by Anne Rice
As far as I could see, all the guards had deserted the square, and the pastor had run away. And now I beheld my Deborah move backwards into the shadows, though her eyes were still on the heavens:
"I see you, Lasher!" she cried out. "My strong and beautiful Lasher!" And she vanished into the dark of the nave.
At this I ran from the window and down the stairs and into the frenzy of the square. What was in my mind I could not tell you, save somehow I could reach her, and under cover of the panic around us, get her free from this place.
But as I ran across the open space, the tiles flew every which way, and one struck my shoulder, and another my left hand. I could see nothing of her, only the doors of the church which were, in spite of their great heaviness, swinging in the wind.
Shutters had broken loose and were coming down upon the mad folk who could not get out through the little streets. Bodies lay piled at every arch and doorway. The old Comtesse lay dead, staring upwards, men and women tripping over her limbs. And in the ruin of the viewing stand lay the body of Chretien, the little one, twisted so as it could not have had life in it.
Philippe, the elder, crawled upon his knees to seek shelter, his leg broken it appeared, when a wooden shutter came down striking his neck and breaking it as well so that he fell dead.
Then someone near me, cowering against the wall, screamed:
"The Comtesse!" and pointed up.
There she stood, high on the parapets of the church, for she had gone in and upwards, and balancing perilously upon the wall, she once again raised her hands to heaven and cried out to her spirit. But in the howling of the wind, in the screaming of the afflicted, in the falling of the tiles and the stones and the broken wood, I could not hope to hear her words.
I ran for the church, and once inside searched in panic for the steps. There was Louvier, the inquisitor, running back and forth, and then finding the steps before me, leading the way.
Up and up I ran after him, seeing his black skirts high above me, and his heels clacking on the stones. Oh, Stefan, if I had had a dagger, but I had no dagger.
And as we reached the open parapets, as he ran out before me, I saw Deborah's thin body fly, as it were, from the roof. Reaching the edge, I peered down upon the carnage and saw her lying broken on the stones. Her face was turned upwards--one arm beneath her head, and the other limp across her chest--and her eyes were closed as though she slept.
Louvier cursed when he saw her. "Burn her, take her body up to the pyre," he cried, but it was useless. No one could hear him. In consternation he turned, perhaps to go back down and further command the proceedings, when he beheld me standing there.
And with a great look of amazement on his face, he regarded me helplessly and in confusion as, without hesitation, I pushed him with all my might, squarely in the chest, and backwards, so that he went flying off the edge of the roof.
No one saw this, Stefan. We were at the highest point of Montcleve. No other rooftop rose above that of the church. Even the distant chateau had no view of this parapet, and those below could not have seen me, as I was shielded from view by Louvier himself as I struck the blow.
But even if I am wrong as to the possibility of it, the fact of it is that no one did see me.
Retreating at once, making certain that no one had followed me to this place, I went down and to the church door. There lay my handiwork, Louvier, as dead as my Deborah, and lying very near her, his skull crushed and bleeding and his eyes open, in that dull stupid expression that the dead have which is almost never approximated by a human being in life.
How long the gale continued I cannot tell you, only that it was already falling off when I reached the church door. Perhaps a quarter of an hour, the very time the fiend had allotted for Deborah to die on the pyre.
From the shadows of the church foyer, I saw the square finally emptied, the very last climbing over the bodies that now blocked the side streets. I saw the light brighten. I heard the storm die away. I stood still regarding in silence the body of my Deborah, and saw that the blood now poured from her mouth, and that her white gown was stained with blood as well.
After a great while, numerous persons moved into the open place, examining the bodies of the dead, and the bodies of those who were still living and weeping and begging for assistance; and here and there the wounded were picked up and carried away. The innkeeper ran out, with his son beside him, and knelt down beside the body of Louvier.
It was the son who saw me and came to me and told me in great agitation that the parish priest had perished and so had the mayor. The son had a wild look to him, as if he could not believe that he was still living, and had witnessed such a thing.
"I told you she was a great witch," he whispered to me. And as he stood beside me, staring at her, we saw the armed guards gathering, very shaken and bruised and fearful as, at the command of a young cleric with a bleeding forehead, they lifted up Deborah and looking about as if they feared the storm would come again, though it did not, they took her to the pyre. The wood and coal began to tumble down as they climbed the ladder propped against it, and they laid her gently down and hurried away.
Others gathered as the young cleric in his torn robe, and with his head still bleeding, lighted the torches, and very soon the thing was set ablaze. The young cleric stood very near, watching the wood burn, and then backed away from it, and weaving, finally fell over in a faint, or perhaps dead.
I hoped dead.
Once again I climbed the steps. I went out upon the roof of the church. I looked down upon the body of my Deborah, dead and still and beyond all pain, as it was consumed by the flames. I looked out over the rooftops, now spotted all over where the tiles had been ripped out, and I thought of the spirit of Deborah and wondered if it had risen into the clouds.
Only when the rising smoke had become so thick and odoriferous from the coals and wood and pitch that I could no longer breathe the air did I retreat. And going to the inn, where men were drinking and babbling away in confusion and peering out at the fire and then backing away from the doors timidly, I gathered my valise and went down to seek my horse. It was gone in the melee.
But seeing another, in the charge of a frightened stable boy, and in readiness for a rider, I managed to buy it from him for twice what it was worth, though in all likelihood it was not his to sell, and I rode out of the town.
After many hours of riding very slowly through the forest, with much pain in my shoulder, and much more pain in my mind, I came to Saint-Remy and there fell into a dead sleep.
No one there had heard of the trouble yet, and I rode out very early on my way south to Marseille.
For the last two nights, I have lain on my bed half sleeping, half dreaming, and thinking of the things I saw. I wept for Deborah until there were no more tears in me. I thought of my crime and knew that I felt no guilt, but only the conviction that I would do it again.
All my life in the Talamasca, I have never once raised my hand to another man. I have reasoned, sought to persuade, connived and lied, and done my best to defeat the powers of darkness as I knew them, and to serve the powers of good. But in Montcleve, my anger rose, and with it my righteousness, and my vengeance. I rejoice that I threw that fiend off the roof of the church, if this quiet satisfaction can be called rejoicing.
Nevertheless, I have done murder, Stefan. You have in your possession my confession of this. And I anticipate nothing but your censure and the censure of the order, for when have our scholars gone forth to do murder, to push witch judges off the roofs of churches as I have done?
All I can say in my defense is that the crime was committed in a moment of passion and thoughtlessness. But I have no regret of it. You will know this as soon as you set eyes on me. I have no lies to tell you to make it a simpler thing.
My thoughts are not on this murder, as I write now. They are on my Deborah, and the spirit Lasher, and what I saw with my own eyes at Montcleve. They are on Charlotte Fontenay, the daughter of Deborah, who has gon
e on, not to Martinique as her enemies believe, but to Port-au-Prince in Saint-Domingue, as perhaps only I know.
Stefan, I cannot but continue my inquiry into this matter. I cannot lay down my pen and fall on my knees and say I have murdered a priest and therefore I must renounce the world and my work. So I, the murderer, continue as if I had never tainted this matter with my own crime, or my confession.
What I must do now is go to this unfortunate Charlotte--no matter how long the journey--and speak to her from my heart and tell her all that I have seen and all that I know.
This can be no simple exposition; no plea to sanity; no sentimental entreaty as I made in my youth to Deborah. There must be meat to these arguments, there must be talk between me and this woman, so that she will allow me to examine with her this thing brought out of invisibility and out of chaos to do more harm than any daimon or spirit of which I have ever heard tell.
For that is the essence of it, Stefan, the thing is horrific, and each and every witch that seeks to command it shall in the end lose control of it, I have no doubt. But what is the career of the thing itself?
To wit, it struck down Deborah's husband on account of what it knew of the man. Why did it not tell the witch herself? And what was meant by Deborah's statements that this being was learning, statements which have been made to me twice--the first time years ago in Amsterdam, the second time only lately before these tragic events.
What I mean to do is consider the nature of the thing, that it meant to spare Deborah pain in striking down her husband for her, without telling her the why of it, though it had to confess when it was asked. Or that it sought to leap ahead and do for her what she would have had done, to show itself a good and clever spirit.
Whatever the answer, this is a most unusual and interesting spirit, indeed. And consider its strength, Stefan, for I have exaggerated nothing of what befell the populace at Montcleve. You will soon hear of this, for it was too horrifying and remarkable for the story not to spread far and wide.
Now, during these long hours of soreness and torment, as I have lain here, I have considered carefully in memory all I have ever read of the old lore on spirits and daimons and the like.
I have considered the writings of wizards, through their warnings, and through anecdotes and the teachings of the Church Fathers, for no matter what fools they be in some matters, the Church Fathers do know a thing or two of spirits, in which they are in agreement with the ancients, and that agreement is a significant point.
Because if the Romans, the Greeks, the Hebrew scholars, and the Christians all describe the same entities, and issue the same warnings and formulae for controlling them, then surely that is something not to be dismissed.
And no nation or tribe to my knowledge has not acknowledged that there are many invisible beings, and that they divide into good spirits and evil spirits, according to how they benefit man.
In the early days of the Christian Church, the Church Fathers believed that these daimons were, in fact, the old gods of the pagans. That is they believed in the existence of those gods and that they were creatures of lesser power, a belief which the Church surely does not hold now.
However, the witch judges do hold this belief, crudely and in ignorance, for when they accuse the witch of riding out at night, they are accusing her in foolish words of the old belief in the goddess Diana, which did infect pagan Europe before the coming of Christianity, and the goat devil whom the witch kisses is none other than the pagan god Pan.
But the witch judge does not know that this is what he is doing. Dogmatically he believes only in Satan, "the Devil," and the devil's demons. And the historian must point out to him, for all the good it will do, that the fabrications of his demonologies come from the pagan peasant lore.
But to return to the main consideration, all peoples have believed in spirits. And all peoples have told us something of spirits, and it is what they have told us that I must examine here. And if memory serves me now, I must aver that what we see through the legends, the books of magic, and the demonologies is a legion of entities which can be called up by name, and commanded by witches or sorcerers. Indeed, the Book of Solomon lists them as numerous, giving not merely names and properties of the beings, but in what manner they choose to appear.
And though we in the Talamasca have long held that most of this is pure fancy, we know that there are such entities, and we know that the books contain some worthwhile warnings as to the danger inherent in evoking these beings, for they may grant our wishes in ways that cause us to cry to heaven in desperation as the old tale of King Midas and the peasant story of the three wishes make plain.
Indeed, the wisdom of the wizard in any language is defined as knowing how to restrain and carefully use the power of these invisible creatures, so that it is not turned upon the wizard in some unforeseen way.
But no matter how much one reads of learning about the spirits, where does one hear of teaching the spirits to learn? Where does one hear of them changing? Growing strong with evocation, yes, but changing?
And twice Deborah spoke to me of that very thing, the education of her spirit, Lasher, which says that the thing can change.
Stefan, what I perceive is that this thing, called forth from invisibility and chaos, by the simpleton Suzanne, is a complete mystery at this stage of its existence as the servant of these witches, and that it has advanced itself, through the guidance of Deborah, from a lowly spirit of the air, a storm maker that is, to a horrid daimon capable of killing the witch's enemies upon command. And I hold that there is even more to it than that, which Deborah had not time or strength to make known to me, but which I must make known to Charlotte, though not for the purpose of guiding her in her devotion to this thing, but in the hope of coming between her and the daimon and effecting the dissolution of it by some means.
For Stefan, when I consider the words of the being which Deborah quoted to me, I believe that the spirit has not only characteristics to be learned by the witch, but a character through which he learns; in sum, not only a nature to be understood, but a soul perhaps through which he understands.
Further, I am also willing to wager that this Charlotte Fontenay knows next to nothing of this daimon, that she never learnt the black arts from Deborah; that only in the eleventh hour did Deborah make known to Charlotte her secrets, and command Charlotte's loyalty, and send her away with her blessing that Charlotte might survive her, and not see her suffer in the fire. My beloved daughter, she called her, which I remember well.
Stefan, I must be allowed to go to Charlotte. I must not shrink from it as I did years before from Deborah on Roemer Franz's command. For had I argued with Deborah and studied with Deborah, perhaps I would have won ground with her, and this thing could have been sent away.
And finally, Stefan, consider my request for this mission on two further counts. One, I loved Deborah and I met defeat with her; and therefore I must go to her daughter, for this much is required of me on account of what passed between me and the woman before.
And two, that I have in my possession money enough to go to Saint-Domingue and can get more from our agent here, who will advance me plenty, and I may go even if you do not allow.
But please, do not make me break the rule of the order. Give me permission. Send me to Saint-Domingue.
For it so happens that I am going.
Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,
Petyr van Abel
Marseille
The Talamasca
Amsterdam
Petyr van Abel
Marseille
Dear Petyr,
Your letters never fail to surprise us, but you have surpassed even all your past triumphs with these two lately from Marseille.
All here have read them, word for word, and the council has come together and these are our recommendations:
That you come home at once to Amsterdam.
We understand full well your reasons for wishing to journey to Saint-Domingue but we cannot allow su
ch a thing. And we beg you to understand, that by your own admission, you have become part of the evil of Deborah Mayfair's daimon. In striking down Father Louvier from the roof, you carried out the wishes of the woman and of her spirit.
That you violated the rules of the Talamasca by this rash action concerns us heavily because we fear for you and we are of one mind that you must come home to take the advice of those here, and to restore your conscience and your judgment.
Petyr, you are being ordered under threat of excommunication: Return to us at once.
To the story of Deborah Mayfair we have devoted much study, taking into account your letters to us, as well as the very few observations which Roemer Franz saw fit to commit to paper (Translator's note: to date these have not been found); and we do agree with you that this woman and what she has done with her daimon is of considerable interest to the Talamasca; and please understand that we do intend to learn what we can of Charlotte Fontenay, and her life in Saint-Domingue.
It is not beyond possibility that we should in future send to the West Indies a nuncio to speak with this woman, and to learn what can be learned. But such cannot be contemplated now.
Wisdom dictates that after your return here, you write to this woman and make known to her the circumstances of her mother's death, with the omission of your crime against Father Louvier, as there would be no good reason to broadcast your guilt, and that you make known to Charlotte Fontenay also all that her mother has said. That you invite her to enter into correspondence with you would be more than advisable; and it is possible that you might exert upon her an influence that is beneficial with no risk to yourself.
This is all that you may do with regard to Charlotte Fontenay, and once more we order you to return at once; please come to us over land or sea, as quickly as possible.