Beneath the Apple Trees (Incipit)

What must it be like?” Amélie Letellier wondered aloud.

Anne Gosselin tore her eyes from her book for the first time since the beginning of the journey, hoping that the activity would be enough to deter the three girls sharing her carriage from asking questions about life beyond death. She was the most refined lady in the village but her genteel education had seldom prepared her for the immensity of loss. She considered avoiding the question altogether but settled on entertaining Amélie’s thoughts. She lifted an eyebrow in response.

“To be born in a world your father has already departed?” Eulalie Letellier completed the question, reaching over to squeeze her older sister’s hand.

Anne could not help but feel pity for the girls, whose mother had begged her to take them away for the day as she gave birth to the last sibling they could ever have. She looked over at her own daughter Élise, who absent-mindedly stared outside the carriage window. A wisp of chestnut hair had escaped the girl’s lace coiffe, the best she owned. Anne smacked her lips to get her attention. Élise lazily turned towards her mother, who motioned for her to fix her hair. A country girl she may be, folks from Bagnoles-de-l’Orne would only catch glimpses of a daughter of Anne Gosselin when she dressed like the high nobility. But Amélie and Eulalie’s soiled skirts and linen headdresses only weakened her charm.

“I do not believe it to feel like anything,” Élise eventually responded. “One cannot miss what one has never known.”

“You should not be talking about such things,” Anne chided, hoping for some peace and quiet. “It is not proper.”

“How come you know so much about death?” Eulalie asked Élise, ignoring Madame Gosselin’s rules.

“Because I am older than you both,” Élise replied matter-of-factly.

“So what?” Eulalie continued, her tone equally innocent as it was defiant.

Élise sighed, exasperated at the little girl’s antics. “So, I am smarter and I can think about these things.”

“Well, Maman is older than you, and yet her words aren’t nearly half as intelligent as yours.”

Amélie snorted. “It has nothing to do with age, Lili. It is that fancy education she receives at home.”

“Quit chattering, girls. We have arrived.” Anne stepped out of the carriage and pulled out a parasol to shield her porcelain skin from the sun.

Meanwhile, the three girls merely shielded their eyes with their hands, their skin tanned from tending to the garden behind the church at Father Dufresne’s behest. Madame Gosselin had disapproved of her daughter partaking in such a lowly task but had refrained from confessing her thoughts for fear of attracting the disdainful eye of the village. Although it had already been two decades since Anne had traded her city of Le Havre for the tranquillity of Vallambroise, she could never forget the collective mistrust for the haughty woman who had never picked up a shovel in her life.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow upon the springs of Bagnoles. Anne descended the worn path towards the inn with Élise and Amélie in tow, the rustle of their skirts echoing through the quieting streets. Eulalie pained to keep up with them, her gaze locked on the crystal waters with the burning impatience to unveil the secrets cloaked beneath the surface.

After setting their bags down in the room, Élise grabbed Amélie’s hand and hurried her towards the springs. Eulalie ran after them, though her short legs could hardly keep up with the adolescent girls.

A veritable Fountain of Youth for Anne, the woman could not help but forget about her disastrous marriage with Jacques in the waters and daydream in the comfort of her childhood memories.

“When are we going home?” Eulalie interrupted Madame Gosselin’s reveries. The girl took a hold of her hand, her eyes tender and melancholic. Anne looked over at her daughter, who was seemingly engaged in an intimate conversation with Amélie on the pavilion opposite the waters.

“Tomorrow morning. Now, go join your sister.” Anne shooed her away, but Eulalie remained pressed at her side.

“They keep ignoring me.”

Anne looked back once more, hoping to catch Élise’s attention with her irritated eyes, in vain. To her surprise, she was speaking to a woman of feeble countenance. Even from a distance, Anne could tell that she was likely living on borrowed time. She considered Eulalie’s frail frame and allowed her to stay beside her and bask in what was left of the afternoon’s warmth.

.    .    .

In spite of the excellent taste of the pot-au-feu, Anne retired to her room with a heaviness weighing down her every move. She could not shake the heat in her cheeks and in her chest. Amélie, Eulalie, and Élise found themselves in similar constitutions. The latter uttered something about death, but Anne was too weak to reprimand her. Her head heavy as a rock, she lay down and closed her eyes. Eulalie joined her under the covers, though the added heat did little to quell their fevers.

On their side of the room, Amélie and Élise were incapable of falling asleep. They looked at each other, their eyes glassy, and alternated between laughter and tears.

“Do you think this is how your father felt?” Élise suddenly asked.

“No, he died instantly.”

“But maybe he felt this way during his fall. And maybe that fall felt infinite.”

Amélie did not reply, unwilling to think of her dear father in his final moments. She turned around to face the door, but her body instantly shot up when she saw a woman staring at her from the corridor.

The woman beckoned the girls over, and they had little choice but to follow her in a trance. She grabbed their hands and led them into the night. Her dishevelled hair shone purple under the moonlight, her translucent skin reflected the glow of the stars in the sky. She leaped around in the town square, her white dress swaying wildly with her movements. Amused, Amélie and Élise waltzed in her footsteps.

The trio danced in each other’s arms for what seemed like hours until the mysterious woman stopped and stood completely still.

“Take me,” she told the girls. “Take me back.”

Incredulous, Amélie, and Élise pranced around the woman who remained frozen in place. “Who are you, Madame?” Élise dared to ask.

“I am Gisèle,” she answered mechanically. Tears began pooling in her eyes. “Take me back, please.”

Élise reached out to grab the woman’s arms, but Amélie stopped her. “Wait, I think she is a faerie,” she whispered. “Le Loup told me all about them. This one is good, I think. She gives people gifts.”

“Rolf does not know anything about anything. Faeries do not exist.” She grabbed the woman and began pulling her back towards the inn.

“No!” Gisèle screamed, her voice tearing apart the silence of the night. “Take me back!” She quieted down. “Take me back to the forest.” She resumed her frolic in the opposite direction, getting further away from the town. Amélie followed closely behind.

“Amélie!” Élise hissed. “She is not a faerie. She is a madwoman!” She had regained her wits and realised just how ridiculous their situation had become. She watched her friend follow a complete stranger, blissfully unaware that she would find herself the next morning either lost in the middle of the Forest of Andaine or dead. Élise chased after her, begging for her to stay by her side.

Amélie shook her arm away and continued to trail the faerie like a loyal forest sprite. “This one is good, Élise,” she repeated over and over again, sometimes chanting the words, sometimes whispering them. “This one is good.”

Soon, they found themselves in front of a cave atop a rocky escarpment and surrounded by luscious trees, their shadows oscillating in the wind like monsters in the night. Hot water trickled from a nearby spring and the summer cicadas sang over the sound of the breeze. When Élise had finally caught up, Amélie was alone.

“Where is Gisèle?” she asked, alarmed at the thought of finding her way back alone.

“She went with the faeries,” Amélie answered, saddened at the departure of her new friend.

“It’s cold, Lili. Let’s head back.”

“Where are we?” She asked, her voice laced with fear.

Élise placed her palm against her forehead to check if her friend’s fever had gone down. But she burnt as fervently as earlier. “I don’t know. We should go.”

“Or, we could stay here.” Amélie crawled inside the cave and patted the space beside her for Élise to join her. “It will be scary going back right now. Let us sleep here.”

Élise decided to ignore her better judgement and lay next to her.

Feeling the vibrations of her shivering, Amélie pulled her friend against her. Wrapped in a blazing embrace, she thanked God for the fever regardless of if it carried her off. She waited for Élise to fall asleep, tenderly staring at her face. She was not particularly beautiful—that is what her mother often noted—but there definitely was something about her. Her chestnut tresses coiled into a modest bun framed her hollow visage. Her deep brown eyes matched her hair, her nose was small and humped. Her full lips quivered from the cold and Amélie tried her best to hold her tighter. Far from the belle of the village, Élise had always been the most captivating. People called her La Comtesse for her irreproachable manners, for the grace with which she moved through the dirt paths of Vallambroise. And that perfume, that euphoric scent of freshly cut roses when most of the townspeople smelled like bitter apple brandy, was nothing short of spellbinding.

Amélie realised a little too late that Élise had opened her eyes. Her gaze held a reservoir of thoughts and dreams concealed just beneath their placid surface, just out of Amélie’s reach. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” She asked, embarrassed.

“I cannot when you stare at me like that,” she replied calmly. “I cannot sleep at all.”

“Turn around if I am such a bother.”

Élise frowned. “I don’t want to.”

The girls took turns exchanging glances of confusion, of tenderness, of yearning. Élise took Amélie’s hand.

“Is this real or am I dreaming?”

Élise chuckled and caressed her cheek. “No, Lili. It’s not a dream.” She pressed her lips against hers.

“This is definitely a dream.”

. . .

Anne ran towards Élise and Amélie as they made their way across the town square. The girls quizzically eyed the hysterical woman, who was the picture of both anger and relief. “Where the devil did you run off to?”

“We simply went for a walk in the woods,” Élise assured her frantic mother.

“Simply? There is nothing simple about this! I thought you had drowned!”

“Why would we have drowned?” Amélie asked, her brows furrowed in bewilderment.

“You haven’t heard? Eulalie appeared from behind Madame Gosselin’s impressive skirts. “A woman drowned in the springs during the night. They found her this morning.” She squinted her eyes at her sister. “You should have seen her when walking back from the woods, no?”

“It does not matter now, girls. We’re leaving.” Anne massaged her temples to calm her nerves before instructing her daughter to grab her bags as she paid the innkeeper for the night.

Élise led Amélie towards the room. “I cannot believe she believed me.” The pair giggled at their situation.

“Hey, Élise?”

“Hmm?”

“Did it feel for you the way it felt for me?” Amélie asked innocently.

“I am not sure. How did it feel for you?”

“Good.” Amélie’s eyes glowed with excitement. “I want to try it again.”

Élise turned to face her, her hands cupping her cheeks. She slowly inched her face closer to hers and kissed her. Amélie wrapped her arms around her waist and began to deepen the kiss. But Élise grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away. “I apologise, Amélie. I do not feel anything.”

Flustered, Amélie stammered a sort of apology. Her cheeks reddened and she tried to back away.

“What are you two doing?” Eulalie asked from the door. Disgust marred her features, dimming the naiveté from her eyes.

“Lili, wait!” Amélie exclaimed. But Eulalie swivelled on her heels and crashed into Madame Gosselin, who had witnessed the whole scene.

“It wasn’t like that! I promise.” Élise cried, tears trickling down her face. “It wasn’t me! I am not—”

“We are leaving right this instance and—you!” Anne grabbed Amélie by the collar. “I am telling your mother!” She dragged the girls across town and towards the carriage. As they passed the springs, a constable inspected the body of a young woman, whose emaciated face and pale skin made it difficult to know if she had perished from drowning or from her fragility.

“That is the woman we spoke to yesterday,” Élise whispered.

Amélie, who could barely meet her eyes, replied: “No, that is the faerie.”

. . .

When the summer had come to end, the country was at war.

Le Loup accompanied Amélie to the train station in Caen. Her mother had arranged for her to stay with her brother Enguerrand and his wife Anceline in Lille. She believed the smoky air of the North would help her find reason.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Amélie muttered, obsessively looking at her hands and feet. “You believe me, right?”

Rolf patted her head. “Of course I do, Amélie. I just do as I am told.” He slid off her lace headdress and stuffed it inside her coat pocket. “People in Lille do not wear things like this.” He placed a train ticket in her hands and carried her bag to the platform. Bending his giant frame down to enter the train, he evaluated every seat before settling on an empty row in the middle of the wagon. The girl trudged hesitantly behind, unwilling to walk faster in spite of the uniformed soldiers bumping into her. Rolf watched the men uneasily and strode back to the little girl in his care. 

“When will she allow me to come back?”

“Your mother or Madame Gosselin?”

Amélie could not reply. It had not occurred to her that neither her family nor Élise’s would ever want to see her again. Her mind drifted to Élise, whose memory had been completely tarnished by the lies she had told her mother. It wasn’t like that! I promise. It wasn’t me!

Le Loup set her bags down next to her seat. His braided beard had begun to attract curious glances from the other passengers, and he quickly kissed her on the cheek. He pinched it playfully and wished her good luck before making his way out.

“Wait! Rolf!” Amélie shot up and hugged the viking’s waist from behind him.

The young man turned around and tried to smile, though its falsehood betrayed his eagerness to leave her like everyone else had. “What is it, Amélie?”

“What is her name? My sister.” Tears welled in her eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Ophélie,” Rolf replied tenderly.

“Take care of her for me?”

“I will.”