, one of the strays he took pity on. She's an artist. When she's okay, she works well, I believe. She did some work for him now and again. She hasn't been here for a few weeks. Months, even. Before your time, anyway.'

  'Your uncle was a kind man,' said Christine, shaking her head. 'I don't think I'd want someone like that near my house.'

  'She's not always – not usually – like that,' said Oscar sadly. 'I've heard stories in the village that she can go a bit berserk, but I've never seen it before.'

  'Shouldn't someone go after her, maybe?' said Wayne Morgan. 'She looked sick.'

  'She sure did,' said Mum, her eyes blazing. 'Sick as in mentally sick. Poor Fleur!' She put an arm around me. I'd been listening to all this chatter with only half an ear. I felt sick myself. Disconnected from my body. Cold all over. I thought, no, no, no, it can't really be happening, not really, this is a nightmare, maybe I'm really still up there on my bed having a dream and I'll wake up in a second and I'll know it's not true.

  'I don't think it'd be wise to go after her,' said Oscar, giving Mum and me a sideways glance. 'Let her simmer down in her own good time. I'm sure it's all a mistake and she'll come back tomorrow and apologise.'

  'She looked as mad as a hatter,' said Christine, and all of a sudden she began to laugh.

  'Christine,' said Oscar, mortified. 'Please.'

  'Sorry,' she said, and stopped abruptly. 'It was just, well, she was such a sight. Sorry, that was stupid of me. Just the shock, I suppose.' She smiled at me. 'Sorry, Fleur. You poor thing.'

  'It's okay,' I whispered, hardly knowing what I was saying. Okay? Okay? Nothing could ever be okay again if what Valerie Gomert said was true and I could never see Remy again.

  'Come on, darling,' Mum said gently. Her arm was still around me, and I was grateful. I felt so cold now that I was shaking. 'You and I, let's just go and have a little chat together, all right?'

  'You settle in the library, girls. I'll get you both a nice hot drink,' said Wayne heartily and unexpectedly. 'And we'll get that dinner organised and on the plates in a jiffy. Don't you worry about a thing.' Shepherding Christine and Laurie and Oscar in front of him, he took them all out of the room, and Mum and I were left alone.

  Cold fury

  'I want you to tell me exactly what's been going on.' Mum is usually very easygoing and sometimes even vague about things. She doesn't tend to give me the third degree about what I'm up to. She does expect me to tell her what's going on, generally, and generally I do tell her. But just occasionally, she shows a completely different side. Everything about her sharpens. And you know, you just know it is useless to lie because somehow she'll be able to tell and then she'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. She's grounded me once or twice after episodes like that, and there was no getting around the grounding. There was just no argument.

  So I knew I had to tell her the truth. Or at least as much of it as she really needed to know. I left out a few things, such as my dream, for instance, because I didn't want her to think I migh
t need to speak to the psychologist again. I told her how Remy and I had met, and how we had become friends straightaway, and how Remy's mother had seemed perfectly happy about it when I met her. I told her that I thought Raymond had been looking for evidence that the vanished British king Riothamus was King Arthur, and that we thought he'd found a coin, that he'd done a drawing of it in a book of his dreams that I'd found, and that Remy and I thought we might investigate. I said I didn't understand why Remy's mother would have gone off her brain like she did, because we'd done nothing wrong. Mum listened carefully, without commenting, and when I'd finished she said, 'I see.'

  'What? What do you see?'

  'She's afraid.'

  'Afraid? What of? I'm not that scary, am I?'

  Mum smiled faintly. 'Sometimes you can be, Fleur. So strong and fiery and certain. It can scare people.'

  I snorted. 'Come on! I don't believe she's scared of me. She's just jealous. Possessive. She doesn't want anyone being friends with her son. Not real friends. That's why she brought him up in the woods, away from people. Why he didn't go to school. She just wants to hang on to him.'

  'I think that's unfair,' said Mum mildly. 'I think she's probably just protective of him. After all, with her history...'

  'Oh, that's silly! What has that got to do with it? I'm not threatening Remy or anything! I don't understand what she's so scared of. I'm not a criminal!'