The Alchemy Press Book of Urban Mythic 2 Read online

  ‘Reception’s poor here,’ Madame said. Did she miss nothing? ‘Variable, at best, just like the TV. I always say it depends on the weather, but that annoys Josette. She says I need to adapt to the twenty-first century! I just can’t be doing with all this social media. Though if you enjoy your stay here,’ she added with a sly smile, ‘I won’t object if you give us a high rating on one of those holiday websites.’

  *

  The oppressive heat of the kitchen makes me feel sweaty; the smell of cooking clings to my skin, my hair.

  The best time of evening to go for a cool, refreshing bathe in the Loue; just as the shadows are lengthening beneath the trailing willow boughs and few people are about.

  Midges, gnats have never bothered me. The scent of my ageless body or the eternal ichor in my veins doesn’t seem to attract them.

  But I feel a little lonely and in need of company. It’s been a while since my last lover died. And there’ve been more than a few, although some merely pretty playthings to keep me amused.

  It’s been hard, reinventing myself again and again. Every time one of my lovers begins to grow old, it’s necessary to go away, back to the source of the river at Ouhans where no one remembers me. Just for a few years, long enough for people here to forget. And then to come back after his death – for this is, after all, my territory, my river – introducing myself as a distant cousin or the illegitimate daughter of my previous ‘self’. Some of the older villagers peer at me and exclaim over what a strong family resemblance there is and I shrug and smile, not bothering to challenge their observations.

  And as long as the notaire has set up the necessary legal documents well in advance so that my ‘cousin’ or ‘daughter’ can inherit and carry on the ‘family business’, it’s relatively easy to introduce myself back into the life of the village.

  But when I venture into the village cemetery and see their names carved on the tombstones; those that are still legible, that haven’t been worn away by the wind and rain, I wonder whether it might be better to never share my heart with yet another mortal again and spare myself the inevitable pain of outliving him.

  The river calls to me, offering the promise of cool, starlit water.

  Time to go.

  *

  The bedroom TV reception was poor, just as Madame had predicted, and the choice of channels limited. There was nothing to watch but a live relay of a frenetic Feydeau farce from a Paris theatre, all arch exclamations and frou-frou maids. The alternative was endless back-to-back episodes of a dubbed US forensic police procedural series, CSI somewhere-or-other or an endless political discussion.

  Bored, Lucien took out the sketchbook he had stuffed into his backpack in haste, and then wished he hadn’t as he could hardly bear to look at the intimate and tender little drawings he had made in happier times. Dani grinning at him above the rim of a mug of Lapsang Souchong; Dani emerging from the shower wrapped in a towel, mockingly holding up one hand as if to block out intrusive paparazzi; Dani fallen asleep reading on the sofa, glasses sliding down, the book open.

  Why did I bring this? I should rip those sketches out and tear them up. Even better, burn them. Burn everything to ashes and start again.

  So why wasn’t he taking action? He lay back on the bed, hands behind his head. The springs creaked. Am I that much of a sentimentalist to want to keep them? Masochist, more like. Rubbing salt in the wounds. The one thing I can be sure of is that Dani isn’t thinking of me right now, soaking up the Mediterranean sun en famille.

  Only an idiot would fall for one of his lecturers. Especially one with a partner and family. ‘But things haven’t been going well between us ... so I’ve moved out.’ He could still hear Dani telling him. ‘It’s over.’ The oldest cliché in the tangled skein of human relationships. And I fell for it.

  His sight went blurry. Fuck it all. Shouldn’t drink. Alcohol always makes me feel sorry for myself. He blinked the stinging wetness away, trying to focus. A framed print on the opposite wall caught his attention. By the weak light of the economy bulb overhead, he peered at it and saw another dark nineteenth century gravure of a winged woman-dragon swooping down on her unfortunate male victim.

  La Vouivre

  She had the right idea. Drown any troublesome lovers, especially the ones who try to steal your most precious possession.

  He yawned. He had been sleeping badly for so long since the break-up that drowsiness had crept up on him unannounced. Must be the fresh air ... and the good food.

  *

  Shaking my hair free from its pins and clips, I slip out of my clothes in the twilit shade of the trailing branches of the weeping willow. I take care to tuck the ruby pendant safely inside the folds of my dress.

  I can see the lights in the village houses and the distant sound of voices through open windows. The family staying at the gîte must be having a barbecue; the acrid, spicy smoke (merguez, brochettes) drifts through the drowsy stillness of the warm summer evening. Bats are swooping over the shallows, feasting on the clouds of insects.

  I step down from the bank and slide into the green water. It feels so deliciously cool against my skin. I lie back, floating on the gentle current, letting my hair fan out around my head like water weed as I gaze up at the darkening sky, looking up at the first stars.

  So relaxing just to let the river ... my river ... cleanse me and soothe away the cares of the day. It’s a mutually beneficial process; I care for the river and the river I protect cares for me.

  And yet I’m not entirely relaxed. I keep thinking of the new guest at the pension. Lucien. Just a student passing through ... no point in hoping for anything.

  But still there’s something rather attractive about him. His expression a little lost, even a little sad when he thinks no one is watching ... those brown, soulful eyes, fringed by soft, black lashes.

  He reminds me of my dark-eyed Gustave. Gustave who died so long ago ... some years after he’d left me and this quiet river life behind to go and make his reputation in the capital.

  Shall I indulge myself?

  I lift one hand from the water and idly watch the droplets fall. The moon is rising. Time to go back.

  *

  Lucien found himself walking aimlessly along the river bank. The countryside was undeniably pretty, a shifting tapestry of soft shades of green: grasses; willow leaves; gently rippling water.

  He stopped to watch a dragonfly, gaudily bright, flashing through the reeds.

  No one else around.

  He could hear the distant sound of children’s voices, delighted shrieks interspersed with energetic splashing. He remembered that he had passed a campsite the day before; there must be a beach area created for the campers to enjoy.

  Better to stay here, away from the rowdy cheerfulness of the holidaymakers.

  He sat on a willow stump and took out the sketchbook, opening it at a clean page. Then he took out his battered tin case of water colours and box of brushes.

  ‘What are you, Lucien, a throwback to the nineteenth century?’ He could hear Dani’s playfully mocking comment. ‘No one uses water colours these days. Except elderly spinsters. At least try acrylics. Or go digital.’

  ‘No one uses them?’ he had answered. ‘All the better, then. That means my work will at least be different.’

  The sun was still shining but his mood had darkened. There would be no more intimate moments, just the two of them alone together. It had all been a lie. He didn’t want to think about Dani any longer. He still felt too raw.

  I’m just going to draw.

  He settled himself in the shade, pencil in hand. The gnarled, knotted trunk of an ancient goat willow on the far bank had caught his eye. The twisted shape and the knobbly, pitted bark intrigued him. Can I capture something of that rough grainy texture? The pencil lead began to move over the empty page, outlining, cross-hatching.

  *

  Lucien set down his sketchbook and stretched. He stood up, hunching his shoulders and then relaxing them several
times to ease the stiffness.

  How long have I been here?

  The quality of the light had altered with the lengthening of the afternoon shadows. He pulled out his phone to see what the time was and realised, only then, that he had been so absorbed that he had neglected to check for texts all day.

  There were, of course, no new texts.

  But there were two water colours of the riverside, and several detailed pencil sketches of willow bark.

  And until he had taken out his phone, he had forgotten all about Dani.

  Lucien packed away his things and, carefully carrying the sketchbook, set off back along the bank toward the village.

  He passed a field filled with rolled bales of hay, drying in the sun. Yet he didn’t catch sight of a single angler. This stretch of the Loue was deserted, save for a mallard paddling in the shallows, a moorhen or two, and the iridescently jewelled dragonflies.

  ‘They say if you walk along the banks of the Loue at twilight, you might see her fly down to bathe.’

  The tranquil riverside seemed too ordinary a place to be the home of a legendary winged serpent-woman.

  His stomach growled. Time I was getting back; dinner starts at seven. And, to his surprise, he realised that not only had he regained his appetite, he was even looking forward to Madame’s cooking.

  *

  ‘So you’re an artist.’ Her gaze did not move from the water colours.

  ‘Just a student. Still learning.’ He found himself shifting from foot to foot, like a child anxiously waiting for his teacher to mark his homework. He had laid the day’s work on the bed and just at that moment she had knocked and come in, bringing fresh towels. ‘My tutors say I’m too old-fashioned.’

  At last she looked up. ‘But these are good. You’ve really captured something of my – our – river.’

  ‘I haven’t really done it justice. I’ll have another try tomorrow.’ He was surprised to realise that he wanted to go back to the river and paint. The enshrouding fog of depression and self-loathing had lifted a little.

  ‘You could make a few euros selling those to the visitors here. Carrying on the tradition of Gustave Courbet. Have you been to his birthplace museum over in Ornans? An artist like you should go. You can see many of his Jura paintings there.’ A distant look clouded her eyes as if she were lost in a vivid memory.

  ‘I kind-of followed Courbet here,’ he heard himself mumble. ‘I didn’t exactly intend ... it just turned out this way.’

  At first he had been obsessed with the idea of stalking Dani. He had even gone to the Gare de Lyon determined to take the train all the way down south to Nice ... but had somehow managed to get on the Franche-Comte TGV instead. Freudian slip. All his carefully imagined scenes in which he would just ‘bump into’ Dani on the beach or at the cafe or local bar swiftly dispersed as the train sped on toward the Jura.

  But when he stepped out of the TGV onto Besançon station, the end of the line, he noticed the museum posters:

  VISIT ORNANS – COURBET’S BIRTHPLACE

  He had first encountered Courbet’s work when studying the canvases at the Musée d’Orsay as part of an assignment on the nineteenth century Realist painters who influenced the Impressionists. It made sense to ask for directions to Ornans, even if he had ended up in Chamblay, seduced by the delicious scents wafting out onto the street from Madame’s kitchen.

  ‘There’s river trout for dinner tonight.’ She smiled at him and he sensed that there was an unspoken invitation in her smoulderingly sensuous smile. ‘Don’t be late. It’s best eaten sizzling hot.’

  *

  So the young pensionnaire from Paris is an artist. Just a student ... but one with considerable promise. And how do I know? Because my heart began to beat a little faster when I looked at his work.

  He seems more relaxed than when he first signed in at reception. Clean country air and good food are working their homely magic. Hasn’t been feeding himself properly for quite a while, I reckon. Still keeps checking his mobile for messages when he thinks I’m not looking. Someone’s broken his heart ... but he hasn’t lost hope yet.

  He’s pretty. Sensitive eyes, regular features, nice hair, the silky brown sheen of sweet chestnuts. Am I falling for him? Maybe just a little...

  Is he falling for me? Or does he only see an older woman, a potential patroness, perhaps ... but not a lover?

  I have a touch more magic at my disposal beyond my home cooking. Perhaps the time has come to put him to the test?

  *

  Someone is gently stroking his hair; a light, lingering touch.

  ‘Mmm. That’s nice. Don’t stop, Dani.’

  Lucien opened his eyes. Disoriented, still half-asleep, he gazed around the unfamiliar room, dim with blue shadows. No-one there.

  Must have been dreaming. In the still, sultry warmth of the August night, he had flung off the thin duvet and even the sheet felt damp with perspiration. He was alone in the pension bed. Dani was far away. It was over.

  He sat hunched in the darkness, wretched and hurting. After a while he checked the time on his phone: 02:32. Alone, in a strange place, in the small hours, with only bitter memories for company.

  He had run away from Paris because everything there reminded him of Dani. Yet there was no running away from his memories.

  *

  Lucien cleaned his brushes and carefully placed them back in their case. He had returned to try to capture the effects of light at different hours of the day on this bend in the river. A cloud of tiny gnats were dancing over the waters, caught in a late, low ray of sunshine that turned their wings to scintillating sparks of pale gold.

  Madame had insisted on providing him with a baguette for lunch, filled with jambon cru, tomatoes, and sharp, crumbly goat’s cheese. Aware that his funds were running low, he’d tried to refuse but she’d merely said, ‘I’ll think of a way you can repay me later’ with another mysterious little smile. Thinking of it still made him uneasy. Did she mean...?

  He hurriedly dismissed the thought and continued to pack away his things.

  I’ll need to buy more Chinese White soon. And more paper.

  The sultry heat of the afternoon had left him with a dry throat; the last of his drinking water had been used for a final wash of colour.

  But what I really want right now is a cold beer.

  A distant clock struck the hour; seven in the evening. Lucien checked that the water colours had dried and set out toward the pension for supper. As he made his way along the grassy bank, he realised that this country idyll would soon have to come to an end.

  I can’t afford to stay more than another night.

  His face burned as he remembered what Madame had said as she handed him the sandwich that morning. Did she mean she would accept a water colour in payment? Or something rather more intimate?

  A woman was sitting on the bank up ahead, her back against a gnarled sallow. As Lucien drew closer, she raised one hand, gesturing to him to approach slowly and quietly. It was Madame.

  What is she watching over there in the reeds?

  Lucien crept closer until he could crouch down beside Madame and see what she was looking at.

  A sudden brief flash of intense turquoise startled him.

  A kingfisher darted across the water and into a hole in the further bank. Enchanted, Lucien held his breath, hoping that it would dart out again. Sure enough, it appeared and shot off again like a blue and orange-feathered arrow. He glanced at Madame and saw her nodding her approval.

  ‘Fledglings to feed,’ she said softly. ‘Watch. He’ll be back with more fish.’

  The bright-coloured little bird soon returned, a minnow in its beak, and disappeared into the burrow in the bank.

  ‘I’ve never seen one so close to before,’ Lucien said, captivated. ‘I wish I could do a sketch.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I have to go home tomorrow.’

  ‘Stay another day.’ There was something so calm, so unhurried a
bout the way she spoke that made Lucien want to do as he was bidden. ‘If you’re concerned about covering the extra rent,’ she added, ‘I’ll happily take a water colour of that kingfisher in exchange.’

  ‘But that’s...’ Lucien began.

  ‘And you can’t paint if you have to leave tomorrow, can you?’

  The clock of the village church struck seven-thirty.

  ‘I’d better go back,’ she said. ‘I left Josette in charge of the kitchen.’ She held out one hand to Lucien to help her up. Her grip was light but firm, and for a moment as their hands touched, Lucien experienced the extraordinary sense of gazing down on the river from high above.

  Swooping down from the clouds to skim above the misty river in the gathering dusk.

  Madame let go of Lucien’s hand and the flying sensation ceased.

  What happened then? Lucien blinked, confused. My blood sugar must be low; I haven’t eaten since midday.

  ‘Does she interest you, our local legend?’

  ‘Is this the place?’ Lucien asked. ‘Where La Vouivre comes to bathe?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘A fabulous beast who protects the river. A kind of tutelary river goddess,’ Lucien heard himself rambling on as they walked back along the bank, ‘yet one who punishes those who try to steal her treasure.’ He stopped. ‘Why does she have to drown the men who come across her bathing? Isn’t that rather harsh a punishment?’

  ‘At least they die happy.’ Madame gave him a mischievous smile. ‘The legend says that she only strikes if anyone tries to steal her jewel. Because without that jewel, La Vouivre will be unable to turn back into her immortal form. And as she protects the river, not only will she die ... but the river will become polluted and perhaps run dry.’

  Lucien’s phone began to ring. He stood staring into Madame’s eyes a moment and then, aware that the insistent ringtone was polluting the peaceful village evening, grabbed it, fumbling to turn it off.

  His stomach lurched. The caller was identified as Dani. And in his haste, he had cut the call off. His finger froze above the screen. Call back? Ignore? Call back? He didn’t know what to do.