The Poisoning Angel Read Free Page A

close to one ear and tapping lightly with her nails again and again, Thunderflower listened to the cracking of the carapace, which sounded like the axle of the
karriguel an Ankou
squeaking as it started off:
squeak, squeak
.
     
    Nyaaa, nyaaa …
    In the distance, the drone of the biniou bagpipes, inflated by the player’s breath, sounded a continuous note:
nyaaa
. Over this bass note, a reedy bombard gave the accompanying signal for the branle. The sounds of the instruments tore through the air. Men, women and children were dressed in their
fest-noz
costumes and, arm in arm, formed a Breton round dance. Clogs stamped in the mud and a voice began to sing:
‘Canomp amouroustet Janet, Canomp amouroustet Jan!’
(‘Sing we of the loves of Jeanne, sing we of the loves of Jean!’) Thunderflower could see them all over there. The little bagpipe sounded an octave higher than the bombard. The notes had the tone of a man with a cold, and the
dohs
were
lahs
, but what did that matter? Hearing it brought a tear to the eye. ‘Jean loved Jeanne, Jeanne loved Jean.’
    In the middle of the circle of dancers, a large fire of branches, stuffed with firecrackers, had been lit. Explosions were shooting off in all directions, sending out stars sparkling into the darkness.
    From Thunderflower’s vantage point, the whirling pool of light looked like a small pancake on top of the moor, the more so since, when the sabots beating time came up, their soles took with them a yellow mud, which rose and stretched like a paste mixed with grit, the remains of the schist from the megaliths that used to be here but had recently been taken down and cut up to make lintels for church doors. Very soon, as if to return the compliment, the dancers would burn a crude wooden statue of the Virgin Mary on the pyre, and the crowd would fight over its charred remains.
    ‘But since Jean has been Jeanne’s husband, Jean no longer loves Jeanne nor Jeanne Jean!’
    The song was at an end. The Mayor of Plouhinec stood up to speak, something that happened too often. Most of the company straggled off to the refreshment stall. Pancakes were piled up on the tables. The supply of
far
cake was replenished. The evening poured fire into the glasses at the feast and lads lit lanterns. A woman struck up a merry song, and the pipes and bombard joined in. Again, the thudding of heels was like heavy rain on the stone and the mud underfoot. The men’s round hats bobbed up and down, with their two strips of black fabric fluttering at the back. The ribbons would part in the wind, one minute making the turning sails of a windmill, the next the rippling waves of the sea. Now, that was dancing!
    A shepherdess, around ten years old, all dressed up, but whosefinery could not disguise her plain, flat face, snub nose and bulging eyes, left the ring of torches to say to Thunderflower, ‘Aren’t you coming to the feast, Hélène? You seem to be in a dream.’
    Hélène Jégado, the last descendant of her noble Breton family, was leaning against an enormous standing stone, which carried her thoughts up to the sky. On the moor drenched in moonlight, she felt the supernatural surrounding her. She took on the energy of the menhir and wallowed in the light and dark of the Breton legends. ‘I hear again a distant, dying song.’
    Thunderflower was wearing a white headdress, which came down over her ears. Opposite her, the little shepherdess held up her glass lantern so she could look at the Jégado girl, her sky-blue eyes so characteristic of the Celts.
    ‘Hélène, why are you so near to the Caqueux’ chapel? There’s nothing here but evil spirits going about to trap the living. People say the chapel’s where the fairies hold their deadly orgies and round this very standing stone is where the bearded dwarfs hide, the ones that appear and force you to join the dance until you die of exhaustion. You know, the …’
    ‘The Poulpiquets, Émilie.’
    ‘I prefer dancing with the handsome lads