Pyromancist Read online

  At Larmor-Baden she tied the dinghy to the jetty, changed into her flip-flops, left her rubber boots in the boat and made her way through the small harbor and past the luxury tourist hotels to the town square. For some time she stood watching the black frame of what used to be the mayor’s house, still steaming in the fresh morning, smelling of melted plastic and wet wood.

  A few people who passed by greeted her by name and some stopped to verbally ponder the mystery of the pyromania that was sweeping through their quiet village. The bakery opened at seven, and by then a small crowd of elderly people, talking in hushed Breton had gathered at the tables on the pavement with espresso and croissants to watch the firemen go through the debris.

  Clelia followed the tar road away from the smell of destruction and walked toward the bus stop in front of the library that would take her to the stables in Carnac where she worked. She more helped out in the tourist office that offered horseback rides than what could be called a job, but it was all that was available in a village with nine hundred inhabitants.

  It was on the bend of the long stretch of road between the square and the library that she paused to lift her eyes to the abandoned house. She hadn’t looked at it in nine years. For three-thousand-two-hundred-and-eighty-seven days she had walked this road, first to school and then to work, never turning her head as much as an inch. Not because of the horrific nightmare that had played out behind the shuttered, sad windows, but because of him. Because of Josselin.

  For as long as she could remember, she had been in love with Josselin de Arradon. Secretly. All through school, she had watched him, so strong and defenseless at the same time. Josselin was four years her senior and the most beautiful being she had ever seen. He had bronze skin with black hair, and eyes so gray they glowed in his head. Those eyes had captured her with their pain and intensity. While she admired him from a distance, he wasn’t aware of her existence.

  Josselin had only spoken to her once. It was on a summer day after school. She had wandered to the dense forest at the back of the schoolyard because she knew that was where she would find him. She stood behind a tree and watched him–studied him–the movement of his hand as he smoked a forbidden cigarette, the manner in which he pulled his fingers through his dark hair, and the way he laughed loudly into his gang of friends, even if his eyes cried, or blazed.

  That day, however, he wasn’t with his friends. He was with a girl. Her name was Thiphaine and she was the most popular girl in school. She was blonde, slim, and beautiful with blue eyes and red painted fingernails. Clelia watched from her hiding place as Josselin slowly backed Thiphaine up until her body pressed against the trunk of the witch tree. It was a thuja occidentalis but the townsfolk had baptized it so because of its twisted and crippled branches. The setting was eerie for a romantic adventure, and yet, it suited Josselin. He seemed right at home, while Thiphaine looked around nervously. His hand went to her cheek, his palm huge, dark, and rough against the porcelain paleness of Thiphaine’s face, while his other hand slipped under her blouse. His gray eyes looked like melted steel when he lowered his head.

  His shoulder-length black hair fell forward when he pressed his lips to Thiphaine’s and he moved his hand from her cheek to brush it back behind his ear. Clelia remembered the deliberate movement of his jaw, the way the muscles dimpled in his cheek, the hand under Thiphaine’s blouse, all the while maintaining his composure while Thiphaine came undone under his caress. The beautiful girl made low moaning sounds. Her knees buckled, but Josselin, without breaking the kiss, grabbed her waist, pulling her so tightly into him that her back arched, keeping her up with his arm while he made her weak with his touch and his tongue.

  Watching them ignited both yearning and pain inside of Clelia. The hurt she felt speared her heart. The aching in her soul was suddenly greater than the heat in her pores and on her cheeks, but she couldn’t tear her stare away from the forbidden sight. It was Iwig, a boy from her class, who broke the painful spell when he discovered her behind the tree.

  “What have we here?” he said.

  His eyes darted to the distance where Josselin and Thiphaine were embracing. He knew what she had been doing. He was a tall, blond boy with a strong build, and Clelia disliked him for his habit of hunting abandoned cats with his pellet gun.

  “A peeping tom,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  When she tried to back away, he grabbed her long braid and tugged it roughly, causing her to yelp.

  “Not so fast, witch.” He grabbed her arm and hauled her so that she stumbled into him. “You like to watch, don’t you?” He grinned. “How about a taste of the real thing?”

  She opened her mouth to scream, but he had already brought his down and kissed her so hard that his teeth split her lower lip. In reflex, her free hand shot up, aiming for his cheek, and collided with its target. The force of the blow shot Iwig’s head back and froze him in his action, but only for a second, before Clelia saw his arm lift. Not able to free herself from his grip, she cowered instinctively, but instead of his fist coming down on her, another pair of arms grabbed Iwig by his shoulders and flung him to the ground.

  When she looked up, she stared into the face of Josselin, and what she saw was frightening. His features were twisted into a terrifying expression, and before she could say anything, Josselin bent down and lifted Iwig by his jacket lapels. Iwig’s legs dangled, flapping like fish on soil, while his arms flayed in the air as if swatting flies. Josselin let go of one side of the jacket, his fist arching and hooking under Iwig’s chin, while at the same time unknotting his other hand from the fabric of the jacket. The impact sent Iwig flying through the air. When he hit the ground, she could hear the loud thump as the air was knocked from his lungs. Josselin moved forward, his arms away from his body, his fingers flexing, his shoulders pushed forward, until he stood wide-legged over the submissive body of Iwig. Iwig lifted his hands in front of his face, mumbling pleas for mercy.

  “If you ever touch a girl in that way again, I’ll hang you from a tree under a pack of wild boars and watch them eat you from your feet up to your useless dick, until they rip your stomach open and your insides fall out,” Josselin said.

  He spoke very softly, but the woods had suddenly gone quiet. His voice all but echoed in the absence of the sound of birds and wind. From the corner of her eye, Clelia noticed Thiphaine who stood to the side, hugging herself.

  “And if you ever lift your hand to a woman again, I’ll cut off your balls and make you eat them and then I’ll feed you to the boars. Do you understand?”

  Iwig tried to scurry away on his elbows, but Josselin stepped on his jacket.

  “I asked if you understand.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Iwig said. He had started crying.

  When Josselin lifted his boot, Iwig scrambled to his feet. He didn’t look at Clelia before he ran down the path in the direction of the school. Only then did Josselin turn to her. She shook from head to toe while Josselin studied her quietly. After a moment, he walked to her, took her chin in his hand and tilted her head.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, trailing his thumb over her lower lip.

  Then he did something that shocked her wildly. He brought his thumb to his lips, slowly, his gray eyes locked onto hers while he slipped his finger into his mouth and licked it clean, tasting her blood.

  Clelia couldn’t move. She stood still, unable to speak or blink.

  He took a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped it over her mouth before pressing it into her hand.

  “He won’t bother you again, but you better go home.”

  She only nodded. He was much taller than her, so that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. He shifted and then his face was obscured by the shadows with the sun at his back, blinding her. She remembered wondering if he had forgotten about Thiphaine, who still stood to one side, silently observing, her, eyes wide. Clelia looked from Thiphaine to Josselin. When life finally returned to her legs and she started to hurry do
wn the path, he said, “What’s your name, girl?”

  She stopped. “Cle ... Cle...” Her teeth chattered.

  He frowned. “Take a deep breath. You’re in shock.”

  She did as he instructed, and found her jaw relax slightly.

  “That’s better. Now, tell me again.”

  “Clelia.”

  His lips twitched. “The witch?”

  She flinched. That was what her classmates called her.

  He didn’t show any kind of emotion. Only his smile became a little bit more pronounced. “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” she said through parched lips.

  “You’re too young to wander alone in the woods.”

  When he said that, his voice became soft and dark again, like when he had spoken to Iwig, and without sparing either of the lovers another glance, Clelia sprinted home and curled into a ball on her bed with his bloody handkerchief in her hand.

  Josselin left the village that same year in August, the summer he finished school, just after the fateful incident in his life. They never spoke another word. He had never acknowledged her after that day. Not a hint or a sign that they had shared the episode with Iwig.

  For nine years, she slept with his handkerchief under her pillow. Besides having heard via the grapevine that he had gone to New York, she hadn’t had news since he had left and she refused to look at the house in which he had grown up. Being reminded of him was too painful. Now, she stood facing it, taking it all in with a mixture of mounting fear and premonition. It was the biggest house–three stories high with two turrets framing the pointed roof–for miles around. The once pretty garden was nothing more than weeds strangling rose bushes and climbing the fence, obscuring the ground level view. Nine years ago, there was a swing bench on the porch that overlooked the grassland that flattened out to the sea. The white shutters had stood out against the gray of the stonewalls and the silver slate of the roof, but now they were the color of ash, the wood cracked and splintered in places, hanging askew in front of the narrow turret windows.

  His bedroom was on the top floor in the west tower. She knew because he sometimes smoked a cigarette on the balcony, his gaze trained on the ocean, or maybe on what lay beyond, what the eye couldn’t see. It was the room in which the light burned the latest. Often, when Erwan was out fishing at night, depending on how the tides turned, she had snuck out here on her bike and stood in the road to see his light finally go out.

  After that night, the house was barred and sealed. It belonged to Josselin now. People were wondering if he was ever going to sell, although it would have to be to foreigners, they said, from Paris, England, or Europe, because no one in their right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands, would ever want to live there.

  Clelia felt a trickle of perspiration running down her spine. It was an exceptionally warm summer. The July sun was already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the time on her mobile phone. She had to hurry, or she’d miss the bus.

  She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of tourists wanting to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric standing stones would arrive. A small number of them would rent horses and a guide from Tristan to explore the oldest part, which ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea, and dated back to 4500 BC.

  When she pushed the door of the office open, Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head and grimaced.

  “Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but here you are again,” he said.

  “And where else should I go?” Clelia dropped her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted the tour reservations.

  “To Paris. To university. Anywhere but here.”

  “This is my home, Tristan.”

  He flicked through some papers on the desk that stood opposite the one she occupied. “You’re wasting away, throwing your talents to the wind here in this dump,” he said grumpily, fishing around the desk, lifting and slamming books and telephone directories down.

  “And who will take care of Erwan, and my animals?”

  Tristan looked up. She smiled.

  “If it wasn’t for that old man, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “He’s all I’ve got,” she said gently.

  “No.” He waved a finger at her. “You’re all he’s got.” His expression softened. “Kompren a ran,” he said with a resigned air. I understand.

  He plucked open a drawer, rummaged through it, and banged it closed again.

  “What are you looking for, Tristan?”

  “The damn receipt book. It was here,” he pushed his finger on the desk, “just yesterday.”

  She walked to the stack of plastic trays they used for organizing their filing and lifted a blue book from the top.

  “Here it is. You left it here last night.”

  He rolled his eyes and grabbed it from her. “What would I ever do without you?”

  “And you really want me to leave?” she said as she took her seat behind the desk.

  “You know I have to say things that are in your best interest. I never really mean it.”

  She smiled affectionately. “I know.”

  Nobody from here truly wanted anyone to get away. It would be proof that there existed a world beyond theirs. As long as they remained here, with the people they grew up with, they felt secure. Somehow, Clelia knew that Josselin’s return had turned her safe world upside down, and that Larmor-Baden was suddenly the least safe place for her to be.

  Chapter Two

  The last group of tourists came back with the horses shortly before eight in the evening, as the megalithic sites closed at that hour. Tristan had already counted the money for the day, taken the petty cash box, and left for his small farm ten miles from Carnac. The stable hand, Rigual, and the guide, Golven, took care of the horses. As soon as they were finished, all Clelia had to do was to lock up the office. Before sunset she would be out of there, and depending on the bus schedule, she’d be home by ten. Erwan would have had his dinner by then, and if the tide weren’t suited for fishing, he’d be sitting on the terrace drinking a Telenn Du, his favorite beer. She would feed the animals and sit with him until ten thirty to watch the sun set over the sea. Then, she would clean the kitchen and stay up to read until midnight.

  In winter and out of holiday seasons, her working hours were less, and on rainy days, which were plenty, Tristan didn’t open the stables, which was why Clelia didn’t resent the long laboring days of summer. She enjoyed the late sunsets and the boat or bicycle ride home when the day was ready to quit and everything was quiet, when peace dawned on the land and she could breathe to an easy rhythm, inhale the fragrance of the cut grass and pine needles.

  Today, however, nothing about her rhythm was easy. She was wondering where Josselin was staying, who his woman was, and why the strange dream had combusted in her sleep like the fires that ravaged the town. Everyone was on edge this summer. Although the fires were always set when the inhabitants were absent–with the exception of the mayor’s house, which was a new turn of events–the habitual July Fest Noz had been cancelled. In the light of the damage done to so many properties, the mayor felt a festival was inappropriate. Besides, most people were fearful of leaving their homes at night, worried that they’d come back to ashes. A dull spirit had spread through the mainland and islands this holiday, hopping like a flame over water to the next piece of land.

  Up to that morning, Clelia had kept her worry to herself. She knew Erwan had visited each and every burnt house, not to show his support for the victims, but because he was rummaging through the remains looking for clues, eavesdropping on the firemen who investigated the mysterious cause of the fires, searching for evidence that it hadn’t been his granddaughter, even if he would never admit to it. The dream and the sleepwalking had thrown her off kilter, but the fact that Josselin was here had sent her into a panic. Clelia couldn’t decide what to do. She had fretted al
l day, contemplated leaving, but she knew the responsibility she felt for Erwan and her animals would only have her hiding at most, and that was a coward’s way out. She had to come forward, hand herself over to the authorities, to see, for once and for all, if her unnatural talent had resurfaced. If it had, God forbid, she didn’t know what she would do.

  She was lost in thought, absent-mindedly tidying up her desk when the door opened. The tour agent who had brought in the last group leaned in the frame.

  “We’re back,” he said, his gaze slipping down under the table to where her bare legs were crossed.

  “I saw you returning through the window from a mile. You don’t have to announce it, Ninian.”

  “But that would take away my excuse for seeing you.”

  “Please, we went through this last year.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re not interested. I don’t see you dating anyone.”

  She sighed. “No, I’m not seeing anyone. That doesn’t mean I should automatically be interested in the first man who comes along and asks me out.”

  “What’s the problem? You’re not a lesbian or something?”

  “You’re here for a season and then you’re gone.”

  He lifted his brow. “And?”

  “You’re interested in a summer fling, and I’m not.”

  “It’s just a beer at the brasserie and a bit of singing and dancing.” His eyes lowered to her breasts.

  She crossed her arms. “I’d like to lock up.”

  “Need a ride home?”

  “No thanks.”

  His mouth pulled into a sneer. “Fine. But you’re going to have to give up your precious virginity sometime or another.”