Bright Angel

by Isabelle Merlin

  It was cool in the cathedral, much cooler than outside. The sunlight fell softly through the coloured windows and the candles made little points of brightness, but otherwise it was quite dim. The rich colours of the pictures and carvings and statues glowed in the gentle light, and there was a quietness that wasn’t like the one outside. Not stagey. It was a kind of natural quietness, not silence but a breathingquietness, if you know what I mean. A watching, listening quietness. Not frightening at all, like what I’d felt just before we arrived. Something kind and serene and enfolding...

  I’d wandered off from Claire by now, back towards the entrance to the cathedral. It was then I saw it. I’d missed seeing it when I first came in, because it was tucked away, hanging on a side wall. I stared up at it, hardly believing my own eyes. What on earth was this thing doing in a cathedral, of all places? I came closer to make sure I was really seeing what I was seeing. Maybe it was just a carving, like the others I’d seen. Some of them weren’t really churchy, but this was so much bigger than the others.

  I jumped as someone behind me spoke. ‘Yes, it’s a real crocodile.’

  I turned. There stood a little boy of about five or six. He was one of the most beautiful children I’d ever seen, with large, long-lashed dark eyes, coffee-coloured skin and a halo of frizzy dark hair touched here and there with gold. He was elegantly dressed in a French sort of way, with a pale blue shirt, white shorts and sandals. And he’d spoken in English to me.

  For a heartbeat of time we looked at each other. I’m not used to speaking much to little kids, and this one had startled me so much, coming out of nowhere like that and seeming to read my mind. At last, I said, ‘You’ve seen it before, then?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I wonder what it’s doing here.’

  ‘A Crusader brought it back from Africa a long time ago,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

  I hadn’t expected him to know, and certainly not to answer in such a precise adult way. What a funny little boy, I thought. I asked, ‘And do you know why he did that?’

  ‘He wanted to give a special gift to the Virgin Mary, St-Bertrand and the angels, who brought him safely back home,’ said the child. He spoke beautiful English, a little foreign-sounding, with a soft accent.

  ‘Oh. How did – how do you know that?’

  ‘My guardian angel told me.’

  I stared at him. ‘Your what?’

  ‘My guardian angel. She sits here.’ And he tapped his right shoulder.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Everyone has one,’ he said. ‘You do too.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that,’ I said, deciding to play along with him. Anyway, I knew about guardian angels. Guarding people was one of the jobs angels were supposed to do. I’d included stuff about that in the You Tube clips I’d done for my school project.

  ‘Have you seen your angel?’ he asked, looking seriously up at me.

  ‘I – I’m not sure.’

  He nodded. ‘They don’t always let you. But I’ve seen mine. She’s even told me her name. It’s Kyriel.’

  I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. ‘Whatdid you say?’

  ‘Her name’s Kyriel,’ he repeated, and was about to go on when all at once this young guy came striding towards us with the biggest frown on his face. ‘Gabriel! Mais qu’estce que tu fais?’

  I knew enough French to understand what he’d said, though he spoke fast. He was asking Gabriel – that must be the little boy’s name – what he was doing. I said, in very slow, careful French, ‘Il me parle du crocodile.’He is talking to me about the crocodile.

  ‘And guardian angels,’ said Gabriel in English. He smiled. ‘She has not seen hers yet, Daniel.’ Gabriel turned to me. ‘Daniel is my brother.’

  Daniel shot me an unfriendly look. If he hadn’t been wearing that scowling face, I’d have said he was drop-dead handsome. Like a grown-up Gabriel, except that his eyes weren’t as dark, though just as long-lashed, and he wore his hair in elegant, shortish black dreads that made him look a bit like Yannick Noah, this French tennis player who became a singer and who Mum was keen on at one stage. Like Gabriel he was well-dressed, with a linen jacket over a white shirt and designer jeans, and there was a gold ring on his little finger.

  He spoke to the child, in English this time, no doubt so I wouldn’t miss the point. ‘I thought I told you not to speak to strangers, Gabriel.’

  I felt myself going scarlet. It was such a calculated insult, the way he spoke. I said, hotly, before I could stop myself, ‘For God’s sake. What do you think I am? Some sort of, of damn kidnapper or something? We were just talking. Just being friendly. What’s wrong with that?’

  A muscle in his face jumped. His lips tightened. But he didn’t answer me. Instead, he grabbed Daniel by the hand. ‘Viens,’he snapped.

  Gabriel looked up at me. He said, ‘I can see your angel now. She is out of the shadow. She is very bright. Very beautiful.’

  Daniel snorted angrily. ‘Ca suffit!’That’s enough. He rounded on me, furiously, reverting to English. ‘You should not encourage him in fairytales.’

  I could feel my throat tighten with fury. I said, biting off the words, ‘I encouraged nothing. I was being friendly. But obviously you don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  His eyes glared into mine for a second: a wild mixture of anger and arrogance and hostility and something else – something deeper, something I couldn’t work out. He began, ‘And you, you have no idea what...’ He broke off with an angry shrug and, seizing Gabriel, marched off with him up the aisle away from me.

  Shaken, I stood for an instant looking after them. He’d really got under my skin. What was wrong with him? Why had he been so unpleasant? And why was he so uptight about Gabriel? Okay, so maybe talking about seeing angels was a bit weird. But so what? Gabriel was a little kid. Little kids believe all sorts of things, and see all sorts of things. Maybe it’s imagination, and maybe not. When I was a little kid, I used to see fairies. I saw them out of the corner of my eye and up trees and in all sorts of funny places. But I stopped seeing them when I was about ten. I don’t know if it was because I just stopped believing in them or because as you get older you just don’t see things like that any more. Like, they’re still there, but you’ve sort of gone blind.

  But it was more than just Daniel’s inexplicable hostility that disturbed me. It was the strange coincidence of what Gabriel had said. About his angel’s name. You see, one of the clips I had made and put up on www.youtube.com/sylviemandon was called ‘Interview with An Angel’. And the angel who was ‘interviewed’ was called Kyriel.

  Come on, I told myself, crossly. Don’t be such an idiot. That’s not such a big coincidence. I hadn’t made up the name. I mean, I’d found it in a book about angels. And anyway, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just one of those things, the random sort of stuff that happens in life sometimes. But I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that somehow it wasn’t random – that it did mean something – and that somehow – somehow it was something that mattered. Really mattered.

  Going outside, I found Claire. She was sitting on a little wall, chatting to none other than Marc Fleury. Any other time, I’d have found that really funny and I’d have wanted to know exactly what was going on. But I was too disturbed by what had just happened, so I’d have walked away and left them to it if she hadn’t called me back.

  ‘Hey, Sylvie! Come and meet Marc.’

  I went over rather reluctantly.

  ‘Marc, this is my sister Sylvie.’

  ‘Hello, Sylvie,’ said Marc Fleury. Close up, he was even more handsome than from a distance. His eyes went even bluer when he smiled. He had a very French accent and it sounded sexy. Sort of like Gabriel’s brother, except that, well, he was friendly and Daniel wasn’t. Hell, he was horrible. I didn’t want to think about him again.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Claire tells me you like to make films.’

  ‘Just little clip
s, just for You Tube and that,’ I said, shooting a cross look at Claire. What was she doing babbling about me? Those two seemed to have got very friendly really quickly. Yet they could only have met a few minutes ago.

  ‘But that is great. Very creative,’ he said.

  Gah, I thought, you don’t have to lay on the flattery, just cos you like my sister. ‘It’s nothing,’ I mumbled. ‘Really.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might both like to come tomorrow,’ he went on, ignoring my mumble.

  ‘They’re making a film of one of Marc’s books,’ said Claire hastily, seeing my expression. ‘Not the one I read, a later one. It was partly set here. They’re going to start shooting the first scene tomorrow.’

  ‘An ambush in the forest,’ said Marc brightly. ‘Very dramatic. You will come, yes?’

  ‘I – I suppose so.’ I tried to look as if offers like that came my way every day.

  ‘Good. That is settled, then.’ He jumped up. ‘I am afraid I have to go, but I look forward to tomorrow. This is a most lucky day for me, meeting the beautiful lady who is to sell my books in Australia–’ Claire blushed – ‘and her charming sister.’ I tried not to scowl. ‘Till 9 am tomorrow then.’ And he was gone, with a careless wave and a dazzling smile.

  ‘Well!’ I said, looking sideways at Claire. ‘You’re a fast worker, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Stop it, Syl. He came up to me when I was looking at one of the pictures. He was telling me about it, explaining–’

  ‘I bet he was,’ I snorted.

  ‘He told me he’d been here often, and how he’d set a book here, and then of course I was able to talk to him about that and tell him who I was. And he was so amazed and then he told me about the film. Oh, Sylvie, he’s so nice. Not at all stuck up or sullen like you thought. I feel like I’ve known him for ages.’

  ‘He was obviously trying to impress you,’ I said. ‘Okay, okay, Claire,’ I added, seeing her expression, ‘I agree. He did seem quite nice. Even if he is pretty pleased with himself.’

  ‘You’re so prejudiced,’ she said. ‘Just because a guy’s good-looking doesn’t mean he loves himself or anything.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ I said, thinking not of Marc Fleury but of Daniel. That guy didn’t love himself, I thought. He had no charm, unlike Marc. There was something wary, hard and frightening about him. Closed-off. But there was also something else. And now in a flash of insight it came to me what it was. Sadness. A sadness buried so deep it had twisted everything else. But that didn’t excuse him, I thought. Whatever was wrong with him wasn’t my fault. Not my problem. I was a stranger to him. He shouldn’t have reacted like that. There was no need.

  And there was no need either for me to obsess about it, I told myself tartly. Forget him. He’s not worth thinking about. I was just sorry for beautiful little Gabriel, who had such a dragon for a brother.

  Orphans of Empire

  I went to bed really early that night and in the morning woke from a dreamless sleep to hear someone calling my name. The room was flooded with sunlight and Claire was sitting on the side of the bed, holding a cup of tea.

  I struggled up groggily. ‘Hey, what’s this in aid of?’

  She handed me the tea. ‘It’s already twenty past eight. We’re meeting Marc at nine o’clock, remember?’

  For an instant I could hardly remember where I was, let alone remember our date with Marc. She saw my bemused expression, and said, impatiently, ‘The film shoot, okay?’

  Memory returned. ‘Oh, that.’ I took a sip of tea. ‘You don’t really want me to tag along, do you?’

  ‘Yes. You have to come too. He invited you. It would be rude if you didn’t go.’

  ‘Come off it, Claire. He couldn’t care less if I was there or not. It’s you he wants there.’

  ‘Please come. I’d like you to.’

  I stared at her. There was a flush starting on her neck. I said, slowly, ‘Don’t tell me. You’re scared to go on your own. But it’s not because you don’t like him. It’s the opposite. You’ve fallen for him already, haven’t you, and you’re scared you’re going to show him?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she snapped, but her scarlet cheeks told their own story.

  I raised an eyebrow. I was going to tell her she hardly knew him, but wisely decided that wasn’t a good move. I finished my tea and swung out of bed. ‘Okay, I’ll come. But I’m not going to hold your hand and protect you from the big bad wolf.’

  ‘You’re so annoying,’ she exploded, and threw a pillow at me, which I easily dodged.

  ‘And you’re so easy to see through,’ I crowed as I hurried off to the bathroom, dodging another pillow on the way. I couldn’t help grinning as I stood under the shower. Honestly, despite the big sister act, sometimes Claire acted younger than me! Falling in love at first sight or something dodgy like that – that only happened in stories. I couldn’t believe in it. But Claire could, and did. She’d done it a couple of times before. And neither had worked in the long run. In fact the last one had ended really badly. He’d dumped her with a text message, can you believe it? She’d cried for days. She’d said then that it would never happen again. She’d be careful in future. Really careful. Oh well, I thought as I dried myself off and put on my T-shirt and jeans, maybe this was her version of careful. Getting me to tag along, just in case she forgot her resolution and let herself be swept up by Mr Sexy Frenchman without thinking twice about it.

  Freddy was already working in her study when we went downstairs. I poked my head in at the door and said good morning. She stopped tapping away on her computer, took off her glasses and smiled at me. ‘Good sleep?’

  ‘Great. I feel fantastic.’ It was true. I’d been exhausted the night before, so tired I had practically nodded off into my plate of pasta. But this morning I felt bright and sharp and ready for anything.

  ‘Claire tells me you’re going to that fellow’s film shoot.’

  ‘Yeah, we are. Why don’t you come? It’s set in Roman times. Maybe they’ll even have Herod in it.’

  She grimaced. ‘They might, at that. I don’t know that I’m ready for Hollywood Herod, though. And I better get on with this. Oh, by the way, did Claire tell you? Dominic rang. Just wanted to know you were okay. He said they’d sent you an email. You can have a look tonight if you like – I’ve got a wireless connection to the laptop.’

  ‘Sylvie!’ came Claire’s anxious voice, from the kitchen.

  Freddy smiled at me, and put her glasses back on. ‘You’d better get a move on. Your sister’s very keen to get going. See you later. Have fun.’

  ‘You too.’

  Before I’d even left the room she was back at it, tapping away. Freddy was obviously really absorbed by her work. Dad had always said it took first place over everything else. She’d been married once, but the marriage had broken up years ago because he ran around with other women. She’d had no kids. Since then, she’d had boyfriends now and again but nothing long term. She didn’t seem all that bothered about it. I remember Dad saying that she’d told him once that, as far as she was concerned, a relationship was like a meal in an expensive restaurant. Nice to have, but hardly essential, plus you paid a high price for it and it didn’t last. Claire thought that was awfully cynical but I reckon maybe for Freddy, with her experience, it was just sensible. Sort of like self-defence.

  ***

  I managed to snatch a few bites of bread and butter and a glass of orange juice before my sister rushed me off to the car park to meet her Prince Charming. He was in the middle of his crowd, but broke off from whatever he was doing to come over to us. ‘I am so glad you could come,’ he said, smiling at Claire, which made me feel more spare wheel than ever. He brought us over to the others and introduced us. There was the producer, Jerome somebody, and the director, Claudine someone, and Marc’s PA, Mireille someone, and several other people, Christophe somebody else and Marina thingy and a few others whose names I didn’t quite register. Apparently most of the crew and cast were al
ready at the site. Anyway, this lot seemed nice enough, if not particularly interested in us. Mireille, who seemed the friendliest of them all, and spoke English with an American accent she said she had picked up from living for a few years in the States, asked us a bit about Australia. None of them seemed a bit surprised to see a couple of strangers lobbing in. But maybe Marc invited pretty girls and their hangers-on all the time.

  There was a bit of kerfuffle while everyone piled into cars. Claire might have wanted me to stick to her but Marc had other ideas. I got relegated to a car with Christophe and a couple of girls who rattled on in very fast French nearly all the time so I hardly understood a word and soon didn’t bother trying to keep up.

  We went down the hill and turned out of the village, heading further into the countryside. After about five minutes or so, we turned off the road and onto a rutted track that led into some woods. We parked in a clearing and milled around for a bit with the others before heading off up a path that went further into the trees. Marc was monopolising Claire and the others were all busy chatting to each other so I was left to straggle on behind everyone else. It didn’t matter to me. It was a lovely wood, the sunlight glinting through the fresh young leaves, the path springy underfoot from all the old leaves that had piled up during winter. There were flowers under some of the trees and moss growing on rocks and if you were far enough away from the chat, as I was, you could hear soft rustles in the undergrowth, and birds calling. For the first time in my life I heard a cuckoo. They really do go, cuckoo, cuckoo,or coucou, coucou,as the French say. It’s a nice sound, sort of intriguing. A little bit teasing, as if they’re inviting you to a game of hide-and-seek. There was a dove calling too, croo-croo,they go. That’s sort of sweet, and very peaceful-sounding.