Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  After that, Natalie checked out one cookbook after another. Her favorite was by the famous French chef Jacques Pépin. According to the book’s foreword, a French cookbook was not really about the cooking, or even about the food, but about a way of life: mornings spent chatting over delicate café tables, evenings lingering over candlelit dinners, savoring flavors the young Natalie could only dream of, conversing about subjects she had never even imagined.

  Natalie had finally found her niche. She began working alongside her mother to dry the wild mushrooms and herbs they gathered in the forest for food and for medicine, to can jar after never-ending jar of vegetables from their garden. She learned to boil venison, skimming off the fat and setting it aside to make candles. They mixed wild berries and bits of dried meat, bound by tallow, to make a prepper’s staple, a high-protein meat patty known as pemmican. It was a bit gruesome, but it kept a body going.

  In one session of home school, Carla had taught her daughters about the cones in the human eye, how the color-blind were not sensitive to certain vibrations, and how some animals’ eyes had more cones and could therefore see more colors. Natalie had seized on the idea and spent hours when she was supposed to be tracking animals instead sitting on a rock on the banks of the rushing Klamath River, trying to imagine what it would be like to experience a color she had never seen, could not even conceive of.

  Reading cookbooks was like that. The intricate exotic recipes were a window to a world she had never known existed, a life with choices Natalie had never realized were out there, somewhere, in the world. When her eyes grew weary of reading by candlelight, Natalie would cradle her current cookbook to her chest like a security blanket, drifting off to sleep while watching Alex do her endless push-ups and sit-ups.

  Alex was preparing for the end of the world. All Natalie wanted to prepare was a proper French dinner.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Violette

  According to family lore, as a girl Mamm-gozh was pulled out of the ocean one day when a fisherman, trawling for haddock, spotted her clinging to a piece of driftwood. She was too young to say what had happened, whether she had somehow fallen overboard or was the sole survivor of a ship lost at sea. The mayor wrote to everyone he could think of, and passing sailors spread the word of her discovery to ports far and wide, but no relatives stepped forward to claim her. So she was taken in by the family of the fisherman who had saved her, and embraced as an honorary Fémane.

  In our livret de famille, the book in which every member is listed, Mamm-gozh was included as the daughter of my great-grandparents, though her name carried an asterisk: place and date of birth unknown.

  I thought perhaps it was because of Mamm-gozh’s unusual history that, unlike most of the islanders, she understood that the Île de Feme was not the only world that existed, that there were other islands, other seas, other peoples. Entire continents populated by strangers with strange, and possibly enchanting, ways.

  Certainly Mamm-gozh seemed to be the only one who understood my restlessness, who encouraged me to go explore the world, if that was what I wanted. She was also the only one who noticed how I looked at Salvator Guilcher.

  Even as a child I was enthralled by him. I shared a desk at school with his sister, Noëlle, who was my best friend. When Noëlle and I dug in the mudflats for clams during low tide, I would watch Salvator scrape the barnacles off a hull or shellac woodwork, laughing and swapping stories with his fellow fishermen. Noëlle used to tease me, saying I wanted to be a fisherwoman instead of a proper girl. I didn’t mind; it kept her off the scent of my true interest.

  I loved to see Salvator standing at the helm of their father’s boat, piloting it skillfully to the dock. Occasionally at night, when I was supposed to be in bed, I would slip out and silently trail after him as he left the café, tipsy on cider, singing and weaving his way through the village’s narrow walkways, eventually turning in through the stone archway of his family home at 22 rue Saint-Guénolé.

  Salvator was sloe-eyed and strong, and when he came near my heart sped up and my mouth went dry. He was eight years my senior, and had been in my sister’s class at school. When I grew a little older, I used to watch Salvator’s hands as he repaired his nets, the long, callused fingers surprisingly gentle and agile. I began to imagine those hands stroking my hair, my face. . . . Sometimes I looked up to find his eyes upon me.

  But then Salvator left the island to seek his fortune, which only piqued my interest more. Soon his younger brother, Marc, began to drop by my house, asking to escort me to the market or to help me in the garden. I gave him no encouragement, but my parents approved of the match, as did my aunts and uncles, who pointed out that there weren’t many eligible young men in our small island village. My mother lectured me that it was my responsibility to marry and to have children, to continue the family, to hand down our traditions. Marc came from a respected fishing family and was only two years older than me. We were a perfect match, my mother insisted.

  My family knew of my restlessness, my wandering thoughts. The old women tsked and shook their heads at my refusal to wear the traditional garb, the robe noire and the black winged headdress called the jibilinnen, instead sewing modern clothing based on photographs in the fashion magazines from Paris.

  My family feared I would be called away by the siren song of the mainland, to which the island had lost so many of its native sons and daughters.

  They thought if I married an island boy, I would come back to them.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the spring of 1940, word reached us that the Germans had invaded France from the north. We were stunned. The French army was said to be one of the best in the world. How had it been so easily defeated?

  There were Bretons who welcomed the Germans, and some who went so far as to collaborate with the invaders. They had long resented the imposition of the French national government, for they considered themselves Breton, not French at all.

  But that was on the mainland. Here on the Île de Feme, we simply wanted to be left alone. We were not especially loyal to the French government, but we certainly did not want the Germans—or anyone else—setting foot on our island, issuing proclamations, appropriating our space and our property, destroying our traditions.

  In a matter of weeks, the Nazis established a puppet French government in Vichy, imposed control over the press, and forbade the use of radios by all but an authorized few. Our town hall, the mairie, received a telegram instructing the authorities to confiscate all radios and printing equipment.

  We refused.

  Over the centuries we Fémans have survived hunger and cold, cholera epidemics and storms, and loved ones lost at sea. Mother Nature has not defeated us, and neither will an invading army. If the Bretons are known as the toughest of the French, we Fémans are among the toughest of the Bretons. We are descendants of stubborn Druids, the castaway survivors of shipwrecks, and, as I believe, of the Gallizenae: nine magical women who once lived on our shores.

  So the lighthouse keeper, Henri Thomas, defied the Vichy order, regularly listening to news reports broadcast from Britain, which had so far withstood the German onslaught. Monsieur Thomas was an old man with a shock of white hair, thin lips that gave him a hardened look to match his character, and rheumy eyes, one of which drooped so badly it was almost permanently closed. This did not seem to impair him in the least when it came to spotting the ships and fishing boats that passed through our waters. It was he who happened upon the tail end of a radio address on the BBC that called upon all brave French citizens to rise up against the enemy occupation.

  Monsieur Thomas claimed his ears had tingled in excitement as he made out Général Charles de Gaulle’s words through the static, declaring that France was occupied but she was not defeated.

  So, in a way, the lighthouse keeper was responsible for starting it all. Monsieur Thomas was a débutant—that is, he was not a na
tive islander—but had lived on the Île de Feme long enough to understand that the Fémans could not resist a call to take up arms, to resist.

  Word of Général de Gaulle’s address spread like wildfire, and Monsieur Thomas invited the villagers to gather in the front parlor of his home at the base of the lighthouse to listen to the program’s rebroadcast, on the evening of June 22, 1940.

  It was a warm summer night, and the room was far too stuffy, crammed as it was with islanders of every age, anxious to hear the French general. Most of us lingered outside, sitting along the rock walls that defined the lighthouse yard, sipping cidre bouché and sharing the biscuits passed around by Madame Kestel, the baker’s wife.

  Monsieur Thomas placed his radio on the windowsill so the address would reach all ears.

  We had never heard of Général Charles de Gaulle, but we thrilled at the sound of his voice as he recounted how he had escaped to London with his family ahead of the Nazi forces, and declared that he and France were far from defeated.

  “This is a World War. No one knows whether the neutral countries of today will be at war tomorrow, or whether Germany’s allies will continue as her allies. If the powers of freedom ultimately triumph over those of subjugation, what will be the fate of a France which has lain down for the enemy?

  “. . . I call on all French wishing to remain free to listen to my voice and follow me. Long live free France!”

  Général de Gaulle was urging his fellow French citizens to join the Free French Forces in England, and exhorted us to rise up against the Germans and take our country back. To defy Adolf Hitler’s Nazi regime and dash their plans to make our beloved country a German playground.

  Excited chatter rippled through the crowd. “We must leave for England,” the men said. “We must join the French Free Forces! We must save la Belle France!”

  In that very moment, it seemed, every man of fighting age on the Île de Feme made up his mind to fight.

  I was hardly listening. War seemed so abstract while my world was falling apart, right in front of me. My old friend Noëlle no longer liked me very much, her disdain having grown in proportion to my desire to leave the island. That night Noëlle showed me, with undisguised satisfaction, a letter her mother had received from Salvator announcing his intention to marry a young woman from Brest.

  Salvator. Married. I felt stunned. Sick. I was still mourning the loss of my dear mamm-gozh, and now this? While the others talked of war and resistance, I could only wonder how my broken heart could continue to beat, how I would manage to breathe.

  I don’t remember returning home that night, lost as I was in my emotions at this news. What did you expect? I chided myself. Salvator was a handsome, healthy young man. He had already waited much longer to take a bride than most island men. Of course he would marry, and of course it would not be to me. Salvator had never seen me as anything other than his little sister’s playmate, and even if he had, he had no desire to be anchored to the Île de Feme.

  Late that night, as I was preparing for bed, I heard my name being called from outside, echoing off the walls of the stone houses: “Violette! Violette!”

  I leaned out the window and spied Marc on the quay below, red-faced with excitement and emboldened by cider.

  “I’m going to England, Violette!” he called out excitedly.

  I know that, I wanted to say. Aren’t all the men going? But I held my tongue, giving Marc half my attention. My mind was filled with concerns much closer to my heart than declarations of war.

  “Violette . . . Violette, I love you,” Marc shouted so that all the neighbors could hear. “I’ve always loved you. Will you marry me?”

  I listened to his words, feeling numb. Salvator was marrying someone else—perhaps he already had. We were at war, and France was occupied by the enemy. How could I possibly leave the island now? There was no future for me in Audierne, or in Quimper, much less in Paris. The war had changed everything. My parents wanted me to be wed, and they liked Marc. He was a kind young man. He had serenaded me with a proposal. It was the only time I had been serenaded.

  So I said yes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alex

  One by one, Alex removed the items from her backpack and placed them in the chest of drawers, neatly lined up from left to right. Her traveling kit consisted of a pair of jeans, three pairs of underwear and socks, an extra bra, two long-sleeved T-shirts and two tank tops, a sweatshirt, a waterproof shell, and a fleece vest. She was wearing her favorite vest, shorts, and hiking shoes.

  That was about it, as far as clothes went.

  She picked up the fat red volume she referred to as her “training manual.” Just the sight of it made her stomach quail, but Alex knew she needed to study. To prepare. For the moment, though, she slipped the book in the drawer under her T-shirts and brought out her small toiletry kit, just a toothbrush and a small container of baking soda instead of toothpaste, floss, a comb, her Swiss Army knife, a flashlight, some energy bars and vitamins. A French–English dictionary. A small night-light, which she plugged into the room’s sole outlet. The heaviest item in her pack was a bottle of water, and she would never be caught without it.

  Back in the States Alex had carried a cell phone, but when she discovered the cost of an international phone plan, she left the device in Albuquerque, stored in an old wooden chest in one corner of a friend’s barn.

  There wasn’t much else in that chest: a few snapshots from childhood that had miraculously survived the years and numerous moves, school portraits of her nieces and nephews, assorted thank-you notes and cards from guests at the dude ranch. A well-thumbed address book that had belonged to their mother, Carla. The information was long since outdated, but Alex liked seeing their mother’s handwriting and occasionally ran her fingers along the loops of the old-fashioned cursive script. A couple of pairs of worn but still wearable jeans and T-shirts, her favorite riding boots, a heavy parka. Souvenirs of a few road trips: matchboxes and postcards from Route 66, a weekend camping in Tahoe with friends, backpacking in Joshua Tree. The red leather collar from her dog, a Labrador retriever mix named Buddy who had been hit by a car while chasing a fox across the highway. He breathed his last while cradled in her lap. It had broken her heart.

  Meager keepsakes for forty-one years of life, Alex remembered thinking as she closed the lid of the chest, locking it all away. Shouldn’t there be more? How had the years gone by so quickly?

  A line from an old song, or maybe it was a poem, came to her: “They say life is short—then why are the nights so long?”

  Alex hated the nights. She hated the darkness.

  Also in that chest was a handwritten list she had composed as a child, itemizing the skills she would need to face The Change. She had ticked them off as she mastered them, her father signing off on each one with his barely legible initials:

  Identify and locate edible and medicinal plants

  Make a fire (with and without matches)

  Open a can of food with and without a can opener

  Know when food is too spoiled to eat

  Use of knife and slingshot

  Setting traps and snares

  How to fish and hunt

  How to clean fish and wild game

  Find water and identify if it’s safe to drink

  Basic first aid

  Find or build a shelter in the wilderness

  How, why, and when to stay hidden

  How to climb a tree to get away from predators, get directional bearings, and hunt

  How to read a map and use a compass

  How to read the sky for directions, time, and bad weather

  Be hardworking, self-starter, and a family helper—not a complainer!

  Spiritual survival

  The only item not checked off was the last: Spiritual survival. Unlike a lot of prepper families, the Morgens
weren’t particularly religious. The Bible was one of the few nonlibrary books in the house, and their mother read passages aloud some evenings, but by and large their church was the wilderness; their religion was preparing. And Alex had been a true believer: If she completed her training, if she thought through all the worst-case scenarios and prepared for them, she would reach nirvana. She would survive.

  Alex bashed her little toe on the heavy bed frame, swore a blue streak, and collapsed on the bed. The sting of tears at the backs of her eyes enraged her. I could use a little help with the spiritual survival right about now. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly, counting to fifteen, and gazed out the window at the muted, barely-there line where the ocean met the sky.

  What had she been doing with her time, all those years? Why hadn’t she done more?

  Speaking of wasting time . . . why was Nat sitting around in the middle of a sunny afternoon when there was so much to be done? But then, Nat never had been a fan of real work. As a girl she had cared only about her books and, when The Commander confiscated those, she had retreated into her thoughts.

  And then she escaped altogether.

  In none of The Commander’s numerous doomsday scenarios had he imagined that his young “recruits,” his five daughters, would eventually age out of his world and slip out of his control. Faith, the eldest, ran off with a young man she met at a gas station, returned to their mother’s roots in a fundamentalist church, and was now raising a passel of children in a suburb outside of Salt Lake City. The second born, Hope, had a daughter at the age of seventeen, who followed in her mother’s footsteps to give birth to her first child before graduating high school, making Hope a grandmother at age thirty-five. Hope worked as a cashier in a grocery store and lived with her daughter and grandchild in a trailer park near Mount Shasta, not far from where they had grown up. The third Morgen daughter, Charity, had moved to Denver and sent an occasional postcard with no return address, confirming that she was alive but refusing to share any particulars of her life.