The rider in back held on to the seat bars behind him. He looked at me through the full-faced helmet visor. Just a set of eyes looking. I looked back. The bike fishtailed before it got to the bench. Swerved around and behind me. The machine veered fast in front of me. I didn’t pull in my legs and the driver had to react quickly to avoid hitting me. The rider laughed and yelled something to his friend, which I didn’t pick up.

Then, the driver hit the throttle and launched into a little grassy field back towards the road. He braked and kicked up dirt. Throttled again. The bike went into a doughnut spin, shredding grass and dirt all over. A cloud of fumes drifted slowly on the river wind. They did three doughnuts and sped off.

A minute later all that remained was a pall of engine fumes hanging in the air. The heron was gone. I listened to the river come back to life after the disturbance. A ripple broke the surface, a fish or something else.

Chapter Four

The bridge was narrow. There wasn’t a car in sight. A little sidewalk hugged the edge. I could see the algae on the river bed. Shallow water. Trees swayed in the wind. The opposite bank was hillside and then forest. I followed the road for a while until it met an unpaved driveway on the left. A little hand-painted metal sign hung on a tree, off to the side. Brumaire.

A murder of crows rose out of the yellowed field to my right. Screaming.

I crunched over clean gravel. On the right side of the drive a gatekeeper’s cottage was pushed into the woods. Alongside was an old Renault hatchback in dark green. Past that, Brumaire came into sight straight up ahead. The house was an antique stone villa. Three stories tall with smaller windows on the third floor, presumably old servant quarters. Wide and squat with a zinc roof. It sat square against a limestone cliff face.

I walked up rounded stone steps. The terrace floor was ceramic-tiled in black and white checkerboard. A decorative iron balustrade spun around the house. Wisteria vines crept and twisted over the iron. I knocked on the door. No answer. I waited a while. Birds swooped playfully. The gray sky was lowering. Looked like it was going to rain. Shutters were closed in the downstairs windows. Behind the house was a field with a single tree in the middle of it. A rocking chair was positioned to look at the tree. I put my backpack down on the terrace. Put myself in the chair. I looked at the tree for a while.

Nothing else was happening. Just the tree swaying in the humid breeze. The grass grew. I closed my eyes.