Silence of Stone

by Annamarie Beckel

  The pockmarked man, a slayer of dragons.

  Debts must be paid. Km-mm-mm.“

  Oui, Isabelle,oui.”

  The Franciscan has already asked, again and again, what I ate that summer. He is infinitely interested in how I survived. He is obsessed with angels and demons. He has made me repeat my rescue by angels so many times that I see them now, with their golden hair and golden wings, hovering above him. They giggle when their wingtips brush the bald circle at the top of his head. He reaches up to scratch it.

  “Did many ships pass by the island?”

  “A few.”

  “How many?”

  “I did not count.”

  “You kept careful count of the days but not of the ships?”

  “The days are always there,Père, but sometimes my eyes conjured sails from the wings of gulls.”

  The monk’s scowl tells me that my answer does not please him, but I cannot explain to him that I did not keep watch for ships because I neither expected, nor wished, to be taken from the island. Every dawn I scraped a new line on the wall, but I did not light a signal fire near the harbour.

  Over that summer I gathered and dried berries, collected eggs. I also dried fish and seal meat. Even so, my stores of food remained small because I spent hours studying the colour and shape of each bloom as it appeared: white blossoms sweetly scenting the air, tiny pink bells trailing close to the ground, dark rosy clusters and bunches of white filling the bogs, bright yellow buttercups and daisies dancing in grassy meadows.

  My hipbones were sharp and protruding, my fingers like bony claws. Though I had no mirror, I knew my face looked like a skull, the bronzed skin drawn tight over jawbone and cheek.

  Nonetheless I was content to live out my life on the island. I no longer cared how long that life would be. I cared only that he would come to me again.

  Le compagnon. L’amour et le désir. Les esprits de cet endroit.

  I smile inwardly.

  “But the sails of the Breton ship were real,” says Thevet. “Those were not gulls’ wings.”

  “Non, but they might have been.”

  His bulbous eyes blink at his confusion.

  I do not wish to try to explain that I saw and heard many things, that I neither knew, nor cared, what was there and what was not. All of it was there. All of it was real. All of it was my life: the ivory wings of gulls against pewter skies; the granite scrape of stone upon stone; the soft wailing of a child in a silver wind; the spiders weaving the world together, every day, silk threads stitching rock to sea to sky. I studied the lines and cracks in red and grey rock and saw the streets of Paris, Michel’s glinting eyes, Damienne’s accusing face. I looked at iron-grey clouds and saw doves flying and packs of wolves howling. Sometimes I could see through my hand, to the white bones beneath, then the flesh would close over, but the metallic scent of blood would linger.

  I watched ducks and gulls preen and posture, the females dipping their heads under a wing. I saw in them the ladies at court dressed in sparkling jewels and in silks and satins of pale blue, topaz, and amethyst, strutting grandly, circling coyly, feather fans held to porcelain faces. Waves could become an army of snarling white bears, racing ashore and smashing themselves against unmovable rock. And then disappearing into a red wind. I could smell their hot meaty breath and feel their wet fur. But I could also feel their benevolence and indifference. I could feel how their spirits fit that place and accepted me among them.

  Sometimes the wind was green, sometimes crimson or indigo, and when it blew softly I could hear the citre, the notes clear and ringing, weaving themselves within the wind. I could hear Marguerite’s weary and frightened voice reciting poems, prayers, and psalms. I could hear Michella howling her hunger, never to be satisfied.

  I could gaze endlessly into the violet sheen of the ebony feather and see his brown face, his hair like silk, and mahogany eyes. I could float in the smoke of the fire, breathe in the scent of his skin, and watch myself, with him.

  And always, always, there were the voices: keening, accusing, cajoling, comforting. And the ravens: quork-quork-quork, pruk-pruk-pruk, kek-kek-kek, km-mm-mm. They mocked God and angels – and the Devil and demons. The ravens were often magnanimous, occasionally cruel, but always amused by the world’s dark humour.

  The summer came and then left again. Green leaves and moss turned to gold and copper, to red, maroon, orange, and purple. An explosion of colour. The ravens chuckled at the irony that such beauty should be the harbinger of the abominable winds and cold to come.

  I planned to die on the flat expanse of rock beside the cave. The ravens would feast on my body. I would become one of them and fly above the island with them.

  I would be their eucharist:this is my body…this is my blood. I would become a spirit of that place. Like him.

  “The loneliness, Marguerite. The unimaginable loneliness.” The monk’s face is sad, as if he feels the loneliness himself. “Were you not ecstatic to see a ship enter the harbour? Did you not fall on your knees and thank God that you would be rescued? That you would soon be with people again?”

  I hear laughter:Merci beaucoup, merci beaucoup. Kek-kek-kek.

  “What day did the ship come?”

  “The twenty-first day of October in 1544. Eight hundred and thirty-one days after Roberval left them.”

  “Did you see angels then?”

  “No angels.”

  I stared at the ship and simply waited for the sails to disappear or to resolve into white wings and fly off into white clouds. Instead it came closer, and I watched men lower a small boat over the side, along with several large barrels. The water was blue-green, aquamarine closer to shore. Waves caressed the red rock, and the wind blew gently, interwoven with sparkling bits of sun.

  “The harbour is deep there,” says Thevet. “The ship anchored there to take on fresh water.” The Franciscan wants to be certain I understand that the Breton fishermen did not come for Marguerite. They came for water. “What did the men say to you?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What do you mean, you do not know?”

  “I could not understand them,Père.

  ” Three men rowed toward shore, fishermen, not soldiers, and they talked and laughed as they pulled on the creaking oars, their voices carrying over the water, intermingling with the calls of gulls and ravens. The men jumped into the shallow water and towed their boat ashore, wood scraping on rock.

  The ravens retreated and called from a distance, kek-kek-kek, warning me. But I was not afraid. I expected the men, the boat, and the ship to vanish, to disappear into the clouds or the sea, or to change into rocks and trees. I did not bother to hide.

  When the men looked up and saw me, they scrambled to grab sabres. They stood together and waved their sabres as if I were a wild beast or a demon. I did not move, and one of them stepped forward and spoke, his words vaguely familiar, though I could make no sense of them. His voice was intertwined with all the others.

  Demat. Good day. Kek-kek-kek. Bonjour. Who are you? Le sauvage? La sauvagesse? Pruk-pruk-pruk. Demat. Km-mm-mm.

  “They thought you were an Indian,” the Franciscan says, amused. “A native of those lands. Dressed in hides, feathers in your tangled hair. Skin brown from the sun.”

  In the face of my silence, the man retreated. The three huddled together again, murmuring to each other, hands gesturing. Their voices became louder, arguing. Still, I could not understand their harsh words. I put my hands over my ears.

  One man turned and beckoned me forward. His dark eyes seemed to hold kindness as well as fear, but I would not step toward him.

  Finally they left, but they did not vanish. They pulled their small boat into the water and rowed back to the ship. I stood and watched, and some time later the small boat returned, with four men this time, at least three of them carrying muskets. They spoke in whispers as they rowed to shore and pulled the boat from the water. Again, the man with the kind eyes walked slowly toward me, beckoning. T
hree men stood behind him, guns loaded, ready to fire. They scanned the horizon all around them.

  “Was it not a wondrous thing to see civilized men again?” Thevet rhapsodizes. “To hear men’s words? It must have seemed like the angels had come again, like God had answered your prayers at last.”

  The voices mock:Prayers. La bienveillance et la pitié de Dieu. Le silence.

  “Although I understand,” he says, consternation displayed on his doughy face, “that it took some time for the men to persuade you to come with them.” His laugh is incredulous. “They thought you did not want to leave that place.”

  The sun disappeared behind me and the sky darkened to wine. I turned and climbed toward the cave, still expecting the men and the ship to vanish. Instead the men followed me. I did not turn, but I could hear their footsteps behind me, scraping against rock. When we reached the entrance, a man holding a gun waved me aside and peered cautiously into the darkness. He entered the cave slowly.

  A few moments later he emerged, chattering excitedly.Un maouez! he shouted.Une femme! Elle est française! This time I could understand a few French words mixed with his Breton. He gestured broadly as he described the trunk and then the citre. The men turned toward me, their faces even more fearful than if the man had declared me une sauvage. Three of them crouched low and went into the cave, but the man with the kind eyes stepped closer and tried to speak, his French halting.

  Qui êtes-vous? he said. Who are you?

  I was silent for a long time, listening to the chorus of quork-quork-quork, pruk-pruk-pruk, carkcark-cark in the distance. Finally I said,Le corbeau, the raven.

  His gaze shifted away, considered the open sea, then came back to me. Is there anyone else? he asked.

  Non.

  No others?

  Only the dead.

  Combien? How many?

  I held up four fingers.

  How long have you been here?

  I waited. My throat hurt from the words scraping against tender flesh. I rubbed my neck and said, She was left in mid-summer, more than two years ago.

  Who is she ? Who are you?

  When I did not answer, he held up two fingers. Two years?

  Oui.

  How did you get here?

  Abandonnée.

  Disbelief showed in his face and coloured his words. Abandoned? he asked. Who would have left you here?

  The viceroy.

  The viceroy of what?

  New France. Roberval. The name was strange on my lips. The sound of it rose in the air and formed black smoke between us.

  Two years? the man repeated.Pourquoi? Why?

  “Why?” asks Thevet. “Why would you not want to leave that dreadful island?” The Franciscan’s shrill voice hurts my ears. “Why?” he asks again.

  “All that mattered was there.”

  His mouth pulls to one side. My answer seems to confound his simple mind.

  The men looked at the darkening sky, then left the cave and returned to their small boat, which they rowed to the ship. I believed that was the end of it, that they and the ship would be gone in the morning.

  That night I lay beneath the soft furs. I held the black feather and called him to me. He emerged from the fire’s grey smoke. We loved. He stroked my cheeks and hair, sorrow in his mahogany eyes. And release.

  I heard the voices then: Fini. L’amour. Il est fini. And knew he would not come to me again.

  In the morning I selected a rock and made one more line on the smoke-darkened wall. Scrape of stone upon stone. Eight hundred and thirty-two.

  When the men returned to the cave, they tried to take away the furs, Marguerite’s trunk, and Michel’s citre. I would not let them, though I could not stop them from taking the citre with its inlaid ivory and silver and copper.

  I took only the iron pot, Michel’s dagger, Marguerite’s New Testament, and the ebony feather. I laid the pearl ring at the cave’s entrance: a final gift for the ravens.

  “But you did go,” says the monk.

  “I did.”

  Thevet looks at me as if he has solved a great puzzle. “And on the return voyage, you had weeks to plot.”

  “Plot?”

  “Revenge.”

  “I cared nothing about revenge.”

  “But surely you wanted revenge against your uncle.”

  “My thoughts were upon all that I had left on the island.”

  “All you had left?” the Franciscan sputters. “Your trunk? Some old furs?”

  Les corbeaux. Km-mm-mm. Les esprits. L’amour.

  “Well, there would have been the remains of your lover and baby, I suppose.” The monk lifts a chalice and takes a swallow of wine. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “But surely you hated him, Marguerite. You must have sought him out.”

  “I never saw him again.”

  He points an accusing finger. “Ah, but you hired someone.”

  I reach within the folds of my skirt to run a thumb along the sharp blade of Michel’s dagger. Perhaps I did. Or perhaps it was Lafrenière who hired the pockmarked man. Perhaps it was both of us – or neither – who paid him. Does it matter? Roberval is dead. And both of us are glad.

  “The Queen of Navarre advised me to leave Roberval’s fate in the hands of God,” I say aloud. “And that is what I did.”

  Laughter:Les mains de Dieu ou les mains des hommes? Km-mm-mm. Le meurtre ou la justice?

  “Justice,” I murmur. Then, to the Franciscan, “You have never asked why Roberval killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “Marguerite.” “This again,” Thevet says wearily. “Obviously Roberval did not kill you, Marguerite. For here you are.” He runs a finger around the rim of the chalice. “He was justified in punishing your scandalous behaviour. You were fortunate the viceroy did not toss you overboard to drown.”

  La justice ou le meurtre? Km-mm-mm.

  I select my words carefully for the foolish monk. Can I explain to him, in a way he will understand, that Marguerite believed her uncle had money, that when I returned to France I discovered Roberval’s wealth was a charade?

  I cough to clear the pebbles from my throat. “Roberval had debts.”

  Thevet scoffs. “Many men, even nobles, have debts.”

  “He did not mean for Marguerite to marry anyone. Ever.”

  The monk shakes his head. “That cannot be true. If only someone suitable had asked for your hand…”

  “Roberval had taken everything she had. He meant for her to die.”

  Thevet sucks in his cheeks. “I do not believe that.”

  My throat aches with the effort of speaking – and the futility. Never could I find the words to make Thevet understand that Roberval had planned everything, even before he left France. He did not abandon Marguerite because he was outraged at her behaviour. He abandoned her because he was deeply in debt. Her marriage would have required a dowry – and an accounting of her properties to her betrothed. Roberval had already spent Marguerite’s small inheritance, already sold her family’s château, even before the ships departed from France.

  “You had him killed, didn’t you?”

  “I hope,Père, that I did. There would be some satisfaction in that.”

  He opens and closes his mouth, silently, like a beached fish.

  I stand and smooth my black skirt. The pain in my throat has eased. “I have fulfilled my obligations to the king. We are done.”

  Still wrapped in a blanket, I rise from the bed and open the window to the morning light. I have slept long, without dreaming, and the sun is already well above the rooftops. The narrow beam admitted by the window illuminates the woodpile and the web, which now hangs in disrepair. The spider is gone, surfeited. I have fed her well. I have nothing more to give her.

  I hear a timid knocking at the door, and hold my breath. It is Saint George’s Feast Day. Surely he has not come again.

  “Madame de Roberval.” A small voice calling. Has she forgotten there is no school today?

&nb
sp; I crack open the door. Isabelle holds up a bouquet of tiny blue flowers. “These are for you,” she says.

  Because I do not know what else to do, I open the door wider and take the flowers she offers. The slender stems are bruised, many of them broken. The blossoms are a pure sky blue, their centres like bright yellow suns. Forget-me-nots.

  N’oubliez pas. Do not forget.

  Before I can send her away, Isabelle walks boldly to the unmade bed and plops down, far more at ease than her father. “You must put them in water,” she says with authority. “Or they will dry up.” She looks around the room, her glance taking in the bench, the small table, the hearth, and the window.

  “I am busy today, Isabelle. You must go.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I will walk in the woods and fields.” Why am I answering the questions of an impertinent child?

  “May I come with you? I like to walk. Papa likes very much to walk. He says that he has his best thoughts when he is out in the woods.” Isabelle squares her shoulders importantly and holds up a small silver coin. “Look what he gave me? He sent me to buy bread. All by myself.” She giggles. “But he forgot the bakery is closed.”

  She stops her chatter only long enough to point toward the window. “Oh look,” she says, “your cat.” She rushes to the window and opens it wider. The yellow-striped cat backs away. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she croons.

  Slowly the cat creeps forward. Isabelle reaches out and touches her head. To my astonishment, the cat steps through the window.

  “Do you have any cream?”

  I shake my head.

  “Have you anything?” Isabelle’s voice is concerned. “I think she is very hungry.”

  As if in a dream I search for a bit of cheese and then hand it to Isabelle. She offers it to the cat, who sniffs, then gnaws hungrily. Isabelle runs her hand along the cat’s back, and I think the cat will turn and scratch her. Instead she begins to purr.

  “What’s her name?” Isabelle asks.

  I stand mute and blinking.

  “She doesn’t have a name?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, she must have a name.” Isabelle puts a pudgy finger to her chin and stares upward, thinking hard and murmuring to herself. “Latin, I think.” She proposes several names then dismisses them with a wave of her arm.