France Profonde

Our Ghost Le suite. (episode two)

The ghost of Mme Tooth slept soundly that night. As did I, in her old bedroom, the kids on mattresses on the floor between two lumpy twin beds, rattan headboards, chenille spreads. The as-is sensibility pervaded our habits at the time. If this was the bedroom, this is where we would sleep, the four other empty rooms left unclaimed. Some were still too cluttered, others too high, and one too grand, its giant fireplace and age polished floor beams too exhaulted for us. There was a lay of the land, that we respected faithfully in our early days here.

Upon waking, our first morning in our house, I was all excited to share the story of our ghost with the friends who’d helped us get to this ancient edifice, on a hill in Dordogne, in the first place. We had begun to dream about a barn to renovate ourselves the first time we had visited Marcia in Dordogne a couple of years earlier when Philippe had her grandson in class in San Francisco. This region attracts. And then it holds tight.

This rather grand example of southern French architecture, more castle than barn, dropped from heaven seemingly, right in our laps. I oft compare myself with the wicked witch, though I fared better in the event of falling houses. We had not begun to consult real estate agents, or visit the ruins within our means, when a long-lost, distant cousin-in-law of mine inherited this place from his sister, and sought our assistance getting rid of it. Philippe is French, and we know the region. We could help. And we did. We took it right off his hands for a very fair sum, reducing his tax burden, our expenses and our search time in one fell swoop. Marcia, now our neighbor, had helped us make the decision to buy it . Or else.

Her whole family, daughter, son in law and three grandkids, were visiting when we took possession and they had all participated in the first walk through. Each had accepted some bauble: a polished rock, an old coin, a perfume bottle stopper as a souvenir. They had felt the presence of the house’s passed inhabitants by virtue of the haphazard display of the tools and trappings of their abandoned hobbies through out its rooms. Investigations revealed forays into clock repair, cabinetry, glass etching, glove making, apholstery, gardening, cooking all in a well documented pursuit of autarcy. The Tooth’s, the house’s previous owners, (for those who have not read part 1) sought perfect autonomy and total isolation. The house’s semi- isolation suited that spirit. Their traces were left in English and Russion. Neither of them, it seemed, were fluent in French, and weren’t required to be on their hilltop perch.

As there was no fridge or stove in the place yet, at lunch time, we joined Marcia’s clan, and regaled them with the telling of our ghost encounter late that last night, Phil and I outdoing one another in our mimicry of her heavy breathing. I wheeze deeply from my chest, Phil screeches gently through clenched teeth. In either case, the heavy breather’s cancer ridden lungs are in evidence. Mme Tooth had died in the house in November. Apparently she left something behind.

Son-in-Law, Drew immediately hatched a plan to gather up our small crowd and smudge her out of the place. Sage and incense and incantations. He told of ghosts trapped among us due to some earthly contract, a posthumous grudge, and that we only had to convince ours that she could now move on. She clearly had no unfinished business with us.

We didn’t get around to smudging Mme Tooth that day though. Phil’s sister and boyfriend were coming through to check out our new “castle” on their way to a wedding in the area. The edifice’s sheer size, as well as the archives of the house’s past lives properly impressed them. More discoveries were made. We came across a 15th C parchment, scribbled on in dark brown ink by a neat hand in some ancient indecipherable dialect of French. Only the date, 1493 was clear enough. A pair of very old pair of iron cuffs, ankle size, a metal spearhead, oddities of the sort, showed up in strange places. That night I hoped we would get to show off the ghost as well as all her trappings. After a picnic dinner, kids in bed, drinks and smokes were shared under the Tilleul tree out front. An old cement millstone serves as a low table out there. The ambiance was just right for a ghost citing. Of course, none of us believe in ghosts.

But then, the noise, a repeat performance, around the same time as the night before, 10:30 or so, we heard the screech, a rhythmic cry, rising and falling in the night. A hushed silence fell upon us. Our ears perked up. There it is. Our guests look to us, what do we do? What do we know? We wait. And then, out from around the side of the house, a white winged creature swooped, screeching in its habitual manner, scaring everyone half out of their wits. The winged apparation, our ghost, was in fact an owl. a screech owl/ chouette effrai, or “scare owl”, as they are called here. The neighbors clued us in. This “dame blanche”, another nickname for the species, lives here. She has been nesting under the eaves of the house, by the upstairs bedroom, next to the bay tree, for years. She is well known to have been Mme Tooth’s chouette, a wild pet of sorts, housed, in her own nest, under the same roof. Two renowned grandes dames.

Indeed, we had seen the scattered dejections under the hortense bush by the back door to the kitchen, dry pellets of regurgitated bones and fur. I later read how screech owls were often associated with dead relatives, visitors from beyond the grave. Their presence under farmhouse eaves has been the source of many a ghost story around here. Perigord, the locals’ name for Dordogne, is awash with superstition. Tales of hauntings and ghouls pass from generation to generation, around the giant hearths of these ancient homes. Screech owls are partly responsible. Their cries, when muffled through layers of roofing and farmhouse insulation sound so like the heavy pained breathing of the dearly departed, and the less dearly departed as well. It all makes sense.

So we have an owl now. But we also have a ghost.

To be continued still…