The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  For once Xavier was at a loss for words.

  Oh, well done, Father, Sybilia wanted to call out.

  After this the crowd quietened as they lined up to sign the pledge. Sybilia pushed her way into the long file and eventually found herself at the table, in front of Xavier.

  Looking up, he scowled momentarily and then restored his public smile. ‘You can’t sign, Sybilia, you’re a woman,’ he gibed. ‘Go home and look after your baby.’

  She flushed and bit her lip. ‘If they come, I’ll fight,’ she said. ‘And you won’t stop me, even though you stop me from signing now.’

  ‘Next,’ he said, as he waved her on.

  So the men signed, toasts were drunk, oaths of allegiance were sworn, and Xavier and his colleagues retired to a cai€ while the young men danced in the square. Only Sybilia sat alone on a bench, brooding over Jean Perrier’s offer and nursing her indignation.

  Chapter 26

  As Sunday’s sermon drew closer, Father Andrews needed help, but he was all alone. Cut off by the war from the Mother Church in Rome and his superiors in Ireland, he did not know how to cope with this delicate situation of Catholic against Catholic. For the first time the young priest was forced to shoulder full responsibility for his small community’s spiritual needs, since Father Delon was now speechless and almost paralysed following a second stroke.

  What was he to do? He had been taught that the Church was above politics. Reconciliation was the traditional formula for keeping the allegiance of Christians on both sides. But what good was reconciliation in the face of an invasion?

  His community was split into three distinct factions, pro-de Gaulle and the Free French; pro-Marshal Pátain and the Vichy administration, and the pro-communists. Xavier Rocca and his supporters identified completely with the Free French forces. He was already organizing and coordinating Resistance fighters in the villages, ready for the long-expected invasion. It would come soon, they all knew that, and the congregation were looking to their priest for guidance.

  When Sunday came at last, Father Andrews was looking pale and gaunt after a week’s fasting and meditating. He had delved into the Bible for inspiration, knowing all too well what weight his words would carry.

  After ringing the main bells for the Sunday service, he dressed nervously in his green alb and cope and listened to the excited babble of voices in the square. He was amazed by the crowds of worshippers from neighbouring villages who were intent on squeezing themselves into Taita’s small church. Obviously his promise to Xavier had spread far afield.

  The first part of the service passed like a dream, and all too soon he found himself in the pulpit facing the congregation, which was overflowing into the aisles and the back corridor.

  ‘Some of you have demanded that I state whose side I am on,’ he began rather nervously, unable to employ his usual sonorous intonation, which was reserved for God’s holy words rather than his own arguments. ‘My answer to you is that I am on God’s side.’

  He ignored the soft murmur of discontent that spread like a sigh through the congregation.

  ‘But now, more than ever before, God’s work needs some clarification. We are about to witness fratricide: brother fighting against brother, Catholics killing other Catholics. So we ask ourselves — what is our Christian duty?’

  He paused to lend weight to his words and noticed that all eyes were fixed firmly upon him. There was no need for his notes. Each word was engraved on his heart, yet he found it hard to begin. The responsibility of what he was about to say seemed to stick in his gullet. But was there any alternative? No, he decided, and cleared his throat.

  ‘When the occupying troops come, as they surely will, this island will become one of the many oppressed nations of the world,’ he began. ‘Civil liberties will be curtailed, life and limb and property will be at risk, and armed men will oppress an unarmed civilian population.

  ‘I have heard the words “reconciliation”, “truce”, and “neutrality” banded around the village these past few days until I am sick of hearing them. I tell you now, to speak of reconciling the two sides is a mistaken application of the Christian idea of forgiveness and a total betrayal of all that Christian faith has ever meant.’

  Warming to his theme, he thumped his fist against the pulpit. ‘Our Christian duty is to do away with evil, injustice, oppression, and sin, not to come to terms with it.

  it’s true that God wants peace, but not the peace that fascists want,’ he went on more forcibly. ‘The peace that God wants is based upon truth, repentance, justice, and love.’

  He paused and looked around. Xavier Rocca, in the front row, pale with patriotic fervour, was smiling softly, but there were many others who looked afraid.

  To give you the doctrine of nonviolence and turning the other cheek, in the face of this terrible war, with its cruelty, brutality, and callousness, would be to hamstring you and to curb your natural longing for justice and freedom.

  ‘I promise you that there is a long and consistent Christian tradition about the use of physical force to defend oneself, or others, against aggressors and tyrants. Oppression as a theme runs right through the Bible in both the Old and New Testaments — there’s no shortage of examples.

  ‘This morning you have come to church looking for guidance. I say to you — there must be no misunderstanding about the moral duty of all who are oppressed.

  To try to live in peace with the fascists would mean becoming accomplices to our own oppression. No reconciliation is possible.

  ‘As our fears of invasion increase daily, I want to assure you that you are not alone. Christians the world over are engaged in the conflict. We must all participate in the Cross of Christ — that is, if we wish to participate in Christ’s ressurrection. It is time for Christians to unite in a struggle for liberation and a just society. Moreover, it is the duty of the Church to participate in this struggle. The Church should never do anything that gives legitimacy to a morally illegitimate regime. The Church must help to mobilize its members in every parish and support them in their plans for overthrowing the fascist invaders.

  ‘It’s up to us to adopt a biblical theology of direct confrontation with the forces of evil. I give you a message of hope: Wake up and act with confidence. Let us pray together for courage to do what we have to do in the difficult period ahead of us.'

  In the silence that followed you could hear the congregation let out their breaths in a long sigh. There were so many frightened faces, especially among the women, so he added one more sentence that he had not planned. ‘Each of you will give according to your capability,’ he went on more gently. ‘Some will give their lives, some their bread, some their prayers. We will all give what we can.’

  Looking around the pews, he was caught by the sight of Sybilia’s shining eyes. He could see she was fired with courage and determination. She would always be there to do her duty and never count the cost. His heart went out to her as he made the blessing. ‘Let us pray.’

  As he continued the service, Father Andrews found his hands were shaking and his clothes were soaked with sweat.

  Chapter 27

  The voices were coming. They had been crowding in on her all afternoon. Maria groaned quietly and hid her head under the blankets. Foolish to think she could evade them, for they were in the very air she breathed: high-pitched, gabbling voices, but too many and too far away to understand their message. Perhaps they would go, but she did not hold out much hope.

  After Father Andrews’s sermon she had felt unaccountably depressed, and her dreaded headache had begun. She had left Sybilia to cope with the lunch party while she hid in bed. Now it was late, and she was lying sleepless.

  How could that priest talk so bravely of death? Was it because he was so young? What was death to him — to walk with angels? To her, death meant the cold stone of graveyards, the dank, dark smell of the Rocca mausoleum, of hideous, unimaginable decay, of the capricious, jealous spirits that nightly haunted the maquis to plot the
destruction of the living. Yes, even now they were waiting for Michel, and they had warned her. Today the young priest’s sermon had brought a sudden and vivid recall of her vision the day of Michel’s wedding, and had shown her how her son’s death would be accomplished. For the first time she understood the guns the mourners carried and the coffin draped with the French flag. ‘Oh, God,’ she wept. She could not bear another vision.

  She reached out for a bottle of sleeping pills and took two, washing them down with a full glass of water. After a while the babble was stilled. She could hear Xavier snoring gently beside her. He always fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

  She wanted to sleep on pleasant thoughts, so she willed herself to think of Michel as he had been when a child. So much happiness. Gradually the pills took effect, and she felt herself sinking… sinking… as if washed by a wave into the black sea, down and down.

  Was it later? How much later? She did not know. She felt confused, for‘she was standing on the first mountain crest above Taita. Her boots were soaked with dew, her clothes torn by thorns and brambles. The voices were chiding her. She had stayed too long hiding under the blankets. She shuddered. It was so dark. There was no moon, and the maquis stretched out like a gigantic dark stain over the flanks of the menacing cliffs towering above her. She felt stiff and tired. Her hands were stinging, and when she pushed her fingers into her mouth she tasted blood. Oh, God, where was she?

  It’s a bad dream. It’s always a bad dream, she decided. But still she walked on, and in spite of the stygian blackness of the night, she recognized the path. It was the old goat track that led to the ruins where gigantic statues lay half-buried in the maquis.

  She must turn back. She must. But when she tried, she saw that the track down the mountain was quite obscured with a thick rolling mist, and she knew that she must go on. It was then that the drum began, a muted, sullen beat that hammered against her heart. Death! The drum signified death. She caught her breath with terror at what was about to be revealed to her.

  The drumbeats went on and on, knocking reason out of her head, beating in panic. Soon she was running, running for her life. Who was she? A younger, fitter, stronger body carried her panic-stricken mind through the maquis, twisting and turning, doubling up the mountain side and sliding down again, desperate to escape. She could have told him there was no escape. Not from Corsican hunters. Why he? Why was she so sure it was a he? Then she heard a gunshot crack beside her. Another shortly afterward brought red-hot stinging pain to her thigh and then to her shoulder. She felt the panic of the hunted as she dragged her leg up the narrow goat track toward the ruins. Yes, irresistibly she was drawn toward those ancient rocks.

  She arrived panting and terrified and gazed at the awesome sight of the ruins bathed in the light of the full moon. Yet there was no moon tonight. The rock shone as if with an incandescence of its own, a glow that seemed to signify the end. She staggered to the cave and hid herself in the inky blackness, trying to hold her panting, sobbing breath, trying not to reveal her position to… to whom? Who were the hunters? She had no way of telling.

  Then she sensed approaching evil. There was nothing to be seen, nothing at all, yet she felt the presence of something so evil that she cowered back in terror. It came up over the hill like an invisible presence, and it was coming for her. Surely it was Satan himself. She could feel its eyes upon her and its whole being centred upon her. She was defenceless, as vulnerable as a shocked rabbit as the snake slowly approaches. There was nothing she could see, but if she reached out, she would feel it, she was so sure of this presence. Then she saw a darkness, like a dark ball rolling — or, rather, an absence of light, for there should have been light in the brilliance of the full moon.

  She cowered back and gazed up. This was the end. The knowledge seemed to lessen her fear, but her sadness was increased. She opened her mouth and said in a man’s voice: ‘Help Sybilia — for the love of God, help Sybilia.’

  Then she distinctly saw a wolf as if through a haze in the dark patch around her, and on the wolf sat a small boy with a pistol. There was something oddly familiar about the boy, yet she had never seen him in her life before. He lifted the rifle, pointed it at her head, and she saw his Anger tightening on the trigger. Then consciousness exploded. She was falling, falling, through stygian shadows. Dimly she heard the shot.

  When she came to her senses, she was standing alone on the mountainside. She could not feel her feet as she hurried down the track toward her home. She felt deadly afraid, but she did not know why. Then she saw the wolf running ahead in the mist. However hard she tried, she could not catch up with it. She would kill it, if she could. The wolf raced down the hillside and passed through the door of her house as if it were as substantial as the mist. She had to warn Sybilia. ‘Sybilia,’ she sobbed. ‘Sybilia.’ She fell headlong down the slope, and that was the last thing she remembered.

  When she awoke she was in bed, and Sybilia was holding her hand. She felt so cold. The dear girl had surrounded her with hot-water bottles. She felt surprised, but she tried to smile.

  ‘AH this fuss for a nightmare?’ she queried weakly.

  ‘I found you in the maquis,’ Sybilia whispered. Her eyes implored Maria to tell the truth.

  Maria clasped her hands together and began to recite in the high-pitched chanting voice of a child. ‘They called me and they showed me a place of evil and I stood face to face with the devil.’ Suddenly her eyes fixed on a point over Sybilia’s head, and she began to tremble. ‘I felt a man die, I knew his anguish and his fear,’ she chanted. ‘I felt the shots that killed him. I know the place, but I do not know when it will happen. He said… ’

  She shuddered, broke off, and pressed her lips together.

  ‘Who was it?’ The question burst out of Sybilia although she really wanted to run away from this other side of Maria that frightened and repelled her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the old woman replied. ‘Perhaps it was just a bad dream.’

  By way of an answer, Sybilia held up Maria’s dress, torn to rags, and her boots, wet and muddy; all irrevocably ruined.

  ‘I was called,’ Maria whispered. ‘To be a witness. I do not know how I got there. Perhaps I was sleepwalking. It has happened to me before, my dear. Things are revealed in this way. But why me? Why me?’

  ‘Sybilia,’ she said, ‘I am afraid - I was never so afraid. The evil — no, the devil — entered this house. I saw it push the door open and walk in.’

  ‘I will go and see the priest,’ Sybilia said. ‘He will help us… help you. Perhaps you were sleepwalking.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the old woman muttered. ‘I seem to be forgetting it all. It’s fading away, as dreams do. Yes, you do that, dear. I’m sorry I alarmed you.’

  ‘She’s a mazzeri,’ Sybilia whispered. She was sitting nervously in the sacristy, telling the priest of Maria’s experience. ‘I never believed it. How is it possible -I mean — so gentle a person?

  ‘Maria’s gift, or curse, is not magic, or witchcraft, it’s a degree of second sight. It’s not unknown in other countries, soothsayers, fortune-tellers, Nostradamus. You’ve heard of him, I know. In Corsica we have this peculiar twist in that the mazzeri can only foretell death, so the superstitious villagers sometimes hold her responsible, rather like the old days when the king would punish the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘So you believe in Maria’s second sight?’ Sybilia said nervously.

  ‘I neither believe nor disbelieve, because I don’t know. I have heard that she foretold the death of many people in this village, and they are all dead,’ he said. ‘There are certain things that primitive man knew by instinct, things that science has not yet discovered. The mountain Corsicans are… well… “primitive” is an unkind word, let’s say isolated and still full of their old ancient ways. This much I know: If Maria believes that Satan has entered her home, then we must exorcise this evil spirit in God’s name.’

  When Father Andrews had performed the traditional
ceremony with prayers and holy water, Maria seemed to be relieved. She fell into a deep sleep and awoke the next day. By then she had almost forgotten her experience.

  Chapter 28

  As the time to leave drew closer, Sybilia had deep misgivings about leaving Maria alone. There was no doubt that the loneliness caused by living without her son and daughter-in-law had brought a resurgence of her psychic experiences, which Sybilia considered unhealthy.

  Sybilia had promised to give her answer to Jean Perrier on her return, but how could she when she changed her mind from one day to the next? After listening to Father Andrews’s sermon, she had felt inspired, but later in the house the war seemed far away when family problems were far more pressing. How could she leave Maria alone? Worse still, how could she trust her baby to Maria? Then there was Michel to worry about. He was pale and drawn and losing weight. She had only a vague idea of what he was suffering, but she knew the only way she could help him was by being around when he needed her.

  Was she to abandon her family for patriotic reasons? Yes, a part of her said firmly, but the womanly part said no. Sybilia returned to Bastia feeling heavy-hearted and confused. She lay awake night after night wondering what to do, longing to have someone to talk to but not wanting to burden Michel again.

  Nevertheless, when Jean arrived for his lessons, unexpectedly she found that she had made up her mind. The answer was yes, irrevocably but sadly.

  From then on she was caught up in a whirlwind of activity. Her training took place in a bare apartment in Bastia. There was only one other man there, and he was a foreigner. She never discovered his name or his nationality, but from his demeanour, she assumed that he was a professional soldier, probably from the Foreign Legion. She was issued a camera, and she was taught how to photograph documents, or people surreptitiously. It was Leica IIA, the latest version of the new miniature cameras, she was told. It was small enough to slip into her largest handbag, but it was bulky and uncomfortable, weighing almost a pound.