Light of the Moon Read online

  After fighting the cancer so hard for so long, her mother had died. Susannah had been in Istanbul. She’d rushed back from the Pavan Caves, but she’d been too late. And now in April, half a year later, it was Susannah’s birthday, the first without her mother, and she’d known it was finally time to take that trip….

  “Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff,” the pilot said in French.

  The cabin lights dimmed. The big jet began to lumber down the runway. Slow, faster, gathering speed. The engines droned and roared. Susannah’s seat shook slightly. The plane rose.

  When she’d lost her mother, she’d lost her cheering section. She could hear her mother’s voice; after returning home from Lascaux, Susannah had told her what he’d said, and her mother had replied, eyes flashing, “Ian doesn’t know us, sweetheart. How could he even try to make you feel guilty? You don’t, do you?”

  “He said it was my choice…to go to France, instead of staying with you.”

  “What does he know? Besides, he’s not your true love.”

  “What if he is?” Susannah had asked.

  Her mother had smiled, taken her hand. “If he was, you’d know it by now.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “You’ll feel it—with someone else, when the time is right,” her mother had said. “It will have nothing to do with your head, so stop thinking about it. You’ll feel it in your heart.”

  As the plane gained altitude, nose pointing into the sky, Susannah’s back pressed into the seat. She stared out the window, gazing down through the darkness at the beautiful yellow lights painting New England, highways straight and roads winding, neighborhoods hugging the coastline, the great black expanse of the North Atlantic stretching out beneath them in never-ending waves as the plane flew on and left the eastern seaboard of the United States—and her surprise party back in Black Hall—far behind.

  With her mother gone, Connecticut seemed cold and empty. Susannah had missed the chance to say goodbye. But there was another place, where Susannah knew she could find her mother’s spirit…. They had always talked of going there together, but then it was too late. Before her death, Margaret Connolly had made her only child promise to make the trip herself. Until now, that promise had never been kept.

  Flying east, Susannah thought of her mother, and slept.

  Hours later, after landing in Paris and connecting to Arles, Susannah drove out of the rental car lot, both hands on the wheel. Black parasol pines and olive trees, leaves pale green and silvery, lined the sides of the road.

  Arles was a canvas by van Gogh: wild colors everywhere. Terracotta terraces, ochre and sepia walls, houses the color of sunflowers, the shadowed black arches of the Arènes. It was a celebratory city, light exploding from the river’s surface and reflecting in bright shimmers on ancient Roman walls, markets alive with produce and flowers so beautiful they might have been painted by Vincent himself. Susannah bought a fresh almond croissant from the boulangerie; passing a market stall selling brightly colored silks and other fabrics, she stopped. On a whim, she bought herself a birthday present: a red hair ribbon.

  Tying the ribbon around her hair, she left the city behind, pulled onward by sea. She was going to the Camargue, the starkly beautiful area of southern France where the water and the land seemed to merge in an endless expanse of silver. Helen Oakes—the head of the anthropology department, and Susannah’s boss and mentor—had offered Susannah an apartment in Arles, but she’d declined and rented a place sight unseen off the Internet.

  Helen had tried to insist—Susannah had promised to do a small amount of work while she was over here, to review documents at a particular library that Helen had been unable to visit herself. She’d said the apartment loan was the least she could do, but Susannah had thanked her and remained firm. She needed to be on her own.

  Right now she held on to the promise she’d made her mother: to visit Sarah.

  Susannah’s family history included a miracle performed by a slave girl. Her parents, unable to conceive after ten years of marriage, had taken a vacation to the Camargue. While there, they had stumbled upon an ancient church in a seaside town. Inside they’d found a statue of a not-quite-official saint imbued with healing, holy powers. Susannah’s mother had knelt by the statue, unbelieving but with the sort of desperation known to attract miracles.

  The town itself was full of grace, named for three Marys: legend had it that in A.D. 45, a group of Christians was forced onto a small boat without sails and set adrift in the Sea of Galilee. They included Mary Magdalene; Mary Salome, mother of the apostles John and James; Mary Jacoby, sister of the Virgin; Saint Martha; Lazarus; and an Egyptian slave girl named Sarah. Swept along through storms and hundreds of miles, their small boat at last washed ashore on the coast of the Camargue.

  While pilgrims from all over came to beg the Marys for help and healing, Susannah’s mother had been drawn to the statue of Sarah, the slave girl. Carved of black wood, her face was humble and sweet, her head and shoulders were draped with ribbons and tinsel, and her bare feet were surrounded by handwritten prayers and dozens of glowing votive candles—offerings left by her own devoted followers. Susannah’s mother had fallen to her knees, touched by the thought of this young girl, so far from her home.

  Margaret Connolly believed their daughter had been conceived that very night. Growing up, Susannah had heard the story of Sarah, almost too mystical and dangerous for a young girl to comprehend. She had loved it, especially along with the stories about the white horses.

  The famous white horses of the Camargue had also been part of Susannah’s family fairy tale, a mixture of story, truth, and enchanted, sacred places. Her mother had never forgotten the sight of those pure white horses running free on the endless salt grass plain, and she’d woven them into Susannah’s bedtime stories. Susannah had begged for riding lessons, and her parents had obliged. Her father had taken her to the stable every Saturday morning.

  Sometimes, crawling into the deepest, darkest caves, she’d calmed herself by imagining the white horses, so wild and free, unfettered and unrestrained, galloping over the marsh. When she was wedged into damp, stony chasms, or pressed by her schedule, her constant travel, her classes, the thought of those horses, and the exhilaration she herself felt in the saddle, freed her mind. They’d saved her from panicking, helped her get through the worst places.

  Now Susannah was going to the Camargue to see the white horses. She wanted to hear their hoofbeats—feel them pounding the marsh beneath her feet as she stood in their midst. Her own riding, at home, at the Connecticut College stable behind the Arboretum, had ceased as she’d gotten so absorbed with work and travel. Her body and spirit felt pent up, and deep down she believed that those white horses running by the sea could somehow release them. And she had promised her mother.

  Her mother had so often steered her in wonderful directions. Even her position at the college…after she’d graduated from Wheaton, gotten her master’s and then her doctorate at Yale, she had piles of letters ready to go out to anthropology departments all over the country. With Ian pressuring her to apply to departments on the West Coast, her mother had gently suggested Connecticut College, just a few miles away from their home in Black Hall. Susannah had sent a resumé to Professor Helen Oakes, and she’d never once regretted it.

  In Arles, bright sun had streamed down from a sparkling sky, beckoning her south. But as the road wound into the marshland, silver haze first filmed and then obliterated the sun. She rolled down the car windows, letting the cool, damp air touch her skin. She knew that the Camargue was 220,000 acres of wild marsh, pastures, and dunes.

  The light was mysterious, the endless marshland flat and hypnotic. No matter which way she looked, she saw only salt grass blowing in waves. Her car was alone on the road in this primeval landscape. A strong wind was kicking up from the sea, rippling the marsh. The sun faded a little more; the haze turned to fog, swirling and thickening as she drove south.

  The wind wa
s filled with energy. It didn’t feel like a storm; it just made her want to jump on a horse and ride for miles, beyond the horizon. Her eyes were peeled for the white horses; she felt they were near. She pulled the car over to the side of the road. A guidebook was open on the seat beside her; copies of pages she’d printed from the Internet lay beneath.

  Stepping out of the car, Susannah breathed the salt air. Stretching her limbs, she felt as if she’d been trapped in a box. The car, the plane, her office, her mother’s hospital room, the caves, her life. Every muscle ached.

  Her eyes watered in the sharp wind. Facing toward the sea, she opened her arms and felt the wind against her body. Glancing down, she saw hoofprints and felt prickles on the back of her neck: the horses were nearby.

  Looking around, she realized she might be lost. There were no signs, and everything was unfamiliar. Perhaps this was a dream. Or maybe she had conjured it all out of a near-forgotten bedtime story. The wind was charged, and in that moment she felt magic.

  About to return to the car, she heard distant pounding and felt the ground start to shake. Instead of fear she felt pure exhilaration: they were coming. She knew it, and started running through the fog toward the sound.

  First the ground was dry and solid and then it was damp. The tall green grass brushed her ankles and calves, and her sneakers squished in clammy mud. Graceful bone-white egrets flapped their wings and took slow, ungainly flight to escape her, bright blurs in the thick fog. A horse whinnied in the near distance, and Susannah took a deep breath and listened.

  The animals were coming hard and fast. She felt their energy before she saw them. Waiting for streaks of white, instead she saw black. Dark shapes charging toward her: blue-black hides, murderous curved horns, flashing red eyes, flaring nostrils. Thudding past her, they wheeled back in rage, and suddenly Susannah was surrounded, not by gentle white horses, but by twenty wild black bulls.

  She wanted to drop to her knees, cover her eyes, but she was frozen in a moment surreal, ridiculous, and terrifying. The bulls were exquisite, pure power, beautiful animals. But they wanted to kill her. They had furious eyes; Susannah had invaded their territory. One bull was larger than the others, and he stood in the forefront. He sputtered and pawed the ground. And he was staring at her, straight at her head, right at the red ribbon she’d bought at the marketplace in Arles.

  It was the ribbon! The red was infuriating him; she’d seen enough movies to know that. If she dropped the ribbon on the ground and backed away, he’d let her alone. She felt the entire herd inching toward her. Reaching up slowly, she started to take it off. Took hold of one end, untied the bow…and the red ribbon unspooled and the strong wind took it, made it stand straight out in her fingers like a red flag, and the large bull let out a deep, guttural sound and began to paw the ground harder.

  And then Susannah heard the horse’s whinny again, and out of the fog, out of nowhere, saw the white horse coming fast and heard a voice saying sharply, “Donnez-moi votre main!”

  Give me your hand…

  She reached out blindly, felt rough fingers close around her wrist, pull her onto the broad white back of the galloping horse. It happened so fast, before she could even think, and she was electrified. Suddenly she was flying across the marsh, her arms around a stranger, a French cowboy. She felt her heart beating against his backbone, and she heard the bulls charging from behind, swore she could feel their hot breath on the back of her neck.

  The rider galloped them away, through the marsh, onto a sandy trail. Her sensations were intense and alive. She smelled the man’s sweat and the horse’s scent, and she felt the rock-hardness of his back against her chest, and the beautiful white horse beneath her. But as the adrenaline stopped rushing, and she had the chance to replay it, she felt a rush of fear and shock at what had almost just happened.

  “I’m sorry,” she said into his windblown hair.

  “You nearly got killed,” he said.

  “I know.”

  The horse had been racing along, but now it slowed down. Susannah’s arms remained locked around the man, though. Even when the horse stopped, she couldn’t let go. She was trembling, and the emotions dammed up by sudden terror flooded out.

  He turned half-around, looked at her over his shoulder, through a lock of gray-brown hair falling across the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. His skin was weather-beaten, darkly tanned.

  “What were you doing back there?” he asked. His accent was American, not French.

  “I was looking for white horses, and instead I found wild bulls.”

  “They inhabit the same places.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  “People think the Camargue is so romantic,” he said. “All white horses.”

  “I’m not romantic,” she said. “I’m academic.”

  He flashed such a quick, wonderful smile, for a moment she saw starbursts around his eyes, smile lines around his mouth, white teeth. He reached around, pried her fingers open, took the red ribbon she still held from her hand.

  “I shouldn’t have worn red,” she said.

  “Bulls are colorblind,” he said.

  “Was it the movement that angered them? The fact it was waving?”

  “Smart. You are an academic,” he said, laughing.

  Then he stuck the ribbon into the pocket of his shirt, gave his horse a quick kick, and started riding back the way they’d come. Susannah tensed up, thinking they were going to encounter the herd again. He must have felt the fear in her body.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re gone now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  The horse carried them through the fog, straight to her car. Susannah felt confused, turned around. Jet lag had taken hold, as well as the aftermath of nearly being gored. The marsh was flat and endless. She had no idea where she was, and when the horse stopped again, the rider had to gently pry her arms from around his waist. Swinging her leg over, she let herself drop to the ground.

  She stared up into his blue eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m glad I was there,” he said. “You’re a good rider.”

  “Thanks. I surprised myself. It’s been a while since I was on a horse.”

  “Well, that was some jump up.”

  Susannah smiled. “Maybe I should join the circus.”

  His eyes flickered. The easy friendliness and humor were still there, but he stared out over the marsh, and she felt him wanting to ride away.

  She blinked, turning in a slow circle, trying to get her bearings. Her legs wobbled, and she realized she was feeling the effects of fear and the short, intense ride. The man glanced down again. Edging closer, she reached up and petted the horse’s white neck and velvety muzzle, tangled her fingers in the white mane, long and glorious.

  “You saved my life, right?” she asked the horse.

  “Probably,” the man answered for the animal.

  “Then I need to know his name.”

  “Her name,” he said, “is Mystère.” He gazed at her without expression in his sky-blue eyes. He stared for a long time.

  “What?” she asked.

  But he just shook his head, gesturing at her car. “Go on, get in,” he said. “I want to make sure you have a safe getaway.”

  “Which way…” she started to say, but he just gestured left, down the road in the direction her car was already pointing.

  “Six miles, straight to the sea,” he said. “Stes.-Maries-de-la-Mer.”

  “How do you know that’s where I want to go?”

  He just smiled. “I’m a mind reader.”

  She smiled back. She walked over to her car, opened the door, climbed in. He stayed right where he was while she turned the ignition key and started the car up. Mystère’s long white tail swished back and forth.

  “Remember,” he said, “no waving ribbons in the marsh.”

  “I remember,” she said. “But oh, I wish…”

  “What do you
wish?”

  She swallowed, gazing up at the man on the white horse. He looked tall and lean and brown, maybe forty-five, three or so years older than she was. He wore jeans and a blue cotton shirt. For the first time she noticed that there was no saddle; not only had she just executed a pretty amazing circus trick, she’d done it bareback.

  “That my parents could have seen that,” she said quietly. “The way you held out your hand, and I grabbed it and jumped on.”

  “Your parents?”

  “My father used to take me to riding lessons. And my mother told me about the white horses here.”

  “She should have told you about the bulls, too. There’s a lot of danger if you’re not careful…”

  “Then I’ll be careful,” she said steadily, suddenly afraid—not of the bulls, but of the cold fog enveloping the endless marsh and the town where she was heading. She feared it seeping its way into her mood. She’d come here to feel better, and stave off the dark pain of her mother’s death, and her own guilt. She gazed into the man’s blue eyes. She didn’t want to drive away.

  He hesitated, as if he understood—or as if he didn’t want to leave either.

  But then he made a clucking sound with his tongue, gave Mystère a little kick, and rode off into the fog. Susannah watched him disappear. Alone again, she felt a quick bolt of fear. But she chased it away. The marsh was wide and lovely, and the bulls lived here with the horses, and she had just been rescued by a blue-eyed cowboy. Quite an introduction to the Camargue. She wished she’d remembered to ask him for her red ribbon back.

  She felt oddly empty, as if she’d just awakened from a dream. She realized she hadn’t even asked his name. Trying to hold on to scraps—the sounds and sights and feelings of something unbelievable, otherworldly—she turned south, toward the town. She knew it was inhabited by the Rom—Romanies, known to some as Gypsies. Her mother had told her they had adopted Sarah as their honorary saint. Every year at the end of May, they held the Pèlerinage des Gitans: the Gypsies’ Pilgrimage. Families would flock from all over, to beg Sarah for miracles and thank her for ones already granted.