At the end of October in Provence, it gets dark early.
Colette Dusan was carrying a bamboo basket, walking back along the riverbank. Inside the basket were the lavender leaves she had just picked that afternoon—not the flowers, but the leaves. The flowers had been harvested in July, dried, and packed into cloth bags to be sold until the next spring. Now she was collecting the last batch of autumn leaves; the essential oil extracted from them was more concentrated. Her grandfather said that a drop could be enough to treat someone's cough in winter, rivaling half a bottle of medicine.
She wasn't walking fast, occasionally lowering her head to look at the stones beneath her feet. She had grown up walking this stretch of riverbank, so she wouldn't fall even with her eyes closed. Still, she was used to keeping her head down—sometimes picking up dead branches washed ashore to use as firewood; occasionally, with good luck, finding a few smooth, colorful stones worn by the river, which she would gather to sell to stone collectors at the next market.
Twenty francs could buy twenty pieces. Enough for half a pound of salt or a small bag of flour.
The sky was growing darker, and distant thunder could be faintly heard. Colette looked up at the sky—dark clouds pressed over from the west, heavy and seemingly ready to fall. It was going to rain, and it wouldn't be a light rain either.
She quickened her pace.
Turning past the bend in the riverbank, she suddenly stopped.
In the shallow water by the riverbank, there was a person lying face down.
Colette's first instinct was to turn and run. These days, things weren't peaceful—she'd heard that bandits were roaming in the north, and sailors who had escaped from the Marseille harbor in the south weren't good people either. Her grandfather had told her that when walking alone at night, whatever she saw, she should ignore it—run first, ask questions later.
But she took two steps and stopped again.
That person was motionless. Face down in the shallow water, half of his body submerged, the other half resting on the cobblestones. The river's gentle current was lapping softly against him, once, then again, with no response from him.
Colette clenched her bamboo basket tightly and took a cautious step back.
The man's clothes were of fine material—a dark gray woolen fabric, not something a peasant could afford. His hair was very short, styled like an urbanite's. One hand was extended, fingers clenched into a fist—as if clutching something tightly before death.
The thunder drew nearer.
Colette clenched her teeth, set down her basket, and tiptoed forward carefully. When she was close enough, she crouched down and reached out to shake his shoulder.
"Hey."
The man didn't move.
She pushed again, harder this time. His body wobbled slightly from her push, and his head tilted to the side—
Colette gasped sharply.
His face was deathly pale, lips bluish, eyes tightly shut. A large patch of his clothing on the left shoulder was soaked with blood, turning dark brown, but the original color could still be seen—gray wool, stained a dark red by blood.
He was not a soldier fleeing. Soldiers wouldn't be dressed in such fine clothes.
He was not a sailor. Sailors' skin wouldn't be this pale.
Who... was he?
Her hands trembled. She knew she should run—really, she should run. This person had nothing to do with her or her grandfather. Leaving him here, letting the police find him, or letting the rising river wash him away—none of that was her concern.
A sudden flash of lightning streaked across the sky, and heavy raindrops pelted down.
Colette looked at the sky again, then at the man on the ground.
Raindrops hit his face, but he showed no reaction. Water streamed down his forehead into his eyes, yet he blinked not, his mouth unmoving—like a corpse—
Suddenly, Colette reached out and pressed her finger under his nose.
There was breath.
Weak, intermittent, but there.
She stood up abruptly, scanning around. The riverbank was deserted, only the increasing density of raindrops and the approaching thunder. The distant wooden cabin still had lights on—her grandfather must be waiting for her to come back for dinner.
It was about twenty minutes to the cabin from here.
This person wouldn't last twenty minutes.
Colette clenched her teeth and made a decision she herself couldn't believe.
She poured the lavender leaves out of her basket onto the ground, then covered his face with the basket to shield him from the rain—though it was useless, at least it might reduce the amount of water he inhaled. Then she bent down, grabbed both of his arms, and with all her might, started pulling him backward.
He was heavy.
He didn't look fat, but he was dead weight. She could only drag him two steps before gasping for breath. The rain was falling harder, stinging her skin, and the cobblestones beneath her feet were slippery and uneven. She stumbled, her knees hitting a jagged stone, and tears pricked her eyes from the pain.
But she didn't let go.
She gritted her teeth and kept pulling.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
Finally, she dragged him onto the grass at the edge of the riverbank. She was soaked through—she couldn't tell whether it was rain or sweat. She crouched beside him, gasping heavily, and suddenly noticed his eyelids fluttering.
She leaned in closer.
His eyelids moved again, his pupils shifting beneath them, as if trying to open his eyes but unable to. His lips moved slightly, as if trying to speak, but only a faint, almost inaudible groan escaped.
"Don't die!" Colette blurted out. "Wait, I'll go get help—I'll call my grandfather—"
She was about to stand up when she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her left ankle—the jolt from her earlier stumble had sprained it.
She looked down at her ankle—it was swollen, red and puffy. Then she looked back at the man on the ground. The rain was washing over his face, and his breathing seemed even weaker.
Suddenly, she remembered her grandfather's words: When someone is about to die, they shouldn't be exposed to the rain. If they get wet, their vital energy will disperse.
Clenching her teeth, she flipped her basket over and covered his face with it again, then bent down and grabbed his arm once more.
This time, she dragged him more slowly. One leg lacked strength, so she had to push off with her right leg, inching forward step by step. Through the rain, everything was blurry; she could only rely on her memory, heading toward the wooden cabin, taking one step after another.
She didn't know how long it had been—long enough that she thought she might die on this road, long enough that she couldn't feel her arms or legs, only mechanically pushing and pulling—
Finally, the lights of the cabin appeared through the rain.
"Grandfather—" Colette called out, but her voice was choked, barely audible. She called again, summoning all her strength, "Grandfather—"
The door of the cabin opened.
A hunched figure appeared in the doorway, holding a kerosene lamp. The light flickered in the rain, illuminating Colette and the motionless figure behind her.
"Colette!" the old man exclaimed, dropping the lamp and rushing over. When he reached her, he looked at the stranger on the ground, then at his soaked, swollen ankle granddaughter—without asking any questions, he bent down and lifted the man.
"Let's go," he said. "Inside first."
Colette followed him, limping toward the cabin. When they reached the door, she looked back at the path they had taken—through the rain, everything was invisible, only the clean, wet grass and a deep trail left in the mud.
That trail stretched from the riverbank all the way to the cabin door.
Suddenly, she felt a shiver of fear. What if that person was a bad man? What if he woke up and harmed her or her grandfather?
But then she remembered that pale face, those tightly closed eyes, the faint breath.
She couldn't care anymore.
Turning around, she limped into the cabin and shut the door.
Outside, the rain was pouring down relentlessly.
The Rona River was still rising, roaring forward. The spot on the riverbank where the man had been lying was submerged. The river's current washed over the cobblestones, leaving all the bloodstains completely clean.
As if nothing had ever happened.