Folkloric fae, p.1
Folkloric Fae, page 1
Folkloric Fae
A Folkloric Prequel Novella
Karenza Grant
A L’OURS BOOKS ebook
Ebook first published in 2023 by L’Ours Books
Copyright © Karenza Grant
Cover: Deranged Doctor Design
Copyediting: Toby Selwyn
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN (ebook) 978-1-915737-05-2
Also available in paperback
www.karenzagrant.com
Contents
Title
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Folkloric: Book One of the Folkloric Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Reviews
Afterword
About the Author
Connect
To Dodo
A few months before Folkloric…
Chapter 1
I should have been working. I should have been clearing tables or serving the best patisserie in the South of France. But instead, I was listening to Shroom-Jean.
Or rather, I wasn’t listening to the guy as he was staring vacantly into the blazing hearth at our side. For the fifth time since I’d started the interview, he was on another planet.
My phone sat on the table between us, recording the non-existent conversation. I glanced at the time on the screen. Two minutes longer than I’d said I’d be. A sizeable queue had built at the counter, and Alice was frazzled as she rushed to take orders. I really needed to finish this up and help her out.
“Oh, yeah… where was I…?” He scratched his head, ruffling straight grey hair that fell to his chest. As he lowered his hand, he knocked his glasses askew. “Sorry, Camille. I remember what I was going to say.” Grinning, he straightened his glasses. “Back then, in my grandfather’s day, he had to walk three miles to school no matter the weather. And he was lucky. My great-uncle had to walk ten miles.”
I tapped my fingers on the table. Yes, Jean had managed to zone back into reality, but he’d gone off track again, and if I didn’t do something, we’d be here all day. “Uh, Jean. You were telling me about your grandmother’s account of the goblin, and how it used to ruin her baking sessions.”
If I could just get to the end of his story, it wouldn’t feel like wasted effort. The local folklore society was recording fairy accounts for prosperity. As the older generations passed away, stories were at risk of being lost. I’d already collected three others—and they hadn’t been easy to get. The old tales were mostly recollections of the grandparents or great-grandparents of the elderly, and I’d had to sit through more than my fair share of detailed family histories along the way. But the folklore fascinated me, not to mention my contribution meant I was beginning to make a name for myself in the local research community, and that wasn’t easy, unqualified as I was.
Jean paused, his gentle gaze filming over again. “I was telling you about the goblin, was I? Oh yes… the goblin.” He took a sip of his cappuccino and scraped up the crumbs of the three Danish pastries I’d bought him as a thank you for the interview. But by the look of his scrawny arms and his concave middle that hid under the peace symbol on his faded pink T-shirt, he needed feeding up more regularly. “Well, it wasn’t so much the baking that the little critter disrupted, Granny used to say…” He trailed off again and searched the room as though he’d left his focus on the bread counter, or with one of the customers sheltering espressos in comfy armchairs. Finally he gazed into the fire again, its blaze fierce against the end-of-January snow outside.
I scraped my hands through my hair, frustration clenching my fingers. No doubt I was mussing the dark locks I’d pinned into a ponytail, but I didn’t really care. I just needed one minute… one short minute of Jean staying firmly in the here and now.
A horn blared. I turned to the noise, catching my harsh and rather exasperated reflection in the window. Just a truck on the N20. The traffic was busy—folks travelling from all parts of France to the ski resorts deep in the Pyrenees mountains. Tarascon, and particularly Pyrenee’s café, made an ideal stop-off.
I followed the glimmering headlights as cars ploughed through the blizzard, the terrible visibility bringing an early dusk. Dark combinations of snow and twilight shifted and swirled in the glass. To my folklore-obsessed imagination, the storm formed leering goblins, prowling hell hounds and massive-jawed croquembouches—the nasty ogres Alice and I had been so scared of when we were little. I was sure I’d dreamt about them last night, but I couldn’t grasp the memory. My thick, completely unrefreshing sleep had made me late for work again this morning. Honestly, I had folklore on the brain, and it wasn’t healthy.
One of the croquembouche shapes shifted closer, distorting snow-covered cars in the parking area. Cold darkness crept in on the café, my skin prickling. I shuddered. But, come on. Was the thought of a childhood bogeyman actually scaring me?
“Ummm, Camille?” Jean said.
I jumped, my heart pounding. “Uh, sorry, Jean, I was miles away.”
“Not to worry.” He grinned back. “Lack of focus isn’t something I suffer from, fortunately.” He waggled his glasses. “I’ve got the attention of a hawk.”
I was at a loss for words. Did he really not realise he spent most of the time out to lunch? But anyway, I was zoning out way harder.
“You know,” Jean added, nodding to the window, “this time of year, winter either dies or it becomes stronger. It will start to ease, or it will be like this for a while longer.”
I couldn’t wait for the spring—for warmth and light—but we needed to get back on track. I released a steadying breath. “The baking and your grandmother…”
“Yes. It wasn’t the actual baking in the oven the goblin messed with, it was the rising of the bread.” He was on topic. I willed him to keep going, but still I could see unnerving shapes—a leering eye here, a set of ridiculously large jaws there. I blinked rapidly, attempting to clear my head. Talk about intrusive thoughts.
Jean pulled out a colourful bead necklace from his T-shirt and twisted it. “When that little fella was around, no matter what Granny Berger did, she could not get the dough to rise. There would be faint cackles of laughter, and she knew it was the goblin. Eventually, Granny found that if she left it a small cup of milk on the hearth the night before baking, it would be sure to leave her in peace. And… that was it, really.”
My shoulders fell. Jean had made it to the end. Admittedly, I’d had reservations about Shroom-Jean as a source. He’d earned his nickname for a reason. But his recollection was typical of the era, which gave it the mark of authenticity. If he’d tripped the whole thing, surely it would’ve been a lot more colourful.
I clicked off my phone. “Thank you, Jean. I appreciate it very much. It’s a lovely story, and now it will be recorded for posterity. I have to say, I’m intrigued that folk used to believe goblins caused problems in their daily lives. I guess it was a way of explaining bad stuff happening.”
Jean looked at me quizzically. “Yeah, there’s that,” he said. “But what’s more likely? A trustworthy and respected woman making up something so strange, or a goblin actually existing.” His eyes grew wide and expectant.
“Uh…” Of course, old Granny Berger probably had a cold draft on her dough, and she’d made up the creature to entertain her grandson when he was small. But, knowing Jean’s outlook on the world, he’d go for the goblin existing. “I see your point,” I replied in my best neutral voice.
He nodded, satisfied. “And that’s not the only story. I’ve got a couple more, if you’re interested?”
Was I interested? I was fascinated by the way people of old chose to shape the good, the bad and the ugly into the existence of fairies. And I’d gain extra points with the Folklore Society. “I’d love to, but I can’t now. Any chance you’d be around the day after tomorrow? I’d do tomorrow, but we’re going to be even shorter-staffed—”
“Jean, great to see you!” Inès called from across the café as she hobbled in our direction, a few bagged-up loaves in her arms, her steely curls restrained by a headscarf. The gentle curves of her face that she’d passed on to Alice were a reflection of the warmth of the café. She’d put all her love into the creation of the place.
“Inès!” Jean rose to meet her and they exchanged kisses. “It’s been a while. How are you?” Inès’s face was flushed—there was usually a hint of pink in her complexion from working in the kitchen, but today she appeared almost maroon.
“Very well,” she replied with a broad smile, her warm eyes creasing at the corners. “Here, I’ve baked too much fougasse. I couldn’t get rid of some in your direction, could I?”
I knew for a fact Inès hadn’t baked too much. She was very precise, and she’d been training up Guy today, focussing on maintaining quality whilst reducing waste. She’d noticed Jean’s lean body too. There was little shepherding work for him in the winter when the flocks were in the lower pastures.
“Don’t mind me, you t wo,” I said, thinking of a hideous croquembouche as I rose. “I have to get back to work.”
“Did you get what you needed?” Inès rubbed my arm in moral support, her lips pursing. She knew what Jean was like.
“I sure did.” I pointed at Jean and raised my brow. “Same time day after tomorrow?”
“Gotcha,” he replied, then tumbled into conversation with Inès.
I skirted the queue and headed behind the counter, then grabbed an apron and tied it on over my jeans and jumper. But as I did so, thoughts of dark creatures with foul leers and mirthless grins forced in on me once again, the images unnervingly clear. They felt like more than my folklore-addled brain or the fragments of a dream—they felt like an invasion.
Chapter 2
“Sorry I was so long,” I said, taking over the bagging up of orders as Alice handled the till.
“No worries, hon.” She shot me a grin. “Get your story?”
“Eventually.”
Alice’s eyes held their usual soft sparkle, though her choppy shoulder-length hair was more dishevelled than usual, contrasting her fifties top and slacks. “That will be ten euros,” she said to the customer, then nodded to Inès and Jean, who were still in conversation. “My mother is killing me.” She scowled as she took another order. “She just won’t stop working. Her chronic fatigue is worse and she was in agony again yesterday evening, yet she’s right there for Jean, and she’s baking and training and putting everyone before herself.”
As I listened, I attempted not to think of a goblin eating the Paris-Brest I was tucking into a box. Boy, was I strung out. I needed to forget my dreams and focus on Alice. I’d been working way too hard on my folklore research. It would do me good to take a break and forget about everything that went bump in the night. Fat chance of that.
“She infuriates me,” Alice continued. It was pretty much the same every day. Inès had turned the management of the café over to Alice months ago, intending to step back, but she was struggling to let go. At least she was now training Guy to do the bread and José to do the patisserie, but Inès was still the sole viennoiserie proprietor—her yeast baked goods like croissants and brioche had to be perfect. That aside, it didn’t help that Alice was on edge after her breakup with Florence last week.
“And,” Alice added, “she looks weird. Has done since this morning. Her face is red… blotchy.”
“Yep, I noticed. But she’s almost finished for the day, right?”
Alice shrugged. “If she sticks to the plan.” She put a payment through the till. “Oh, and before I forget, we have less staff tomorrow than I’d thought.”
I did my best to restrain the grimace that was attempting to form. We’d been short-staffed all week due to winter-sickness bugs, and it had been crazy.
“I know, I know.” She raised her hands then dealt with the next in line. “There’s nothing I can do about it. Plus, I’ve got the dentist in the morning. I’ll leave once you’re here, so you’re going to be really short for an hour. But I have to get this filling done. My tooth is agonising and it’s the only short-notice appointment they had.” Her brow rose in pitiful apology.
I bumped her arm before turning away to make a load of espressos. “Come on, Alice, it’ll be fine. You have to get that tooth done.” She still looked overwrought. “And give it a few more days. The staff will be back, and things will return to normal.”
The corner of her mouth curved up wistfully. “The staff will return, Maman will put her feet up, and… spring will arrive.”
I smiled. “Exactly. And look at that.” I inclined my head to the queue that had shrunk to one person, Doctor Fournier. “The rush is over.”
She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Makes a change. You’re usually the one giving me advice.”
She grinned, then her face fell. Inès headed behind the counter, making a beeline for the kitchen. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes dull.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Alice said. “I’m going to order Maman home. She looks worse.”
“Hello, Camille.” The doctor’s keen eyes glittered as he stepped up to the counter, the waves of his grey head bobbing as he transferred his medical bag to his other hand and rummaged in his pocket for his wallet. “I’d like an espresso to drink in and a croquembouche to take with me when I leave, if you please. I’m celebrating.”
I blanched at the mention of the ogre, the horrific image returning much too clearly. The croquembouche shared its name with one of France’s most popular desserts, a heaped tower of chouquettes—small golden puff pastries, their middles filled with cream. The dessert could be served in a variety of ways, but the café’s version was sprinkled with powdered sugar and drizzled with chocolate that hardened into indulgent strands. The two shared the same name because “croquembouche” meant “something that crunches in the mouth”. Ogres liked to crunch children as a tasty snack, and mere mortals liked chouquettes. There was a kind of grim logic in there.
“Sure thing,” I said, trying to push away the impression of a horrendous mouth dripping with saliva as I shuffled a magnificent croquembouche from the glass-fronted chilled counter into a specially designed box. Damn it. I needed to get a grip. I placed the box back in the chiller and wrote the doctor’s name on the top, all ready for when he’d finished his coffee.
“Let me guess why you’re celebrating.” I tapped in his order. “You’ve found someone to take over your practice?”
His eyes shone. “Got it in one. The fifth interviewee, and he’s perfect. We’re sorting out the finer details, but I don’t think there will be any problems.”
I turned to the machine and made his espresso. “Sounds like you’ll be retiring on time, then.” I glanced back as I waited for the coffee. The doctor was beaming, his joviality infectious, chasing away thoughts of ogres and goblins.
“First of May,” he said, “I’ll be passing on the keys to the consulting room, if everything goes according to plan. There will be a brief handover period, then plenty of time to take the camper around Europe for the summer.”
“Sounds perfect.” I set the espresso on the counter. The D&D guys pushed through the door and huddled behind the doctor. “But I’m going to miss you,” I added as he paid. And I really would. I couldn’t imagine how anyone would fill his shoes. He was the town’s only doctor and he’d been a rock. A reliable and sensible voice amidst small-town politics that could so easily turn petty, not to mention a supportive doctor, always available.
“I’m sure the new chap will more than make up for my retirement.” He picked up his espresso. “I’m in absolutely no doubt of that. His qualifications are extraordinary, and just from our brief meeting, I could tell he has a superb bedside manner. Anyway, I’ll still be around—in between plenty of vacations, that is.” He turned away and headed to a table.
Félix the dungeon master took his place before the till, his frame tall and stocky for a teen. Gabe stood next to him, dressed as an elf, as usual. The rest of the gang lurked behind. Their coats and Gabe’s cloak were dusted with snow.
Félix brushed back his caramel curls and cleared his throat. “High Warrior of the Borders: Protector and Holder of the Knowledge of Free Men and Fae,” he proclaimed in my general direction.
I stared at him. “What did you call me?”
“Uh… High Warrior of the Borders: Protector and Holder of the Knowledge of Free Men and Fae,” he repeated, this time a little uncertainly. The rest of the gang tittered behind him.
“Where did you get that one from?” Gabe asked. “That new campaign you’re working on?”
“I don’t know,” Félix stammered. “I… uh… it just popped into my head when I saw Camille.”
I laughed. “Well, it’s not the worst thing I’ve been called.” And that was the truth. “Although I’m not sure I’m quite up to the job.”
