Turn Back Time (The Full Circle Series Book 1) Read online

  “I can only tell you what I read in the newspaper this morning. Someone entered the catacombs illegally yesterday morning and took three hostages. The names are still being withheld. And so far none of the usual terrorist groups have stepped up to claim responsibility. The authorities have been quiet. There’s supposed to be a press conference later.”

  “Please keep us informed if you hear anything new,” Steve said. “You just don’t know when and where someone will blow a fuse these days.”

  Caroline said, “I’ll certainly let you know as soon as there’s a new development.”

  After they arrived in Saint-Malo, François dropped them off at a sheltered harbor, where Stella saw small and medium-sized boats bobbing on the water. She waved to a couple of boaters drinking coffee and tossing breadcrumbs to the hovering seagulls.

  On one side of the harbor stood a massive stone wall which must have sheltered the town for centuries. It was a stark contrast to the picturesque coastal town of Arromanches. Instead of admiring rose hips and hollyhocks, they faced a fortress.

  Caroline led them through a stone gate. “This is La Grand’ Porte, the Great Gate. It’s one of the two oldest gates of Saint-Malo and was built in the fifteenth century. The two round towers were added in the sixteenth century as reinforcement.” She pointed to the impenetrable walls. “The ramparts encircle the whole town. The loop is about two kilometers long, that’s a little over one mile, and you can leave or rejoin it at several locations. We’ll walk part of it together, but feel free to follow it all the way on your own later and enjoy the views over the bay, the rocky shore, and peek into small backyards.”

  “How old is Saint-Malo?” Stella asked.

  “Saint-Malo dates back to a monastic settlement founded in the sixth century. The city wall was built during the twelfth century, mainly to protect the city from pirates and other invaders. Like other regions of France, it has tried to maintain its independence throughout history and saw its share of fighting. Its unofficial motto is, Ni Français, ni Breton, Malouin suis, which translates to ‘Neither French, nor Breton, but Malouin.’”

  “You said pirates. Any famous ones?” Steve asked.

  “I believe most have more national than international fame. They weren’t called pirates, though. They were known as privateers, or corsairs. And, apparently, it was a very profitable business for many residents of Saint-Malo.”

  John looked around. “The houses don’t look as old as the wall.”

  “Good observation. Between 1940 and 1944, German forces occupied Saint-Malo. In 1944, the Allies bombarded it and destroyed most of the town.

  “When the Nazis retreated, they set fire to the old buildings. What the bombs didn’t destroy, the fire did. Only 182 of the original 865 buildings within the walls survived, and all were damaged to different degrees. When the library burned down, thirty thousand old books and manuscripts were reduced to ashes. But the ramparts are authentic. They survived both the bombings and the fire.”

  “How terrible. Imagine the treasures lost,” Stella mumbled.

  “Saint-Malo was painstakingly rebuilt, stone for stone, over a period of twelve years between 1948 to 1960,” Caroline added.

  “Okay! It’s 11 o’clock and we have four hours here. Because the tide is low, we’re beginning with a walk to Fort National, which was built in 1689 to protect the port of Saint-Malo. If you prefer to spend an hour or two on your own, we’ll meet for lunch at a quaint bistro with an adjoining cheese and butter shop at 1:30.” She handed out business cards. “Here is the address.”

  Stella thought she heard a mumbled comment about brats and krauts, but decided it was best to disregard Harry’s babblings. She would’ve loved to ignore the man completely, but since they were part of the same tour, it didn’t seem possible.

  Everyone except Harry decided to stay with Caroline, and together they walked through one of the many gates leading to the wide beach.

  Stella looked over her shoulder toward the town and said, “Imagine how it must’ve looked when tall ships approached after having spent weeks and months out on the water. It’s so impressive.”

  “The sea is pretty rough here, too. This area has the highest tides in Europe, over forty-three feet. At low tide, you can see endless ocean floor, but when the water moves in, it comes fast and furious,” Caroline said.

  After returning to the town, they walked on the ramparts before Caroline guided them through narrow streets, when a blue facade caught Stella’s attention. Tall white letters announced La Maison du Beurre and the scent of cheese combined with garlic and spices teased her appetite.

  She heard Naomi’s stomach rumble in agreement, and they both giggled.

  Like the day before, the group was seated at one long table. Stella admired the harmony of the bistro’s interior, with its combination of modern black tables and chairs, sand-washed walls, and exposed wooden beams.

  “I’m going to gain ten pounds this week,” Naomi said. “But every ounce is so worth it. This fresh baguette, with the cheeses—I think I’m in food heaven. Now if only there’d be a small piece of chocolate for dessert.”

  “I agree a hundred percent,” Sarah said. “This bistro will go on my must-visit list of recommendations for my culinary tours.”

  “I’m so glad you like it. And you’re lucky because they make candy here as well. Try their caramels,” Caroline said. She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of water, and asked, “Who is interested in a Breton lai while we’re waiting for our food?”

  Stella raised her hand. “Me! Even though I don’t know what it is. I just hope it’s not some complicated folk dance.”

  “No, don’t worry. It’s a form of medieval romantic short story,” Caroline explained before she started, “Not much is known about the woman who wrote it, not even her real name. She lived around 1200 and said about herself in a poem, ‘Marie is my name, and I am from France.’”

  Caroline rested her forearms on the table and looked around. With all eyes on her, she began, “There were two knights who lived near Saint-Malo in adjoining houses, separated by a tall, dark wall. One knight was married, the other wasn’t. The wife and the unmarried knight took a liking to each other. They never met in person, but every night, when the husband was asleep, they sat by their windows and talked to each other, sometimes exchanging small gifts.

  “Over time, the husband grew suspicious and asked what she was doing at the window night after night. She replied she listened to the nightingale sing. He was enraged, and had his servant capture the bird, killed it in front of her eyes and threw its lifeless body at her.

  “Saddened, she embroidered a silk cloth in gold-threaded writing and wrapped the dead bird in it, and to let her lover know she couldn’t continue meeting him anymore, sent him the nightingale. He preserved the bird in a small container which he decorated in jewels, and always carried it with him.”

  “Not the typical love story, but so romantic,” Stella said and saw she wasn’t the only one dabbing her eyes.

  “Marie de France’s work depicted women as having to make many sacrifices in the name of love, and often as being virtually imprisoned by their husbands,” Caroline added.

  “At least the husband didn’t kill his wife, only the poor bird,” Lynn said. “I wonder what made a young woman write such a story more than eight hundred years ago.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Stella—July 2018

  “O

  ur drive to Mont Saint-Michel will take about one hour. Once we arrive there, we’ll check into our hotel first, then tour the island together,” Caroline announced after they were on the bus again.

  “How much time will we spend on the island?” Susan asked. “The itinerary says we’ll go to the abbey, then have dinner afterward.”

  “Yes, I’ve scheduled two hours to tour the monastery.”

  “Will we be able to walk around the island? What’s the tide schedule?” Lynn wanted to know.

/>   “We should be in luck and have a low tide late this afternoon. If you’re interested in walking around the bottom of the island, we can adjust our schedule. In fact, I encourage you to take advantage of the low tide. Not every visitor has the chance to experience seeing it from the bay. Most tourists spend only a few hours here and can’t afford to wait for the water to recede.”

  Two hours later they followed the half-mile-long footbridge connecting the mainland with the majestic island surrounded by marsh grass and sand. The abbey and monastery sat high atop the mount, with a small medieval town at its feet. Soon the grass and beach would be covered by salt water.

  Stella stopped walking and grabbed Naomi’s arm. “This looks as if time stood still, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, if you can ignore all the tourists,” Naomi snorted.

  “I think everything we’ve seen so far is amazing, but this is beyond words. I read that only fifty people or so live in the village year-round, but more than three million visitors come through each year.” Stella took some photos before they hurried to catch up with the group.

  “Mont Saint-Michel’s history goes back more than a thousand years,” Caroline told them as they got closer to the large stone gate at the bottom of the hill. “It was a popular destination for pilgrims until the Reformation in the sixteenth century. After the French Revolution in the eighteenth century it was turned into a prison. Only since the 1920s has Christian worship been practiced here again.”

  Climbing up the twisted, steep and narrow cobblestone streets, they often had to walk in a single line. A boy with a British accent asked his father in an awe-inspired voice, “Is this where Harry Potter lives?” and Stella silently agreed with him. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few Hogwarts students glancing out of second-floor windows of the ancient houses lining the alleys.

  After touring the abbey, Caroline said, “We have a little bit of time before our dinner at La Mère Poulard, which is just over there.” They stood on a small square at the bottom of the hill, and she pointed to a building across from them. It was made of smooth granite like all the other buildings around it, and had dark red, almost maroon awnings and painted wooden trim. “The tide is still far enough out to walk around the island, or you can explore the village on your own. I’ll be happy to give you a few ideas of what’s worth checking out. We’ll meet here again at a quarter to seven.”

  Stella and Naomi took advantage of the low tide. Halfway around the island, Naomi stopped and looked up.

  “Holy cow. It’s impossible to climb up there. What did Caroline say how high the mount is?”

  “She said the abbey sits two hundred sixty feet above sea level,” Stella recalled, taking in the jagged granite with bushes and low trees covering parts of it.

  Continuing to walk over the seaweed-covered sandy beach, they arrived at a small chapel sitting on a rocky outcropping. Built of ancient stone, with watermarks and algae at the base of its four walls, it faced the sea. They climbed the rough stone steps and peeked through a slit of a window, then looked out over the expanse of the bay. In the distance, they saw water glittering in the early evening sunlight.

  “You’ve found a true treasure,” Caroline’s voice startled them. She sat on a large rock. “This is the chapelle Saint-Aubert, and not many people venture far enough around the island to discover it.”

  “What do you know about it?” Stella asked, hoping Caroline had another story for them.

  “There are many legends surrounding this place. One claims the rock on which the chapel sits was pushed down from the top of the island by a child. I don’t know…but have you heard the story about Aubert, Bishop of Avranches, the founder of this abbey?”

  Stella and Naomi both shook their heads.

  “Well, it is said the archangel Michael appeared to Aubert three times in dreams and asked him to build a sanctuary bearing his name. The first two times Aubert ignored the request, but the third time, the archangel poked his finger into Aubert’s skull to get his point across. This time, Aubert complied, and had the relics of the archangel transferred from Mount Gargano in Italy to the Mont-Tombe, as Mont Saint-Michel was known then. The sanctuary was dedicated to Saint Michael in October 709.”

  “The angel poked a finger into Aubert’s skull?” Naomi asked and scrunched up her face. “Yuck.”

  “According to legend.” Caroline shrugged. “The relic of his skull, including the hole, is on display in the Saint-Gervais Basilica in Avranches.”

  While listening to Caroline’s story, they had wandered back into the small village and met the rest of the group at La Mère Poulard. Once seated and looking at their menus, Harry complained, “Omelets? We’re supposed to eat breakfast for dinner?”

  “You can order something else, but omelets are what Annette Poulard served when she and her husband Victor opened this restaurant in 1888,” Caroline explained. “They…”

  “Oh, no, do I sense another love story? How many die this time?” Harry grumbled.

  Julia put her menu down and said, “Please continue, Caroline.” She sat next to Harry but avoided looking at him.

  Others also encouraged Caroline and looked at her with interest.

  “Okay, so…. In 1872, the well-known architect Édouard Corroyer was appointed to restore the Abbey of Mont Saint-Michel. Édouard frequently traveled from Paris to the Mont, bringing with him his wife, child, and their maid, Annette Boutiaut. Annette was an incredibly good cook, and Édouard was a gourmet. He liked to brag about her skills, and said she was able to cook everything he asked for.

  “One day, when they arrived in the fog by a horse-drawn carriage, the island appeared dark and forbidding to Annette. The tide was rising fast, and she didn’t know how to get out of the carriage without getting soaked. The son of a local baker, Victor Poulard, recognized her dilemma and carried her onto dry land, and soon, while Édouard worked on the old Abbey, Victor grew closer to Annette. He wasted no time, and the two were married in January 1873.” Caroline paused to raise her glass and take a sip of her wine.

  “Later in 1873, the young couple acquired their first hostel business on the island and began to offer meals. Meanwhile, after news spread about the abbey Édouard had restored, more visitors began to arrive at the Mont. For a long time, it had only been of interest to shrimp fishermen and convicts’ families, but now scholars, archaeologists, and pilgrims came. Annette remembered her own arrival on the Mont, remembered being hungry and cold, and decided to add a lunch menu.

  “But serving lunch guests caused a problem. She never knew how many people would arrive between tides, and planning ahead was difficult, if not impossible. Annette started to invent new, lighter recipes, avoiding heavy meals of red meat, using more local products from the bay, the land, and the sea between Normandy and Brittany. Her most famous meals were her light, fluffy omelets.

  “A few years later, Victor and Annette sold their first establishment and bought another property here on the Mont, closer to the gate. They opened an auberge in 1888, and later added three annexes where we are sitting right now.

  “Annette didn’t travel, and she rarely left the Mont, but she loved to listen to her guests’ stories, and often asked them for a photograph or a drawing as a memento, a practice which has continued till today. You’ll want to look at the pictures later,” Caroline pointed at the walls. “Annette and Victor lived happily until Victor died in 1923 and Annette in 1931.”

  Andrew raised his glass and said, “To Annette and Victor!” and most of their group joined him by repeating the toast.

  Before they left, Stella and Naomi checked out the photos on the walls.

  “Wow, the question isn’t who was here, but who wasn’t?” Stella said.

  Naomi put her hands to her heart and sucked in a breath. “Harrison Ford was here! Right where we’re standing. I can’t believe it.” She put her face closer to his photo and took a selfie.

  “You and your hero. I’m sur
prised you’re not kneeling. But look over there! Pablo Picasso! And there’s Theodore Roosevelt,” Stella said in a similar awe-inspired voice. “Oh, and Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Who?” Naomi asked with a wide grin and linked arms with Stella.

  Leaving the island, they listened to frogs and crickets serenading their potential mates, and in the approaching twilight, the marshes looked very mystical.

  When Naomi noticed the long line of people waiting for the next shuttle bus, she said, “The evening is too beautiful to squeeze into a bus with tons of sweaty strangers and overtired babies. Let’s walk back to the hotel, it only took us thirty minutes this afternoon.”

  “I’d like to come back in the fall or winter months. Can you imagine how it would look with dense fog covering the lower half of the island?”

  “The only thing missing would be one of your ghost-tour guides swinging a lantern back and forth. Boo!”

  “Ooh, spooky,” Stella laughed, and they made up stories about ghosts hiding in the marsh grass on their way back to the hotel.

  “We missed the press conference,” Stella sat on their balcony and poured them both a glass of the wine the hotel gave them as a courtesy gift.

  “Why are you so interested in the hostage situation? We don’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t know, maybe because we’re so close to it?”

  “I bet the whole thing will be forgotten as soon as something else comes up,” Naomi said. “Imagine the national scandal if a visitor leaves his sticky fingerprints in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.”

  “Could be. John seems to follow the reports, and I’m sure he’ll tell us if there’s a new development.”

  For a moment, they sat in silence. The pastureland, where only hours ago sheep had grazed, was covered by water again. The surreal light of a full moon created the illusion of countless tiny sparkles.

  And in the distance, the island seemed illuminated by thousands of flickering candles, their warm yellow glow also reflecting in the dark water.