Page 27 of The Mistletoe Bride and Other Haunting Tales

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.