Bright Angel (23 page)

I had to make a choice, couldn't stand here forever. At least there were no grizzly bears here or wolves or other wild beasts of that sort, I thought, wildly. Not the four-footed sort anyway. And the two-footed sort like Mick and his uncle at least were not lurking around. They were too busy getting ready for their big showdown.

I squinted first down one path, then the other. The left-hand path looked slightly narrower, the trees a bit denser, and the track wound away out of sight. The right-hand path looked a bit clearer, straighter. Okay. Right-hand path it would be. I adjusted my crutch, took a deep breath, and set off.

The path was good and straight for ages. I walked on and on. Around me the forest breathed softly, I could hear little rustles in the undergrowth, and once or twice, animals crossed my path – a scurrying rabbit, a funny little hedgehog, bustling importantly like something out of a kids' book.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,
I remember Mum reading to me a very long time ago. A Beatrix Potter book. A hedgehog with a dress on, the spines showing through the cloth. I'd thought it really funny when I was a kid. All the animals in Beatrix Potter books have clothes, even ones like Jeremy Fisher the frog who jumps in the water and must get his lovely satin waistcoat all ruined. Unless it's waterproof. Which I suppose it must be.

Okay, so I was getting a bit light-headed. Anyone would. It wasn't just the stress or the tiredness or the thirst which was getting really bad by this time. It was the feeling of being in a strange place which wasn't really a human world at all. Sort of like being in the bush, except that this sort of forest was like something out of a fairytale. Hansel and Gretel, say. Or Little Red Riding Hood. No. Don't be stupid, Sylvie. Nothing's out to get you here. No witches, no wolves. And it's okay. You're in a tame European forest, not the bush. It's not wilderness. People come here all the time. Just look at the track. You can't get lost, no matter what Mick said. There's a track. Just follow the track. It'll take you somewhere. And then you'll be able to work out where you are.

On and on. On and on. The light was beginning to fade now. I could feel the temperature falling, too. Still the track wound on. And then, quite suddenly – it stopped. Just petered out, right in the trees. I'd come to a dead end. A cul de sac. There were a couple of picnic tables in the forest just nearby, but no way out in the other direction.

I cursed and swore my head off then. I had taken the wrong track way back there! I had to retrace my steps, get back to the fork in the road. And I had to hurry. The light was fading more and more. Shadows were gathering in the forest. The air was becoming chilly. I didn't even have a jumper.

Although my ankle was hurting, I just turned and went back in the direction I'd come, going as fast as I could.

But I'd come a long way down that damn path. And going back seemed twice as hard, even if faster. There seemed to be more stones, more obstacles than I remembered. I faltered, stumbled, even tripped once, jarring my ankle badly in the process. And the night didn't wait for me. It was getting darker and darker, the trees pressing in around me, the rustles of animals more common, and seemingly more sinister. Somewhere, deep in the forest, I heard an owl hoot. The sound made me almost jump out of my skin. Every story I'd read, every movie I'd seen about being lost in a dark forest, came back to haunt me, and though I tried very hard to control my fear, to tell myself that it was all just imagination, I couldn't stop the images from crowding into my brain.

It seemed like hours and hours but was probably less than an hour by the time I finally got back to the fork in the road. Without stopping, I took the left-hand path this time. The path was narrower and tighter at first, and the darkness under the trees more profound, but within a short while, the track had widened out again and the trees weren't quite so close to the edge. And there was a little more light – a bit of moon. I thought I must be on the right path now, and felt a little better.

On and on, trying to tell myself all kinds of comforting things to forget about my fear and my thirst. And then I heard a new sound. A tinkle, a rush. Water, just off the path!

I couldn't resist it. My throat was so dry, my belly clenching with it. I plunged off the path towards the sound of water. I memorised a couple of big mossy trees, to remember the way I'd come. It wasn't far off – just a little stream, flowing over pebbles. Running water, I thought. Safe to drink. I must drink. I bent down and cupped my hands in the cool water and drank. It felt like heaven. Again and again the cool water went down my parched throat. The fuzziness began to leave my thoughts. I must bathe my ankle too, I thought. I must cool it. I unwrapped the bandage. My ankle was like a football: swollen and red. I thought I could even see it throbbing. I had to rest it. I threw some water over it, tried to rub it a little but couldn't – it felt tender to the touch. More water. I sat by the stream for a few moments with my leg resting on a rock, waiting till the throbbing might ease a little. After a while, I felt better, so I braced my leg up again, took a last drink of water and set off back to the path.

Or at least back to where I thought the path was, towards the big mossy trees. But – oh my God – it wasn't there. They can't have been the trees I'd memorised, but others. I turned round and round in circles, trying to find the right trees, trying to find my bearings, the panic bubbling in me again. I couldn't be lost. Not now. Not now, please. Please.

I tried to take a firm grip on my fluttering-bird thoughts, thrusting aside panic, tiredness and the ache of my ankle. Right. So I couldn't find the path. Then I had to retrace my steps back to the stream and try to work it out from there. At least there was a clue with the stream – the sound of the water. I stood and listened hard. Yes, in the silence I could hear it, faintly. I walked in the direction of the sound and by and by got there. Okay. So now all I had to do was find the right direction. I'd come at the stream from one direction – seemed to me I had to go in the opposite one, if I was going to hit the path.

So off I went but it soon became clear that I'd been wrong. The panic bubbled up in me again and this time it was a huge effort to push it down. Think, girl. Try to think. What if I didn't try random directions, but simply followed the stream? At least I'd get somewhere then. In my confused state, it seemed like a good idea. It didn't strike me then that ‘somewhere' could be ‘anywhere'. Luckily, as it turned out.

So I went back and followed the stream as it wound its tinkling way through the woods. It wasn't always easy going. Sometimes the stream went down a slope or its banks were high and I had to scramble along as best I could. I would've rock-hopped if my ankle had been in a better state but was afraid that weak as it was I might end up doing more damage to it, even break it, and then I'd be history.

At least there was a bit of light over the water. And I wouldn't get thirsty any more. I had a drink a couple of times, the water was clear and cool and tasted lovely. But I was getting hungry, and though I'd heard of people eating forest fruit and the like, there didn't seem anything like that about. It was probably the wrong season or something. Still I pressed on, but I was getting so tired it was almost like I wasn't really there, my mind had floated off God knows where, and my body was still pumping on all by itself.

And then I saw it, a little way up the bank, bathed in moonlight. A little hut, more a shelter, really, built of mossy bits of wood and roofed with bark. It looked ancient. I approached it cautiously. The door – a very basic thing of bark and wood – was closed. Growing beside the hut, in a neglected weedy strip of garden, was what looked like beans, with big sorts of pods. I knew what they were – they were Dad's favourite vegetables. Broad beans. I've never been crash hot on them but seeing them there made my mouth water. I could just see a pot of Dad's broad bean soup, steaming hot. Or his broad beans in butter and garlic. My stomach rumbled. I hobbled to the door, not caring any more who lived there.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I pushed gently at the door. It opened with an ominous creak of hinges. But I didn't care any more about omens. I needed rest, food, help, directions. And so I walked in.

There was no-one there. The house breathed age and neglect and emptiness. The one window had a torn curtain. There was a rough table, whose legs were covered in cobwebs, and two chairs about as rough. A kind of rickety camp bed in the corner. A dead fireplace. A long cupboard which when I opened it proved to have nothing but dust, scuttling spiders, a box of matches with three matches in it, a three-quarters empty salt shaker and an empty tin. Nothing else. Nothing to eat, no full cans or jars or anything like that. The house looked like it hadn't been inhabited for a long time, and it wasn't exactly inviting. But it was shelter, and I had to stop and rest, even if just for a little while. And I had to eat, even if it was just raw broad beans. They'd give me a stomach-ache, but never mind.

No, not raw. I could cook them. I had matches, and plenty of fuel outside. If I started a fire, I could get water from the stream in the tin and boil the beans in that. I could add salt. It was better than nothing. Salivating already at the thought of my poor meal, I grabbed the tin, went down to the stream and got some water. I brought it back to the house, and went and fetched some dry twigs, leaves and bark. We'd had this guy come to our school once, he was one of these bush survival people, and he showed us how to lay and start fires. He even knew how to do it without matches. Thank God I didn't have to do that, I was bad at it, but I had learned anyway how to build a fire so it doesn't go out too quickly.

I lay the twigs and bark and leaves carefully in the fireplace. Pity I didn't have any paper, but it couldn't be helped. I had three matches, had to be very careful with them. But I was lucky. The stuff took first time, and soon the fire was crackling happily. I went and got some bigger pieces of wood and put a few pieces on so the tin could rest on them. Then I went and gathered up as many broad bean pods as I could. In among the weeds, I also found a bit of parsley and mint. Hell, I'd have a feast, I thought.

I podded the beans and dropped them into the water, which was beginning to simmer. The beans were quite young. They didn't take long to cook. Very carefully, I tipped out the water, sprinkled salt and the torn-up parsley and mint into the tin, and ate the whole concoction with my hands, as there was no spoon or fork or anything here.

It tasted fantastic, like the best thing I'd ever eaten, that's how hungry I was. See, I'd not had anything since that sandwich Radic had given me, and I'd left Mick's chocolate bar behind in my rush to get away from his caravan. I thought, I'll never ever whinge about broad beans again. They'll become my favourite vegies, Dad will be so surprised!

At least my tummy was full now. And the fire was going well. The house felt warmer, less bleak. I was feeling better. More human. Less scared. But still tired. I'd have to stretch out on that grotty camp bed, even if just for a little while. Beyond that I couldn't think just now. I knew I had to somehow get to St-Bertrand before midnight but it was a hazy idea and one I had no notion of how I was going to achieve. I'll sleep on it, I thought. Things will be clearer after a little sleep.

So I pulled down the curtain from the window, dusted off the camp bed, lay the curtain on that and then the piece of cloth I'd balled up under my arm for the crutch. It was at least clean-ish. I lay down on that, thinking I'd try to go over in my mind what I should do next, but just about as soon as I lay my head down, I fall fast asleep.

At first it was just sleep, heavy, deep, untroubled. But then it changed, and I slid into a scary dream. I was in a dark place, but ahead of me there was light. Silvery, gleaming light, shining gently. In that light, silhouetted against it, I could see Daniel and Gabriel. They had their backs to me. I called out, but they didn't hear. I tried to move, towards the light, but my feet felt screwed down to the ground. Then suddenly the light changed. From a gentle glowing orb it lengthened, sharpened, turned into a human shape, gleaming. I was terrified. I tried to turn, to run away, but still I couldn't move. The figure turned towards me. I could see the whites of eyes, shining, but I couldn't distinguish the features of the face. The figure took a step towards me. I was even more terrified. I opened my mouth to scream, but no words came. Then the figure raised a hand – a finger pointed towards me – a ray of light came from its finger and touched me on the shoulder and it was like fire and I woke up, yelling in pain and fright.

At first I thought I was still dreaming. The room was full of moonlight. There was a human shape, looming over me. But as my pulse slowly calmed down, I realised that not only could I see the features of the face, I recognised its owner.

I don't know which of us was the more startled. The visitor and I stared at each other for a stunned moment before either of us spoke. Then we both spoke at once.

‘Sylvie!
Bon sang! Que fais-tu ici?'

‘Marc! What the hell are you doing here!'

‘I came to see this place,' he said, in English, his eyes searching my face. ‘I said I'd check it out for Claudine.'

Claudine? From the depths of my mind I dredged up the memory. ‘Oh, the film director.'

‘Yes. We thought it might be a good setting for a certain scene, especially in moonlight.' His voice trailed off. ‘But never mind that. You – what on earth are you doing here?'

‘Did Claire say anything to you?'

‘No. I haven't seen her at all today. I've been away. But–' He rubbed at his hair, stared at me. ‘I-I don't know what's going on. Have you run away or something? Is it because of what happened to the boys?'

‘What? Oh, no. I mean yes. No, I haven't run away. Yes. I'm looking for Daniel and Gabriel.'

‘Are you crazy?' he said. ‘The police are doing that. And if you've just taken off like that, your aunt and Claire will be frantic. You have to–'

‘Please,' I said, ‘what's the time?'

His eyes widened. ‘What on earth?'

I said, hurriedly, ‘It's really important. Super urgent. The time.'

He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to midnight.'

‘Oh my God! Oh my God!' I tried to jump up from the bed, but my ankle gave way, and I would've fallen if he hadn't grabbed hold of me. He said, ‘You're hurt.'

‘I just twisted my ankle when we were running, it's nothing, oh my God, I've got to get to the cathedral before it's too late, I've got to. Did you bring a car? God, where are we? Are we a long way from St-Bertrand here, I have no idea, I–' I was almost crying now, frantic with worry and fear.

He looked at me. He said, ‘Yes, I have a car, parked not far. And St-Just is only a few minutes away, so St-Bertrand's pretty close. But the cathedral, Sylvie, you're not making sense. Why the cathedral?'

‘I don't have time to explain. Please, let's just go. Please, hurry.'

‘The cathedral's locked at this time of night,' he said. ‘You can't get in. No-one can get in. Why?'

‘Please, it's a matter of life and death. Daniel and Gabriel will be there. Let's go.' I was at the door already, pulling it open, ready to start off.

He caught up with me. ‘Give me your arm,' he said. ‘No, better still. I'll carry you.' And suiting the action to the word, he picked me up and carried me, half walking, half-running back to his car, my sense of urgency obviously having infected him too.

The hut was only a short distance from the road, just into the woods. If I'd kept walking just a little longer last night, heading straight up from the hut, I'd have found the road. I didn't know how long I'd been asleep and I cursed myself for it because if St-Just was only a few minutes away by car, then even on foot it would have not taken me that long to walk to St-Bertrand after that and I'd have been there on time.

Marc bundled me into the car. We started off, going fast. I tried to tell him what had happened but I was so nervous and worried about what was happening in that cathedral that the words came out all jumbled. I don't think he can have understood much from my garbled gabble. But maybe it was because as a writer he had the imagination to piece a few things together quickly on his own, because he didn't try to stop me or to say that we had to get back home at once or say anything at all other than that of course we had to get to the cathedral on time.

We roared into St-Just, and were about to go through it when I noticed something. I said, ‘Stop! Stop!'

He braked, hard. I opened the door and hobbled out. No. There was no mistake. Mick's car was parked there, on the verge, just round the corner from the St-Just church. There was another car near it. One I didn't recognise. A hire car, by the look of things. Top of the range. My throat thickened. My legs wobbled. Something flashed through my mind. Marc had said the cathedral at St-Bertrand was locked, that you couldn't get in. What if they'd had to change venues?

I had a sudden memory of the feeling that had assailed me here, that very first day. A sense of something evil, watching. Some brooding presence – maybe it had been a premonition, one of those weird things, stuff you couldn't explain–

Ignoring Marc's shout to come back, and the shooting pains in my ankle, I sprinted – or rather hobbled very fast – to the church gate. I pushed it open and hurried down the path to the church. I pushed at the door. It was locked!

I'd been so sure they'd be here. So certain. I rattled the door handle. No result. I stared at the door, panic invading my mind completely. They must be in St-Bertrand then. I'd been wrong. Somehow they must have been able to...

Wait. There was someone there. Someone standing at the side of the church, in the shadows, I thought, confusedly, because I couldn't see them properly. It was small and thin and sort of wispy but I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, old or young, and I could hardly even tell what colour the person's hair was or their clothes, for everything about them seemed faintly gleaming grey, as though bleached by the moon. I could see the person was wearing ordinary clothes – trousers, a jumper, something like that – and I could see the whites of their eyes shining but not the colour of their eyes – they were looking directly at me – and it was strange because though this was a stranger, somehow I felt as though I knew them.
Because I'd seen them in my dream.

We looked at each other for the merest moment of time and – how can I explain what happened next? I can hardly explain it to myself. Correction. I can't, not at all. But in that instant the figure turned and walked to the end of the wall, where it met the churchyard at the back, and vanished – and inside me, at the same instant, something happened. Something changed. I found my courage again, and my clarity. I knew what I had to do.