Cupid's Arrow (6 page)

I actually saw the boy jump. He whirled around and turned towards my hiding place. 'Who is there?' he called, in French.

'Fleur Griffon. You do not know me. Please go away.'

But the dog had heard me too. It was excited. It raced off the path, through the willow branches – sniffing at my clothes along the way – and came and stood barking on the riverbank. Then to my horror, it actually jumped in and dog-paddled towards me, splashing as it went. 'Go away,' I said, feebly, hitting the water. The dog took no notice.

'Patou, Patou, ici, ici!' The boy was scrambling down the riverbank after his dog. He came through the willow branches and said, in English (he had obviously sussed out my accent), 'Mademoiselle, I am sorry. Give Patou a tap on the nose and tell her to come to me. She will leave you alone. Tell her to go to Remy.'

He was half-turned from me – obviously not wanting to perve, and for that I was really grateful – but it was probably still the most embarrassing situation I have ever been in. I said, weakly, 'Okay, I'll do that,' and I sidled up to the dog and tapped her gently on the nose, and said,
Go, go to Remy,
before thinking, you dumbo, the dog won't understand English, and repeated it in French,
vas, vas à Remy!

Patou looked at me with a surprised and reproachful air, but she gave a little bark and dog-paddled smartly around back to the riverbank, where she proceeded to shake herself all over my clothes. Remy said, 'Forgive us, we did not know you were there,' and he whistled to Patou and together he and his dog went out of the willow hideout. I could hear them rustling back up the path but it was only after I'd stopped hearing any more noises that I finally snuck out of the water. Racing up to my clothes, I flung them on without even trying to dry myself. They stuck to me, and remembering the notebook just in time, I dried my hands on my skirt and held the book in my hand. I looked cautiously up the path. No sign of Remy and Patou. Shoving my feet back in my sandals, I ran back the way I had come, though not in the water this time, helter-skelter through the grass on the riverbank, no longer even worried about snakes anymore.

When I got back to the house, Mum was still busy rummaging about in the library. She had taken lots of books down from the shelves and stacked them in piles on the desk, and was perched on the chair tapping titles into her laptop.

She lifted a flushed and happy face to me as I came in. 'Fleur, I just can't believe this, it's like heaven, just amazing. He had some real treasures here. Look, take a look at this, for example –' and she thrust a fat book at me, bound in blue leather. I opened it. It was a lovely illustrated collection of fairytales in French, some of which I recognised, like
Red Riding Hood
and
Puss in Boots
and
Cinderella,
and others that I didn't know, like
The Yellow Dwarf
or
The White Cat
or
Princess Rosette.
'It was published in the 1840s,' said Mum. 'Quite rare, especially in this condition. Or here, look at this.' It was a book, in English, called
The Boy's King Arthur,
which had beautiful coloured illustrations. 'Imagine! It's a first edition,' said Mum, eyes shining. 'Pictures by NC Wyeth. Raymond had quite a few Wyeth-illustrated books, first editions – he must have ordered them from America. They're worth a mint. Not that I'll ever want to sell them! And look at this .. . and this .. .'

She was clearly having the best time of her life. She didn't ask me once where I'd been or what I'd been doing. (My hair and skin had pretty much dried off in the sun.)

'I've also found some of his notebooks,' she said, pointing to a pile on the table near the armchairs. 'Fascinating stuff. Lots of notes on characters and plots and everything. Dreams he had that he thought he could use. All that sort of thing. That's the kind of thing he thought you'd be interested in, isn't it? You should take a look.'

'Sure,' I said. 'Mum, I –' I was going to tell her about the notebook – I'd put it under my pillow before I went downstairs again – but she didn't let me finish, she was so taken up in the excitement of it all. 'You know, Fleur, I've had a thought. I think we should have a special Raymond Dulac section in the shop back home. Maybe even a room. There's that room next door I could rent. What do you think?'

'I think it's a great idea,' I said, glancing at the neat pile on the table. 'Mum,' I said, 'there's something I –'

At that moment, the phone on the desk rang. We looked at each other blankly for a moment, then Mum said, 'I suppose it's for us,' and answered it. '
Oui, bonjour?'

The phone quacked. I couldn't make out what the other person was saying, but across Mum's face came a surprised expression. 'Yes. This is Anne Griffon. Who am I speaking to?' she said, in English. Then, after they spoke: 'I am sorry. But I do not know –' The other person cut in then, at length. Mum waited, then said, 'It is not for me to say. Oscar Dulac –' The other person interrupted again, and she listened, then said, 'Very well, if it is all right with him. But I have not had time yet to catalogue everything fully. I do not know if –'

Again another interruption. She sighed. 'Very well. We will expect you. Goodbye, Mr Morgan.'

'Mr Morgan?' I said as soon as she had put the phone down. 'Who's that?'

'A guy called Wayne Morgan. An Englishman. He says he was a good friend of Raymond's. He said Raymond promised him the notebooks and he has a letter proving it. He mentioned he's planning to write and publish a study of Raymond's work, which focuses especially on his Arthurian novels, and the notebooks will be invaluable for that. He says he owns a small publishing company in England – I think it's called the Glastonbury Aquarian Press. He seemed to think I'd have heard of it.'

'And have you?'

'No. But that doesn't mean it's dodgy. I don't know every imprint there is. Anyway, he told me we could check him out on the internet. Which we will do, of course. And he says he's spoken to Oscar already. He said Oscar told him to come here the day he gets back, which is tomorrow. He says he won't do anything without Oscar's approval. He certainly seems to know everyone here. And he knew I was here and what Raymond had done with his library.'

'But in his letter to you – that one Nicolas gave you – Raymond said
you
were to have the notebooks,' I said.

'No, he didn't,' she said, slowly. 'He only said that I should look at it all, and decide. He didn't say I
must
have them.'

'No, but –'

'Look, we'll have to play it by ear when this Morgan fellow arrives,' said Mum firmly. 'If this man really is who he says, then I think it would be a good idea to have a study written of Raymond's work. He was a very important writer, in that world. Get me my Blackberry, Fleur. Let's check him out right now.'

She brought up Google and entered 'Morgan Glastonbury Aquarian Press'. Immediately, up came several references. She clicked on the first one, and up came the Press website. It looked pretty genuine. It said it was owned by Wayne Morgan and was a New Age type of publisher, which seemed to specialise in Arthurian topics. Mum told me that Glastonbury was
the
place for King Arthur nuts. Lots of people were convinced this was actually the real Avalon, never mind that the name was nothing like it. People went there on pilgrimages from everywhere. All sorts of people, not just New Age types. The place was supposed to be full of magic and atmosphere and it was certainly full of stories. Supposedly, in the Middle Ages someone had found King Arthur's grave here. There was this holy well called Chalice Well where the Grail might be found, and apparently the nearby Tor held many secrets, and the Holy Thorn tree that grew there (and which the Queen herself received a branch of every year at Christmas) had been planted by Joseph of Arimathea, the person who'd paid for Jesus' tomb. Jesus' holy blood was meant to have made those thorn trees grow. Some people said that Mary Magdalene was involved too somehow and I don't know what else. Real way-out
Da Vinci Code
stuff, but rather confusing. I mean, mixing up all that stuff, it's kind of weird. It doesn't really make sense. I like things to make sense.

There wasn't much about Wayne Morgan, the owner of Glastonbury Aquarian Press, on the site, just about how he'd loved everything to do with Arthur ever since he was a kid and first began to read the stories, and how he'd moved to Glastonbury to be at the heart of all that Arthurian energy. But on another website, called Glastonbury Heart Magic, we found more information about him. He wasn't just a publisher. He also had a shop in Glastonbury selling all kinds of stuff, you know, candles, incense, chimes, books, tarot cards and various other bits and bobs, all to do with Arthur in some way, and he also had branches of these shops in various other towns in England. On that site there was a picture of him, looking rather like Richard Branson, except dark-haired, with a goatee and an earring and a smart linen suit. And the expression on his face! It reminded me of those characters in
Zoolander,
you know those male models who try the staring competition, and have names for their posy expressions. Blue Steel, or whatever. Well, it looked just like that, like Wayne Morgan was trying out Blue Steel.

I said as much to Mum. She smiled. 'That's a bit cynical, Fleur. I think he's just trying to look sincere.'

'Exactly.
Look at him.'

'Fleur, stop it,' she said, laughing. 'I'm sure he's a perfectly nice man. He's certainly really involved in Arthurian things. His heart's in the right place, anyway.'

'His Glastonbury Heart Magic, you mean,' I said sourly. 'With branches in a town near you.'

She gave me a sharp look. 'Fleur, you really must try not to be so suspicious and disbelieving about people and the world. Like Shakespeare says, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in –'

'Yeah, yeah,' I said, hastily, knowing I was about to get the full lecture if I didn't stop it there, but also deciding there and then I most certainly would not mention the notebook I'd found. 'Okay. So Wayne Morgan's the real deal. It still doesn't mean he should get Raymond's notebooks.'

'Of course not,' said Mum calmly. 'I'll have a look at the notebooks first, read my Lady of the Lake cards, and make a final decision after I meet him. I think that's what Raymond would have wanted.'

'Why didn't he say anything about Morgan in his letter, then?' I said, stubbornly.

'I don't know. Perhaps it wasn't the right place. Perhaps he forgot. Who knows?' She looked at her watch. 'Look, Fleur, I'm going to continue on with this cataloguing for two or three hours more, and then we can think about some dinner. Is that okay?'

I shrugged. 'Sure. Do you want some help? Maybe I could start having a look at those notebooks.'

'No, it's okay. I'd better have a look at them first. You just go off and enjoy yourself.'

'Okay, then. Actually, can I borrow the Blackberry for a little while, Mum? Just need to check if I've got any emails.'

'Sure,' she said vaguely, already turning back to her task.

Upstairs in my room, I logged onto my Gmail account and got into my inbox. There were a couple of emails from mates that I answered quickly, and a couple of spam things I deleted. I went to Google then and looked up Wayne Morgan again and put in Raymond Dulac's name with it. All that came up was a list of Raymond's books that were sold in Morgan's shops. It proved nothing one way or the other. I just didn't like that guy but for no real reason, really, if I was being fair. Which I wasn't. I just had a feeling something was odd about the way he'd approached Mum, and his insistence on having the notebooks.

After a moment, I tried
Raymond Dulac and dreams.
Up came a few references, mostly things people had quoted from his books. I typed in
Gustave Doré dream pictures Arthurian legend
and came up with some references to the rarity of the engravings but nothing about what they meant. And then, just because my mind was going in that direction, I remembered that other Gmail account I'd created back home, when I wanted to contact that Dreaming Holmes person. I logged onto it, and there, in the inbox, was a message from Dreaming Holmes himself. Or herself, I supposed it could be. It was long.

Dear Caroline
(remember, that was the pen-name I had used)

Thank you for writing to me, and sending me your dream. I can understand it must have been a very troubling and frightening one.

Pursuit dreams usually mean you are fleeing from something. An anxiety, a situation, perhaps even a person. Quite often, you do not see who is chasing you. That is also a feature of such dreams. It means you are not sure what's wrong. The fact you hid among rocks indicates that whatever this thing is that's bothering you, it could assume major proportions if you do not deal with it. Hiding is the last option. The fact that you saw someone – or at least a hand – with a bow and arrow, and that you felt this was aiming directly at you, for your heart, suggests it's something to do with someone close to you.

The fact you have dreamed this twice suggests your subconscious knows the matter must be dealt with soon. You say you are afraid that this dream felt so real it is going to happen. Don't be! Dreams are rarely genuinely premonitory, and the majority of those that are, are usually about trivial events. Those that are not are very, very rare. You need a high level of psychic awareness to generate such dreams and even then they are often hard to decipher if you have no training. I have had this training and I have certainly had dreams of this sort, but rarely. Please do not worry that this is happening to you, it is most unlikely, especially at your age.
(I had said I was a teenager.)

I suggest you really think carefully about what it is you might be afraid of or even anxious about. Think of those around you. Has anyone 'ambushed' you, psychologically speaking? Do you feel neglected? Abandoned? Has someone close to you – a friend, a family member – betrayed you in some way? Think of your relationship with your parents. How do you feel about that? Is there perhaps an affair of the heart that bothers you? (The arrow is Cupid's symbol, of course, and may signify a dangerous love.) Or is there something at school that is troubling you? Think carefully about it, allowing your mind to conjure up the images from the dream. There will be clues in them that you should not ignore, and the answer will most likely come to you. If it does not, though, and if the dream occurs again, consider going to speak to a counsellor or a psychologist trained in the interpretation of dreams. But don't hesitate to contact me again should you wish to do so.

Hoping this has helped,
with all good wishes,
Dreaming Holmes.

Hmm. I read the message through again. All very sensible and down to earth. Except that I wasn't, as far as I was aware, scared of anyone or anything, I mean, not specifically, not right now. My life had been pretty humdrum up till now. But now, with Raymond's murder, Mum being left his library, us going to Avallon, Raymond's letter, that Morgan guy ringing, those pictures in the library, that notebook I'd found: I'd tumbled head first into a very different world.

I then thought about the sketched forest in the notebook. Was it like the one I'd seen in my dream? Heart beating fast, I pulled it out from under the pillow. I squinted at the sketches. Hmm. It could be. But one forest was much like another one, right? Trees and stuff. There were no rocks or boulders in the sketches, though, but a castle. No castle in my dream though at first – yes! – I'd thought in the dream that the rocks looked like some tumbled down giant's castle. But that was only a coincidence, and a pretty vague one at that. There were too many differences – in my dream there was no knight, no horse, no faces in the trees, just me running fit to bust and someone after me with a bow and arrow. Quite different. Besides, back when I'd had the dream, I hadn't known about the notebook or any of that stuff at all so it couldn't be connected. In
any
way, canny or uncanny. Right, Fleur? That dream in the book, that was Raymond's, not yours. End of story.

I thought I should write back to Dreaming Holmes so I fired off a quick email: