. . . and at twelve, still fascinated by my readings in science and history, another matter captured my attention: the story of Adolphe Scheler, executed by the Helvetian government in 1608 for “refusing to age according to God’s natural order.” This was huge for me. And there were others. Men and women burned at the stake by the Portuguese Inquisition; those who committed suicide after decades of unending youth grew too heavy to bear. Men and women with smooth features and smooth skin after living one hundred and even one hundred fifty years. All this is to say that you are probably not the only true leaper the world has known. There may have been dozens, if we are to believe the writings I’ve studied. According to the theory put forward by Schoedler and his disciples, no one leap year is particularly fertile: a genuine lunar child, whose longevity stretches the bounds of the possible, may be born every four years, as long as the small temporal breach opened by the rotation of a satellite has a direct effect on the mother’s pregnancy . . .
Aimé felt the urge to contradict his correspondent. He had misunderstood Schoedler, that much was clear. And who were these “disciples” Albert was invoking to justify not only the conduct of his inquiry but also experiments carried out on the bodies of his wife and son?
I can admit, in all humility (and this may be my greatest regret at this point in my life, as the breakup of my marriage is irreparable, and I made the error of believing that something of your immortality flowed in the veins of your descendant, me, to be passed on to my offspring): I tried to put my theories into practice, but I believe I have failed. My son Thomas is an ordinary child, who will die just like myself, like everyone, long before you, despite his date of birth.
Had this date of birth been deliberately chosen, then? That’s what Aimé most wanted to know, as he read and reread these few lines. Had Albert induced his own pregnant wife, to make sure his son would be born at a predetermined time, to coincide with this “temporal breach”? He seemed to be implying as much, without coming out and saying it.
Aimé got up. He was thirsty and needed sugar. He returned to the passage about Jeanne, which he had merely skimmed earlier. He was old, and could feel his high blood pressure somewhere in his wrist. His joints were losing elasticity; he was far from immortal. Jeanne had been wrong about him.
. . . she never let go of you. From both a “factual” and a “psychic” point of view, she always remained close. Can’t you feel it? Your name comes up everywhere, in the most unexpected places. For example, on January 12, 1896, Jeanne writes in her journal: “A book has been published that deeply affected me. Mathilde brought it back from Boston as a gift for me, she knows of my interest in veteran’s stories. The author — a young American, not a day over twenty-one, with no actual combat experience, tells an unvarnished, deeply touching story of two days in the life of a Union soldier in that Civil War that ravaged the United States three decades ago. Few books have affected me so deeply with such a mix of pain and joy. I don’t know why, but I feel as if I recognized my Aimé in Henry Fleming, that handsome young soldier, unable to decide whether his destiny was to be a coward or a hero. Sometimes Pierre reminds me of him too, and then it all comes back to me. He’s still with me.” This is but one reference of many. Her journal quickly became, for me, an inexhaustible treasure trove of information and an object of fascination: Who was this mysterious Aimé, who had haunted her all her life? Two years later, in May 1898, she traced you to Arizona, thanks to a photo in Harper’s Weekly out of New York, which her husband received every week. She describes the photograph: “Under the article, a caption states that the photo was taken by a certain Mathew Brady. I’ll copy it out here, there’s something pretty and mysterious about it: Man Standing in Front of City Hall, Phoenix, AZ, 1895. Last Known Photograph by Famous War Photo-Journalist Mathew Brady. He’s standing very straight and his silhouette is like a cutout against the white wall of the City Hall. I recognize his features, no one will believe me, but what does it matter, since I’m not addressing anyone here? Who would believe me? Who can I talk about him with? He’s there, staring at me, a prisoner, his soul offered up to me. He hasn’t changed. He’s so handsome. I recognize the lips and the eyes. He hasn’t changed, and never will. I’m not at all surprised to see that he’s so far away: my Aimé never thought about anything except travelling, setting off to conquer mountains, forests, an entire continent. Phoenix. What a beautiful name for a city! I’m sure no one ever dies there, people are just reborn, constantly reinvented, that’s what he wanted . . . I told Victor I wanted to keep the article. As always, he didn’t ask why.” A few days later, she first makes reference to a persistent pain in her left breast.
He thought some more about their last meeting and pictured Jeanne’s scarred, swollen face as she lay dying. She had recognized him so quickly, so easily, as if she had been waiting for it. Their conversation had been too short, brought to an end when she lost consciousness and the nurses arrived. Aimé had slipped away, as he did so well. He kept the taste of her words in his mouth and the impress of her voice, the memory of their secret nights together in the Brody barn.
His head was clear of all thoughts soon, and he started reading again. The daylight no longer worked its way into the house, it was blocked by some sentiment perhaps, or just tired of always being there, faithfully in position, where we all expected it to be. He needed to get up once more and turn on a lamp, a single bulb with no shade, or a crystal chandelier hanging from the dining room ceiling.
. . . other document, which would complete my trajectory and reveal the path I’m meant to follow. It was a narrative I found in the special collection at the public library, in Sainte-Anne-des-Monts, a tiny room I knew like the back of my hand, and where I was given free rein. It was an old, tattered volume, you had to handle it with care or it would fall to pieces: a first edition of L’influence d’un livre, by Philippe Aubert de Gaspé, fils, from a small edition printed privately by the author, containing retellings of several legends and stories. In subsequent editions these were bowdlerized, probably under pressure from the publisher. One of these was titled “The Leap-Year-Man, an Appalachian Legend.” To give you the thrust of the story I’ll include an excerpt here, as my own copy is too fragile to reproduce. The long passage below is the part that is of interest to us:
Among the many figures gathered around the massive chimney’s blazing hearth was an old man who appeared to be crushed under the weight of the years. He sat on a very low bench, holding his stick in two hands, one of which supported his bald head. Even without catching sight of his satchel, it was apparent that he was a wandering man, a beggar. Yet it was just as clear that, within this fraternity, he held the highest rank. The master of the house implored him to take a seat among his guests, in vain; he answered these hearty entreaties with a bitter smile and a finger pointed at his bundle. A deeply penitent figure, he’d told the host that he’d return to sup in his room. Though he had been kindly offered much more, his wish was to eat bread alone. It was thus with a certain respect that they beheld this old man, who seemed lost in his thoughts. A conversation did ensue, nevertheless, and Jim O’Bailey lost no time in steering it toward his favourite subject. “Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “not in vain have genius and books been given to mankind! With books we can summon forth spirits from the Other World, even the Devil himself.” A few doubters shook their heads, and the old man leaned his own forcefully against his stick.
“Even I,” Jim said, “six months ago, I saw the Devil in the form of a pig.”
“A pig it surely was,” cried out the young notary’s clerk, the local wit.
The old man sat up straight on his bench, with the sternest look of indignation on his face.
“So, Mr. O’Bailey,” said the young clerk, “one must truly be ignorant of science to not know that all these ghost stories are no more than old wives’ tales, dreamed up to put the grandchildren to sleep.”
Here the wanderer could no longer con
tain himself.
“Let me assure you, good sir, that there is indeed such a thing as ghosts, ghosts most terrible, and I have good reason to believe it,” he added.
“At your age, old man, the nerves grow weak, the faculties are enfeebled, and as for a lack of education, I wouldn’t dare venture a guess,” replied the learned one.
“At your age! At your age!” the beggar repeated. “That’s all they know how to say, it seems. But you listen to me, Mr. Notary: At your age, I was a man. That’s right, a man. Look!” he said, painfully standing up with the aid of his stick. “Look, look with disdain if it brings you pleasure, at this hollowed-out face, these dim eyes, these scrawny arms, this whole emaciated body. Yea, when I was your age I had muscles of steel to move the body you see standing before you now, little better than a walking ghost. What man would then have dared,” the old man went on, filled with vim and vigour, “what man would have dared take on Lewis, nicknamed ‘iron-arms.’ Education? Perhaps I have not had my nose ever thrust deep in the books of science, not as often as yourself, but I’ve learned enough to exercise an honourable profession — had not my passions blinded me. Yes, sir, at age fifty I had a terrible vision, and that was twenty-five years ago now. That was the beginning of the downward spiral I find myself in today. But, my God,” the old man yelled, raising his two bony hands heavenward: “If You have let my life draw out so, it must be that Your justice has yet to be fully done. I’ve yet to atone for my horrible crimes. May they be finally erased, and I shall believe my penitence too short!”
Exhausted by the effort these pronouncements demanded of him, the old man fell back onto his chair, tears streaming down his hollowed-out face.
“Listen, Old Man,” said the host, “I’m sure this fellow meant no harm.”
“Certainly not,” said the young clerk, extending his hand to the old man. “Forgive me. It was all in jest.”
“How could I not forgive you,” said the beggar, “when I myself am so often at the mercy of others?”
“And as a token of our reconciliation,” said the young man, “won’t you tell us your story?”
“Very well,” the old man agreed, “as it’s one whose moral could be of great use to you.”
And so he began:
“It was a winter night, the year of our Lord 17—, the twenty-ninth of February, which, you may know, is a momentary breach in the flow of time and the alignment of the stars. The old stories tell of this ‘extra’ day that returns once every four years, coveted by men but rejected by God; a portal to another world. At twenty I was a cocky young guttersnipe, well acquainted with every vice known to man. A quarreller, a brawler, a drunken debaucher, a swearer, and notorious blasphemer — that was me. My father, after trying everything in his power to correct the errors of my ways, cursed me and then died of sorrow. I wasted no time in squandering my inheritance, and soon found myself with no means of sustenance, so I was only too happy to find employ as a common soldier in Captain Boone’s militia, charged with protecting small Virginia towns from Indian attack. The Choctaw and Cherokee chiefs had sworn to destroy the White Man’s villages, and the atmosphere when I took up my post that cold winter was tense. The memory of King Philip’s War was still fresh in people’s minds.
“The villagers posted us in drafty barns, with only our daily pittance and makeshift sheets and blankets for warmth. The battle was coming the next day, and my fellow militiamen were nervous. I quickly fell into comradeship with one fellow stretched out nearby, a man of barely twenty who claimed he hailed from the faraway colony of Canada, a place I had never had the pleasure of visiting. We talked all night and, at the stroke of midnight, he let me know it was his birthday. I laughed deeply, out of sympathy, instantly grasping that this was a birthday celebrated but once every four years, on the return of each new leap year. I asked whether that was for him a source of discontent. He answered, mysteriously, that that was not for him to say, over the course of his life he’d seen every idea he held sacred turned on its head, and could no longer be certain of anything at all. I didn’t understand a word of what he was telling me, but I felt for him, each of us had our problems: me, my squandered inheritance and vices; and he, but one birthday every four years.
“In the distance the village clock rang once. It was then I witnessed a horrifying physical occurrence that confounded those laws of nature you seem to hold so dear, Mr. Notary. Before my very eyes the young man I had been talking to suddenly transformed into a grizzled old man: his ears grew in a single bound to rest on cheeks ravaged by another time, one out of joint and beyond comprehension. He looked me in the eyes and I saw the suffering slumbering inside him, mixed with the fearsome rage of a diabolical creature born of incomprehensible circumstance. The callow youth who just a few seconds earlier claimed to have given up on judging the length of his life, was suddenly a foul-smelling old wretch, at death’s door, ready to crumble to dust at any moment. His mouth seemed pasty; his teeth were turning brown before my eyes. I had never seen anything like it. I tried to convince myself it was a hallucination, or maybe a bad dream, but he was really and truly there, a terrifying, grotesque figure doubled over upon himself, like the prisoner of a wrinkle in time cracked open by the new day and the ringing bells of the town’s most Christian clocks. He was sinking, all alone, there was no helping him, no way to catch him in this fall, I was so terrified I closed my eyes and pushed this creature of filth with my two hands blindly out-thrust. When I again opened my eyes, he was nowhere to be seen.
“He had disappeared into the woods with an infernal cry. The Choctaws, armed with tomahawks and poison arrows, attacked at dawn and we held them off with great difficulty and heavy losses. I was the sole witness of his transformation. We counted our dead and never spoke of it again.
“I never recovered from this dreadful experience. For long years, nightmares haunted my sleep. I kept believing it was a matter of letting time do its work, that one day the sun would rise and my fears and trepidation would be things of the past. But I was asking the impossible, my friends: never would the demon I had seen that night leave me in peace, far from it; he came calling again, decades later, when my body was no longer what it had once been. Sure, they still called me Lewis Iron-Arms, but I was already the bent-backed wandering man you see before you today. I had a job with the Hudson River Company. It was a fine spring day around noon, and we were making our way up the river in the George Washington, a two-masted schooner. A pleasant breeze pushed us along. I was sitting on the rail of the poop deck when the captain summoned the crew and said, ‘Listen, boys, in four hours we’ll be at the Devil’s Post. Which of you will man it?’ All eyes turned to me, and everyone piped up at once: ‘Old Lewis Iron-Arms, that’s who.’ I could see it was unanimous, so I clenched my teeth together so hard they sliced clean through the metal stem of my pipe, pounded the rail I was sitting on, and gave vent to my rage: ‘Thundering typhoons, yes, it would be me; I’m not afraid of God or of the Devil, and when the Fiend comes I’ll not be afraid.’ ‘Bravo!’ they cried out. ‘Hooray for Lewis!’ This compliment made me want to laugh, but my laughter was frozen in a horrible grimace, and my teeth chattered as if I were in the throes of a terrible fever. All hands gave me a drink, and we spent the afternoon in our cups. It was a post of no account, always held by a single man for three months at a time. He would hunt and fish, do a little trading with the savages. Every one of us lived in fear of this lonely posting — that’s why we called it the Devil’s Post — so we’d agreed, for years, to draw straws for it. But the other traders knew I was a proud man, and understood that if they named me, all together, I’d be too proud to refuse, and they’d all be spared this infamous posting. And, two birds with one stone: they’d also be rid of the toughest man among them, feared by one and all.
“It was going on four in the afternoon when we sailed up to the post, whose very name still gives me the shivers fifteen years later. When I heard the captain give
the order it stirred up a well of emotion within me. Four of my companions set me down on land with my chest, provisions, and some baubles to trade with the savages, and then put distance between themselves and this cursed place. ‘Good luck!’ ‘Farewell!’ And I answered, ‘The Devil take you all, you gang of —.’ (The curse that followed was so vile I won’t repeat it here.) ‘Well,’ cried Andrew Connely, who’d suffered two broken ribs from old Iron-Arms, ‘your friend the Devil will be seeing you before us, I reckon.’ ‘Keep laughing, Connely,’ I cried, ‘but take my advice: Let the Indians tan your hide, because if you see my fist again in three months, I swear by — here I inserted another unrepeatable curse — I swear your carcass will be picked so clean there won’t be sinew enough left to mend my boots.’ And Connely replied, ‘As for you, the Devil won’t leave enough to make a single leather thong.’ Now I was mad! I seized a stone and hurled it with all my strength. My aim was true: the stone struck Connely and knocked him out cold on the deck of the schooner.
“‘He killed him!’ his three comrades cried out. Only one man came to his aid, the others were busy rowing, trying hard to right the boat. And I believed I had indeed ended his life, so I ran off and hid in the woods, in case the boat landed here, but after half an hour, which felt more like a century, I saw it raising sail and disappear in the distance. Connely didn’t die on the spot; it took three years. He forgave his killer with his dying breath. I hope God too will grant me His pardon, come Judgment Day, just as this good man did. Seeing the boat set sail set my mind at ease a little, after this brutal act, and while I was still thinking that if I had killed Connely outright, or even just mortally wounded him, they would be coming for me, I was also making my way to my new home. It was a cabin, twenty feet by twenty, with no light save a tiny glass-paned window facing south-west. There were two little sheds built right onto the cabin, so you went through three doors in a row, one at a time. There were fifteen beds, bunks really, built along the walls of the main room. I’ll spare you the rest of the description because it has nothing to do with the story. I had drunk plenty of brandy that day, and kept right on drinking to distract myself from this woeful state of affairs: Here I was, alone on a beach, far from any human habitation. All alone, just me and my conscience. And my Lord, a heavy conscience it was! I could feel the powerful arms of this very God, who I had spited and blasphemed so many times, bearing down on me like a heavy weight on my chest. The only living creatures here to share my solitude were two enormous Newfoundland hounds. In fierceness, they were their master’s match.
The Longest Year Page 21