Ysabel (16 page)

“You be quiet,” she snapped, and punched him on the shoulder. He covered a wince; it was still sore from the day before. “Have you ever heard anything like what he said in your life?”

“Personally? I sure haven’t. Which is a good thing, I guess. I know you get it all the—”

He stopped, because she punched him again. He wasn’t actually in a kidding mood, anyhow. He was thinking about Greeks arriving among the tribes, back when, and objects stolen from a museum in Aix this week.

He was going to have to figure out what to do about that theft. He knew where those artifacts were, after all.

On the other hand, the person who had almost certainly taken them might not appreciate interference. There was even some question as to whether you could call him a “person,” given that he’d had horns growing from his head and then changed into an owl in moonlight. In fact you could go further and say he had made it extremely clear he
didn’t
want interference in whatever was about to happen.

If the joke in that underground corridor—and that is what both men seemed to consider it—was over now, would it be interfering to report that the objects stolen from the museum could be found under the baptistry in the cathedral? He didn’t know. How could he know? He needed to talk to Kate. Or his aunt.

His aunt, all by herself, was another subject—object, person—that needed thinking about, big time.

The good news for the moment was that Melanie seemed preoccupied too, not in her chatty tour-guide mode, which he’d feared. She sat down on a grassy mound and took out a long green guidebook, but didn’t open it. Nor did she seem unhappy to be left alone when Ned wandered away among the random pillars and what was left of the original theatre, which wasn’t much. This site wasn’t as well preserved as the arena was; grass growing among the ruins, and the quiet, made for a different sense of the past.

He glanced back at Melanie. He wondered if Oliver Lee’s comments had upset her. Maybe she’d felt she was being teased, the only woman among five men—or four men and a kid.

Ned didn’t think Oliver Lee had been teasing. He thought he’d meant the compliments, but these things were still a mystery to him.

So was trying to figure out last night.

AFTER THE WOLVES
and the owl had gone away, he and Aunt Kim walked back from the tower to her car. Ned had kept his branch, but nothing troubled them on the path. He heard an owl as they approached the fork in the trail and it made him jump, but his aunt touched his arm.

“Not ours,” she said. “That’s a real one.”

“How do you know?”

“Different sound. I live in the country, remember?”

He looked at her. It was hard to see clearly in the night, but her hair was really pale in the moonlight. He gestured to it.

“My mom colours her hair.”

“I know. I’ve seen lots of pictures. She’s lovely, Ned. She always was.”

“Would it be like yours if she didn’t? Colour it?”

She hesitated. “I doubt that.”

They walked a bit farther. Ned saw the barrier and her car.

Aunt Kim stopped. “I’ll drive you back, but first . . . Ned, listen to me, it would be unfair to you
and
to your
mother for us to meet like this again. I don’t want to put you in a position of having to keep secrets.”

“Um . . . you think I don’t keep secrets from my parents?”

She smiled faintly. “I’d worry if you didn’t, but not this large, dear.”

Ned was silent. He’d been thinking the same thing himself, actually, about everything here. “You going to leave? Go home?”

They were at the barrier. Her car was on the other side, but this seemed a conversation better suited to the night.

“Not immediately,” Aunt Kim said. “I’m going to try to find out more about what’s happening, if I can. For a day or two. Is my phone number on yours now? On callback? If you need me?”

He nodded. “Am I going to need you?”

Her turn to be silent. He had a sense she was dealing with real emotion. He felt it himself: this was his mother’s sister, and he’d never seen her in his life and might never see her again. It seemed they shared something, too. Something complicated and difficult.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I hope you don’t need me in the way you meant. I’m pretty sure he’ll keep his promise, leave you alone.”

“Pretty sure?”

She looked up at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“Um, ‘absolutely positive’ would do.”

She laughed. “Your parents have done a good job, Ned.”

He felt embarrassed suddenly. “Yeah, well, don’t tell them.”

He saw her smile, but she didn’t reply.

Ned thought of something. “I should have asked before. Do you and Uncle Dave have kids? Have I got cousins in England I don’t know about?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I never could have children.”

Ned looked at her a moment. He might be young, but he knew enough to change the subject. “Ah, you really think my mom would be unhappy if . . . you called her, or wrote?”

Not the best subject change. “She always has been, Ned. It wouldn’t be the first time I tried. Which is why she’d be so angry if she knew I’d called you.”

That made sense. An end run, going around her.

“She’d spit?” he guessed. He was a bit fixated on that image, actually.

“Maybe not,” Aunt Kim said, managing another smile. “Let’s go. You need to be home before your dad gets worried.”

“He’s not the worrying type, except about my mom.”

“I think I know that.”

They walked around the barrier to her car. She started it up, switched on the headlights. He looked at her in the glow of the dashboard panel. She really did look an awful lot like his mother, but her hair, he now saw, wasn’t silver or grey, it was entirely white.

“Do you colour it that way?” he asked.

“It’s been like this since I was very young.”

“Really? Must have been pretty cool, back then.”

“I suppose. Your uncle liked it.”

“I guess he must have.”

She turned the car around and they wound their way along the narrow, twisting road back to the fork where Chemin de l’Olivette branched away. Ned had pointed and she’d stopped.

“I should walk up,” he had said. “They’ll see headlights from the house.”

“I know. Tricky questions. You’ll be fine tonight, but from now on, Nephew—and pay attention—you stay with the others after darkfall. Don’t go wandering. I can’t give you that ‘absolutely positive,’ so don’t do silly things, okay?”

He’d thought of a joke, but didn’t make it. Not after what had happened.

“I promise. But will you . . . if you figure anything out, will you at least let me know?”

His aunt had smiled at him. “You know I will. I’ll call before I go home, regardless. Keep my number, Ned.”

Ned had cleared his throat. “You know I will,” he said.

He’d leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She brought a hand up and touched his face. Then he got out of the car. He’d stood in the darkness and watched her drive away. Started walking up their road and found himself working hard not to cry.

It had been a hell of a day, really.

He’d heard a grunting sound from the trees off the upward path. That would be the wild boars,
sangliers
,
that came out to feed after sundown. Veraclean had told them about those. They didn’t scare him. Other things might.

No one had asked any questions when he walked into the house. It wasn’t all that late and he was fifteen, after all, not a kid any more.

THERE WASN’T THAT MUCH
to see around the theatre of Arles. It was peaceful, though, in the sunlight and shade. You could imagine the past.

Ned wondered if that was the trade-off here in Europe: the major sights were impressive, and overrun with people. The smaller ones you could have to yourself.

He and Melanie were alone here except for three cyclists who had chained their bikes to the railing outside and were huddled over a map on the far side of the three columns left standing.

He walked back to Melanie. She’d put her guidebook down, had her knees up and her arms around them. She looked relaxed, but he wasn’t sure she was.

“
Did
you match the streak in your hair to your eyes?” he asked, sitting beside her on the grass. He plucked some sprigs and tossed them up to blow away. It was windy now.

She looked at him from behind sunglasses. “Don’t tease me, Ned.”

“I wasn’t. Real question.”

She shook her head. “A dumb one, then. Of course I didn’t. You think I’m too old to just like punk as a look?”

“Way too old,” he said.

“I said don’t tease. I’m twenty-five, for God’s sake.”

“Like I said,
way
too—”

She punched him on the shoulder again, but it was his good arm this time. He held up his hands in surrender. She gave an exaggerated sigh and they sat quietly awhile. There was a bird singing in one of the trees. The cyclists walked past, speaking German, and went out through the gate. Ned watched them unchain their bikes and pedal off.

Looking straight ahead, behind her shades, Melanie said, “I am five feet tall, you know. That makes just over a hundred and fifty damned centimetres. Which is short, any way you look at it. Do
not
make a joke, Ned.”

“No? I have at least three.”

“I know you do.”

He glanced at her. “It really bothers you?”

Still looking towards the pillars, she said, “Not always. Not even usually. I mean, there are worse problems in life. But it’s a pain. It’s hard to be taken seriously sometimes. Like I’m a hobbit with a Daytimer. Just . . . cute.”

He thought about it. “My dad takes you pretty seriously. I think Greg and Steve do. And I don’t think you’re cute, I think you’re an anal-retentive, micromanaging pain.”

She laughed this time. “Ah! Progress.”

“I mean, you researched jogging paths here, Melanie.”

She looked at him. “I like my job, Ned. A lot. I’m just trying to do it right.”

He sighed. “I know. Makes
me
feel babied, though.”

She shrugged. “Don’t. You aren’t a baby at all. I checked out music stores and jazz bars for Greg and found an indoor pool for Steve, you know.”

He thought about that. “I didn’t know, actually.”

“Think you’re the only man in my life here, sailor?”

His turn to laugh.

He would remember that exchange. Another moment from when he was still young. Melanie looked at her watch and tsked, and got up, collecting her gear. Ned went with her back to the main square. The famous church was there; a tour group was just entering. Melanie walked farther along to a side entrance that led to the cloister.
Another cloister
, Ned thought.

As they went in, through an arched, covered space, they saw a gendarme keeping people out so that his father could work. Melanie explained who they were; the policeman motioned them through. Ned let Melanie go ahead of him up a flight of steps.

He felt strange again suddenly. A disorienting intrusion of that other world he seemed to have accessed. Something was approaching, a vibration in the air almost. Presences. He could
feel
them. Not the man in the grey leather jacket, or the golden one from the tower. But whatever this was, it wasn’t far away. Or
they
weren’t.

He looked around him. He wasn’t sure why this place was shaping awareness in him, but on some other level he did know: layers and layers of the past were here. A past that seemed not to be entirely finished with.

Was it ever finished? he wondered.

They reached the top of the stairs and saw another arch, with a green space beyond, in shadow and light.

He wished his aunt were here. And at the same time he was uncomfortably aware that there was something he hadn’t told her last night before they parted at the laneway. And that it might be a mistake.

I’m going to cancel, anyway,
he said to himself.
It doesn’t matter.

“You and I are still at war,” Melanie said over her shoulder just before she walked into the cloister. “Don’t kid yourself. That ringtone doomed you, Ned.”

He couldn’t think of a funny reply in time.

He watched as she went towards where he could see his father and the others standing in a brilliant light. From the dim, vaulted cool of the archway Ned looked in at them. He saw his father moving quickly, talking quickly, stopping to frame a view with his hands, going a few steps over to gauge it elsewhere. He saw that the brown hair was greying more now, though not yet the notorious signature moustache.

One day, Ned understood, that hair
would
be grey, or thinning, or both, and his dad wouldn’t be wearing tight blue jeans and moving with such crisp, strong strides. Time would do what it did to people. Ned stayed where he was, looking at his father as from within a long tunnel.

Edward Marriner wore a green workshirt and his favourite tan vest with a dozen pockets. He had his sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. He was talking,
gesturing, but Ned couldn’t hear what he was saying. He seemed far away. An effect of acoustics, of light and shade. It frightened him, this sudden feeling of distance, of being on the other side of some divide.

There was a full moon in his mind, high among stars in the midst of afternoon.

Childhood’s end.

CHAPTER VIII

T
here had been clouds throughout the night, hiding the moon much of the time, but the last day of April dawned windy and very clear.

A mistral was blowing, Veracook advised over morning croissants. They were sheltered here, tucked under the slope, but it would be fierce today up on Mont Ventoux, or in Avignon, or the hill villages like Les Baux or Gordes or Menerbes. Small children had been blown off cliffs, she said, shaking her head dolefully, when the mistral came down from the north.

That same wind was, however, a photographer’s dream of light. It scoured the sky of anything resembling haze or mist, leaving it hard, brilliant, precise: a backdrop that rendered wildflowers, monuments, medieval ruins, bending cypresses electric with intensity.

Edward Marriner had been here before in a mistral. He wasn’t about to try going up any cliffs with their gear, but he did change plans for the morning over his second cup of coffee.