The Girl in red

The Girl in red-2

— No, I’m not. But I’m afraid that her own problems are escalating. Her classmates now call her “the witch” and they avoid her completely. Supposedly, she has premonitions or “dreams” that scare them.

Laura frowned and gathered up a few folders.

— Don’t you think she may have made that up so that they’d leave her alone? Or, maybe, invented these dreams of hers so as to attract attention and become “interesting” in their eyes?

— Who can tell? All I know is that she is pale and has gray smudges under her eyes. She looks exhausted. Something is distressing her but she doesn’t say anything. I’m going to keep her after class and try to make her talk. Maybe, without other kids around, she’ll have the courage to speak up and tell me what’s wrong.

The bell rang and signaled that classes were about to begin. The two colleagues parted, grabbed their briefcases and made their way in the packed corridors, accompanied by the habitual raucous but cheerful cacophony.

From time to time during the morning, Marine discreetly glanced at Gwendolyne. The pupil never raised her hand; as a rule, she’d only answer questions when directly addressed. The teacher noticed that, from her desk, the youngster never left off staring at her as she walked to and fro in front of the board. In the yard at recess, the young woman never approached the little redhead, but she felt those green eyes boring into her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the girl constantly observed her with what seemed to be a pleading look.

At noon, the bell rang again and the pupils jostled their way out, almost stampeding in an effort to hurriedly reach the cafeteria. The explanation was simple enough. Once a week there were French fries on the menu and today was the blessed day! The last one out, as usual, Gwendolyne ambled dejectedly towards the door. Marine called out to her:

— Wait a second, Gwen. I’d like to speak with you.

She leaned under her desk and brought out a small backpack.

— Look, I’ve brought chips, ham sandwiches, fruit and chocolate milk. We’re going to sit down here together, without your classmates around, and chat a bit while we eat. I’ve an idea that something is bothering you that you’d like to tell me about in private.

The girl heaved a great sigh of relief and, for the first time ever, a timid smile lit up her freckled face.

— I’ve been waiting so long for this moment, Maîtresse… though the voice had always said I wasn’t to worry coz you’d eventually show up and help me!

Marine shuddered and felt goose bumps crop up on her arms. Nevertheless, she retained her composure and invited the youngster to sit down at one of the desks. She, herself, sat next to her and began to unpack the lunch. The little girl, now completely at ease, contemplated her teacher with something that, curiously enough, looked like adoration! Marine smiled and in a soft voice, trembling with emotion, she gently spoke to her pupil.

— Apparently, you sometimes hear somebody’s voice in your head, right, Gwenny? This same voice told you that the puppy would get run over and that the boy would fall down the stairs, is that it? Did it also tell you where Madame Meunier’s keys had been mislaid?

Gwendolyne sighed again in relief, as though she had at last reached the end of a long road. With no sign of embarrassment, she answered.

— Yes. But, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Actually, I have what I call big dreams and little dreams. With the boy and the puppy or even with Madame’s keys, I don’t hear the voice. Those are just things that I know. I have little dreams; I see pictures in my mind. Like, I see where lost objects can be found and what accidents are going to take place. That’s been happening to me since I was little. Mom always told me I get that from my grandmother Bridey.

The child casually picked up a sandwich, and started to unwrap it, before resuming her explanation. Her teacher took care not to interrupt her.

— She would help people, my Granny. She’d find what they’d lost. Or she’d warn them about something bad that would happen to them. Just like her, I have these little dreams. But then one day, I started having my big dreams. Those are very different! First of all, when they start, I get sick. I get a bad headache; I feel like throwing up, I get dizzy spells… or worse! Once, I even passed out. That’s how I know the voice is going to speak to me or to show me something. It’s always the same voice. It’s the voice of a very pretty girl with long blond hair. She’s been coming to me for a long time now. She tells me that she’s so tired and that she desperately wants to rest. Then she says that a nice teacher is going to come… you actually! And that you and I will both help her.

Marine could feel the short hairs rise in the back of her neck. She had never been confronted by psychic phenomena, and immediately thought of a new friend, here in the village, who was very interested in this type of encounter. She couldn’t wait to tell her about this astonishing conversation. Meanwhile, most importantly, she had to reassure the little girl.

— You say that, long before you, your grandmother also had… visions? Do you think your mother might agree to come here and talk to me about that? I’d also like to know more about your own, uh, dreams. I’d like to help, if I may.

— Oh, Mom will come and see you all right. But she won’t be able to tell you much more about it. Apparently, I was born with “the veil” over my face, whatever that means, and God is the one who gave me this gift, same as he did for my grandmother. As far as the little dreams go, I’m willing to believe that. But for the big dreams it’s not at all the same. Nobody ever talked to Granny like the big girl talks to me. In fact, I think she’s dead, that pretty girl. I think she was murdered and she wants you and me to find out who killed her!

***

Madame Sezneg arrived at the end of the day; the bell was still ringing when she showed up at the classroom door, out of breath. This harassed mother of five was tall and stylishly thin. In spite of her workload, she appeared smilingly serene, a very beautiful woman. Her magnificent shoulder length hair, more wavy than curly, was a russet copper color with golden highlights. It was nothing like the orangey tones that were the norm for most other redheads, including her eldest daughter. Her offspring spotted her and ran into her open arms for a kiss. Marine rose to greet her and then turned to the little girl.

— Gwen, please go wait for us in the library, would you? I’d like to speak with your mother. We’ll go and join you there in a few minutes.

The youngster picked up her school bag and sauntered out happily enough, waving to them as she went.

— Thank you for coming so soon. Please sit down, Madame.

The teacher indicated her own chair. She, herself, sat on a corner of the large desk.

— As I indicated on the telephone, I’d like to talk to you about your daughter’s strange visions. We’ve reached the point where the other pupils are frightened of her. They call her “the witch” and they refuse to associate with her. According to Gwen, her grandmother also found lost objects and could predict events.

— What my daughter says is true. My mother’s Irish family settled in Brittany when she was a child. Years later, she met my father, a Breton that she ended up marrying. My husband’s parents are Bretons too. We’re all Celts, you see. With Gaël and the children, we came to live here several years ago because of his work. To get back to my mother, she had what is called second sight. It’s a gift God often gives to the Celts, you know!

At this point, the woman lowered her head and made a quick sign of the cross, before continuing her story.

— I have to admit that God’s gifts are not always a blessing, like in my little Gwendolyne’s case. But who are we to judge? In the beginning, just in case she might be ill, we’d taken her to see a child psychiatrist. He thought maybe she had schi… that she could have schizo…

— Juvenile schizophrenia? suggested Marine.

— Yes, that’s it. After several sessions with her, he decided that she was normal after all and that she would grow out of her “visions” and her imaginary friend. We never went back to see him. Long before that, I had already realized that Gwenny had just, very simply, inherited her grandmother Bridey’s gift. Mind you, she’s the only one of my five children who has it! On the other hand, my mother never told me that she heard voices.

— Just out of curiosity… Your daughter explained that she was born “with the veil over her face.” What is that all about?

— Well, at her birth, after my water broke, large fragments of the sac remained temporarily attached to parts of her face, especially her eyes. In Brittany, that’s what we call “the veil.” It’s a sure sign that the child will grow up with second sight. Plus she was born on a Sunday, so… you see…!

No, Marine did not see at all but apparently, at least for Madame Sezneg, this second fact was tangible confirmation of the first. “The whole story is beyond me,” thought the bewildered young teacher. The two women chatted a bit more and Marine noted that the Breton woman didn’t seem at all perturbed by the paranormal phenomena that were experienced by her eldest child. In the Sezneg family, one did not contest God’s gifts; one accepted His will and His presents without question.

***

As had been the age-old custom in most French towns, an elm tree had been planted in the village square of Le Caylar at the turn of the last century. For eighty years or more, the tree had grown and prospered. In the heat of summer, like a great green canopy extended over the square, it had provided a cool and welcome shade for generations of villagers who liked to sit and chat beneath its thick leafy branches. However, at some point near the end of the nineteen eighties, a mysterious disease had killed off most of the elms in France, this one included. Rather than chopping down the leafless giant, the town council had had a better idea. It had cut off its lesser branches, stripped the elm of its bark and had commissioned a local artist to sculpt the now bare titan to give it a new lease on life. As a result, numerous embossed forms, both human and animal, along with carved creeping vines or flowers, entwined themselves around the huge trunk and rose to the fork of its truncated main branches. The giant was reborn. With benches arranged around the mammoth sculpture, the old tree once again became a favorite meeting place.

That Wednesday at noon, Marine had a rendezvous in the restaurant across from the sculpted tree. She was to meet her painter friend, Morgane. The new teacher and the talented artist had met the year before and had become fast friends from the start. Knowing the young woman to be a well-versed amateur in the study of dreams and their significance, Marine hoped to get a better insight from her on her pupil’s mysterious “visions,” whether real or imaginary. Morgane might know a rational reason for the child’s enigmatic dreams. Something in the little Breton’s personality might well account for her strange so-called gift.

Morgane had already arrived and automatically taken a seat at a table for two as she leisurely consulted her cell phone while awaiting her friend. Marine kissed her with the traditional kisses given in France and sat across from her, waving a friendly greeting to the owner as she did so. The two women were apparently well known in the establishment.

— No school today! I can indulge in an aperitif! What are you having for lunch?