“Each contract represents a satisfied customer and a soul that has found greater purpose.”
Emilie’s eyes went wide. “I don’t want to be a gagé.” She could feel her toes curling inside her shoes.
“That is no problem. As I stated, that is only used in extreme cases. In your case I am sure you will have no trouble making your payments.”
“And if I can’t?”
“No need to discuss that now,” he said soothingly. “Empty your mind of all fear and worry. Trust me, and together we will make your problems go poof and disappear.”
Emilie struggled to catch her breath. Her chest was so tight she felt like she was suffocating and her temples were throbbing. What the quimboiseur was asking was impossible. She could never raise that kind of money.
“Ten thousand francs is an enormous sum—”
“Mam’selle, do you want your problem solved or not?” By now his face turned to stone. His black eyes stared at her in a threatening manner, as if willing her to act.
With trembling hands, Emilie opened up her purse. She handed him her pearl necklace, the one her Grandmother Loulou had given her.
“I can give you this as a down payment,” she said, swallowing hard. She had no idea how much the necklace was worth, but it was all she had to offer.
“Very nice,” said the Grand Zamy, admiring it. “I will put you down for two thousand francs. You have one month to pay me the remaining eight thousand francs, agreed?”
Emilie was stunned. “One month? How can I . . .?”
He eyed her sharply. “Mam’selle, it is your responsibility to fulfill your side of the contract. I will do my part to make your fiancé disappear, and you must rely on the spirits to help you find a way to pay. Don’t worry, though. We can always amend the contract at a later date to more favorable terms.” From his desk he took out a prewritten contract and began filling in the blank spaces. “Very well; sign here, please.” He handed it across the desk to Emilie, who barely had time to scan the fine print before she signed it and handed it back to the quimboiseur.
“You see, that wasn’t so hard,” said the Grand Zamy, flashing his charming smile. He reached behind him to a shelf that contained a colorful assortment of bottles. After selecting a few, he placed them on the desk and called out each name as he set it down. “This is strength powder, this is moon powder, this is star powder, this is subterfuge powder, this is shark powder, this is proficiency powder, this is hexing oil, and this is devil oil . . .”
He mixed the ingredients in a bowl and poured the contents into two vials, both of which he handed to Emilie. He instructed her to drink the first bottle immediately and the second bottle in a week’s time. She downed the mixture in one gulp. It tasted surprisingly of mint. Then he recited a long phrase in Latin, inserting Lucien’s name at the end and telling her to repeat after him: “Acceso alius sententia ut mihi, phasmatis of interregnum ego dico, solvo meus mens mei, ego dico phasmatis audite meus placitum meus mens quod iacio Lucien Monplaisir.”
Emilie recited the phrase, feeling as if somehow she had crossed an invisible line.
“Very well; we are done,” said the Grand Zamy. “I expect the final payment of eight thousand francs in a month’s time. I am confident that by then, your problem will be solved, and you will be satisfied.”
Shaking like a leaf, Emilie got up to leave.
“Oh, and another thing,” said the Grand Zamy. “You must be punctual in paying your debt. If you miss the payment, the amount you owe will be double.”
“Double?” she said, feeling faint.
“It’s in the contract, mam’selle,” he said, snapping the file shut.
Chapter 26
Friday, May 2
By the time Emilie returned to Domaine Solitude, the clouds of volcanic dust were so thick, the sky had darkened, as if there was a solar eclipse. Flashes of lightning lit up the summit of Mount Pelée, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
Most of the workers had refused to show up for work, citing the danger, but there was a small group standing in a nearby field, chatting nervously. After leaving her horse in the stable, Emilie looked around frantically, but her father was nowhere to be found. Neither was Julien. She felt a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. She could feel it. When she ran in the house, the chandelier started tinkling, and the dishes rattled in the cupboard. A roof tile crashed to the ground, and voices in the outside kitchen shrieked. Before long the servants ran back to the house, shouting in fear. Some were crossing themselves and praying out loud. The walls were shaking so hard it sounded like horses were galloping on the roof. Thinking quickly, she rescued a glass that tipped over and almost crashed to the floor. Then she froze. Outside she heard a distinct loud roar that sounded like a landslide.
Her mother and Da Rosette raced down the stairs and cried out when they saw Emilie standing there. She asked about Abbé Morel, and they told her he was upstairs in bed, calmer and more relaxed. But the rumbling and ashfall had set her mother’s nerves on edge, and Da Rosette was frantic with worry. It seemed as if their world was coming apart at the seams. No one could deny the volcano was in active eruption, but it was impossible to predict when or if it would settle down. Emilie knew she had to get them to safety, but where? Thinking quickly, she asked a servant to bring everyone, including Abbé Morel, to the storm shelter. Certainly they would be safe there.
“Where’s Papa?” she asked.
Nobody knew. Her mother looked fearful, saying he had left the house an hour ago and hadn’t been seen since. Da Rosette erupted in tears. Racing outside, Emilie called over to a group of workers that was in the courtyard. They were huddled under the tamarind trees with sweaty brows, fearful eyes, and heaving chests, waving their cutlasses to and fro and shouting all at once. One of the men was pointing toward the slopes of Mount Pelée and shouting in a voice full of distress that the volcano was erupting. Emilie felt the crushing weight of the world on her shoulders. With her father gone, they were looking to her for answers. But she had no answers.
“Have you seen my father?” she asked Durancy.
Immediately his shoulders slumped. He removed his straw hat and looked at her with eyes filled with terror and uncertainty.
“Mam’selle, your father and Julien and four other men rode out to inspect the fields, but they have not come back yet.”
Her brow furrowed. “In which direction did they go?”
“About two miles east of here.” He pointed to the far edge of the estate, the valley that flanked the lower slopes of Mount Pelée. “They said they were heading to inspect the stream that feeds the orchards. Someone reported seeing water rising and flooding the nearby crops.”
“Oh dear, we have to find them,” she said.
Before Durancy could respond, a burst of orange flames shot out of the crater, flickering and crackling in the sky, then disappearing with a boom that almost burst their eardrums. Emilie gasped. For several seconds, reddish-orange sparks continued to glow on the summit before vanishing into the cone. The rumbling of the volcano increased, and a great black cloud billowed outward, raining ash and cinders for miles around. As they coughed and gagged, Emilie saw terror in the men’s eyes. Workers in the fields began shouting in alarm and then abandoning the field in droves, shrieking with fright as they ran to the warehouse for cover. Some others ran down to the cottages in the valley, screaming in terror.
Mustering up all her courage, Emilie said, “Durancy, are you coming with me?”
He nodded bravely. “Yes, mam’selle.” Emilie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing his loyalty extended to such a strange and frightful occurrence.
“I’ll get Balthazar. Tell the others where we’re going and tell them to send help if we don’t return in an hour.”
“Yes, mam’selle,” said Durancy as he ran to mount his horse.
After fetching Balthazar, Emilie climbed into the saddle, and together with Durancy, they took off at a canter through the fields. Ash
and cinders rained down on their heads, almost blinding them. Emilie used her shawl to shield her nose and mouth from the barrage, but it did little to help. As they rode, branches whipped their faces and cut their skin. When Balthazar began to snort and whinny from the ashes, Emilie kicked his sides, urging him to keep moving forward. After a while they heard a suspicious roar reverberating from the direction of the stream. As they drew closer, the noise grew louder until it resembled a rushing waterfall. The sound was powerful and frightening. It sounded almost unnatural. And then, through the noise, they heard faint voices. Emilie was sure it was the missing workers. They hurried toward the voices, which began to sound like men in distress. Alarmed, they kicked their horses into a gallop and raced to a clearing. There, in the distance, they saw a sight that turned their blood cold.
The stream had turned into a raging torrent of black mud. It gushed down from the heights, spreading thickly across the valley floor, scorching and uprooting everything in its path. Caught in the flow were branches, tree trunks, dead cattle—even men. Emilie screamed in terror. Hopelessly trapped in the lava were six men on horseback: her father, Julien, and four workers. They were surrounded by the mud and sinking fast, on their faces a mask of fear.
Jumping off Balthazar, Emilie raced toward the sinking men, but she could not get close enough to reach them. The lava was rising quickly, swamping the horses and threatening to submerge them and carry them away with the debris. She felt weak and dizzy when she realized there was nothing she could do. The men were doomed.
The horses neighed pitifully. They lifted their haunches and struggled against the mudflow with their powerful bodies, but it was no use. Frantic, the men kicked their horses, shouting and urging them on, but by now the lava had completely engulfed them and was threatening to pull them under. The men screamed in terror, but their voices were drowned out by the deafening roar. Soon they would disappear under the torrential flow.
Emilie’s heart raced. Valuable minutes were ticking by. Beside her, Durancy tried to reach the men, but the mud was spreading so quickly, it was threatening to overpower them as well, sucking them into its deadly current.
“Help us! Help us!” cried her father. He thrashed his horse with all his might, but the poor animal was hopelessly trapped. The mud was climbing higher, burning and searing its flesh, sucking the life out of it. The rest of the horses were in a similar predicament. The horrifying smell merged with the odor of sulfur and hot lava, sickening them. The men cried out in agony, their horrifying shrieks echoing across the valley, but there was nothing Emilie or Durancy could do. Tears stung her eyes when she realized that soon it would be all over.
Suddenly she had an idea. Untying a length of rope from her saddlebag, she threw it across to Julien, but the rope snapped back, unable to bear the weight of his horse. She threw it again, this time to her father, but he could not reach it. The situation was past critical. The horses were weaker, and some had started to give up. Seeing their doom, the men were in a state of panic. They thrashed at their horses and tugged at their reins as they screamed and shouted, but the animals were hopelessly burnt and had lost the will to fight. Whipping his horse’s flank, Georges tried in vain to get the animal to move, but they were helpless to escape the death trap. The more his horse struggled, the farther they sank into the mud. Emilie stared in horror at the terrifying sight, her body convulsing with sobs.
By now the horses were almost buried up to their chests. The men were screaming for dear life, but the horses were dying. As the mud pulled them under, all struggling stopped. The men uttered their last prayers, crossed themselves, and prepared for the end. Soon they would be buried alive.
“Jump, Papa, it’s your only chance,” she shouted.
But her father shook his head. “It’s no use, Emilie. Tell Maman I love her.”
The mud rose up to his horse’s neck, searing its flesh. Only its head and tortured eyes could be seen above the black lava. By now her father had given up all hope. His limbs too were scorched by the volcanic mud. A cry slipped out of Emilie’s throat when she saw the look of resignation in his eyes.
Without a word, Georges pulled out his pistol, unlatched the safety, and shot himself through the head. His lifeless body sank in the mud and slowly disappeared. “Papa!” she screamed and collapsed on the ground.
The workers’ cries reached a crescendo. The sight of Georges Dujon’s suicide left them frantic. Julien called out to her, “Emilie, go now! Save yourself before it’s too late!” The sight of her father’s body in the lava and the heart-wrenching cries of the men had left Emilie in a state of shock, paralyzed with grief. The mud continued its vicious assault, swallowing up the men and horses as it spread across the valley floor, cutting down trees, shrubs, crops, everything in its path. Slowly the men’s bodies disappeared under the mud. Emilie cried and screamed, the tears almost blinding her. A few minutes later, it was all over. The men and their horses sank beneath the scorching lava until there was no trace of them, as if they had never existed.
When Durancy brought Lucien to Emilie a half hour later, she was collapsed on the ground, perilously close to the river of volcanic mud. Lucien called out her name, but she was unresponsive. Jumping off his horse, he grabbed her, but she refused to budge. When he shook her, she screamed as if she had gone mad. He looked at Durancy in a panic, but the latter shook his head with pity. Lucien stared at Emilie and saw his life crumbling to pieces. The woman he loved had lost her senses.
By the time they reached the house, she was still screaming.
Part 3
Chapter 27
Saturday, May 3
Governor’s Residence
Fort-de-France
In the early morning hours of Saturday, the volcano was spewing out massive clouds of black smoke, which coated Saint-Pierre in a thick layer of ash. The column of smoke rose three miles in the air, sending ash particles and cinders high up in the atmosphere, blowing southward as far as Fort-de-France. Explosions like cannonades rattled the people of Saint-Pierre and the smaller villages to the north. It sounded like a war, yet there were no invading ships, just a natural enemy that was more terrifying, more powerful, and more merciless. The Pierrotins closed their shutters and prayed by the light of candles and kerosene lamps. Some brought their children through showers of ash to the cathedral for a hasty baptism, while others packed their belongings into donkey carts or horse carriages and headed south to Fort-de-France.
Governor Mouttet awoke to an alarming sight. The town of Fort-de-France was covered in a layer of ash. The problem was getting worse, not better as the committee members had assured him. His instincts told him that something had to be done. He wondered if he should declare a state of emergency, but he needed guidance and permission from Decrais of the Colonial Office. It would be impossible to reach him on a Saturday, even if the telegraph cables were open at all. In all his years of colonial service, he had never been in such a predicament. He hesitated to take such drastic action without the Ministry’s seal of approval. The last thing he needed was a bureaucratic inquisition if it all turned out to be nothing. And then there was the matter of keeping the public calm. He had to avoid a panic at all costs. Perhaps if they sent a cruiser to help evacuate the citizens up north and bring food and supplies, a state of emergency could be avoided. That would certainly go a long way in keeping the citizenry calm and placated. And then there was still the matter of vaccines. Had Mirville solved that problem yet? Why hadn’t he received the report? He threw on a shirt and trousers and headed downstairs for a hasty breakfast. As he sipped his coffee, his valet threw down the latest issue of Les Colonies. When Mouttet saw the headline, his jaw dropped.
SPECIAL EDITION
Mount Pelée and Saint-Pierre: Yesterday the people of Saint-Pierre were treated to a grandiose spectacle in the majesty of the smoking volcano. While at Saint-Pierre, admirers of the beautiful could not take their eyes from the smoke of the volcano and the ensuing falls of cinder; timid people wer
e committing their souls to God . . .
Grandiose spectacle? Admirers of the beautiful?
It would seem that many signs ought really to have warned us that Mount Pelée was in a state of serious eruption. There have been earthquake shocks. The rivers are in overflow. The town of Prêcheur has been inundated with large stones and torrents of dust. People are abandoning their homes in droves. The need now is for the people outside Saint-Pierre to seek the shelter of the town. Citizens of Saint-Pierre! It is your duty to give these people succor and comfort. Meanwhile, the excursion of the Gymnastics Club to the crater of Mount Pelée has been cancelled due to the harsh conditions. All those planning to attend will be notified when the event is rescheduled.
What the devil is he talking about? Has everyone on the island gone mad? Mouttet threw down the newspaper in disgust.
He got up from the table and headed out to the balcony, where the barometer was nailed to a pillar. He studied the needle for a few seconds. It was trembling. Good Lord, is this normal? He had heard about those infamous West Indian hurricanes, but the needle was not quivering because of an approaching storm. The pressure was dropping for another reason altogether. His mind raced . . . when the atmosphere is full of vapor, the barometer usually falls. The mountain was expelling a great deal of smoke and steam. He was sure that was the reason for the precipitous drop in atmospheric pressure. So in point of fact, the eruption of Mount Pelée was causing a decrease in atmospheric pressure. Could that be a good thing? Didn’t that imply that once all the steam was expelled, the volcano would soon die down?
Island on Fire Page 19