I

von Robert W. Chambers

The stark emptiness of the landscape began to weigh on me. I settled down to confront my situation, hoping to remember some landmark that could help me find my way out. If I could just locate the ocean again, everything would make sense. I knew that from the cliffs, I could see the island of Groix.

I set my gun aside and knelt behind a rock to light my pipe. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly four o’clock. I must have wandered far from Kerselec since dawn.

Just the day before, I had stood on the cliffs near Kerselec with Goulven, gazing out over the dark moors that now surrounded me. From that vantage point, the downs had looked as flat as a meadow, stretching endlessly to the horizon. Despite knowing how deceptive distance could be, I couldn’t grasp that what appeared to be gentle grassy dips were actually deep valleys filled with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered stones were, in fact, massive granite cliffs.

“It’s a bad place for a stranger,” old Goulven had warned. “You should take a guide.” I had confidently replied, “I won’t get lost.” Now, sitting there with the sea breeze in my face, I realized just how lost I truly was. All around me lay the moorland, vibrant with blooming gorse and heather, dotted with granite boulders. There wasn’t a tree in sight, let alone a house. After a while, I picked up my gun, turned my back on the sun, and trudged on.

Following the noisy streams that occasionally crossed my path seemed pointless. Instead of leading to the sea, they flowed inland toward reedy pools nestled in the hollows of the moors. I had tried several, but they all led me to swamps or quiet little ponds where snipe would rise, startled, and dart away in a flurry of panic. Fatigue began to set in, and the gun pressed uncomfortably against my shoulder despite the padding. The sun sank lower, casting a warm glow over the yellow gorse and the still pools.

As I walked, my own towering shadow stretched out before me, lengthening with each step. The gorse brushed against my legs, crackling underfoot and showering the ground with blossoms. The bracken swayed and danced along my path. Rabbits darted from tufts of heath, and I could hear the lazy quack of wild ducks hidden in the grass. Once, a fox slipped across my path, and as I bent down to drink from a rushing stream, a heron flapped heavily away from the reeds beside me. I glanced at the sun, which seemed to be kissing the horizon.

When I finally accepted that continuing was futile and that I would have to spend at least one night on the moors, I collapsed, utterly exhausted. The evening sunlight warmed my body, but the rising sea winds sent a chill through me, seeping in from my damp shooting boots. High above, gulls wheeled and soared like scraps of white paper, and from a distant marsh, a solitary curlew called out. Gradually, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky blushed with the afterglow. I watched as the colors shifted from pale gold to pink, then to a smoldering orange. Clouds of midges danced around me, and high in the calm air, a bat swooped and soared. My eyelids grew heavy. Just as I began to drift off, a sudden crash in the bracken jolted me awake.

I looked up to see a large bird hovering above me, its wings quivering in the air. For a moment, I was frozen in place, unable to move. Then something darted past me in the ferns, and the bird took flight, wheeling around before diving into the underbrush.

I sprang to my feet, peering through the gorse. I heard a struggle nearby, a rustling in a patch of heather, and then silence fell. I stepped forward, my gun at the ready, but when I reached the heather, the gun slipped under my arm, and I stood there, stunned. A dead hare lay on the ground, and perched on it was a magnificent falcon, one talon sunk into the creature’s neck, the other firmly gripping its side.

What struck me wasn’t just the sight of a falcon on its prey—I had seen that before. It was the fact that the falcon wore a sort of leash around both talons, from which dangled a small metal piece that resembled a sleigh bell. The bird turned its fierce yellow eyes toward me, then bent down to tear into the hare. Just then, hurried footsteps approached through the heather, and a girl burst into the clearing. Without acknowledging me, she walked straight to the falcon, slipped her gloved hand beneath its breast, and lifted it from the hare. With deft movements, she placed a small hood over the bird’s head, then, holding it on her gauntlet, bent down to pick up the hare.

She tied a cord around the animal's legs and secured the end to her belt. Then she began to retrace her steps through the thicket. As she passed by me, I lifted my hat, and she acknowledged my presence with a slight nod. I had been so taken aback, so captivated by the scene in front of me, that it hadn’t occurred to me that she might be my chance for help. But as she moved away, I realized that if I didn’t speak up soon, I would be spending the night on a windy moor.

“Excuse me,” I called out, and she paused. As I stepped in front of her, I thought I saw a flicker of fear in her beautiful eyes. I quickly explained my unfortunate situation, and her face flushed with surprise.

“You didn’t come from Kerselec, did you?” she asked, her voice sweet and lacking any accent I recognized, yet there was something familiar about it, like the refrain of an old song.

“I’m an American,” I replied, “just exploring Finistère for my own enjoyment.”

“An American,” she echoed, her voice still carrying that same enchanting quality. “I’ve never met one before.”

For a moment, she was silent, then she looked at me and said, “Even if you walked all night, you wouldn’t reach Kerselec now, even with a guide.”

That wasn’t the news I had hoped for.

“But,” I began, “if I could just find a peasant’s hut for some food and shelter…”

The falcon on her wrist fluttered and shook its head. She gently smoothed its glossy feathers and glanced at me.

“Look around,” she said softly. “Can you see the end of these moors? Look north, south, east, west. Do you see anything but moorland and bracken?”

“No,” I admitted.

“The moor is wild and desolate. It’s easy to enter, but sometimes those who do never leave. There are no peasant huts here.”

“Well,” I said, “if you could just tell me which way Kerselec is, I could get back tomorrow just as quickly as I came.”

She regarded me with an expression that almost resembled pity.

“Ah,” she said, “coming is easy and takes hours; leaving is different—and may take centuries.”

I stared at her in disbelief, thinking I must have misunderstood. Before I could respond, she pulled a whistle from her belt and blew into it.

“Sit down and rest,” she said. “You’ve come a long way and must be tired.”

She gathered her skirts and motioned for me to follow her to a flat rock among the ferns.

“They’ll be here soon,” she said, taking a seat at one end of the rock and inviting me to sit at the other. The afterglow was fading in the sky, and a single star began to twinkle faintly through the rosy haze. A long line of waterfowl drifted southward overhead, and the calls of plovers echoed from the surrounding marshes.

“They are very beautiful—these moors,” she said quietly.

“Beautiful, but harsh to strangers,” I replied.

“Beautiful and harsh,” she repeated dreamily, “beautiful and harsh.”

“Like a woman,” I said, regretting my words as soon as they left my mouth.

“Oh,” she gasped, her breath catching. She looked at me, and I thought I saw anger or fear in her dark eyes.

“Like a woman,” she murmured under her breath. “How cruel to say that!” After a pause, as if speaking to herself, she added, “How cruel for him to say that!”

I stumbled over some sort of apology for my foolish remark, but she seemed so troubled that I began to worry I had said something truly awful without realizing it. I recalled with dread the pitfalls of the French language for foreigners. While I was lost in thought, I heard voices coming from across the moor, and the girl stood up.

“No,” she said, a hint of a smile on her pale face, “I won’t accept your apologies, monsieur, but I must prove you wrong, and that will be my revenge. Look. Here come Hastur and Raoul.”

Two men appeared in the twilight. One carried a sack over his shoulder, while the other had a hoop strapped to his back, like a waiter with a tray. The hoop held three hooded falcons, each fitted with tinkling bells. The girl approached the falconer and deftly transferred her falcon to the hoop, where it quickly nestled among its companions, who shook their heads and ruffled their feathers until the bells chimed softly. The other man stepped forward, bowed respectfully, and placed the hare into the game sack.

“These are my piqueurs,” the girl said, turning to me with a gentle dignity. “Raoul is a skilled falconer, and one day I will make him grand veneur. Hastur is incomparable.”

The two silent men nodded respectfully in my direction.

“Didn’t I tell you, sir, that I would prove you wrong?” she said, her voice playful yet firm. “This is my way of getting back at you: I invite you to accept food and shelter at my home.”

Before I could respond, she called to the falconers, who immediately set off across the heath. With a graceful gesture, she beckoned me to follow. I wasn’t sure if I had conveyed just how grateful I felt, but she seemed pleased as we walked over the dewy heather.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.

I had completely forgotten my exhaustion in her presence, and I told her so.

“Don’t you think your chivalry is a bit outdated?” she teased. When I looked taken aback, she added softly, “Oh, I like it. I enjoy everything old-fashioned, and it’s lovely to hear you say such sweet things.”

The moorland around us was quiet now, shrouded in a ghostly mist. The plovers had stopped their calls, and the crickets and other little creatures of the fields were silent as we passed. Yet, it felt like I could hear them starting up again far behind us. Ahead, the two tall falconers strode confidently across the heather, and the faint jingling of the hawks’ bells reached our ears like distant chimes.

Suddenly, a magnificent hound burst out of the mist, followed by another and then more, until half a dozen were bounding around the girl beside me. She stroked them gently with her gloved hand, speaking to them in charming phrases I recognized from old French manuscripts.

Then the falcons perched on the falconer’s arm began to flap their wings and screech, and from somewhere out of sight, the sound of a hunting horn drifted across the moor. The hounds dashed ahead and disappeared into the twilight, the falcons flapped and squawked on their perches, and the girl began to hum along with the melody of the horn. Her voice rang clear and warm in the night air.

“Chasseur, chasseur, chassez encore, Quittez Rosette et Jeanneton, Tonton, tonton, tontaine, tonton, Ou, pour, rabattre, dès l’aurore, Que les Amours soient de planton, Tonton, tontaine, tonton.”

As I listened to her enchanting voice, a grey shape began to take form ahead of us, and the horn sounded joyfully amidst the chaos of the hounds and falcons. A torch flickered at a gate, and light spilled from an open door. We stepped onto a wooden bridge that trembled beneath us, creaking and straining as we crossed over the moat and into a small stone courtyard, surrounded by walls on all sides.

From an open doorway, a man approached, bowing slightly as he offered a cup to the girl beside me. She took it, touched it to her lips, and then turned to me, saying softly, “I welcome you.”

At that moment, one of the falconers came forward with another cup. Before handing it to me, he presented it to the girl, who took a sip. The falconer gestured for it back, but she hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and offering me the cup with her own hands. I recognized this as an extraordinary gesture of kindness, yet I wasn’t sure what to do, and I didn’t lift it to my lips right away. The girl flushed a deep crimson. I realized I needed to act quickly.

“Mademoiselle,” I stammered, “a stranger whom you have saved from dangers he may never fully understand raises this cup to the gentlest and loveliest hostess in France.”

“In His name,” she murmured, crossing herself as I drained the cup. Then, stepping into the doorway, she turned to me with a charming gesture, took my hand in hers, and led me into the house, repeating warmly, “You are very welcome, truly welcome to the Château d’Ys.”