‘So, Ankou. That’s who we apparently saw, right? Tell me about him.’
Ankou, not Simon. It was much easier if it was Ankou. Better the Servant of Death, than her dead love. Understandable. The thought tripped him up, and almost drew a bitter laugh he didn’t dare release. She’d never forgive him.
‘He collects the souls of the dead, takes them in his boat to the underworld.’
‘Why did he look like Simon?’ Her voice broke as she said his name and Rafael felt a sudden fierce urge well up inside him to protect her, to comfort her.
But it wasn’t his place.
And the man whose place it was…
No…answer the question. That was what she was waiting for. Not sympathy which would unmask her pain. Answers.
‘Mémé says that Ankou often takes the face of a lost soul, the first death of the season or the last of the previous—’
‘But he didn’t die this season, or last. It’s been two years.’
He didn’t respond to the snap of her voice. It was purely defensive. ‘He could simply be one of those lost at sea, unburied…I don’t know how it works, Ari. Ankou is a lost soul, who helps lost souls. That’s all I know. I’m sorry.’
She shook her head, clearly annoyed with herself. But he saw something else there, a glimmer of understanding perhaps. ‘His ashes were scattered in the bay. That was what he wanted. Go on.’
It wouldn’t do to press her on it just now, he could tell. He was certainly not going to go into the idea that he was a suicide or a murder victim. Her grief was still there, just beneath the surface, and he didn’t want to bring it back up. ‘He sails theBag Noz, the boat of the night, or sometimes drives a wagon. When they brought the train here, the locals were afraid of the noise, and said it was Ankou coming for them. Some say each parish has its own Ankou. Perhaps he’s ours. Sainte Sirène’s, I mean. But all the stories agree that while he protects the dead, he’s an ill omen for the living.’
‘So we’re extra lucky to see him then.’
He snorted out a laugh at her sarcasm. ‘Yeah. Something like that.’
‘And how does he tie into Ys?’
‘He doesn’t. Unless he was walking the streets there that night. He’s an old legend, older than Ys, as old as mankind, a tale to be told around the fire and frighten the children. Or at least that’s what I thought he was. But…but there is another story, not commonly known. The book I showed you implies that once he was Dahut’s lover. That he gave her the mask and taught her magic.’
Ari didn’t reply at first. He watched as she tightened her hand into a fist and then uncurled it again. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and decided on another question instead. ‘Is there a way to find him?’
‘To find Ankou? Are you mad? Didn’t you see him?’
She stared at the island, her eyes dangerous, and her voice was suddenly cold. ‘Yes. I saw him. And I think… Rafael, he had the mask. Last night. He was wearing it and then he took it off to reveal Simon’s face. And he didn’t want me there, did he? Because I’d recognise him. That’s why he pushed me aside beforehand. He wanted you, wanted you to see him and see the mask. And the mask is now as good as new. I think…the two have to be connected. Don’t you think?’
‘Maybe?’ He didn’t know what to think. But she was slotting everything into place so quickly that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to get to the end of that particular path. He didn’t like the dark and dangerous places it was leading. But he knew they would have to go there if they were to solve this.
‘There’s something about the Pointe de Castelmeur. What does the name mean? It doesn’t sound French.’
‘It isn’t. It’s Breton. Castel is castle, or fortress and…’ His words dried up as he said it. He’d never thought about it before. Not like this.
‘Andmeur?’
He grimaced. ‘Great, or big. The Great Castle.’
‘There’s no castle there though.’
‘There’s the oppidum. That might have been…well, not a castle, but a stronghold. It had walls of sorts.’
It was a pile of rocks, some earthen banks. It was hardly a castle.
She hummed to herself. He could see it now, the way her mind worked. Like her brother, but so much better. A new Schliemann, tracking down the legendary city. Only instead of a copy ofThe Iliad, she had no more than a smattering of local legends.
‘He was right at the end of the point, above the little rocky island, the one that looks like it was broken in two. Like he was showing it to us. What do you call that?’
He didn’t remember mentioning it, to be honest. ‘It doesn’t have a name on the maps. It’s too small, insignificant really. Like Sainte Sirène. But the locals call it Îlot d’Or. The little island of gold.’
