He shouted, his tone urgently hopeful, “Tante, that’s Tante!”
Maman said, not noticing them, “I have to go down and find her.”
“How can we get back up?”
“Can you find that ladder? Will someone try to hurt you?”
“Only Gilles is here, and he—I—oh God.”
Marcy shouted, “Maman! Jehanne! Hey! Can you see us?”
Faces appeared. And she supposed they did see them, with the deer-stares she and André received. Maman’s hair was undone, which made her look strange, and it fell over the edge of the pit. Marcy mused that Maman was like Rapunzel, except her hair was too short, and what a terrible thing anyway, to burden someone’s scalp with your weight. Maman looked like someone had doused her in cold water. She blinked, then blinked again like something was in her eyes.
Jehanne asked, “How many of you are down there?”
Maman reached down to them and said to Jehanne, “Hold on to me.” With Jehanne’s help, she was closer, her elbows scraping the shining blackness.
One by one, Marcy and André helped the children up until Maman strained to pull them all up without worry or complaint. When it was done, André looked to Marcy. “Get on my shoulders.”
She huffed. “No, you get on mine.”
“No.”
“Don’t argue with me. You’re injured. I won’t put weight on your shoulders.”
“I—”
Marcy stuck her bottom lip out so that she imitated an offended frog. “André!”
He sighed and acquiesced. And while Marcy regretted her decision immediately, he didn’t stand on her for too long, and she survived. It seemed impossible for anyone to reach her. None of the hands seemed close enough, and the pit was steep.
She dug her sole into the black and when she peered up, she feared Maman would fall into the pit with her. As she climbed as much as she could without sliding down, which was a pitiful distance, Marcy’s fingers brushed Maman’s palms. She gave all her energy to a single lunge. Maman caught her wrist, and Marcy’s body yelped like a frightened dog, telling her to stopstopstop.
A final twinge in her elbows and legs, and then warmth covered her, arms holding her close. When she craned her neck, the children were gone. Maman murmured in her hair, “Oh, my girl.” And Marcy was okay for a second. Suffocating, but okay. She couldn’t remember the last time Maman had held her like this. When Marcy leaned back, it took her a minute to take in everyone. André panting, on all limbs but his injured foot; Maman with her blotched face and tousled hair. Jehanne covered in blood and looking a decade older in the curve of her cheeks.
Marcy asked, “Where did the children go?” André said nothing.
“They ran off. I don’t understand. Why were there children down there?” Maman shifted her focus to André. “My God, are you okay? Don’t take this poorly, but what are you doing here?”
Too many questions. Marcy wanted her bed now, too tired to pray for or to anything.
André coughed, which rattled the air. “I lost my cigar, so I was digging around in the pit when Marcy found me.”
“I’m glad your tongue is in good order.” Maman’s voice was rough, but not with ire. It was affection like a diamond still crusted in dirt and rock.
The four of them stood together, lifting like a quilt in the wind, rippling up as dovetailed threads.
Marcy warily looked at the floor. “Maman?”
“Hmm?”
“You might want to pick up your gun.”
“Yes, right.” Maman did.
Something was different about her friend; Jehanne’s eyes were fogged like a window on which a seething ghost had breathed. Jehanne was haunted, but Marcy supposed they all were. Nevertheless, Marcy lunged into Jehanne’s stiff arms. No time could’ve been long enough, and though they both reeked of blood, Jehanne reciprocated the tightening embrace and released a quiet sigh into Marcy’s shoulder.
“Where’s Mlle Clair?” Marcy whispered, and when Jehanne’s silence answered her, she adjusted so both her arms were around her friend’s shoulders, and she pressed her cheek to Jehanne’s. It was so warm, the two of them as one.
The four of them went up the stairs, and her relief remained as tenuous as a plank bridge. It snapped more as, when they hadn’t progressed even halfway down the leering hall, André fell in a sudden procession, from arms to knees to feet. Marcy, Maman, and Jehanne hovered, a wary swarm, a web of hands wanting to help, but afraid to unravel fragile silk.
He wept in long drawls, and only a few words were clear. “Tante, I’m sorry, m’sorry.”
Maman knelt close, still not touching him. “Why are you the one who’s sorry?”
“I’m sorry I’m not good. I tried. I tried to fight.”
“I’m the one who called you…” Rosalie trailed off, unable to repeat it.
André gasped, “I can’t go on anymore. I can’t.” He buried his head in Maman’s lap, fists making crushed orchids of her dress.
Basking in her friend’s steady hotness, Marcy clutched herself to Jehanne, this Jehanne more silent than Marcy had ever known her.
Marcy said, “Sing that song about the nightingale.”
Maman’s forehead scrunched. “I don’t quite remember the words.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Marcy said.
Maman gave the air a string of words and hums, smoothing her hand down André’s hair and neck.
Jehanne whispered, and even that thundered in Marcy’s ear, “What did you see down there?” In that instant, Marcy and Jehanne were the only people in the world.
“There were dead children, a whole cave of them. Maybe more—but I only saw that one place.”
Maman entered Marcy’s little globe again, but only as a voice. “Sacré Dieu.”
Marcy looked to her friend for reassurance, but none was found. Jehanne was a sickly white, but more than that, she fidgeted as if she wanted to be somewhere else. That was okay, because so did Marcy.
How good home would be; how good her bed would be.
Marcy asked Maman, “What about the police I called?”
Maman’s hazel eyes were the brownest they’d ever been, however that happened. “Oh, poupée, I’m so sorry. They were all killed.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “But—but—I did what I was supposed to do.”
“You did. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”
Jehanne tensed.
Marcy sniffed. “Jehanne?”
“You’re wrong. Someone is at fault, and this place needs to burn. It all has to burn. I need to go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Maman gently tugged on Marcy’s sleeve. “Splitting up isn’t wise.”
As if frustrated, Jehanne heaved a long sigh. “You all need to leave this place. This is my duty. This is why I was brought here.”
“I don’t—it doesn’t make any sense. I read your father’s diary. He’s Gilles de Rais.” Jehanne gave a somber nod. Marcy stared. “How long’ve you known?”
“Only today.”
Maman frowned. “That’s impossible. That . . . man died centuries ago.” To Marcy, she asked, “Did you really read that dreadful book?”
“I was bored.” Marcy asked her friend, “Is he really your papa?”
Blue ringed Jehanne’s owlish, never-blinking eyes. “No, as I just learned.”
“Did he kidnap you?” Marcy persisted.
“In a sense.”
“Please explain. What about your real parents?”
“There’s no time. God put me here for a reason.” Jehanne’s voice shook with weight to it. “And as much as I don’t want to put another foot forward, I have to stop Gilles.”
“No, we can all just leave and get help.”
“Help, and then what? Have the officers who haven’t died sacrifice themselves? I have to go. I was born for this.”
“Jehanne, please, don’t be a martyr, not now. You can come with us.”
Her eyes gaining tha
t usual spark, Jehanne pulled Marcy into a crushing embrace, but the smell of blood and mildew blotted all that happened next.
Marcy whispered when Jehanne’s breathing hit her strangely, “Who are you, really?”
With the same quietness, Jehanne said, her hand on Marcy’s neck, “Do you know who Gilles served?”
Baffled, she answered, “Yes, Jehanne d’Arc, but . . .” She froze, stunned. “I don’t . . .”
When Marcy blinked again, which may’ve been a minute later, Jehanne was gone, and she stood and took in everything. Her head hurt.
Urgently, Maman said, “Poupée, let’s go.”
Even at their fastest, fatigue and injury burdened their advance.
The only words were from André when they came close to the entrance and a stench, different but like that of the pit, settled on Marcy’s tongue and made her gag.
He asked, “Where’s Oncle?”
Maman rubbed her temple. “That’s another matter. Best to focus on leaving here.” Marcy couldn’t argue against that.
When they found the main hall, it was quiet madness, and Marcy’s belly roiled at the carnage. She couldn’t understand this. Moreau scavenged a body with his teeth like a vulture did with its scythe-like beak, and when she saw who was smoking a cigar on the stairs like a gentleman at the park, her heart plummeted to her toes.
25
Jehanne
She sprinted to the shed behind the manor. To her knowledge, there was still an auto out front, and despite not knowing much about modern things, Clair had told her oil brought it to life, and oil could catch fire, so best not to touch it. When she had asked Clair what an auto ate to stay alive and the woman spoke about an oil canister, she said it was a metal bird with a long nose. The mental picture had reminded Jehanne of a hummingbird. It was a guess, a madly rushed one, that the container would be in the decrepit wooden building.
Her heart sank when she thought of Clair, but she couldn’t focus on Clair or Marcy or Marcy’s poor family—or the children Gilles had hurt, she realized with an encroaching migraine, to bring her back to life. Jehanne hadn’t the slightest why an honorable man would become so vile when he had his moments of affection. She couldn’t explain everything, like why Gilles would hurt children, even conceive of it, and if his reason was to bring Jehanne back, why didn’t he stop hurting children after her rebirth?
When Jehanne found what she believed to be the oil canister, and it was bigger than she thought, as big as her chest, she undid the top and sniffed. The liquid inside wrinkled her nose. Good, she had all she needed to cleanse this earth.
Still, doubt crept in like a fox slinking through the dark brush at the bottom of her skull. No matter her bravado, that doubt always crept about. All she wanted were the hours when she and Marcy had rested in bed together. Clair rubbing her back and half-embracing her. Papa with dirt under his nails in the garden where Michael, Catherine, and Margaret had told her to save France. Catherine, her ever-beaming sister, cross-legged by her on the family bed as Maman made them memorize hymns they knew from sermons instead of books.
Jehanne could just run off. Forget Gilles, not worry about his whereabouts or if he’d follow her to her second death. She could live with Marcy and her family. Yes, she’d have a family, a normal family, besides certain quirks, of course. She knew better than anyone that fire was a terrible thing, and she didn’t have to listen to the voices telling her to light the pyre.
As well as that, she didn’t even have matches, which impaired her plan, to say the least.
But if she left, Gilles could escape, if he hadn’t already, if instinct had overcome his obsession with her. He’d hurt more people for his own means, for his own pleasure. He’d follow her wherever she went.
In this war, the cause had splintered, but even though Jehanne couldn’t protect those who’d died, she would champion their souls and all those endangered by Gilles. He was, after all, her companion, her knight, and only she could relieve him of his duty. Hunched, Jehanne lugged the canister as fast as she could, and only as she carried it did she realize her fatigue, but faith stoked her resolve. She tried not to slosh the oil on the grass. For an odd moment, she wondered if, in Heaven, she had met her parents and siblings, and if they had said their apologies and lived happily until God allowed Gilles to steal her.
As Jehanne sprinted as fast as she could down a tapering hall, she lingered on what Maman must’ve thought when she received news of her last daughter’s execution and the casting of her ashes in the Seine.
It’ll be over soon, Maman, Papa, Catherine, Pierre, Jacquemin, Jean. I’ll see you all again today.
As she entered the main hall, her vision tunneled, and she ignored everyone and went to work pouring the oil. If anyone had tried to gain her attention, their voices failed to reach her. Her pants were soaked where the oil splashed. She only paused when Gilles crossed the frozen space to stand above Moreau, who slurped at marrow and bone without regard for anyone around him.
With two sure stomps, a crunch, and a smacking pop, Gilles leaned over and caved in Moreau’s skull, as if he’d lined his boots with steel. Rosalie jerked a hand over Marcy’s eyes.
“It needs to burn,” Jehanne said until it became a litany. “It needs to burn.”
“Jehanne,” Gilles called. He came close.
“Get away from me!”
He looked at what she held. His eyes grew somber. “Is this what you want?”
“I—”
Before she answered. André came alive, or, more aptly, he went mad. Rosalie almost slipped on the oil and the fabric of her dress in trying to reach him as he half-lunged, half-hobbled. And when he flew at the devil, Gilles went down, eerily nonplussed as André relentlessly hit him in the face, throat, and chest. As Gilles stood again, he reached for Jehanne, but before he could step close, André landed a punch to his jaw. It only made Gilles stumble a little, but it was a valiant effort.
Marcy was there, too close to the monster and tugging on André’s sleeve. “André, he’s not fighting back! Let’s go!” In a hectic procession, Rosalie came from behind and tried to steer both Marcy and André away.
Jehanne tried to gaze into every glazed eye. The dead were most of those Jehanne saw every day, even when she was too stuck in her own bonnet to learn their names as she ate well and rested on clean sheets. She swallowed and closed her eyes, even when she had nothing left to spill. She was as empty and drained as the canister she dropped at her feet.
Gilles called to her, “Jehanne, darling, if this is what you want, I’m more than happy to oblige, if you follow me.” He glided up the second floor and around, the balcony with its half-open curtains. André followed, eyes silver and face scarlet. Rosalie tripped on a hand and the long skirt of her dress, falling to her knees before Gilles, which frenzied André’s ministrations.
“Dear boy, are there parts of you I haven’t broken yet?” Gilles ground his foot on André’s bandaged one, and André howled. “You should find a cane. It’ll do you good.” With a flippant grin, Gilles swerved another blow. “I really wish you had been this animated down in the dove room. It’s really not pleasurable to insert yourself into a limp toy. If I’d wanted that, I would’ve used one of the corpses. Mary knows I have enough.” Again, Gilles ducked a hit with obscene grace. “It’s a shame my old castle is in ruins and everything confiscated, or else I could’ve used my instruments to make you more excitable.”
Jehanne tensed when Gilles, seemingly bored, gripped André’s throat and lifted him up as if he were paper. a single squeeze could end him. Rosalie, still on the ground, lifted her pistol, and with a jolt, she shot it once. The bullet entered Gilles’ wrist, rippled through his arm and blew out at the shoulder. His entire arm splintered open, the once-blue sleeve dripping. André fell and scrambled away, gripping his throat and coughing. Gilles flinched, but smiled at the wound as if a child had pinched his arm. Rosalie shuffled backwards, regaining her footing and throwing an arm over Marcy’s shoulders.
“Well done, madame,” was all Gilles said.
Jehanne wondered why he wasn’t fighting as he had with the officers, why he embraced her spilling of the oil. You’re not a pile of ashes anymore. Go!
Jehanne kicked the empty canister aside. Damn her inaction. Going toward the steps, she tripped over an arm, or maybe it was a leg, but she quickly recovered out of the sloshing mire and climbed the first steps. God is a consuming fire. She tried to move to the landing, but halted.
Moreau stood between her and the rest of the ascent. He had been patting Clair’s temple when he caught sight of Jehanne and bolted up. (When had he gotten up?) Snarling, he lurched once and stumbled. Her knuckles tightened, and when she gazed down, a faint gleam by her left foot caught her eye.
The braquemard crusted black, Gilles’ sword, her sword now. The sword he’d sliced through an Englishman’s neck, a soldier who had towered over her as she bled from the neck; in that moment, Gilles looked every bit like a softer, terrified Michael, his eyes blue and bloodshot for her.
She hurriedly grappled the sword and pointed it at Moreau, but it was then he made a sound that was neither a growl nor a curse. As he sobbed, she realized his mouth was contorted not in a snarl, but a grimace. The sight of him, a bloody, lost wretch, didn’t terrify Jehanne; it was sad, the way his crushed head looked where his ruined skull, brain, and eyes protruded forth, half his scalp sloughing over an ear.
“Make it stop,” Moreau begged. “Please.”
Without closing her eyes to prepare for the blow, she lifted the sword, said a prayer, and swung at his neck, and so Moreau fell to the floor twice, mercifully released at last. The faint descent of him rolling down the stairs afforded little of her attention as she climbed. By the time she reached the stalled conflict, Gilles leaned with his elbows on the banister across from the balcony, the curtains lashing out with the wind. Jehanne stepped between Gilles and the family, lifting the sword to be the steel distance between them. It has to be me. It was always supposed to be me. God wanted me; God let me leave for a short time to help those who needed my love. And I tried, did the best I could.
Dove Keeper Page 23