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| Single, and alone. |
Louis Shalako
Having
missed it the first couple of times and then turning around, and looking again,
consulting with the map and between themselves, this place pretty much had to
be it.
They peered at the map. It was just over the bridge, with a farmhouse to the left and right. They stood at a farm gate, set in a low stone wall along the road. The gate led into a pasture, with the land rising from front to back, with forest and brush along both sides and at the end, and what appeared to be a goat-path leading from the gate, just as they had said back in the village. A shoulder of the mountain loomed over them to the right, fading off into the distance, and the valley was all laid out below them just over the shoulder. As for the river, there it was, foaming and leaping in an impressive set of rapids when seen from the bridge above.
Hmn.
The car was tucked in, just enough out of the way of any traffic, or if the farmer suddenly needed to get in there. There were no cattle—what they might have done if there was a bull or something in there, and goats and sheep, with those big horns, could be aggressive enough…well, it was a very good question.
They had their rods and their little back-packs. Stout but cheap hiking boots on their feet, and rugged plaid bush jackets, all of which were on the expense account—something else Hubert had barely considered, while they were still safe and sane back in Paris. They were wearing tuques, in his own case something he hadn’t done since a boy. He wasn’t so sure about LeBeaux. To be sure, this was no place for leather soled shoes and conservative business suits…
Hubert shrugged.
“Well, it’s now or never.”
It might not be that bad. They’d had the foresight to have one of the local pubs put up a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches for them. These would keep well enough for an hour or two, or about as long as they seemed likely to last. He’d bought a bottle of brandy the evening before. They had fresh water in their military-surplus canteens, and a roll of toilet paper. As it was, the sun was shining, the dew glittered on the grass, and the thin morning mist was burning off.
The birds were very vocal and a light breeze stirred the leaves on the trees.
It was like the very first dawn, or so he thought.
There was no time like the present.
“Well, isn’t that cute.” He stood there, bemused.
“It’s called a stile.” The pair clambered up and over, with Hubert clearly the life-long, big-city boy and LeBeaux with perhaps a little more experience in such things. “That way you can get through without opening the gate…and losing all the cows. Or sheep, or whatever.”
“Or chickens.”
“Er, yes. Or chickens.” One solitary but very curious hen was suddenly hanging around LeBeaux’s ankles and he shooed it gently away, hoping the damned thing wouldn’t follow them further.
Just to make them look stupid, the thing poked a head through and then stepped out through the bars of the gate and out onto the road. It pecked at invisible things in the gravel by the roadside. It wasn’t their problem anyways.
They were almost undoubtedly being watched from the nearest windows, both houses, both sides of the road. He supposed they had the right—keeping an eye out for chicken thieves, for example, or possibly sheep-molesters.
Such trails were often a traditional right of way, going back to a time before the land was enclosed and went into private ownership. A remnant of the commons. Cave-men had probably used this trail. Hubert nodded, not really caring all that much about the history lesson. He was only half listening.
He was also only half-looking where he was going.
“Jesus, Christ.” Hubert, slipping on a muddy rock, smooth, rounded and sticking up in just exactly the wrong place, almost went down. “Argh. Fuck.”
Arms flailing, he caught himself, grateful that he hadn’t pulled a muscle or something…or maybe he had.
This was no time to get a groin pull.
There was a long pause, pregnant with meaning.
“All right, all right, let’s go. This was your idea, after all.”
Hubert plodded along behind him, watching his footing now, not saying much, letting LeBeaux take the lead, and perhaps regaining some kind of mental equilibrium. LeBeaux was entirely correct, in that this had all been his idea—fuck. It was coming back to haunt him now, wasn’t it.
“So, we follow the path, up and over the hill…the woods are on our right, just like the man said…and the map. Down the hill, and right there at the bottom…ah, here we are: a fucking trail to the right. Now, how hard was that.”
“Ah. I have a funny feeling that was the easy part.” While the main path continued along, up the slope of the very next hill, the woods now loomed tall and dark on their right, and with the side-trail heavily-trod with a thousand foot-prints going both ways in obvious proof.
This was clearly a popular spot, and yet there didn’t seem to be too many people about…
 |
| Little Red Riding Hood. |
“Allo.”
Turning back, they stopped, staring open-mouthed. She was coming down from the main trail before them, backlit by the sunbeams, coming out of the sloping shadows of the forest, and into the light.
“What the—”
Hubert got a short, sharp elbow in the ribs.
It was a girl. She had a wicker basket in the crook of her left arm, with the contents covered by a cheerful red and white checkered cloth. Some greenery peeking out spoke of herbs, or salad-greens, perhaps radishes or beets or some other root vegetable.
She had a nice silhouette, a line Hubert promised himself that he would remember.
Possibly even for a very long time.
She was a vision of loveliness…
LeBeaux stood there, transfixed.
“Allo.” She repeated it, and Éliott nodded dumbly as Hubert stood looking on, catching up a little on the breathing and in some amusement.
Her smile was a revelation.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Hubert nodded politely, stepping back as the path was narrow, clotted with mud and hemmed in by brush and long grass. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Oui, Monsieur. C’est toujours comme ça après la pluie.” It’s always like this after the rain, and the local accent was charming indeed.
Hubert whipped off his cap and bowed low as she sort of arrived…
“Enchanté, ma petit.”
She half-giggled and half-snorted, but didn’t seem too offended by it. All of a sudden, Hubert was back in his element, and now it was LeBeaux’s turn to be nonplussed, but when has anyone ever truly been plussed? It just didn’t make any sense.
She had a bonnet, tied on under the chin, in a vain attempt to restrain the glory of thick, glossy brown hair, which it rather failed to do. Her eyes were blue and the whites were very clear. She wore a sort of mid-length skirt, and a short cape-like thing in red, and ankle-length lace-up boots and some kind of fairly long but rather loose brown socks under there. It was amazing what a little bit of skin could do for a man, but those knees were all right. Somehow, perhaps by a kind of osmosis, or possibly he was just visualizing the results of one of those newfangled X-rays, but somehow, one knew that under there was a remarkable body…she had nice bone structure, and any man could see that much.
Suddenly shy under all this examination, she passed them by, and headed on down the track.
“All right, boy. You’ve seen enough.” And so have I.
“Oh, no, I haven’t—” Said LeBeaux. “Not by a long shot.”
“It is, a long shot.”
Hubert grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from his reverie, where no doubt visions of sugar-plum fairies danced in his head. Some girl in white, dancing Swan Lake…
It would be like, it would be like…butterflies walking on his balls, as his old man used to say, and Hubert grinned at the thoughts.
“You know who that was?”
“No, who was that?”
 |
| "You know who that is, don't you." |
“That, unless I miss my guess, was Little Red Riding Hood. Either that, or one of the local peasant girls.” Hubert let out a snort. “And you, now, you’re the Big, Bad Wolf—just promise me you won’t dress up as an old woman and hide in the bed, okay.”
“You just don’t understand.”
Oh, I think I do—but he didn’t say it. It was self-evident.
“Come on, let’s find this God-damned river.”
Yes, poor old LeBeaux had it real bad all of a sudden.
As for Hubert, he was a happily-married man and that’s all there was to it and he hadn’t had to remind himself of that fact for quite some time.
This might be one of those times.
END
Louis
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The Handbag’s Tale, the original novella that inspired this series, is more or less permanently free.
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