To celebrate the last day of the year, I book myself a seat on the TGV, France’s bullet-train.
Direction: bumblefuck Brume.
As we roll past the lush French countryside, I thumb through webpages about the quaint old town, a tourist’s wet dream—a perfectly preserved medieval village built on a hill, around an ancient temple, now the college library, housing the oldest astronomical clock known to mankind. Cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses and gray limestone ripple in concentric circles around the temple all the way down to theLac de Nimuehon one side and theForêt de Brocéliandeon the other.
The cemetery at the bottom of the hill is famous. That fairy or witch or whatever from the Arthurian legends is said to be buried in De Morel’s family crypt. As for the sorcerer Merlin, he’s supposedly trapped for eternity in the forest, Viviene having tricked him into entering some cave which she then blocked with a heavy Carnac stone. Crafty woman.
I have to admit it’s smart to add fictional characters to your family tree. Maybe I’ll buy a patch of land, stick a few menhirs on it, and declare it the resting place of my long-lost great-great-great-great-great uncles, Obélix and Astérix. Bet I could make a pretty penny off unsuspecting tourists.
I tap my finger on my phone’s screen, setting this business venture aside to focus on my destination and the rare and valuable items I’m bound to find there. I mean, there’s the clock, but considering it’s the size of a spaceship, I can’t exactly stuff it inside my bespoke jacket pocket.
An alert for a new email from Bastian pops up. I click on it, then scan his in-depth research into local lore and odd tales. Some shit about Brume being the birthplace of magic. More shit about how they celebrate this magical history in costume throughout the year. And then . . . the blowfly on top of the pile of steaming manure . . . the stories of cursed artifacts. I find myself chuckling as I read. I mean, come on. How gullible are people?
My laughter attracts the eye of a woman seated across the aisle. She bites her bottom lip, denting the soft flesh. She’s got nice ice on her ears, each diamond larger than my pinky nails, but I’m not in the mood to relieve her of her itchorher earrings.
I turn toward the window for the remainder of the trip, concentrating on my festering hatred toward this Professor Rainier de Morel. How he ignored me until it suited his purpose. It’s not something I can easily forgive. It’s not something Iwantto forgive.
And again, how the fuck did he know where I lived? Possibly, that annoys me more than anything because it means he’s been tracking me, and I like to be tracked as much as I enjoy getting stabbed in the hand with a steak knife.
Distractedly, I finger the wound, a pale strip that resembles a zipper because of my less than adroit needlework. Not that my tools—gin, nylon fishing line, and a rusted needle—had been ideal for stitching skin. I roll my fingers, which pushes out the white scar. Bastian says I’m lucky my tendon wasn’t damaged, lucky I still have use of my thumb.
I don’t believe in luck.
I still have a tendon, because I fought to save it.
Fought to save myself from the shitty hand I was dealt.
* * *
The momentI arrive in Brume, there’s no doubt the place lives up to its name. A steely gray mist blankets the entire hill, and icy fingers of cold slip under the collar of my wool coat. As I walk from the train station to the fortified entrance of town, I can’t help but snort at its quaintness. Bastian’s research said this place was sometimes called Merlin’s Hat, but in my opinion, the streetlights winding upward look more like candles on a stacked birthday cake than stars on a wizard’s hat.
Noise leads me up a set of uneven stone stairs, to a road crawling with people dressed in witch hats and black sorcerer robes. Some tote stuffed black cats, others sport fake beards or press-on warts. Garlands of evergreen boughs and mistletoe adorn façades, and candles sit in frosty windows. A vendor ladles spiced wine from a large cauldron in the middle of what I assume is the town square considering it’ssquareand animated.
There’s laughter and dancing, but nothing like the debauchery I’m used to. Nothing like Marseille, with clubs pounding bass out into the street, restaurants heaving with happy drunks, motorbikes screeching down passageways. Here, there are no cars, no motorcycles, no fireworks. No neon lights or club music. Only geeks and old geezers waving around LED-activated wands.
I squeeze through the hordes of villagers, shoulders tightening from the crush of bodies. I usually enjoy crowds, enjoyworkingthem. Since I’m not working, the contact of so many limbs sets my teeth on edge.
Once I’m free of the throng, I drop my gaze to my map application, following the directions to the dormitories. When I pass the last of the shops, the winding road clears of people but swarms with shadows. A furry black creature streaks across the street, inches from my boots. No wonder people think this town has wicked origins; it looks like something out of a Grimms’ fairytale.
The cold humidity pricks my skin as I finally step beneath an illuminated, rectangular bronze panel strung up on a chain between two houses. The words THIRD KELC’H glint as it swings and clanks. How the hell do the people living nearby stand the grating noise? I would’ve clipped the thing down and melted it.
Huh.
Maybe Icouldclip it. Could be worth something if it’s an original. I snap a pic, then go back to studying my map and stroll past narrow houses made of gray stone and damp timber that lean against each other like love-starved kids.
Though it looks nothing like any campus I’ve ever seen, the dorms and faculty housing are supposed to start on this circle. I find the address Rainier de Morel indicated in his letter, a three-story townhouse with a large four-leaf clover stamped over the entrance. I tap in the security code, climb up a set of creaky stairs, and unlock the door marked with a brass 3.
The room beyond is cramped and squat. Who the hell lives here usually? Elves? The walls and floor are weathered wood, and so is the bed frame, claw-footed nightstand, three-drawer dresser, and armoire covered by a speckled mirror. A window made of square panes looks out onto the shiny road peeking from beneath the dense fog. No ensuite bathroom, no dusty art on the walls, no knick-knacks on the dresser. I chuck my bag on the bare mattress.
Pop music leaks from the room next to mine, the sort Bastian adores, the sort that makes my stomach turn. I can’t stand boppy love songs. Just like I can’t stand having neighbors. Especially carefree students. The whole set-up feels way too much like a foster house. At least I have a door and a lock, more than I had back in my formative years.
After checking the contents of the dresser and armoire—both empty—I decide not to ring in the New Year alone in this elf hole. I button up my coat and shut the door, the brass 3 swinging from side to side as I lock up and pocket the key. I forgo the winding road for a set of stairs sprinkled with salt that lead me back to Second Kelc’h. Snow starts to drift down. Like this town isn’t wintery enough already.
I buy a cup of mulled wine and a ham and cheesegalettefrom an eatery calledMerlin’s Baguette, then pound the cobbles toward the square. At some point, I find myself discussing the cost of a decent drink with a bunch of inebriated sophomores. We buy several bottles of wine from atabacranging from dirt cheap to mildly expensive to test our theories before coming to the conclusion that, after several drinks, anything’s decent.
But even with all the distraction and the booze, I can’t get the gall of Rainier de Morel off my mind. I swallow a mouthful of Pinot Noir every time I think of him. And with every mouthful, I get more and more pissed off.
The villagers begin to sing a melancholic song in Breton. It feels like they’re burying the past year instead of celebrating the coming one.
