S2 Osprey Media Supplement Two Jan by Osprey Media

Osprey Media Supplement Week Two Jan 2013

Irene Louis First Chapter of The Ghost of Gabriele plus your weekly wordsearch

Osprey Media Design ÂŠ 2013 Marbella, Andalucia, Spain - ospreymedia@live.com

INTERNATIONAL CULTURAL EXCHANGE MARBELLA C/Notario Luis Oliver, 6, Marbella The arrival of a new cultural meeting point in Marbella has been fuel for much discussion as the old façade of the Liceo Cinema Marbella, behind ‘Mango’ on the main road received a welcome facelift and elegant restyling for its new incarnation. Now graced with the memorable Green-andgold lettering to describe its purpose, it will open shortly to fill our diaries with diversion, entertainment and open doors to new ideas, projects, social gatherings and opportunity to meet with Marbella’s international public. The founder of the project, Mrs Midas, is a well-known supporter of the Arts in Marbella. A founder member of Equity, The Actor’s Union, Great Britain. Acclaim for her work has been established in being nominated for Londoner of The Year 1993, for a Graduate and Student Launchpad Project to assist with achieving placement and live experience in the Entertainment and Staging Industry. Since moving operations to the Costa del Sol , she has created a benchmark for artist treatment, show standards, and calibre in production, that attracts greater event collaborations each year. Now working with Edinburgh Fringe Festival and London’s West End as well as local event giants Garoa to provide top productions to Marbella’s venues, such as Puente Romano, all year round since 2006, when the Original West End production ‘Cats’made its Marbella debut!

This week we present the first chapter of the new work by Irene Louis, a dramatic ghost story that starts with rivalry and romance, set in Brittany, France…

The Ghost of Gabriele Chapter One of the First Part. ‘Elouan! Will you go riding with Gwilherm this afternoon? He would appreciate your company.’ Elouan adjusted his face before turning to look up at the figure leaning over the gallery railing. ‘Well, mother, I did promise to play chess with little Jean-Marie then, and he goes away tomorrow.’ He broke into a smile and relaxed his shoulders. ‘Perhaps another time?’ ‘I am sure that Gwilherm will understand that you must defer your promenade. Until tomorrow, then.’ Argantael smiled sympathetically at the top of her son’s head as he made a stiff, polite bow and retreated to the room behind her. ‘Our sons are like their steeds, challenging each other for their place in a new herd. I am sure they will become good friends when they know each other better. I am glad you are to become our new neighbours, Madame Decaudin, though the circumstances that bring you to us are so unhappy.’ The younger woman looked down. ‘Call me Jocosa, please! My husband was an old man, and I loved him too much to pray for his recovery, it would have been cruel for him to live any longer with his infirmities. And we who are left must bear his absence as best we can.’ She lifted her watery eyes to her new friend’s face. ‘I am grateful for your kind offer of friendship. It is hard to adjust to a new life all alone in a strange place, and I bless the circumstances that have brought us together. Our host cannot have known how well we would suit each other, and our sons being of an age, too!’ ‘It is a happy circumstance that we meet here. I have been so lonely of late, and perhaps

Guy did have some plan in mind when he invited us all here. I am only sorry that my daughter could not be here too. She has a weak constitution, and we felt the sea air would be too bracing for her. But of course, you will meet her soon enough. But tell me, if you do not mind my asking, what made you decide to come to Dinan? It is a long way from your home town.’ ‘I lived around there as a girl. I loved the green countryside, the rivers and the sea near enough to visit once in a while, though I confess my memories may not bear too much scrutiny. I fear I may have romanticised the place a little. The house I have procured will serve the two of us very well once the masons have finished their work and I have made it look as new inside. I never tire of choosing furnishings, though I cannot help but change my mind every few minutes. I wonder it will ever be finished!’ Argantael smiled a smile that lit up her face, accentuating the lines that etched her eyes and belied her stark, patrician features. Her auburn hair had wings of the grey that powdered her head, lightening its once dark glossiness. ‘How I love to plan my decor too, but alas, I have fewer opportunities to do so. Bertrand would not be too happy were I to start with our home all over again.’ ‘Then you shall help me. I need expert guidance, and it appears I have found it!’ Jocosa’s smile made less of an impression on her features, which helped her to appear younger than she really was. In truth, there were not too many years’ difference between the two women. They appeared to be opposites, one blonde and graceful, the other dark and almost as graceful, but with a more homely mien and a slightly more rounded figure. ‘No, not expert, but I should be glad to help.’

The two women clasped each others’ hands in friendship and chattered with enthusiasm about their new joint project. ‘So, you’ve not been here before either?’ Gwilherm enquired. ‘No, they thought I was too young to come before, but now I’m a man they know they can trust me in fine company.’ Elouan raised his head and jutted his chin. Gwilherm smiled at the exaggeration. ‘Well, we shall have a fine time exploring the countryside this morning. I do not know this terrain either. How well do you ride?’ ‘Well enough. I shall not be a hindrance to you, if that is what you mean.’ Elouan bit his tongue, instantly regretting what sounded like an apology. In silence the two squared up to each other, before Gwilherm smiled again. Elouan loathed that smile, even as he returned it. ‘Then, let us see what lies over yonder.’ He pointed over to the flat, grassy fields to their right and Elouan set off at a trot in reply. Gwilherm sat still on his mount for a minute or two, gazing thoughtfully at the boy’s retreating figure. The grey horse whinnied, pawing the ground in impatience until its rider relaxed the reins and spurred it on. As he paced the trotting chestnut in front of him, he watched with amusement as Elouan crowed in delight at his lead, his open face grinning wide as he checked the whereabouts of his lagging rival. The early sun, still low in the already blue sky, cast a long shadow behind them. It shone with promise as it continued its slow rising to their left. The wind began to argue with it, sending clouds to trail up high, but it was not yet strong enough to smother it. They reached a small wood, which they crossed in a shiver or two, no more, before breaking out into rougher terrain. Gwilherm, now impatient, spurred his horse and, with a whoop, rapidly gained on the chestnut. Elouan, hearing the hooves beating faster,

spurred on his mount. He looked back in dismay at the grey’s now apparent power. Though he had a commanding lead, he dug his heels into his horse’s belly every time she appeared to be flagging, all the while craning back to check his rival’s progress. They flew as if they were competing with the wind itself, Gwilherm just failing to catch up as the terrain changed yet again under foot. The brown earth had given way to larger stones studding shale. As Gwilherm tried to pull up his mount, it slid forward, its hind legs beginning to collapse from under it. The two threw themselves in as many directions as would afford them a precarious balance, partners in a brief, dizzying dance. When they came to a halt, Gwilherm wiped his brow with his arm and reached forward, smiling, to pat his horse. As he looked up, his face quickly changed. Elouan, still intent on leading, had been slow to react. When he realised what was happening, his face mirrored the open-mouthed horror he saw in the older boy’s face and he turned just in time to see the cliff top drop before him. The momentum carried him forward, over the chestnut’s head as it struggled to pull back from the edge. In an instant, he disappeared, his cry drowning in the noise of cascading stones. It felt, in the quiet that followed, that the wind too had been shocked into silence. Time had slowed for Gwilherm, who sat motionless. Paralysed with indecision, he then swivelled his head back and forth, looking for anyone around. The horse’s breathing was the only sound until the wind began howling. The trees took up the chorus with their feathery rustling increasing to a crescendo as if to compete. Gwilherm put his hands to his ears and uttered a cry that no one heard. Only then did he dismount and moved closer to the edge in dainty, fearful steps. He knelt down and, reins in hand, he held onto a large boulder that he tested for firmness before peering over the steep drop.

The green sea swept its waves back and forth, a dispassionate witness to the tragedy. It hurled itself against the rocks in its way, spraying up a mist that obscured Gwilherm’s sight as his eyes strained to search the rocks, the scrub and the restless sea beneath the crumbled cliff. At last he spotted Elouan, just out of reach on an outcrop where he remained unmoving, his still face giving no indication either of life or death. He wanted to shout, but ‘Elouan! Elouan?’ came out in a rough whisper. He looked about him and spotted a long branch not too far off. Again, with careful steps, he retrieved the wood, lay down on the ground and gingerly prodded his companion’s body, which remained motionless. His twitching horse reared at the forward motion and took high steps backwards, spooked by their nearness to the edge. Gwilherm lashed out with the reins to steady it, and resumed what he was doing. The salty spray scattered into a mist before his eyes, hindering his efforts as he urgently fought to see. As if to taunt him, a haze of cloud descended to join forces with the swell below. The sea boomed its derision at his feebleness. Eventually he threw down the branch, and looking desperate, he quickly mounted to turn back the way they had come. His pale face formed a frozen mask as he let the horse pick its way through the stones and rough terrain. Once on smoother ground, he sat with his back to the thick trunk of a tree gnarled through many years of exposure to grim coastal winters. Thoughts came and went with a startling ferocity as he pictured his arrival at the Manor. He quailed at the coming meeting, no matter whom he encountered first. Elouan’s parents? Little Jean Marie’s father, the Comte? His mother? Oh, God, not his mother! Perhaps he could just say Elouan got lost? Each thought stabbed him so painfully his head throbbed, and the more it throbbed, the weaker he felt

his body become. His eventual journey back lasted a lifetime, yet was over far too briefly. The stable boy ran forward to take the reins of his horse. Gwilherm slid off the saddle and made his way, legs bowed up the steps to the front door, which his shadow reached long before him. His heavy head drooped in the vain hope that if he did not see anyone, then they would not see him. He slumped against the heavy door just as it opened from the inside, and a surprised footman almost fell under his weight. In fighting to keep his balance, the servant let the young man drop to the marble floor and immediately sank to his knees, worried for the house guest, surely, but more for the consequences his negligence would bring. With relief he felt the young man’s breathing and picked him up with wobbling gait under the unexpected weight to deposit him on the chaise longue in the library. As he shouted for help, he opened his charge’s collar and stood back in relief as the butler, le Comte de Gevry and Monsieur Lebrocque, Elouan’s father, entered. ‘Well, what have we here?’ the Count began jovially after a brief examination. ‘A fall, eh? But no bones broken, thank the Lord. You will be right as rain in no time!’ Gwilherm pointed to the door. Before he could utter a word, Bertrand started, his heart plunging into his stomach. ‘Elouan? Where is Elouan? Speak to me, boy! Elouan?’ Gwilherm spoke, his choking muffling his words, ‘The cliffs... Accident....’ before closing his eyes and falling into a swoon. Seeing that there was no more information to be got from the prostrate body in front of him, Bertrand leapt to the doorway as he called for all available hands to help search for his son. Remembering his manners, he turned quickly to the Count and asked, ‘By your leave, François.....?’ to be answered with a hasty nod. The two men left the boy to the butler’s care and repaired to the stables. The Count gave quick instructions for others to follow, but then as they mounted their

rapidly prepared horses they saw Elouan’s horse come clattering into the yard. ‘All will be well, Bertrand. You will see. We shall take the chestnut with us, as it may help us to find your son.’ A wordless Bertrand dismounted and gathered up the sweating chestnut’s reins with only a little difficulty. He soothed the animal, patting it down and examining it at the same time. When he lifted up the hooves he pulled out small pieces of shale from them and said, ‘It is as I feared. To the cliffs! We shall have a fair distance to cover there before nightfall.’ Once mounted, he cleared his throat and bent to speak gently to the mare. ‘Find Elouan, my pretty. You know where he is. Find him. Lead me to him, I beg you.’ He looked intently at the horse as it whinnied and stamped as if in answer. As he rode into the open countryside, he kept the reins by his side and the now docile horse kept pace with him. François shouted and pointed ahead to some tracks, whereupon the men broke into a canter in the general direction of the woods. There they switched back and forth until they spotted a further set of hoofmarks. Bertrand impatiently led the way, allowing only the trailing horse keep up with him. When they reached the shale it gave no hint of recent activity, and Bertrand halted, defeated, battling the mist in his eyes. He walked the horse along the cliff edge, which allowed the Count to catch him up. Before they could speak, the chestnut suddenly reared, pulling away in panic. Bertrand’s soothing words has no effect as it broke free and retreated to firmer ground. Bertrand dismounted and stared at the cliff edge. He stepped forward, fearing not the ground but what he might find. François joined him on foot and the two stood examining what was below them. The dark would soon be their enemy as they peered the length of the cliffs.

‘It must be near here, François. This is where the horse panicked. We must look round here. Ah, here come the men.’ Half a dozen riders, workers from the stables and tenant farmers, came galloping into sight but quickly slowed to a walk as they neared their master and his friend. All dismounted and approached for orders. The Comte gave instructions for a man to be lowered by rope over the cliff, and since they all volunteered, he chose the youngest and lightest, the stable lad who had taken the reins from Gwilherm. One man tied the rope to his horse, a big, heavy workhorse, and stood by to keep it steady. The boy, fit, muscled and strong, expertly tied the other end round his slim waist and turned to face the crowd as he carefully lowered himself down. The horse took most of the strain as the men held their guiding hands on the safety harness. No one heard the wind as the silence dropped amongst them all. Their concentration focused solely on the creaking rope, and in that concentration, no sense of time intruded. A cry from below woke their minds and bodies to action. ‘There’s fresh blood here! But I can see no sign of your son, M. Lebrocque. I am sorry. Bertrand, who had been lying prostrate to watch the boy, closed his eyes and covered them with his hand. De Gevry called back, ‘Search some more. Look for signs that tell you what happened.’ The boy cast about for a few minutes more until he gave the signal to be raised. He came up holding a stick of wood, which he held out to M. Lebrocque. ‘There is some blood on this too, Monsieur. There are fresh breaks on a bush down there, so there can be no doubt that this is the place where your son fell.’ He delivered the trembling words in apology, but Bertrand did not hear it. He grabbed the wood and threw it down. ‘Well done, lad! Then he could still be down there! We must continue to search, all of you!’ As he looked around the men lowered their gazes.

‘Bertrand, my friend....’ De Gevry pulled him away from the edge. See, the light has gone. We shall find out nothing more this day. Tomorrow...’ Bertrand gulped to stifle the deep sound that threatened to engulf him. ‘No, I shall stay here,’ he interrupted. ‘I will not leave... Elouan..... here in distress. I shall find him, you mark my words. Leave me one man, one man who knows this area, to help me is all I ask.’ ‘Oh, my friend, I cannot. I cannot leave you alone in this dangerous spot.’ The Comte silently cursed himself for his careless use of words and continued. ‘Think of Argantael. She needs you to comfort her, and she will reproach me for the rest of my life if I allow you to come to harm.’ The Comte cringed again, thinking he could have said something other than ‘the rest of my life’. Nevertheless, he led the now unresisting Bertrand towards his mount, and the two of them led the downcast searchers homewards. Argantael saw at a glance that the returning party had not brought back Elouan, dead or alive. Jocosa stood at her side and supported her as her body visibly shrank. The servants peered from behind and hastily scattered to their posts as the women turned to go indoors. The newly lit fire in the drawing room crackled and sparked in tune with their taut nerves as they waited. A maid crept in to light the lamps and left, her bobbing apologies unnoticed. De Gevry gave orders to the waiting butler for drinks for the men and brandy to be served to them indoors. With his arms around Bertrand’s shoulders, he guided him to sit beside his wife and poured four brandies. ‘Please, Bertrand. Please, tell me. I need to know, whatever it may be.’ The Comte spoke up for his mute friend and informed her of the expedition’s findings. ‘My dear, that this should happen when you are my guests here –‘

‘But he could still be alive, you have no proof that he is..... that he is harmed. None at all!’ ‘Here, drink this.’ He offered her a glass of brandy. ‘Alas, we must wait for news. We shall go out before first light in the morning to be ready for a search in daylight.’ ‘Has Gwilherm given any news of what has passed? I should like to speak with him.’ Jocosa’s gaze did not waver as she replied, ‘He is asleep. I administered a soporific since he was in no state to help anyone. As you say, we can do nothing before daybreak.’ She glanced away to the Comte before turning back to show by a look her sympathy with Argantael. ‘He will be so cold, so cold now. You cannot leave him. I beg you, let the search continue now.’ ‘And endanger more lives? I know that you, gentle soul that you are, would not wish that, even for Elouan.’ Bertrand and Argantael exchanged bewildered, helpless looks. Jocosa sat, her muscles pulled tight as if ready to spring into action, and de Gevry leaned back, exhausted by the heavy atmosphere, and closed his eyes. After they retired that night a storm blew up, rattling the windows of the house and howling down the chimneys, yet it disturbed no-one’s rest, for there was none. The following day the number of the search party tripled. No one either knew or would say how word of the tragedy had spread, but the help was gratefully received. They set out in the freshened cold pre-dawn to comb the area. Some climbed down the cliff face, some tracked round to the bottom of the cliffs to search there, but apart from the traces of blood they turned up no further evidence, though they hunted as long as the light heldmore out of sympathy with the grieving family than with any hope of a happy outcome. The stable boy picked up the stick he had found the night before and carried it back with him, uncertain if it would be of any

use but reluctant to let go of the moment that had gained him attention, lifting him from the bottom of the servants’ heap. Back at the House, Jocosa tried as best she could to comfort Argantael, who swept from hope to despair and back again, until the despair that had bided its time during the long morning finally engulfed her. When Gwilherm awoke late in the morning, Jocosa gently tended to him with her tisanes until she was sure he was fully aware of his surroundings and did as best she could to cushion his shock and dismay. She soothed his fear at meeting Elouan’s mother, reminding him that her suffering was the greater and that he had to face up to his duty, however distasteful he felt it to be. Argantael hurried to his room at the summons. Jocosa sat with her arm held protectively round her son as she encouraged him to speak. As she wiped his tears, between sobs and with many pauses Gwilherm told the story of their race, of how he, being behind Elouan, could halt in time to avert the fate that befell his companion. Of how he saw him lying out of reach, how he had tried to reach him with the stick and how he had given up hope, thinking that he must surely be dead. Of how he had rushed back to call for help, but could not persuade his body to move to show where Elouan had fallen, so deep was his fear. He called himself so many names at his stupidity for not knowing the terrain, his cowardliness and his shame that both women laboured to point out that he could have done no more, that there was still hope and that it was a tragic accident that none could be blamed for. With the return of the search party, a deep gloom settled on the household. The visitors stayed on for four more days, each becoming more solitary as time passed. Bertrand and his host rode out every day, sometimes accompanied, sometimes alone, to cast around the site of the accident, with ever decreasing hope. Gwilherm stayed in bed,

tended by his solicitous mother, and Argantael, dividing her time between the Chapel and the drawing room, sat staring into space. Jocosa kept her silent company when she was not with her son, talking only in reply to her friend’s infrequent pleadings. On the fourth day, they made preparations to leave, after seeking and being given assurances that The Comte would spare no efforts to discover any news. Jocosa found herself alone with Argantael. She touched her arm in a timid gesture. ‘I cannot imagine your grief, though it pains me to see it in you. I had such high hopes for our friendship, we suited each other so well! Now I suppose the sight of Gwilherm will always remind you of your dear son, and the accident will forever come between us. I am sorry for it, with all my heart, but I think it best if I do not come to Dinan after all. It will be little trouble to change my arrangements....’ Argantael started as the meaning of the words drifted into her awareness. ‘Oh, my dear friend! There is no question of you changing you plans. Indeed, you have no idea how much you have comforted me, and I could not bear to lose you too. Please, do not be hasty. I need you, and Gwilherm, too will have a place in our hearts. It was a tragic accident, and the poor boy will have to live with it though it was no fault of his. Do not, I beg you, let him believe we judge him guilty by separating us and compounding our hurt.’ She embraced Jocosa, whose stiffness melted in the warmth of the hug. Bertrand had entered the room and heard the last of the conversation. Jocosa looked up at him, questioning his response, and he nodded his assent. ‘I allow that my wife speaks for me, too. We shall be glad to have you as our neighbours.’ He came to put his arm round Argantael’s shoulders, and looked into her eyes. Sadness and anxiety had etched in their faces lines and shadows where none had been before. ‘My beautiful wife, though we grieve for our lost son..... Yes, Argantael, I

believe him to be lost to us!’ He held her close as she wailed, resisting hearing the words, ‘The Good Lord must have his reasons for taking our Elouan, and we must bear our loss with fortitude. We need to care for each other now, and our little Gabriele.’

Jocosa bowed her retreat and left them together. As she closed the doors on them, she dropped her shoulders and breathed a deep sigh.

The Ghost of Gabriele ISBN: 978-1-291-28816-2 Available from Osprey Media 2013

Irene Louis is an established author and recognised for creation of resources for alternative therapies and spiritual development throughout Europe. Her latest works include case studies, life stories and most recently the investigation of past life trauma and its repercussions in other lives, the study of the array of spiritual experience we possess in each of our existances. Learn more about her projects at:

www.on-reflection.com

Wordsearches for Success and Entertainment from Osprey Media ÂŠ 2013

If you would like to submit an article, book or interview for inclusion, email the editor at : ospreymedia@live.com The Retroeuropa bookstore for ideas, gifts and research lists. Join us online and have a browse at www.loop365.blogspot.com. www.paralleulu.wordpress.com Ads here : call +34 665076949

Haiku poetry from Andrea Medina at www.retroeuropa.com

Osprey Media Design ÂŠ 2013 Marbella, Andalucia, Spain - ospreymedia@live.com