La Fée Verte

By Samuel Clark

She is the nectar of the poet, the Green Muse. She steals the souls of those who love, turns their lives to despair and feeds her own. She is where love goes when it is destroyed and only hate shall remain. Her name is Green Fairy, and she lives in the absinthe.
At the centre of several intertwined stories is Virginie Couvet, who falls in love with a man with ties to the church—a man who cannot afford to associate with her. Virginie and her sisters have invented a drink that their customers love but the church wants outlawed: Absinthe.

Haunted by her lost love, and by strange visions of La Gargouille, Virginie desperately searches for release from her torment. Under the influence of a force she does not understand, the lines between this world and the next begin to blur.

This gripping tale, pieced together from the translated diary extracts of those who have encountered La Fée Verte in her various forms, takes us on a journey that begins in sixth century France, but spans over a millennium.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tenebris Books
• Release date: Jun 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9780993576683

Samuel Clark

Samuel Clark was born in Newark, New Jersey. He was raised in a high-rise public housing project, and joined the Newark Police Department on November 20, 1972. During his more than 25 years with the police department, Mr. Clark has worked as an officer in the patrol division, as a detective assigned to the juvenile bureau and has worked on all kinds of cases ranging from harassment to homicide. He was promoted to the rank of sergeant in 1994 and to lieutenant in 1997.In 1995 Mr. Clark, while on duty and serving in a supervisory capacity, suffered police brutality at the hands of a lower-ranking Newark police officer. When the officer received a mere reprimand, Clark was prompted to investigate the policies and practices of the Newark Police Department. Not only did he find that the police department had failed to terminate or properly sanction officers who had committed rape, assault, auto theft and other serious crimes; he also found that corruption and differential treatment pervaded the entire department.When Clark attempted to fulfill his ethical and sworn responsibility to report corruption and differential treatment to his supervisors, they and other high-ranking police officials responded by slapping him with harsh sanctions. Mr. Clark even appeared before the Newark Municipal Council and offered public testimony regarding the corruption he had uncovered. The council, however, did little to stop the corruption or to protect Clark from retaliation. On April 9, 1999, Mr. Clark was terminated from the police department.Mr. Clark is now retired from the police department and is currently living in Pennsylvania with his wife and daughter. He is writing additional books on police corruption, participates in seminars on police corruption, and serves as an expert in the areas of Police Procedures and Police Internal Investigations and Discipline. Mr. Clark appeared in the special features (The Thin Blue Line) of the DVD edition of “Righteous Kill,” starring Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino.

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La Fée Verte

or

The Green Fairy

Samuel Clark

Tenebris Books Logo

www.tenebrisbooks.com

Copyright © 2016 Samuel Clark

Samuel Clark asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Hardback ISBN 978-0-9935766-7-6

EPUB ISBN 978-0-9935766-8-3

Cover art and illustrations © 2015 by Ana Santo

Typesetting by Book Polishers

Tenebris Books

An Imprint of Grimbold Books

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Contents

Letter from Francois Leroux to Garcelle Leroux

Letter from Garcelle Leroux to Francois Leroux.

Journal of Father Romanis Laurent

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Pastor Jean-Paul Desequelle’s Diary

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Étienne Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Couvet’s Journal

Virginie Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Laurent’s Journal

Virginie Laurent’s Journal

Doctor Victor Jouffroy’s Journal – Pertaining to the strange case of Virginie Laurent (Couvet)

Virginie Laurent’s Letter

Writing found in Sylvain Laurent’s apartment.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Other Titles from Tenebris Books

For Mum

Letter from Francois Leroux to Garcelle Leroux

November 11th

Translated from the original text by Guillaume Ducray

Garcelle,

My sweet lady, I do not repent what I have done and if I do, it is merely to save myself, and be returned to you as a free man. I do not hold much hope that these ruthless barbarian notaries will give me pardon. It is only now that I thank the sweet Lord for making me an orphan, because without my upbringing in the church, and the guidance of the clergy, I would not be able to write this letter and you would not be able to read it. I miss those days now, under the summer sun teaching you how to read and write. Your beaming enthusiastic eyes warm my soul in these dark, grubby surroundings. My heart fills with sorrow at the thought of not enjoying our lives together and to see sweet little Mathilde grow up into the fine woman she is sure to become. A brief lapse in my vigilance led me to steal and for a few sticks of bread. In my defence my actions were for yours and Mathilde’s sake, for you to eat and be nourished so I could once again see both your beautiful faces in the fullest of colour. During my inevitable death, I promise my thoughts will be of you and the time we so luckily spent together. I must stop now, for the effort of writing has made me light-headed and weak. I have not eaten in weeks and only quenched my thirst on dirty rain water.

All my love.

Eternally yours, François

Letter from Garcelle Leroux to Francois Leroux.

Translated from the original text by Guillaume Ducray

François,

Words cannot express how much we miss you and how much frustration I feel at not being able to be with you. We made the journey to Paris in one day and have settled down well. We found a small settlement on the outskirts, the village is nice, as are the views of the river and the farmland beyond. Mathilde spends her days learning to read and write under the guidance of the Brothers. Thoughts of you and our time together pains my days with longing. I hope and pray that our good Lord has found a peaceful place for you beyond the cruelty of this mortal earth.

Forever yours,

Garcelle

Journal of Father Romanis Laurent

Translated from the original text by Guillaume Ducray

12th November, 607 A.D.

Ihad chosen to walk through the night as I had not found a suitable place to rest, no inn or welcoming village did I come across in my pilgrimage and the weariness in my step weighed upon me. Only the gentle flow of the river Seine’s waters that marked my route cooled my mind and gave me the will to carry on.

It was not yet dawn when I finally came upon the settlement of Rouen, but my relief on seeing its collection of thatched houses, stone buildings and huts was short lived as I noted a perpetual green tinted sky that loomed heavily upon the town. Farmland stretched all around and disappeared into the gloomy darkness while an ever-present green shaded moon hung above. Walking further toward the town I noticed the absence of livestock and indeed, wildlife of any kind. An eerie silence permeated and only the wind howling through the trees and across the farmland remained.

The river Seine’s waters reflected back this strange moon’s green tinted glare, and as I lifted my gaze from it, I saw it led to the small port that served the town. It was destroyed, nothing left but torn wood and the rotting framework of boats and schooners that once provided Rouen’s supplies and needs.

Being a young man of twenty-one years, it is my first pilgrimage since completing the teachings of the clergy in Paris, I confess I am somewhat naïve of the outside world and intimidated by it. I resisted the church elders’ request at first claiming that Rouen has no spiritual significance, and I was perplexed as to why they would want to send me there. They retorted, stating that this particular pilgrimage would be metaphorical in nature, that it would be a journey of self-discovery and an exploration of self-belief. Although they did not speak of it in any certain terms I knew or at the very least had the sense that this was some indirect punishment for an earlier indiscretion I had made.

Must I go alone? asked I. The church elder nodded but said nothing. Might I have a horse? Again the church elder said nothing and shook his head from side to side. When am I to leave?

On the morrow. With little else left to say I took my leave and gathered some supplies together, all the while I was most concerned and intimidated at the thought of wandering across the countryside alone. There was little choice, and I realised I must swallow my fear and embrace it bounding forth with an affected confidence. My fears were for naught, for I encountered little of significance in my week long journey until, of course, I reached Rouen.

The sun rose and the night lifted, giving way to a cold morning as I progressed through the town. I searched its cobbled streets and muddy pathways for an inn but found none and the town was silent, no early morning traders starting business for the day, indeed Rouen seemed devoid of any life at all, and I felt an oppressive atmosphere. I continued to search the streets and houses for a church or a house of worship, hoping to find rest and solace. As I walked, my legs grew wearier. I noticed there was little to no sign that the town kept any kind of religious faith, crucifixes adorned no door, nor wall. Most alarmingly there seemed not to be a cemetery of any description leaving me to wonder what the townsfolk did with their dead. Finally, I came upon an inn or tavern, the windows glowed with an inviting, warm light and the laughter of its patrons spilled out onto the street. I was about to step forward and enter when I heard yells and screams, not of pain or fear, but of pleasure. Instantly it dawned on me that the establishment was a brothel. Given the indiscretion I mentioned earlier and wanting to resist temptation, I scurried away almost fearful of the place and the goings on behind its doors. I continued to walk the streets in search of a quieter inn to rest. A strange smoky hue descended and swirled through the alleyways and muddy rues and the eerie silence continued, I also noticed a new and strange oddity, butterflies and moths fluttered circles within the heavy clouds of smoke.

When I came upon the town square, a thick fog descended upon the area with a speed I had never experienced before, at first I confused it with the smoke but soon realised the difference as my robes became spattered with a thin layer of dew. It was only broken by the surrounding buildings and a gallows standing in the centre. On closer inspection, I found the wooden masts of the gallows blackened by fire, small sections had been reduced to charcoal and ashes that scattered the ground at the foot of one of its masts. I also found broken ropes drenched in blood laying in a heap not far from its base. My thoughts pondered what grim event had taken place here. I was abruptly interrupted by a pitchfork slamming into the ground not five feet away. I looked up and found myself in the presence of a man adorned in a black cape with hood, his face was worn and tired, but an aggressive scowl did its best to mask it.

You have business here? he stated firmly, and I took a moment to calm myself.

A mere pilgrim who has been travelling through the night, Father Laurent at your service.

And whose father might you be?

Father to all who need guidance and salvation. I am a servant of the Lord.

The farmer peered at me, and I noted a distinct look of mistrust.

Might there be an inn where I can rest and gain sustenance? I asked.

He remained silent for a long moment before saying, Madame Couvet’s, a little walk across the way there, and with his bony forefinger pointed toward one of the two storey abodes that outlined the square. A painted sign hung above the doorway that read: Auberge De Couvet. When I looked back to the farmer with the intention of thanking him, he had disappeared, leaving only the swirling fog where he once stood.

*

The door creaked and rattled as I entered the inn. Directly to my right were three men. They looked old before their time, tired and weary, with greying hair and the early onset of wrinkles. Their conversation stopped abruptly on my entrance, and I could feel their gaze upon me as I walked across the room. A woman, also likely in her forties, sat behind the bar sipping from a wooden goblet. She too, looked world-weary, and I sensed there was once a beautiful spirit within that had been chipped away over the course of her years. Her hair style was markedly odd, bunched at the crown of her head like a pony’s tail. I say a pony’s tail, but in fact it was more like a long and rigid horse tail that arched at a point and then ran down to the small of her back. I found it to be rather fetching, perhaps even because of this oddity. Coupled with her sparkling green eyes and soft, pale skin, I felt an immediate and inexplicable attraction.

Mightily early to be drinking Christ’s blood? said I, by way of introduction, observing the thick red liquid swilling around inside the goblet as she placed it down on the counter.

This may be many things, but Christ’s blood it is not. How may I help you today, Monsieur? she asked, moving the goblet aside.

A room, and some sustenance, if you would be so kind.

I’ll be kind. I’ll be kind as soon as you cross my palm with silver.

Are you a fortune teller? said I after an inquisitive pause, noting her