The Mistletoe Bride & Other Haunting Tales

by Kate Mosse

  I focused on the lights of the village and quickened my step. Soon enough I realised I had made a mistake taking this path. It was the hardest walking I had yet undertaken. The village was down on the beach, by my reckoning some one hundred feet below the cliff path. There was a precarious stairway, cut roughly into the escarpment, the steps lined with a mixture of timber and, here and there, flat stones. Even so, I wondered whether the risk was worth the potential reward – a warm bed under cover. But the memory of the strange wailing of the wind persuaded me. I did not want to pass the night on the exposed path on the cliffs.

  I began to descend, one awkward step at a time, my hands grasping at tussocks of wiry, salt-loving grass. Halfway down I rested for a moment on a kind of ledge. The tide was out and the beach an enormous pale crescent of perfect smooth sand, glistening in the starlight. Below, at the foot of the stair, were the unmistakable hulks of fishing boats drawn up on to higher ground to keep them out of the water and it entered my mind that, should there be no welcome for me in the village, I might shelter well enough beneath one of these until morning.

  Finally, I reached the easier terrain. Rough grass bordered the sand. Away to the left, on the south side of the bay, I counted thirteen lights in the cluster of indistinct shapes that were all I could make out of the low houses.

  I walked a curved path around the edge of the beach and was within twenty yards or so of the first of the buildings when a vague movement of shadow upon darkness caused me to stop. I cannot say why my hand went to my chest or why I held my breath – why shouldn’t someone be there at the fringe of the sand? He had, no doubt, more right than I to be there.

  Gathering my wits, I realised it was only the form of a man, kneeling low to the ground, tending to a sheep. The animal was lying badly and I surmised it must have fallen from the cliff. They do say that sheep, of all creatures, seek death. Disturbed by my presence, the man lifted his head. I saw that he was gaunt and that his eyes were black. I was about to speak – I know a few words of the local dialect – when the animal let out a pitiful screech.

  My few words of Breton deserted me and, stupidly, I heard myself speaking to the man instead in French. Asking if I could be of assistance. He paid me no more attention than the rocks pay to the tide.

  Paralysed in some kind of embarrassment and horror, I watched him remove his coat and wrap it around the animal’s muzzle and lean the full weight of his body on its flank. I glanced up, abruptly aware of the oddity of the scene. There was no one else about, but when I looked to the village, I saw a rectangle of light open up in one of the dark low houses and the silhouette of a man appear in the doorway. He called out, something I could not hear, and my man called out in reply.

  I recognised the word for ‘dead’.

  The door slammed shut and I don’t know why, but it seemed the action of shutting out the night was hurried, as if to place a barrier between the inhabitants of the house and some danger.

  The sheep twitched for a final time. The man murmured reassuring words that I could not distinguish or understand, all the time gently patting and stroking at the animal’s thin shoulder and flank.

  Escorting the animal to its death.

  Feeling it would be, somehow, bad manners to leave, I waited. The wind that had felt so brisk at the top of the cliffs now seemed little more than a whisper.

  Finally, both the man and the creature were still. I introduced myself once again and, this time, he acknowledged me with a few words in the local dialect, one of which I recognised as the Breton for ‘stranger’. I gave him my well-rehearsed paragraph of introduction – that I was walking the coast for the purposes of preparing to write a memoir in honour of my late grandfather who had grown up in the region and whose first language was now spoken by a diminishing brotherhood of isolated fishing villages.

  He listened politely, though without sign of particular interest. I pressed on.

  ‘So I would be grateful for somewhere to stay the night, a bed or a chair – even a dry floor.’

  He nodded slowly, unwrapped his leather coat from around the muzzle of the sheep and put it back on, pushing his arms into its heavy sleeves. With strong hands he took hold of the animal’s hooves and lifted it from the ground, hooking it up onto his shoulders. Then, without speaking, he turned and set off towards the village. His behaviour seemed to indicate I should follow him.

  We passed between the houses in silence, the gaunt man treading steadily ahead of me. Here and there our feet crunched on shingle, but we were otherwise silent upon the sand and hardy grass. All the doors were closed, although one or two windows remained open. Smoke rose from several of the chimneys, despite the relative warmth of the evening.

  In the centre of the village was a small open space with what looked like a shrine. An orange glow from an unshuttered window cast an ugly gleam across a stone effigy of some saint, no doubt reputed to bring good fortune to all those who trade and fish upon the sea.

  Then, a door was flung open and two children ran out into the darkness, laughing and calling one another names. The boy held something in his hand and stretched on tiptoe, keeping it well out of reach of his sister. A woman appeared in the doorway, a mother or grandmother. Her expression was impossible to see against the light of the oil lamp inside the house, but I recognised the distinctive starched bonnet of the region, spotless in stiff white linen standing out in broad wings either side of her head.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said.

  There was an abrupt change in atmosphere. The woman barked a command and the children left off their game and scuttled back indoors without a moment’s hesitation. She remained where she was and did not acknowledge my companion.

  He moved forward, bowed low by the dead weight of the dead animal across his shoulders. I made to follow, but he shook his head. Assuming him to be having second thoughts at having offered me shelter for the night, I made to reassure him I only intended to stay a single night, when the woman interrupted.

  ‘Not with him. You may stay with us.’

  ‘But . . .’

  I turned to my companion, but he was already walking on.

  I watched him leave, realising that the decision had been made for me.

  ‘Well, in which case, thank you. I am grateful.’ I began my explanation. ‘I am walking the cliff top path in memory—’

  She cut across me again. ‘Come indoors, stranger.’

  I smiled and told her my name. Her expression was neutral, neither welcoming nor resentful, yet I hesitated to enter. My gaze followed the gaunt man. He was some way further forward now, moving towards the last dwelling among the low houses at the edge of the village. In the silence of the evening, I heard the sliding of a wooden bolt. The door opened and he disappeared inside.

  ‘Come indoors,’ she said again.

  It was an uncomfortable evening. The household was evidently poor and I felt obliged to share the food I had set aside for my evening meal. There was a salty green vegetable, much like samphire, to stretch the meagre fare, but no bread. It would have been enough for my own needs, but not sustaining when stretched to feed two hungry children, a grown woman and a tired man.

  Growing up on the Left Bank in Paris, I had visited my country grandfather on many occasions. Although I had never learnt the language to any degree of fluency, it seemed to me then that I had an affinity with the people of these distant cliffs, headlands and bays. However, in this modest house, I struggled to find common ground and we exchanged little conversation. She found it hard to understand the dialect that I employed, or perhaps my accent was too difficult for her. Either way, I was grateful when she indicated I should sleep in a hammock strung between two sturdy posts.

  Perhaps it was the hunger in my stomach or, possibly, I was overtired, but I tossed and turned as the hours passed. The two small windows had no shutters and my sleepy eye perceived the lightening of the sky. Somewhere around dawn I heard a boat putting out upon the water, close at hand. I remember thinking to myself
that the tide must be in.

  Finally, I slept.

  I woke to an empty house.

  I dressed and went outside, rubbing tooth powder on my teeth with my forefinger. I suppose I must have given the impression of foaming at the mouth for the two young children left off mending nets and pointed and laughed. I roared and pretended to be an ogre, which they found the most remarkable and entertaining sight.

  I sat with them for a little while, impressed with the nimbleness of their tiny fingers. Had I met the two children in the fifth arrondissement I would have estimated their ages at seven and five. They may have been older. Here, in the harsh environment of the World’s End of Finistère, children grow up small. Some never attain even average height for a well-nourished city dweller.

  I was hungry so, after a while, I left the children and prowled about the village, seeking some occupation that might cause me to be invited to share in their meals.

  There was an onshore wind. Out at sea, a reef of black rocks seemed to bar the entrance to the bay. All the same, standing on the dense wet sand, I could see four fishing boats out on the sparkling water, sailing a channel between the reef and the grey smudge of an island still further out, perfectly situated to protect the settlement from the worst of the weather in times of storm. There was a wild beauty to it, a romance, I suppose, and I made a rash promise to myself that, should I stay in the village for any length of time, I should try and obtain passage to the island.

  I had not been watching for long when, one after another, I observed the fishing boats start for home, confidently picking a path between the dangerous rocks. I took off my boots and socks, rolled up my trousers and left my jacket on a tussock and joined the others at the water’s edge waiting to help bringing the vessels up onto the sand.

  As is usually the case with honest physical labour, my assistance was welcome. In these places where the end of each day of toil is greeted with a sigh of relief and a respite for stiff and weary muscles, a burden shared is not intemperately refused.

  Between us, we brought three boats safely in. Their owners were soon engaged in sorting the catch. A fire had been laid on the beach and three women were heating a quantity of broth in a vast iron cauldron, blackened by years of use, which hung from a weary frame. Chilled by the onshore breeze, I stepped closer to the flames and watched the last boat dodging through the reef.

  For reasons I did not immediately perceive, the atmosphere changed. The watchers on the beach were aware that something was awry. Had I been asked, I suppose I would have noted that the fourth boat was taking a slightly different route from the previous three, but there seemed to be no danger. Nevertheless, one of the women ran down to the surf and called out in a high shrill voice, almost a song, waving her arms above her head that the captain should steer to port.

  The men, too, were now calling out to one another and raced across the beach, heading for a sandbank that stretched out like a finger into the waves. I followed them. Sure enough the fourth boat, carried onshore with too much way by the wind, ran aground. The hull creaked and groaned as it climbed the sandbank. There was a danger of terminal damage and a catastrophic loss of livelihood for the fisherman and his family.

  The men plunged into the water knee and thigh deep and braced themselves to push the boat off with the next wave. I joined them, though missing my footing and found myself immersed to my waist. We braced ourselves to take the weight of the boat and the power of the water and wind behind it.

  It was almost too much for our several strengths. Luckily the craft had only a shallow draught. We held it and, as the water receded, managed to combine in a great shove so that the wave carried the boat bobbing away to safety. I was congratulated for my efforts and returned to the beach as a valued member of the crew.

  While we had been occupied in the water, the women had been turning the pot. I stood by the fire to dry my sodden clothes and saw a thick rich stew of root vegetables, green leaves and fish of several species, gutted but otherwise whole.

  We ate standing up. Had we been in Paris, at a table dressed with good linen, they would have found me a squeamish companion. On this occasion I had no such qualms. I picked and sucked at the bones, relishing every mouthful and following the lead of the other villagers in tossing the skeletons and other indigestible parts into the flames.

  Satisfied at last, I looked about for a drink. The stew was salty and I felt the need of a cup of cool water to slake my thirst. It was then that I saw him, the gaunt man that I had met at the foot of the steps.

  All morning I hadn’t given him a thought, despite the fact he had been first to welcome me to the village, and I felt awkward for it.

  At first I imagined he had come to share the communal meal, but I was wrong. He walked across the beach, passing within ten paces of the small community of us clustered about the great iron cauldron.

  No one acknowledged him. Not one turned their head nor followed him with their eyes. I wondered if I was the only man who could see him or, rather, that only I was prepared to admit his presence. Indeed, all the time he remained in earshot, the gentle thrum of conversation became subdued. Only when he had disappeared, clambering among the rocks and pools at the northern edge of the bay, did the atmosphere become convivial once more. I wanted to ask who he was, why he was shunned, but not wanting to disturb the new-found friendship between us all, I remained silent.

  Taking my leave a little later, I picked up my belongings and returned to the little house. No one was there, but I was pleased to find two earthenware jugs of drinking water standing ready on a rudimentary sideboard, each with a square of muslin draped across the top. I took the tin cup from my rucksack and consumed a pint and a half of fresh clear water.

  I stood still for a moment and was visited by an intense feeling of satisfaction. I felt quite at ease in this community. The landscape reminded me of the pleasant summer days of childhood. The limitations of our shared language suited both my temperament and my mood.

  My clothes were dry in part, from standing in front of the fire, so I draped them on the chair back and climbed into the hammock. In my hands were my notebook and my favourite all-weather pencil – a very hard lead that lasted a long time without sharpening. It was my firm intention to write up the experiences I’d had in the village and make good my promise to my dear grandfather. Later, I looked back at the page and discovered I had only written seven words before falling asleep. Those words were in themselves unimportant, though they serve as a reminder that, at that stage, I was unaware of the name of the village in which I found myself.

  It has never been my habit to sleep in the daytime. On this occasion, however, night had fallen by the time I woke.

  The family were still absent, though they had clearly returned during the afternoon. A lamp was now burning and my clothes had been spread more carefully on the sparse furniture.

  I dressed and went out into the dusk. There was no one to be seen. All the low houses were dark. The only window that showed a light was the distant cabin that stood apart from the other dwellings, home to the gaunt man.

  In the absence of any other company, I walked up the hill and knocked on his door. There was a brief sound of shuffling, then the door opened. He stared, then stood aside without a word and closed the door quietly behind me.

  It is hard to do justice to what I saw. The place was a hovel, certainly, though it did not feel unwelcoming. There was just one room. The floor was beaten earth. The timber walls were all lined with wool, whole fleeces stitched together with what looked like lengths of gut. From the ceiling hung a myriad fragments of what I first took to be carved wood, dangling on slender threads.

  He gestured to me to sit down. There was only one seat, a bench formed by the broad trunk of some tree. He stood opposite me, his head on one side. He seemed reluctant to speak, though I felt he was glad of my company.

  Then at last he cleared his throat.

  ‘I was a sailor,’ he said.

  He made this
statement three times, at first in a curious dialect, then in a Breton that I could understand. Finally he repeated himself in what seemed to me to be a southern European language – perhaps Catalan or even Levantine. I had lived for a short time in Alexandria and it seemed reminiscent of the argot of the sailors I encountered there.

  ‘You have travelled widely?’ I asked.

  I realised that I had fallen into French. To my surprise, he continued in the same tongue.

  ‘I have travelled widely, from this bay to the island and back again.’

  ‘I prefer to feel the hard earth beneath my boots.’

  He was silent for a while. I waited.

  ‘I was eighteen years old when the call came. Since that time I have been shunned.’

  I was uncertain what he meant by this, though I had guessed as much. I wondered if he had committed some dreadful crime in his youth. It wouldn’t be uncommon in these parts for his fellows to make him suffer for it long after the memory of his transgression had ceased to mean anything to the living. These close-knit communities can be harsh and unforgiving judges.

  I waited for him to say more, but he showed no sign of speaking further. I began to wonder how old he might be. His severely lined face and sunken cheeks gave an impression of a man in his sixties at least, but those who live by the sea age quickly, then live on an unconscionable time.

  He took up a tidy knife and began paring at a pale object, carving an intricate design into its length. In the poor light of the single lamp, I couldn’t make out the shapes that his knife revealed, but I recognised the pale object as bone, probably the shin of a sheep – perhaps the very same animal that had fallen from the cliff path the previous evening.