The curse of Kalaan

by Unknown

  The next minute Virginie found herself alone and confused. Kalaan... the cannon fire... Ar sorserez...

  “Oh my God,” she gasped, as she sank back into the chair and then on to the floor, which she didn’t seem to notice.

  The cursed silk dressing gown no longer affected her. She was petrified at the thought of seeing Kalaan again. She should never have accepted to come to the Isle of Croz. Never!

  Chapter 7

  In the small hours of the morning

  “Get the men on the yawls and lead them to the levee!” Kalaan shouted orders to Lil’ Louis in his baritone voice. “We will meet later at the longhouse to get organized.”

  “Ya!” shouted back the chief mate who then turned to join the rest of the crew.

  Kalaan closed his eyes and took deep breaths of the salty air. He was almost euphorically happy to be back on Croz, especially as he’d arrived home in a man’s body and not that of a female. He tried as hard as he could to get accustomed to his female version, but to no avail. He was constantly fighting the thing he became at dawn.

  That was the other reason for which he had braved the incredible storm, to win his race against time and bring his ship to port safely, in the skin of the Count of Croz. He defied Poseidon, danced on the waves and triumphed over the elements. Nothing and no one could have stopped him.

  If he had been forced to go ashore as a female, it would have been such a dishonor. God only knows what would have happened then, for the idea of putting an end to his days was a little too present in his mind these past few weeks.

  But now his men were in the yawls on their way to safe shelter behind the port ramparts and they would soon be joining their families, Kalaan started to regain his self-confidence. At nightfall he would go with Salam and Lil’ Louis to find the guardian of the stones. The old druid would help him, of that he was certain.

  “We are not going with them?” Salam looked worried, with his clothes soaking wet and his heavy pack sliding off his shoulder.

  “No, we are taking the dinghy,” Kalaan told him, using his oil lamp to show him the small skiff well below them, pitching wildly on the water and banging against the ship’s hull.

  “Never!” Salam’s accent was even stronger when he was offended.

  Kalaan threw his head back and laughed heartily. His hair was dripping wet, and he licked his lips to savor the salty sea spray.

  “I don’t have the time to persuade you, but we will gain precious time with the dinghy. I could take a short cut by the ramparts and be home before sunrise. So, are you coming with me, or are you swimming?”

  At this point Kalaan turned out the lamp, put it on the bridge and slid down the long rope to land in the dinghy. At least that is what Salam imagined, for he could not see a thing! He did not know how to swim, but was not going let a little salt water stop him, so he felt around in the dark for the rope and followed Kalaan, sighing in relief when he felt the wood of the little boat under his feet. He sat down and firmly gripped the gunwale[45]. He was surprised to see that it was no longer pitch black and that in the early signs of dawn he could make out shapes and forms, such as his friend’s imposing silhouette.

  Kalaan was amused by his discomfort and stood laughing after picking up an oar. This devil of a man was fearless… except, of course, where women were concerned. That thought alone helped Salam to relax, and he began to laugh with Kalaan, who was far from imagining what the Tuareg was laughing at. The irony of the situation put Salam in an even better mood.

  With his hair flying in the wind and his long coat flapping behind him, Kalaan sculled[46] powerfully away from the frigate. Suddenly, something in the opposite direction caught his attention.

  “What do you see?” Salam shouted, pestered by the gusts of wind and heavy rain. He knew his friend was endowed with excellent night vision.

  “The last yawl with Lil’ Louis and the other men has just reached the levee. There are a lot of people there to greet them, for which I am happy.”

  Indeed, in the far lights of torches and oil lamps, they could make out the forms of many people moving on the embankment. The sailors were reunited with their wives and children after long months of separation and in the coming days, their return would be joyfully celebrated. Kalaan pushed away any sad thoughts when he realized no one was there to greet him. After all, it was his decision and given the circumstances it was a thousand fold better having his mother and sister in Paris.

  They arrived quickly at the bottom of some very steep stone stairs that went up along a very high wall. Kalaan docked the dinghy, tying the docking rope with a mariner’s knot and began climbing the slippery steps four by four. He seemed to forget Salam behind him. The Tuareg was severely hindered by his long dripping robes and heavy pack. He could not move nearly as easily as Kalaan and swore in a most undignified manner when he faltered on the last landing. He would have fallen backwards had Kalaan not caught him in his strong grip.

  “Follow in my steps, brother,” he advised, as he stepped onto stone and dirt path.

  Salam tried to do just that, muttering and swearing every time he stumbled. The desert sand was far less treacherous, even if your feet sank into it at each step. And in Egypt, it was much warmer; rain was a rare treasure, whereas here, the rain froze you to the bone and water became your enemy!

  The two men walked quickly despite the steep ascent, which brought them to the heights of the isle. They soon found themselves on a strip of land dimly lit by the light coming from the windows of a long stone house.

  Kalaan strode onto the courtyard cobblestones and pushed the heavy entrance door open letting Salam enter first. There was a good strong fire going in the hearth of what was obviously someone’s home and they quivered with pleasure at the warmth of the place.

  A young boy of about twelve jumped up from a bench at the table and ran towards Kalaan grinning.

  “Oy’ve kept the house well cap’n!” he shouted proudly. Despite his sleepy eyes and obvious fatigue he could not hide his joy at seeing Kalaan.

  “Well done, my boy.” The count congratulated him and affectionately ruffled his blond locks.

  He took a pouch out of his pocket and filled the boy’s open hands with five-franc coins. It was truly a fortune, but the boy deserved it. He and his mother, one of the castle servants, took good care of the house. In the winter he collected tinder and kept a fire going to keep the humidity at bay. When he heard the cannon shots, he must have come up from the village to rekindle the fire and wait for the lord of Croz, instead of running to the levee like the others and jumping into his father’s arms.

  “Ohhh... all this?” The boy could hardly believe his eyes. He quickly put the coins in his pockets after quickly inspecting them for holes.

  “You’ve done good work Gerald; now run join your parents! They must be home by now and I’m sure you cannot wait to see your father.”

  “Oh ya, cap’n!” Gerald exclaimed before running off as fast as he could. He returned quickly a moment later to close the door he had left open and ran off again, his wooden clogs sounding loudly on the cobblestones.

  Salam smiled, watching the child through the window and turned to Kalaan who was looking strangely at Salam’s feet. The Tuareg lowered his eyes in the same direction and realized he was standing in a puddle on the waxed floorboards.

  “Let us rid ourselves of this wet clothing.” Kalaan went to the fireplace and placed several high-backed chairs in front of the hearth. He removed his heavy coat and threw it on a chair, then went to sit on one of the benches to remove his boots and socks, which he threw aside paying no heed to where they landed.

  Salam showed more discipline. He neatly placed the cape he had been lent over the back of one of the chairs, then took off his shoes and placed his socks side by side in front of the fire. He took the towel Kalaan handed him with a teasing smile, but rather than dry himself, he mopped up the puddles they had made.

  “Aren’t you a real little lady of the house!” laughed t
he count, teasingly.

  “We will see who the real lady is in less than an hour,” Salam coolly replied raising his eyebrows.

  Kalaan broke out laughing, putting Salam in a good mood, which he was careful to hide. Sometimes it felt very good to mark a point and take the arrogant young man down a peg or two.

  “You would do well to remove your cheich and your takakat,” Kalaan suggested. “You will become ill if you stay in those wet clothes. I should add that cloth on your head has no use here.”

  He walked over to a typical old Breton wardrobe standing against one of the walls. Salam ignored the advice and began to examine his surroundings. They were in the living quarters and kitchen of a longhouse, a place where people gathered for meals and discussions around the fire.

  “Waxed hardwood floors, beautifully worked furniture and rich cloth, everything in this house reflects your rank in society, but it is not a castle.”

  “That is because I am much happier here than in the family fortress,” Kalaan replied, suddenly clenching his teeth.

  He was beginning to feel the early signs of the upcoming transformation and to hide his pain he went into further explanations.

  “I do not like to live in the fortress, for there are too many memories of my father, Maden.”

  “You did not get on well with him?”

  Kalaan turned around after opening one of the wardrobe doors. He was tense and Salam thought he caught a hint of sadness in his look.

  “Quite the contrary,” he replied after a moment. “My father...he meant the world to me.”

  Salam nodded then turned to look at the fire. He preferred to support his friend in respectful silence. Kalaan let out a low moan and began to wobble slightly on his bare feet.

  “You should lie down and wait for the transformation,” Salam was almost pleading.

  “No! I will face this standing up! The change is becoming less and less painful anyway.”

  “Braggart!” Salam, mocked him gently, which brought a smile to Kalaan’s lips.

  “I would like to see you go through this!”

  “La, shoukran!”[47]

  “Nothing obliges you to stay in this room and witness yet another humiliation.” Kalaan gave Salam a friendly tap on the shoulder. The squishy wet sound of that tap on the soaking fabric made them both break out into hearty laughter.

  “There is a well-heated guest room with all the amenities just down the hall. Go change your clothes and rest there, my friend.”

  “I will go dry myself...but then I will return.” Salam picked up his pack and followed his friend’s directions.

  Once alone, Kalaan went back to the wardrobe and took out a bottle of whisky. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and drank at length from the bottle. The alcohol warmed his throat and loins, temporarily relieving the pain contracting his muscles. He went over to the fire and sighed in contentment.

  “Finally,” he murmured, “I am at home and at peace.”

  Kalaan took another swig of the amber liquid and kept it on his tongue to savor its rich biting flavor. He was so absorbed by this instant of pleasure that he didn’t hear the door open behind him.

  “Kalaan!” sang out two feminine voices in unison.

  Caught by surprise, the young man almost choked on his whisky. He spluttered, spitting it into the hearth where it caught fire. The heat from the flames rose up to his face bringing a burning smell to his nostrils.

  He shot around, drops of the alcohol running down his chin and a look of astonishment in his eyes when he saw Amélie and Isabelle in their nightgowns and little boots, barely protected against the elements.

  “What a nightmare,” he moaned. “I must wake up.”

  Indignant, both mother and daughter dropped their smiles.

  “I’m pleased to see you too my son,” Amélie said stiffly, holding her head high.

  “What a clod!” Isabelle’s feelings were hurt by her brother’s thoughtless comment. Would he ever learn proper manners?

  This was not what he had planned, and yes, Kalaan was in a nightmare, but it was really happening.

  “Mother… Isabelle,” Kalaan went up to them, wiping the whisky from his chin. He stopped and slammed the bottle down on the table.

  Almost snarling at them he said, “You are supposed to be in Paris! But no you are here on Croz, and in your nightwear to boot!”

  At first stupefied by Kalaan’s reaction, Amélie and Isabelle were slowly getting angry.

  “You’re spoiling everything!” Isabelle did not have her mother’s sense of self-control. “We were so happy at the idea of seeing you again after such a long separation. So yes, we are ‘in our nightwear’ as you so aptly put it. We were so impatient to greet you and hold you in our arms. We looked everywhere for you, but finally found you here. And you, you dare rebuff us? You… you…”

  “That will do, Isabelle,” Amélie calmly interrupted her daughter. “I am pleased to see you again, my son. You don’t look well, however.”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to say something, and stopped when the door to the next room opened. Salam appeared dressed from head to foot in his dry ‘blue man’ clothing. He was returning to join Kalaan when he heard voices arguing.

  “Close your mouth Isabelle,” Amélie ordered, placing her fingers on her daughter’s chin. “Are you going to introduce us, Kalaan?”

  Scowling, the young man decided to comply with the rules of propriety. “Mother, Isabelle, I would like to introduce Salam, my Tuareg friend. I have written about him in my letters. Salam,” he said, turning to the man in blue, “These wet little mice are my mother and my sister.”

  The ladies gasped indignantly at Kalaan’s unappealing introduction, but Salam paid no heed and greeted them with the dignity befitting their social position.

  Kalaan felt guilty for acting boorishly. There was nothing he wanted more than to embrace his mother and sister, but they arrived at the worst possible moment. The sun would be up within the next half hour and whether the sky was blue or cloudy Kalaan would soon become a woman and this would happen before the eyes of his family, if he couldn’t be rid of them before.

  It had taken him some time to be accustomed to his new condition; but how would his mother and sister react? Would they scream like the frigate’s crew did? Would they run away, frightened out of their minds? Or worse, would they reject him forever? Kalaan didn’t want to know. They would not witness his transformation, and that was that.

  “Leave now. Return to the castle, get changed and pack your trunks. I will have a boat chartered to take you to Paimpol and from there you can either go on to Paris or our manor the Kerkalon[48] near Saint-Brieuc. It doesn’t matter where you go, but far from here!” Kalaan’s tone was cold and distant.

  “That is not possible, my son,” replied Amélie. Her voice was very soft, almost too soft. “I have no idea what is wrong, but I know you, and your behavior is telling me to do just the opposite of what you ask.”

  “But Mother...”

  “Moreover,” Amélie raised a hand to interrupt her son, “We have a houseguest and renovations to supervise here on the isle. You have completely neglected your duties here!”

  “You have a houseguest?”

  “Yes, Virginie, the Marchioness of Macy.” Isabelle’s reply was not exactly warm. She could not stop glancing over at Salam, who could not seem to keep his eyes off her. If her cheeks weren’t already red with anger at her brother she would have blushed.

  “The butterball is here?” Kalaan sounded quite displeased. “And why not the King of France while you’re at it? That child is so clingy, and a walking catastrophe! She set fire to the papyrus collection my father gave me. Her father Josephe can take her back to Paris and…”

  “Josephe de Macy is dead,” Amélie said curtly. “He left this world over a year ago, the week following your departure to be exact. As for the fire, well, my son you must realize the child was only five at the time and you were fourteen! You can’t hold the incident
against her forever.”

  “Yet another letter you didn’t receive, I suppose.” Isabelle was more than displeased. “And if I hear you call Ginny ‘the butterball’ one more time, I will cut out your tongue!”

  Kalaan sighed with fatigue and tried to control his shaking. Amélie noticed the tremors and stepped towards him with worry.

  “You are ill, my son!”

  Kalaan raised a trembling hand to stop her. “Mother, please, take Isabelle and your guest, and leave. I beg you. If you love me, you will do as I ask!”

  Amélie shed a tear, and Isabelle began to share her mother’s worry.

  “Is it serious?” Isabelle asked quietly, her voice almost a whisper.

  “Yes and no.” Kalaan gripped the edge of the table as he replied. His legs were beginning to feel weak from the pain.

  “We will find a doctor; he will take care of you and…”

  “No doctor can help me.”

  Amélie and Isabelle whimpered in terror as tears ran down their cheeks.

  “Are you... going to... die?” Isabelle could barely speak.

  Zounds! Now Kalaan was terrorizing the two women in his life. This saddened him so much; it was absolutely unbearable. But how could he tell them the truth?

  “He will not die,” Salam calmly said, the sound of his voice startling everyone.

  “Salam!” Kalaan warned, giving him a dark look, which the Tuareg grandly ignored.

  “He will become a woman as soon as the day breaks.”

  Amélie and Isabelle were dumbstruck at first, but then began laughing nervously. Kalaan, standing near the fireplace, weakly wiped his face and eyed the whisky bottle. He would have liked to get as drunk as the dickens right now.

  “What form of insanity is this?” It was beyond Amélie’s comprehension.

  “’Tis not insanity Madame,” replied Salam, “but a curse.”

  “A… what?” Isabelle gasped, trying to catch her brother’s eye.

  “You heard perfectly well, my sister. I am not ill, I am not going to die; but I am cursed. You will understand everything soon enough, as you are incapable of obeying my order to leave!”