by Bryan Davis
Marc’s lips trembled as he spoke with passion. “Rest assured that I will arrange for you to be buried next to your dear sister. I leave judgment to God and hold no hatred toward you. Depart this world in peace, my friend, knowing that I have forgiven you.”
Justin’s head bobbed as he wept. “Thank you.”
With the officers standing guard, the executioner lowered Justin to the chopping block. Above his neck, the blade hung poised. Only the release of a rope stood between him and death.
I searched again. A young woman who looked exactly like Justice walked into view from the direction Marc had come. Hand in hand with a little ginger-haired girl and holding no cane, she seemed able to see where she was going without a problem.
As they approached the guillotine together, the rain ceased. Both wearing traveling clothes, including hats, long skirts, vests, and boots, they bore only a few splotches of wetness, as if they had been in the rain for a mere few seconds.
When they passed us, I eyed them closely. There was no doubt about Justice’s identity, but who was the little girl? And would this Justice, whoever she was, be able to speak in time to stop the execution?
She and the girl halted in front of the platform, only a few steps in front of Marc and me. Justice folded her hands at her waist and waited. But for what?
I called out, “Justice, will you speak on Justin’s behalf?” She ignored me and kept her vigil, though the little girl turned her head and smiled.
Marc squinted. “Justice? What are you talking about?”
I turned toward him. “Don’t you see her? She’s in front of us with a little girl.”
“No. Just the guards and Justin.”
As the executioner reached for the rope, I pointed. “The girl with dark hair. She and a little girl are standing close to the chopping block.”
“You’re hallucinating, Inspector. No one is there. Certainly not Justice.”
“No one?” I spun toward the guards and shouted, “Stop the execution!”
The rope reeled out. The blade plunged. In a splash of blood, Justin’s head dropped into the basket.
My heart seemed to stop. I felt my mouth drop open as I stared at Justice. She neither flinched nor wept. She and the girl stood quietly, as if waiting for something.
Marc grasped my shoulder. “It’s over, Inspector. You should get out of those wet clothes. You might have a fever.”
“I … I …” My throat caught. I couldn’t speak another word.
Tears streamed down Marc’s cheeks as he said with a trembling voice, “Come to my house. Dry off. We’ll have dinner and some more wine. I’ll tell you stories about Justin. Help me grieve for him and my sister. It’s not a good time to be alone.”
I finally forced a weak, “Very well. I will come soon.”
While I stood in stoic silence, Marc accompanied the executioner and the guards as they carried Justin’s body and the basket containing his head into the jail. The five other onlookers strolled away and blended into the dismal surroundings. Now only Justice and the girl remained.
I walked to Justice’s side. “May I ask who you are?”
She turned and looked at me with bright, piercing eyes. “My name is Justice Trotter. Who are you?”
“Inspector Paul Fortier.”
She blinked. “You didn’t recognize me?”
“I did. I was just ...” I touched my chest. “You can see me?”
“Yes, of course. In heaven all eyes are renewed. All shadows flee. Every broken heart is mended.”
“So I have heard.” I lowered my head. “If only I could see for myself.”
“That day will come. Constance is looking forward to your arrival.”
I stared at her. “My Constance?”
Justice nodded. “She hopes her papa will stop worrying about her. She is happy, and sickness can never touch her again. All is well.”
My throat tightened. My thoughts scrambled. Again, I couldn’t speak.
She turned toward the guillotine. “I apologize, Inspector, but I must go now. Farewell.”
Again hand in hand with the girl, Justice walked toward a man who stood in front of the platform. He, too, wore travel clothes—a fine suit and cloak as well as a new beret. When Justice joined him, they embraced warmly, weeping as they kissed each other’s cheeks. Then the three walked toward me, the girl in the middle.
As they drew near, I eyed the man closely. He was Justin Trotter, almost unrecognizable due to the delighted smile on his face. The girl, perhaps seven years old, pulled her hair back from her shoulders, revealing an oval birthmark on her neck.
I whispered, “Francine.”
Before they passed, Justin tipped his hat to me, then the trio walked away hand in hand, slowly fading to invisibility. And for the first time in months, my heart was glad.
Readers in the future, I leave it to you to divine the meaning of this trio’s appearance as well as the Justice I found in the storm-afflicted alley. I have my own thoughts on both, but I think it best to keep them to myself. I prefer to leave drawing conclusions to better minds than my own.
I looked at the two dossier cases. Every word of Justin’s account was true. And, as his final penned words had predicted, Justice did come. The brother and sister were together at last. As Justice said, “All is well.”
I turned toward Marc’s home and plodded along the wet street. These mysterious phenomena shook me to the core. If ghosts were on this earth as an opportunity for martyrs to teach their persecutors love, then why were they allowed to interact with the living? Justin had said to let the ghosts speak as a way to learn charity, but who showed him charity when he needed it most? Certainly not Paris’s version of Justice, a justice that could see all too well.
I looked up at the shrouded sky. This veil prevented a view of the heavens above, a barrier to communication. Had divine messengers visited us, piercing the veil to deliver revelations? Joan of Arc had her angels. Pierre Cauchon had his demons. Michael brought a message of love. Jean countered it with suspicion and guile. And Justice opened my eyes to hope, even in the midst of my darkness.
Perhaps Justin was right. We do need to let the ghosts speak, but we must take heed. Every messenger of light is accompanied by a countering darkness.
And sometimes they walk hand in hand.
This concludes my addendum, respectfully submitted by Inspector Paul Fortier. May those who read it find enlightenment and understanding. Perhaps you will be able to perceive what the blind cannot. I fear that we in my era lack the wisdom to see beyond the veil.
Author Note
This story originated in a dream that included many of the events in the first two chapters. Most of my dreams fade by afternoon, but this one stayed with me, gnawing at my mind for more than twelve years. In a sense, the story demanded to be written.
When I finally heeded the call, the story gave birth to its own themes, which I will not identify here. I prefer that readers discover themes for themselves. Yet, I will say that my being an author likely contributed to their genesis.
This story drove me to conduct a great amount of research, including books about 19th century French history and culture, biographies about Joan of Arc and Michael Servetus, and Youtube videos of the Paris catacombs. I felt immersed in Paris to the point that I began thinking in a French accent from time to time. It was loads of fun.
As a result, I learned more than I could ever use in the story, including fascinating aspects of the martyrs’ lives. Inserting these would have provided educational benefit, but it would have slowed the pace too much. My favorite resource was Mark Twain’s biography of Joan of Arc, one of the best books I have ever read.
If you enjoyed this book, I hope you will provide a review, whether on a retail website like Amazon, in a blog, or in a social media post. I thank you in advance for doing so.
You can connect with me on the Internet in the following ways:
Website – www.daviscrossing.com – You can sign up for my em
ail newsletter there.
Facebook - www.facebook.com/BryanDavis.Fans
Twitter - @bryandavisauth
Blog – www.theauthorschair.com
Email – [email protected]
I look forward to hearing from you.