At the far end of the village, old Cassandra lived in an even older house; beyond her meadow, frequented only by rabbits, lay the Mercantour forest.
She was said to be a bit of a witch, a bit of a clairvoyant... a bit of a madwoman! People laughed at her predictions about the weather: did she predict rain? It was not unusual for it to be blue the next day. But when she raised her gnarled boxwood stick and whispered:
- One of you won't see Christmas...
We couldn't wait for January!
One year, she pointed her stick at Clément and waved goodbye; the whole village laughed!
- Old Cassandra is really mad! We'd buy her health from Clément!
However, after All Saints' Day, we buried Clément, who had died suddenly.
In the village, there was also a pretty little house surrounded by olive trees, a house in which, curiously, the inhabitants said they felt uncomfortable; families hardly stayed for more than a year.
- The windows facing west need to be sealed; that's where the winds and the soul-sucking Grim Reaper come in," Cassandra had said.
We smiled... but we nailed boards to the shutters. And it worked! The Landolfi family settled down, happy years followed happy years... Frédéric was born, the youngest of three siblings.
To celebrate his seventh birthday, his parents planned a family party. Furniture was pushed around, the table was extended, and the kitchen was bustling with activity.
- Move over Frédéric!
- But Mum...
- I haven't got time! Move over!
Frédéric took refuge in the attic, where he wouldn't be in anyone's way. He rummaged through the large trunk, moving the broken objects that had been piled up for possible, if uncertain, use...
- Frédéric!
The voice came from outside... The little boy climbed onto the seat of a gutted old armchair, opened the skylight... the only opening we'd forgotten to seal.
It is said that there was a rumbling that shook the house, followed by a frightening silence... Lying on the floor, Frédéric had no soul left. There were no celebrations, and the Landolfi family moved away.
Today, the house is nothing but ruins... but some villagers prefer to change sidewalks rather than walk along its walls. Others sign their names when they pass old Cassandra's grave in the cemetery... you never know, do you... Still others tell how, on stormy days, in the din of the furious winds, you can hear the howling of the wolves... you can also hear a wail like the cries of a small child.
But there's so much to say about the Mercantour...
Author: Jeanne Monin