by Unknown
“You are late,” Jaouen observed. He turned to the fireplace and with a wooden spoon stirred a steaming liquid in a cauldron. “Please, be seated,” he added, showing them two wobbly old stools near the fire.
Salam hesitated at first, but then obediently sat down. Kalaan preferred to remain standing and look around the druid’s home. He had already come to the house with his father when he was a child; but this was the first time he set foot inside. The house only had one room with a bed in one corner and shelves on a wall, all just as wobbly as the stools. The shelves were sagging under the weight of all the books and cooking pots. Something looking like a table assembled from a hodge-podge of pieces sat in the middle of the room. The table was full of earthenware bowls, bouquets of dried herbs and other items Kalaan didn’t dare analyze. The floor was beaten earth, covered with straw and dried aromatic plants.
Just above his head, Kalaan saw old beams from which hung more bundles of various plants, among which he only recognized one, mistletoe. This place was really a wizard’s sanctuary, as we might have imagined when we were children. Despite the lack of comfort and incongruous décor, the house was clean, no spider webs or rats to be seen, and it smelled of fresh straw.
“When you finish inspecting the place you can come join us around the fire,” remarked Jaouen who was also seated on one of the stools.
Kalaan looked at him and then at Salam. He could not keep himself from laughing at the Tuareg; his stool’s legs looked ready to collapse under his weight. Yet, he sat straight up, like a schoolboy facing his tutor. If Salam wasn’t dead from the ridicule, then Kalaan could do the same thing... and sit with as much dignity as possible.
“That object is older than I am and much stronger than you think,” murmured Jaouen, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief under his snow-white eyebrows. “Stop judging and start trusting,” he added as Kalaan carefully sat down on the stool.
“I am not judging. It is simply my instinct telling me to be careful.”
“Your instinct has often helped you through difficult circumstances. And many a time you should have listened to it more carefully. But now it is not your instinct speaking, but your fear.”
Kalaan winced, injured in his pride; even more so when he caught a sly smile on Salam’s lips.
“I am afraid of nothing!” He growled in reply.
“It would seem that is not quite true, else why would you be here in my humble abode, seeking my assistance?”
Once more, Jaouen saw through him. The old druid took a wooden bowl and filled it with a ladleful of the steaming liquid in the cauldron. He offered it to Kalaan, who looked at it suspiciously.
“What does your instinct tell you?”
“That it could be poison!”
“Ahhhh…” Jaouen seemed to be enjoying himself. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Will you have the courage to taste it?”
It was a challenge, and Kalaan always rose to challenges! He took the bowl and sniffed it, but there was no smell. Frowning, he drank. The taste of sugar and fruits filled his mouth, but left a slightly bitter aftertaste, on swallowing the liquid. It was a pleasant surprise and Kalaan was going to take another sip when Jaouen tore the bowl from his hands.
“Enough! Let Salam drink now!” the old man scolded.
Kalaan sat up straight and tried not to scowl at his friend who made no effort to hide his amusement at all. Salam, in turn, drank the strange liquid and the young count smiled at the astonishment on Salam’s face. He too, was going to drink a second time, but again Jaouen quickly took the recipient from him.
“It is my turn now, and thus, your thoughts and memories will blend with mine.”
“Whaaatt?” Kalaan choked and tried to take the bowl from the druid’s hands, but lost his balance and fell to the floor.
His head was spinning and the room was getting warmer. Cross-eyed, he tried to lift himself up on his elbows. Jaouen, sitting across from him, held out his hand and placed it on Kalaan’s forehead. Salam, meanwhile, appeared to have fallen into a trance. His head was bobbing right and left, forward and backward.
“I knew… the...s.s.tool... was rotten,” Kalaan managed to say, his baritone voice echoing in his ears. His tongue felt thick and furry.
“No, young man,” replied Jaouen whose nose and head, in Kalaan’s hallucination, were constantly swelling and shrinking. “The wood did not fold, but you did, and in the blink of an eye. Let us begin… Allow me to touch the magic that has taken control of you.”
Did he have a choice? In a few seconds, with the druid’s help he traveled back to Egypt, into the nightmare with the jeering harpies. But this time he felt slightly stronger thanks to Jaouen. With him at his side to help in the fight, Kalaan was sure to beat the dickens out of those furies!
Kalaan did indeed fall back into his nightmare, but the druid was not there. Once again, he was alone to face the unleashed harpies in the bleak cold universe he thought was hell. Once again he was wounded and died but this time, instead of coming back to life, he was catapulted into the chamber with golden walls.
He was lying on the strangely warm white sand of the antechamber and he sat up to look around him. Everything was there, intact — the hieroglyphs, the hymn to Aton — everything except Champollion. Kalaan stood up and, moving in slow motion, he examined each drawing and every inscription, while the mournful voices he had heard before in the monument returned, to assault his eardrums. They grew gradually louder and more aggressive, to the point where Kalaan covered his ears with his hands and bent over as if he were being hit.
The scene suddenly changed again and he traveled further back in time. This time, when he opened his eyes, he was no longer the main character, but a hidden spectator. He was fourteen years old, kneeling, petrified, on the bridge of Ar Sorserez. In front of him lay the lifeless, bloody body of his father.
This event was very real, but Kalaan, over the years, had done everything in his power to erase it from his memory. It was in October 1812, off the coast of England. A Royal Navy ship drew alongside Ar Sorserez belonging to the count of Croz. The count was on a secret mission for Napoleon 1st. Kalaan should not have been on board, but as usual he never did as he was told. He sneaked on board dressed as a cabin boy and remained hidden until the first shots from the cannons were heard.
Everything happened so quickly. Maden had maneuvered to prevent the other ship from outflanking him and boarding. But, at one point, it could no longer be avoided. The sound of swords clashing and muskets firing; the sickening coppery smell of blood and the shouting, prompted Kalaan to leave his hiding place and join the battle.
It was a gray day and the rain was pelting down on the sailors from both sides, diluting the sticky blood flowing on the decks. At first, Kalaan was paralyzed by the horrible scenes of men transpierced by swords or killed by bullets. This was his first real battle. His warm and loving father had always protected him from war. He looked for his father and saw him, crossing swords with an Englishman before killing him. It was then that his father noticed him. Kalaan saw the expression of horror on Maden’s face. The boy had no idea that he was in an Englishman’s line of fire. But he did see his father running towards him shouting incoherently and throwing himself in front of Kalaan taking the bullet destined for his son.
In the frenzy of the battle, Maden, shot in the chest, fell softly to the pontoon and Kalaan knelt at his side, shaking him by the shoulders, imploring forgiveness. His father’s amber-green eyes slowly left Kalaan’s face as the life went out of them.
Kalaan had caused Maden’s death. As spectator he saw the young boy that he was screaming, his face lifted to the sky and Maden in his trembling arms.
Croz’s men, saddened and furious at the loss of their captain, surrounded young Kalaan and began fighting with a renewed energy. They destroyed their enemies and sank the Royal Navy ship.
“I killed my father, I killed my father...” Kalaan, in his state of hallucination, began chanting. He didn’t realize he was back in
Jaouen’s home, and that the druid was speaking to him in an ancient guttural language —Gaelic.
Kalaan slowly calmed down, wiping his tears away with a trembling hand. He was still lying on the beaten earth floor with the straw and fragrant herbs and his heart was beating furiously in his chest.
“The magic fed off your pain,” Jaouen looked away towards the flames in the fireplace. “Which has become your worst enemy, for it has made you a cold and frightened man.”
The count swallowed and stood up. He swayed slightly and preferred to sit back on a stool. Nervous tremors ran through his body that he couldn’t easily control. He was surprised to see that Salam, next to him, was silent and still deep in a trance.
“What is happening to him?” Kalaan frowned, worried for his friend. He reached out to touch him, but Jaouen intercepted his gesture, shaking his head and the druid’s long white hair fell forward onto his round shoulders.
“It is not time for him to come back to the present. As for your situation, curse is a word used by men, and very different from the word used by the gods. That word, more suitable in your case, is ordeal, or trial. Your trial feeds off your fear.”
“Nothing frightens me,” Kalaan snarled.
“That is a lie. You are afraid to love and to be loved. Your father’s death, for which you are responsible, pushes you to detach yourself from your loved ones and those who could drive you to your weakness. It is for this reason you do not stay close to your family, but instead run away to the other end of the world. It is also for this reason that you find women unbearable because a woman could melt the ice in your heart and tear down the wall you built around yourself.”
Kalaan gritted his teeth but remained silent. The druid had hit the nail on the head! A flood of emotions came over him, emotions he did not want to feel, and the old man continued to speak, indifferent to the torment Kalaan was going through.
“You think women are a threat to you and the protective spell around the edifice in Egypt, fed from that. It doesn’t care how you feel, or what choices you make; it only cares about the trial you must go through to grow and open your eyes.”
“I don’t understand,” Kalaan said, deliberately lying. Jaouen gave him a piercing look and shook his head.
“Another lie. Stop fighting whatever frightens you. Turn your fear into your strength. Master it and open your heart. You must love and forgive yourself as your father did with his dying breath.”
“How can you know that?” Kalaan, feeling angry, stood up and threw his stool over near the table. Jaouen remained calm in the face of his anger.
“Invert the roles my child. Put yourself in your father’s shoes and think of the son you would have protected as Maden did. Would you have hated your child for causing your death, when you only wanted to save him? Would you have damned the little boy and held a grudge even in the afterlife? Your father knew what he was doing. He favored love, over death.”
Kalaan started shaking; he felt that little by little a huge weight was being lifted from his shoulders and his heart. Yes, he would have done the same in Maden’s place and he would do it today if his mother or sister, or both, were in danger.
“If I admit it, will I be freed of the curse?”
It seemed very simple, so simple that Kalaan doubted it would work, even as he asked the question. Jaouen confirmed what he thought.
“No, only death will release you, as it is written there,” he said, pointing to a page in Salam’s notebook.
Kalaan hadn’t seen him take the little notebook. His astonishment grew even more when he realized that the druid had removed the glove covering the mark on his hand.
“I took advantage of your journey to the depths of your mind to read the notes and inspect your wound.”
“So, in short, I will remain a prisoner of this trial from the gods for as long as I live. Even if I come to love someone, it will not free me.”
“Love will save you from yourself; but where the curse is concerned…”
“I understand,” Kalaan sighed running a hand through his hair. “I just have one more question Jaouen.”
“Yes?”
“What about Champollion? Salam and Lil’ Louis told me he hadn’t fallen victim to the stone. Is that true?”
“You were hit with the full force of it, because you were the one who took the black tourmaline in your hand. However, your friends are wrong. The scholar is also under power of its magic. Salam noted, here on this page, that Champollion was raving just as you were when they found you. But he was shouting at death. So, that it his fear, what has been tormenting him for years. You transform into a woman at the first rays of sunlight, whereas he faces death every minute that goes by. He will fall ill, seriously ill, it is certain. And again, only death will free him.”
Kalaan held his breath. He couldn’t accept that Jean-François would die soon. The man was important for the world, but he, Kalaan, was nothing! He was horrified at such a loss looming on the horizon.
“We must warn him!”
“What for? Deep inside, he already knows the truth.” The old druid shrugged his shoulders. “Go home, leave your remorse behind and do not be afraid to love and be loved. Life is short.”
Kalaan nodded and turned to Salam.
“No, he stays here, with me. Your friend also needs my help. He will tell you about everything very soon. No, do as I say. The two of you are complementary; the gods always do things well.”
With these mysterious words ringing in his ears, Kalaan walked out into the night. He was dazed by everything that just happened, all the revelations; and he felt appeased because Jaouen’s words were a soothing balm to his sorrows. Now he only wanted to get to the castle as quickly as possible, to hold Amélie and Isabelle in his arms. He would never leave again, never put half the world between them and him. He had to make up for lost time.
Slowly and with reverence, Jaouen carefully brought Salam out of his trance. The Tuareg blinked a few times and was startled to see that Kalaan had disappeared. He looked into the druid’s eyes and asked,
“Where…where is Kalaan?”
“Your friend has heard the truth that will free him from his fears but not from the trial of the gods. You are the one who will save him.”
Salam blinked again and his lips parted in surprise.
“You have just traveled to the past, and now you know who you are, even though you had forgotten everything.” Jaouen, very emotional, with tears in his eyes, spoke softly. “I have been waiting so very long, in the broken circle, for a sign, an event, anything from the gods and finally, you are here, Dorian.”
Salam shuddered and for a very brief moment, a split second, his irises lit up from a very bright internal light.
“Yes, Dorian… child of the gods.”
Jaouen pushed the blue cheich from Salam-Dorian’s head to reveal a magnificent head of dark hair with red highlights that came to life in the light of the flames. The man had no Tuareg origins, even if he had lived in Egypt since his childhood.
“You will have to remain hidden for a short while, the time it takes for me to teach you everything again. But soon you will be reunited with your loved ones, I promise.”
Chapter 12
A midnight encounter
“You seem worried, Virginie.”Amélie was sitting at the head of an almost deserted table, at the end of an extremely quiet supper. The young woman put her desert fork down after finishing the last bite of her kouign-amann[55], dabbed her mouth with her fine linen napkin, and smiled reassuringly at her hostess.
“No, I’m not in the least, Madame. I must just be tired; after all it has been a long day, rife with emotion.”
“That is indeed true,” Amélie murmured, as she eyed the empty chairs and the untouched place settings. Her beloved son, his friend Salam as well as the stormy Catherine were all absent.
The lively atmosphere they had at dinner seems so far, now. Virginie could feel the dowager countess’ melancholy. She had dressed
with care wanting to welcome Kalaan with honor. As for Isabelle, she fingered her beautiful pearl necklace and smiled thoughtfully at the seat that had been Salam’s at the earlier meal. Tonight, at the table, there was sadness, daydreaming, and restlessness. For Virginie was not tired, as she said, she was restless. She could not stop thinking about Catherine, their strange conversation at the broken circle, the legend and the hasty return to the castle.
If only it had stopped there, but Virginie wanted to understand the empty feeling she had when Catherine left her, abandoned in front of the castle, and strode off, to...who knows where. What in heaven’s name is wrong with you? She asked herself, sighing with exasperation.
“Thank you, Clovis,” Amélie said to the butler who was signaling the servants to clear the table.
“We will keep the supper warm for the count and his guests,” he said as he pulled out Amélie’s chair for her to stand up. As she left the table, followed by Isabelle and Virginie, she asked Clovis to bring them some chamomile tea in the next room.
The three women went into the drawing room through a communicating door, their skirts rustling as they moved. They took their seats in what seemed to be their attributed places, the wing chairs and the banquette. Virginie actually detested chamomile tea, and would have preferred something stronger, but she was too polite to ask.
Often, the evenings with her father would end with long conversations over a snifter of good old Hennessy cognac. Josephe de Macy used to repeat the famous quote about that particular brand, which Talleyrand is supposed to have said: “We bring it to our noses and breathe in. Then, dear sir, we put the glass down and we talk.” Papa… no, don’t think about him now. Virginie chided herself and clenched her teeth holding back her desire to cry, as she took her seat in one of the wing chairs.
Tomorrow, with any luck, there would be a letter for her from the detective she hired after her father’s brutal death. She’d been waiting for news for so long her nerves were wound up like a spring. Add to this, the troubling feelings she had thinking of Catherine …Oh yes! She did need something stronger than an herbal tea!
