Page 28 of The Mistletoe Bride and Other Haunting Tales

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.

He saw me paying close attention to his work and waved a hand towards the ceiling. I stood up and peered at the nearest carvings. I saw they were all bone. There is a peculiar quality to the material that makes it different from any wood that I have ever encountered or seen worked.

He handed me the lamp. I inspected the hanging ornaments more closely and gasped. Tiny faces, no larger than my littlest fingernail, perhaps smaller still, carved with extraordinary precision. The minuscule faces were disconcertingly lifelike. My eye was drawn from one to another, dozens of them, all different, all finely worked.

How many were there? I am certain at least a hundred bones dangled from the struts supporting the roof. Each seemed to accommodate at least six or seven likenesses. Each likeness projected a distinct personality. And as I passed the lamp from hand to hand, they seemed to come to life. The play of the light across them transformed their expressions, from despair to fury, from resignation to horror.

I felt faint and feared I might fall. I put out a hand to steady myself, but the only fixed object in the room I could use to maintain my balance was the gaunt man himself and he shrank from my touch.

On that instant, the door burst open and the room was suddenly crowded with men. Strong arms grabbed me and lifted me from my feet, carrying me out into the night without explanation. I protested, but they paid no heed and did not stop until we arrived at the cauldron on the beach.

A few embers were still glowing and they deposited me alongside the fire. I was still light-headed, but the cool sand and the fresh air revived me and I found my tongue.

‘What is the meaning of this? I am not used to being manhandled.’

No one paid the slightest attention. I tried to get to my feet but my head swam and the vision of all the horrible little faces seemed to surround me like a white swarm of slow-moving horseflies.

I sat back and rubbed my hands over my eyes, feeling sick to my boots.

‘How did you know I was there?’

Still, no one spoke to me or offered explanation. Frustrated, I resolved at least to take out my notebook and make a complete record of this strange settlement.

By now, all but one of the men who had seized me from the cabin had drifted away. He looked a solid citizen, with broad shoulders and a handsome square face. I recognised him from the adventure with the fishing boat that ran aground. He knelt beside me and looked into my eyes.

‘Will you tell me?’ I said, attempting the Breton language.

The man replied in rudimentary, strongly accented French. ‘Do not speak to him. Not speak.’

I felt a spurt of anger on the gaunt man’s behalf, even though I did not know his story.

‘You have made him an outcast, yes I see that. But why? What crime has he committed to be punished in this way?’

He was frowning, whether because he didn’t understand the words or because he didn’t understand why I should be asking the question, I cannot be sure.

‘Do not speak,’ he insisted.

His intransigence made me more belligerent still.

‘I’m not from this village. I shall speak to whomsoever I please.’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘No.’

‘Why should I not speak to him? It’s cruel, I tell you.’

‘That man he is . . .’ He spread his hands wide to indicate he had no words.

I shrugged, though I admit my interest was piqued. ‘Say it in your language. Perhaps I will understand.’

He took a deep breath. ‘He is Ankou.’

My blood went cold and though I had heard quite clearly, I made him repeat it.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Ankou,’ he said again. ‘You understand?’

I had learnt of the Ankou at my grandfather’s knee. It was a ludicrous folk tale with no foundation in fact; even so, there was something in the man’s demeanour that gave me pause for thought.