Cupid's Arrow

by Isabelle Merlin

  'I'm looking for Mary's fountain,' I said in French, the words falling over each other. I'd said fountain because I just couldn't think of the word for well. They looked at me, and I repeated my words, only adding please.

  The café owner lifted a sardonic eyebrow and said, well, good day to you too, Mademoiselle, and I remembered that in France people hate it if you just burst into speech without saying good day to everyone first. So I blushed and said, Bonjour, messieurs, and please excuse me, but I really must know the way to Mary's fountain, and then one of the blokes turned to the café owner and said, I think the young lady means Our Lady of the Fountain, and the other bloke said, Are you in a hurry to make a wish there, Mademoiselle? And then the first bloke said something about the wishes of young ladies, and there was a good deal of laughter at this and I longed to tell them to shut up and just tell me, but of course I didn't, just stood there smiling stupidly. At last they got sick of their jokes and the café owner told me that I just had to head out of the village in a southerly direction along the river, and it was about ten minutes' walk, past a crossroads. 'Or two minutes' gallop,' said one of the blokes, and that set them off again, for some reason, but I didn't stop to listen, I just rushed out.

  Despite what I'd told Remy, I'm not much good at orienteering, but once I'd had a boyfriend who was very keen on walking and he'd showed me how to tell north from south and east from west so I worked out quickly enough which was south and headed off that way. There were a few people out and about in that village and they all looked at me as I went past. I thought they'd all have a story to tell about the mad girl running through their village, but I didn't care.

  Places always seem further away when you're desperately trying to reach them. Two minutes' gallop, the man had said, and the other said ten minutes' walk, but I swear it must have been at least ten minutes' running when I finally came to a crossroads. There was a sign pointing off into the trees which read Notre Dame de la Fontaine, so I knew I was going in the right direction. I took the road – actually it was a path – and after more than five minutes' hard walking, I suddenly came upon it.

  It was a lovely, peaceful spot, shadowed by small trees. There was a kind of rocky outcrop, into which had been cut a little shrine, and inside the shrine, behind a grille made of very fine gilt metal, was a lovely statue of Mary, holding the baby Jesus in her arms. She was dressed in pale blue robes, and on her white veil was a crown of stars, and her hair was a kind of deep golden colour. Her baby was all in white, and he was smiling like she was, and in one hand he held a fistful of red roses. In front and to the sides of the statue were placed little posies of flowers, and coins, and lit candles in little cups and also the stumps of burnt-out candles, and on the twig-like branches of the little trees around the shrine, ribbons had been tied. In front of the shrine was a stone well, with a lid. But the lid had a hole cut into it, presumably so you could throw things in when you made your wish.

  I looked around. No-one. I said, softly, 'Remy?' Nobody answered. My heart thumped uncomfortably. I called out again, 'Remy?'

  Still nobody answered, but suddenly the hair rose on the back of my arms. I felt quite sure I was being watched. What if – what if it hadn't been Remy who'd written that message, but somebody else? Or worse still, said a nasty unwanted little voice, somewhere deep inside me – what if Mum and the others were right, and Remy ...? No. No. That wasn't true. I'd trust Remy with my life.

  'Remy!' I called, louder this time. 'It's Fleur. I'm alone. I promise. Please, come out.'

  Silence, but now I was sure I was being watched. I swal-

  lowed, and came closer to the shrine.

  And screamed as a hand fell on my shoulder. I spun around and my knees nearly gave way. In fact I think I just about fainted, and I would have fallen if he hadn't caught me. I couldn't speak, just for an instant, the mingled relief and fear was so great. Then I croaked, 'Remy, you nearly gave me a heart attack!'

  'Sorry,' he said, and his arms were tight around me. I could smell his dear smell again, feel his heart beating against mine and I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming joy. He held me and we said nothing for a moment or two as we rocked together. At his heels, Patou nosed around, looking as cheerfully reproachful as a dog can look. I bent down to stroke her on the nose, and she whimpered a little.

  'Poor Patou,' said Remy. 'She's had to keep still for so long. I'm sorry I didn't come out before. I just had to make sure, you see.'

  'Where were you?'

  He pointed. 'Up that tree. And Patou was hiding just under it. I didn't know if you would come. Or if someone else might have found that paper.'

  I looked into his face. He looked terrible. Well, as terrible as the most gorgeous guy in the world can look. There were dark circles under his golden eyes and his hair was tangled with twigs in it. He looked like he'd been sleeping rough. I said, 'Remy, what happened?'

  'She told me to go,' he said, half-indistinct against my hair. 'She said I had to leave, straightaway, or she'd not answer for the consequences. She was like someone possessed. I couldn't understand. I couldn't. You see ...'

  I felt as though my spine was coated in ice. What was it he was trying to tell me? Suddenly, I was horribly afraid. I said, 'Remy, don't –'

  'I'd never seen her quite as bad as that. Never. I was afraid. Everything was crashing down around me. I thought I was going mad. And so you see, Fleur, I had to do it. There was no other way. I just had to, though I didn't want to, not without –'

  'Ssh,' I said, and my eyes felt weird, I hardly even realised I was crying. 'Please, Remy, don't. I don't want to hear. I don't think I can bear it.'

  'She said you'd never see me again. She'd make sure of that. Never. That's what she said. She said it like she hated you.'

  'Please, Remy.' I was really crying now. I didn't want to know, didn't want to know that my beautiful, beautiful Remy had done that terrible thing. I felt like my head was exploding. Oh God forgive me, I felt almost like I didn't care if he had done it or not, like if he didn't say it, if I could stop him from telling me, that it hadn't happened and everything would be all right, and we could just go home together and ...

  'Why are you crying?' he said, now, while Patou circled anxiously around us. 'Aren't you happy? You're here and I'm here and no-one can separate us now, Fleur. Never, unless you want it.'

  I cried harder than ever.

  He said, and now he sounded panicky, lost, 'I don't understand. Aren't you glad we –'

  I managed at last to get some words out, and as I said them, I knew them to be the truth. 'But not at that price, Remy. Not at that price. It's too high.'

  I could feel him tensing. He let go of me and took a step back. He said, and his golden eyes were troubled, 'What do you mean? That you don't feel the same way? That for you, it's –'

  'I love you, Remy,' I said. 'But I can't bear this.'

  'Bear what?' Now he sounded bewildered, and I shuddered.

  'You know.' I couldn't bring myself to utter the words.

  He stared at me. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  It wasn't only my spine that was cold now. Every bit of me felt numb with it. I said, 'I, maybe if you tell them the whole story. That detective – she was very kind – she might understand.'

  'What do you mean?' His voice was low now, dangerous, the golden eyes glittering.

  I took a step back, faltering. 'She said that you only had to come in, talk to them, to the police, and –'

  'Why would I want to talk to the police?'

  There was a strange tone to his voice that scared me silly. I said, quickly, 'It's just better, don't you see, and I –'

  He was on me in an instant, his hand flashing out to grab me painfully by the wrist. 'What are you saying?'

  'Only that they'd understand,' I said. I was very scared now but I couldn't take my eyes from his face, that beautiful, frightening face.

  'What would they understand?'

  'You know. Remy, please. Don't. D
on't. It's me, it's Fleur. You know.'

  'I thought I knew,' he said harshly. 'But now I think I must have been wrong.'

  Despite my terror, that hurt so much. I knew now what they mean when they say your heart bleeds. That's what it feels like, exactly. I said, 'Oh, Remy. I wish –'

  'What do you wish? That you hadn't come? That you hadn't met me?'

  'No. That you –'

  'That I what? Are you going to say what you mean, once and for all?' He was furious. Coldly furious. The golden eyes flashed out sparks, his hands – he'd dropped my wrist – clenching against each other, convulsively. He looked predatory, dangerous. And yet still so beautiful, so – oh, how can I describe it? 'Come on, speak,' he said, roughly. 'You've obviously got something to tell me. Stop playing games. You owe me that, at least.'

  I gulped. 'Remy – your mother ...'

  'Yes?'

  'She threw you out.'

  'I told you that.'

  'And then, and then you came back.'

  'Came back?'

  I looked into his face, searching – for remorse, for fear, for regret, for something – but all I saw was anger, coldness and rejection. I said, very softly, 'you came back, because you were so angry with her. And then you –'

  'And then I what?' His face was very still, the golden eyes unblinkingly on my face. I felt a surge of despair.

  'I–I can't say it, Remy. Please.'

  There was a silence. Then he said, very coldly and precisely, 'You are making no sense. No sense at all.'

  I looked into his eyes. I thought of the woman lying on the path, her hair matted with blood, the arrow in her neck, the defaced tarot. I said, 'Remy, where's your bow and arrows?'

  He stared at me. 'What?'

  'Where are they?'

  'I didn't take them with me,' he said, biting off his words. 'I was too angry. I was planning to –'

  'Planning to what?' I said faintly.

  'Never mind. What concern is that of yours?'

  'Oh, Remy.'

  He came towards me again, and grabbed me by the shoulders. He shook me. Once, twice. He said, 'What's happened? What's happened, for God's sake? Why are you acting like this?'

  His fingers dug into my skin, my teeth rattled. But suddenly I wasn't afraid any longer. The worst had come and nothing ever would be as bad as this again. I said, 'I found her, you see. Mum and I. We found her. We'd come to talk to her – to try to – to change her mind ... and ...'

  He went very white. He said, very quietly, 'What are you saying?'

  'I saw the house, Remy. Her things, everywhere. And her ... she was lying where ...' I couldn't bring myself to continue, to say, where you had left her.

  He gripped my shoulders hard but this time he didn't shake me. He looked into my eyes. His golden eyes had lost all expression. 'Are you saying my mother –'

  'She's dead, Remy! Dead! There, I said it! Why can't you say it?' I was screaming now, every ounce of fear gone, only a wild, wild anger and sorrow filling me. Then I stopped, because such a change had come over his face that all the fear came rushing back, all at once.

  He said, 'She's dead,' and there was no expression in his voice, not at all. Then he said, very low, 'But it can't be. She was fine when I left.'

  Something stirred in the bottom of my heart, something I could hardly believe. I said, 'You didn't go back?'

  He shook his head. 'Why would you think I had? She told me to go. I was far too angry to go back. I went to Bellerive – to leave you that note, but I didn't go back to Mam ...'

  I said, and the hope was rising in me, and the shame, too, 'You didn't go back.'

  'I told you. She wasn't making sense. I thought if I stayed away for a couple of days – she, well, I've done that before, when she's been really angry. She gets these moods, sometimes, and –' He broke off, his eyes distraught. 'But how? She was always fragile, but she never tried to ... I mean, I didn't dream she'd ...'

  'She'd what?' Then I understood. He thought she'd killed herself. 'No,' I said. 'No, Remy. Someone killed her.' And then I was telling him, everything pouring out, unstoppable, everything. And through it all, he was listening with a face like stone, his eyes unmovingly on my face, his hands clenched together. I tried to touch him but he didn't respond, just stood there like a statue, staring at me. A welter of emotions was boiling in me, so that I hardly knew what I felt or thought anymore, but still I kept talking, and still he kept staring and then at last I ground to a halt, and he stood there looking at me. At last he moved. He spoke. He said, softly, 'They think it was me. You thought it was me.'

  'No,' I said. 'No. Not really. I knew it couldn't be. Not really.'

  'You thought it could be me. Just now. When I was telling you about what had happened last night. You were brave then, to stand there alone with me, while those thoughts were in your head.' The words sounded strange, without inflection. I could feel the tears coming to my eyes again. I said, 'I'm sorry, Remy. I didn't feel it – not really – not with my heart – but I –'

  'But you thought it was possible. You thought I could have killed my own mother.'

  I was going to disagree, but all at once I looked into his eyes and I knew it was useless to lie. Useless, and shameful. I said, wearily, 'For a moment, yes. I did think it.'

  'Oh, Fleur,' he said, and that was all that he said, but the pain surged through me again. I said, 'Please, Remy. It was just... I didn't really... Please, forgive me.'

  'I do forgive you,' he said, but he didn't look at me or try to touch me and I knew that I had hurt him so deeply that he might never recover from it. That we – our relationship – would not recover from it. And that it was my stupid, stupid, abominable fault. I, who had so loudly defended his innocence to everyone, had failed in the most important test of all, and in so doing, lost him.

  Siege perilous

  It just goes to show how wrong you can be. Because just as I was thinking that the only thing left for me to do was to turn and go away and never look back, Remy whispered, 'Fleur, will you help me?'

  My confusion must have shown on my face, for he added, quickly, uncertainly, 'If you, if even you, for one moment, thought that I could ... well, that means it must look – must look very black against me.'

  There was a lump in my throat. I nodded.

  He stammered, 'Then you do see why I can't – why I can't go to the police. Or not now. I owe it to my mother. I can't – can't have everyone thinking that – I have to find out. Who, why ...?' He broke off. He was very pale, his eyes on me, his hands shaking, every fibre of him showing uncertainty, even fear. 'Fleur, there's no-one else I can ask. I need you. Will you help me find out what really happened?'

  'Of course,' I said simply. My heart felt so big in me that it seemed like it had taken over my whole body. 'Of course I will help you. Always.'

  Yeah, okay, I know. I should have said, Don't be silly, the police can find out much more than we can, and much more safely too. I should have said, Don't you see, not going to the police looks even worse against you. I should have been sensible. I should have thought. And I did. Those thoughts flickered into my head. And right out again.

  He said, softly, 'Thank you for trusting me. It can't be easy,' and I said, half-angrily, 'It would be harder not to,' and then he gave a little cry and said, very low and very sad, 'Oh, God, Fleur, what are we going to do?'

  'I thought you were the one with the plan,' I said smartly, to cover up the fact that my heart had started racing again, and I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

  He shook his head. I looked at him and saw the utter bleakness in his eyes, and thought, suddenly, he's in shock, he hardly knows what he's been saying or doing. He's just heard his mother's been killed on top of having been thrown out by her for no good reason and he's gone on and on like a clockwork toy that's still wound and still going but in a moment the reaction will set in and then he'll collapse.

  I wasn't wrong. He was shaking with tears now and howling in pain and grief. I was hol
ding him tightly, half in tears myself trying to comfort him and telling him idiotically over and over again that it would be all right when I knew it wouldn't. I should really have said it then, too, said that we couldn't cope on our own, that it was crazy to even think of doing anything else. But I didn't. It wasn't only that I didn't want to. I literally couldn't.

  After a time, he became quiet. We held each other for a little while longer, without speaking. Then I said, gently, 'Are you – have you eaten today, Remy?'

  He shook his head.

  'Then that's the first thing to do. I'll go to the café in the village, get something. On my own. When I come back, we'll –' I saw the sudden flare of anxiety in his eyes, and hurried on, 'I'll be back really quickly. I promise.' I could see he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to. I added, very gently, 'You have to trust me, Remy. You have to know I wouldn't tell anyone. Anyone at all.'

  He nodded. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

  'Don't be.' I kissed him on the forehead. 'Just wait. Rest. I'll be back in two seconds. And then we can talk about what we're going to do.'

  There was a ghost of a smile on his face. But all he said was, 'All right.'

  I ran all the way, slowing down only when I was on the outskirts of the village. I'd already looked red and panting when I'd first lobbed in there, and attracted enough attention to myself. I mustn't do it again. I forced myself to stroll down the main street towards the café. There were a couple of people chatting on a doorstep and they stopped their conversation to stare at me as I went past. I managed to say, 'Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,' as if I didn't have a care in the world. That's the thing to do in France. Forces people to stop stickybeaking quite so openly at you, when you've actually spoken to them. They were obliged to say, 'Bonjour, Mademoiselle,' and then pretend to look away from me and start up their conversation again. Though I could feel their eyes on my back, I ignored them, or tried to, and marched into the café as if I had no idea anyone would be interested in my turning up there for the second time that day.