The Watchtower

reach it on the E50”—she gestured with several hands to the blur of highway outside the car windows—“or take a TGV from Montparnesse and expect to find the door open to Brocéliande. You could wander for days—for months, years even—in the forest of modern-day Paimpont and never find the pool where Morgane dwells. When Melusine and Marguerite imprisoned her there, they set spells to guard the approach so only a very few—those vetted by the fey—could find the pool. Even though you have gone through the steps and been sent on by Jean Robin, Sylvianne, Hellequin, and Melusine, you still have no guarantee that you’ll find your way to the pool. The final test will be in the Val sans Retour … and it won’t be an easy one. And, as the name implies, there won’t be any second chances. Either we’ll find the pool tomorrow or we’ll remain in the Valley of No Return forever.”
    *   *   *
    After that dire pronouncement there didn’t seem to be much more to say. We both lapsed into silence, Octavia intent on driving fast while I stared out the window at flat fields and turreted towns in the distance. I got the best sense of where we were from the large decorative billboards of each town—a cathedral for Chartres, a portrait of Proust complete with tea and madeleines for Illiers-Combray, bicyclists for Tours. Eventually I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, we’d left the highway and were on a narrow country road bordered by towering trees. We passed rough stone cottages with brightly painted red or blue doors and delicate lace curtains in the windows.
    I yawned and looked over at Octavia. “Are we there?”
    For answer she pointed to a sign painted on the side of a gas station. A lascivious, doe-eyed fairy in skimpy dress sat on a toadstool beneath the words BIENVENU À LE PAYS DE LA FÉE MORGANE. I’d been surprised by the lack of tourism surrounding Melusine’s old home, but there didn’t appear to be any lack here in Morgane’s old stomping ground. We passed a camping ground decorated with tin cutouts of fairies, dragons, and wizards. The campers themselves were wearing long dresses and floppy shirts. It looked like a Woodstock reunion. A sign advertising a FÊTE MÉDIÉVALE explained the archaic dress. This must be a French version of the Renaissance Faires popular in America. When we pulled up to the Relais de Brocéliande, a half-timbered lodge sitting above a walled town, abbey, and lake, the parking lot was full of painted minivans and VW Beetles circa 1968.
    “Is there something going on here this weekend?” I asked.
    Octavia shrugged as she pulled a cloak over her shoulders. “There’s always some sort of festival or fair going on here. The young people are quite enamored of fairies and Arthurian legend. I often wonder what Arthur and Guinevere would make of it all.”
    Before I could ask if she’d actually known Arthur and Guinevere, Octavia was out of the car and striding briskly up the ramp to the hotel, pulling a Louis Vuitton valise behind her. By the time I had wrestled my battered duffel out of the trunk, she was already at the front desk signing us in. As she handed her credit card to the clerk, I noticed how tired she looked—and how dry . Of course, I realized, she hadn’t had a chance to hydrate since we’d left Paris. My guess was confirmed when I heard her ask if there was a tub in her room.
    “I’ll need to … rest for a while if we’re to attempt the forest tomorrow,” she said as we followed the bellboy up to our separate rooms. “Do you mind if I leave you on your own for the rest of the evening?”
    “Not at all, Octavia. Is there anything I can get for you? Some … bottled water?”
    “Yes, that’s a good idea. If you wouldn’t mind having room service send up two dozen oysters and three liters of Perrier and telling them just to leave the tray in the room. Thank you, my dear.” She touched my hand and I was alarmed to feel how dry and papery her skin felt.
    “I’ll do that,” I said. “Would you like me to stay with you?”
    “No, dear. It’s best that I’m alone. I need to focus all my reserves.”
    I had the restaurant send up the oysters and water and waited outside the room to make sure the waiter left the tray without disturbing Octavia in her bath. I could hear the splash of water from behind the closed door and could only hope that she was all right.
    Seeing those oysters made me hungry myself, so after a quick stop in my