Holy Fools

by Joanne Harris

  “Welcome.”

  I saw it begin. One upturned face, then another—for a second I was certain this meant discovery, but the eyes were blanks. Another face turned upward, the arms outflung in sudden rapture, then the ripple ran through the entire congregation as, like fire, it leaped from one sister to the other. The psalm faltered, stopped as the cries began, pleas, incantations, obscenities. The Dancing Mass had refined itself since I last attended; Pandaemonium unfurled new petals in the face of this newcomer, strutting, prancing, falling to its knees or lifting its skirts in daring lewdness…In a few seconds it would be impossible to stop it. Arms flailed the smoky air. Faces surfaced only to submerge once more among hopeless cries. Clothes were rent and cast off. Virginie, always eager to take the lead, began to revolve madly, skirts wheeling out around her.

  The bishop was taken completely by surprise. This was so far from what he was expecting that he was dazed, still looking among the cries and the scenes of chaos for the triumphant tableau he had been expecting to see. Isabelle was watching him from her place by the brazier, her face scarlet in the flames, but she made no move to greet him. Instead her small fists clenched against the side of the pulpit and her mouth dropped open as the noise redoubled and LeMerle stepped out into the light.

  “Welcome.”

  Such a moment was meant to be savored. Imagine this if you can: the greatest scion of the house of Arnault, a half-naked nun on one side, a grinning ecstatic on the other, and all the wild beasts of this hellish circus grunting and squealing and bellowing about him like the lowest and most debauched of sideshows!

  For a second I was afraid that he had not recognized me, but it was rage that silenced him, not incomprehension. His eyes widened as if they might devour me; his mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Outrage swelled him from within like the frog in the fable, so that his voice, when it finally came, was a ridiculous croak: “You here! You here?”

  Even now he did not completely understand. Père Colombin Saint-Amand, the man with whom he had corresponded, could not be this man. This interloper had somehow taken the place of the holy man, and the nuns, the nuns…But the nuns seemed to recognize him. Hands outstretched, pleading, praying. Even Isabelle—poor child, grown so wan in the past months, her face ravaged by sickness and disquiet—even she looked to him as to a savior, tears silvering her small pinched face as her hand reached out toward some object hidden behind the pulpitum…

  Stupid disbelief slowed all his faculties. I couldn’t have that. I signaled to Isabelle to hold back, and to Perette, who must still be lurking out of sight, to take her place.

  Meanwhile Arnault stared at me as if one or the other of us must be mad. “You here. How dare you? How dare you?”

  “Oh, I’ll dare anything. You said so yourself, on one or another of our meetings.” I addressed the sisters, who had forsaken their raptures in curiosity and now stared at us open-mouthed: “Did I not warn you of how a fair face may conceal a foul one? The man before you is not what he appears.” I controlled my audience with a gesture as the crowd surged forward. Already, the liveried guards of the retinue had been separated from their masters; the archbishop was cut off—though I was glad to see he was well positioned to witness everything—and only the Bishop stood between me and the congregation.

  Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t worth it. The longer you have to wait, the more exquisite it is. I could see fear in him now—only a little, for he still believed this to be some kind of dream, but it would grow. Behind him, someone wailed and collapsed. They were beginning to move again, restlessly: a ripple that would soon once more become a wave. I took off my cross by the leather thong that bound it, and raised it in front of me. Then I laid it—negligently, or so it seemed—by the side of the pulpitum, and waited for the finale to begin.

  This must be the moment, I thought, when Perette was due to appear. I sensed a drop in the voices below me, a slight hesitation in his delivery that no one perceived but myself. I could appreciate his timing: the lull during which the Unholy Nun was to make her last and most dramatic appearance. Unlike myself, however, he had not placed all his trust in Perette. She was not fundamental to his plans but an artistic touch without which he could manage quite well if he needed to. He would be disappointed, certainly; but I hoped her absence would arouse no suspicion in him. He knew Perette was too volatile to trust; I was about to gamble my life on the hope that she was not.

  The bishop advanced, too angry for caution or curiosity. He was a tall man, taller even than LeMerle, and from my perch he looked more like a bird, a black crane perhaps, or a heron, as he marched up the steps toward the pulpitum with his robes flapping behind him. The smoke from the brazier stung my eyes, and there was rain dripping on my neck, but I had to see this confrontation. I had to be sure—I had to know that there was no other way than the one I had chosen—before I made my move.

  I heard their voices below me, only slightly distorted by the shape of the bell tower. LeMerle’s clear tones, and those of the bishop, hoarse with disbelief and righteous anger, calling out instructions to his guards, which they could not obey without cutting a swath through a crowd of ecstatic nuns.

  I could not yet make my move. LeMerle was still too close to the brazier, and if cornered, he might light the fuse and set the terrible sequence into motion. Had I left it too late? Was I to watch helpless as LeMerle carried out his revenge?

  Then, as if in answer to my prayer, the bishop mounted the pulpitum and in the same moment, miraculously, LeMerle stepped away from the brazier. Now was the time, I thought, now—and, with a quick cantrip to ensure my safe footing and a whispered prayer to Saint Francis of the Birds, I took the rope in both hands and flung it out into the smoky air.

  Mon père. I’m touched.” I used my other vocal register so that the sound would not carry. “After last time, I’d hardly anticipated such a warm welcome.”

  Behind me, Isabelle was watching, white to the lips. Perette had failed me—a pity, though hardly of the essence—but now came the real test. Would Isabelle play her part to the end? Had I broken her, or would she declare herself against me? I have to admit the uncertainty excited me somewhat; besides, I thought, my escape route was safe with Antoine to keep it clear. At this stage I could risk a little self-indulgence.

  “I’ll see you burn for this!” Hardly original, but it fitted the script. “I’ll finish you once and for all!” You see how unwittingly he played my game; his emotions betrayed his every move, as any cardplayer could tell you. With murder in his silvery eyes he came striding up toward me like a great gilded crow; for a second I was sure he would try to strike me, but I was younger and quicker than he was, and he dared not risk his dignity for a missed blow. Even now I could see that he believed it to be nothing but a trick of breathtaking impudence; he was more concerned about Isabelle and the now-unwelcome presence of the archbishop to consider my deeper motives.

  “This man is no priest!” he said, turning to address the sisters in a voice that shook with rage. “He is an impostor! A trickster, a common stage actor—”

  Less of that, Father. I’ll have you know I was years ahead of my time. “Is that likely?” I said with a smile. “Is it not more believable that this—this mitered abomination—is the real impostor?” Their voices told me they believed it, though there were a few cries of dissent among the many. “Certainly, there is one Deceiver in this hall,” I said. “And who is to say where? False priest, false bishop. Or are we all false? Can any of you say in all honesty that you have stayed true to yourself? Tell me, Father”—here I addressed the bishop in an undertone—“how true were you? How much more worthy to wear that robe than an actor—or a lecher—or an ape?”

  He lunged at me then, as I knew he would; laughing, I evaded the blow. But it was a feint; instead of going for me, he made a grab for the silver cross I had forgotten on the side of the pulpitum, and brandished it with a cry of triumph.

  His triumph was brief, however. At once and with a
cry of pain, he dropped the cross and looked at his hand, where even now white blisters were beginning to rise like fresh dough.

  It was a simple trick; placed so close to the brazier, the metal had become too hot to handle; but logic had long since abandoned my susceptible sisters, and the cry went up from the first row, spreading to the back in a matter of seconds.

  “The cross! He cannot touch the cross!”

  “That’s ridiculous!” shouted the bishop over the noise. “This man is an impostor!” But the crowd was pushing forward, straining in the pews; the guards were still too far away to be of use, and Monseigneur looked about to use his fists when he thought better of it and lowered his hands, teeth clenched.

  “Very wise,” I told him, beginning to smile. “Lay a hand on me—lay even a finger—and all hell breaks loose.”

  The rope caught at the first try. I felt the lead connect with the scaffolding opposite with a dull smacking sound. I tugged gently at the rope, but it held firm. Good. There was no time for further checks or precautions, and I secured the rope as well as I could to the rotten structure at my back. It was slacker than I usually like it, but I could not risk losing more time. I dropped my cloak from my shoulders, loosened the brown habit that concealed me, and stood on the narrow platform in my white shift. A swathe of blue cloth covered my all-too-recognizable hair. A moment of terror—it was too late, too much time had gone by, I would fall, I would fall—then the glacial cloak of the Winged One dropped over me, untouched by the passing years, and with it a kind of joy.

  Head raised high, bare feet gripping the cord, arms slightly outstretched, l’Ailée stepped out proudly into the dark air.

  I knew her at once. You don’t believe that? My first and best pupil—my only perfect achievement—of course I knew her. Even without her sequinned wings, veiled, and with a cloth tied over her hair I knew her grace, her assurance, her style. I was the first: seconds later others had seen her too. I knew a moment of pride—ay, that was my Ailée, all eyes drawn to her in envy and longing—even in my astonishment and growing understanding.

  I should have known. That was her audacity. I wondered what had alerted her to my plan—pure instinct, perhaps, that malicious instinct of hers to thwart me at every turn and to lay low my pride—even doomed to failure as it was, it was still a brave attempt.

  From this low angle I could see no rope supporting her. The muted candle glow made of her a figure of mist, a warm, hazy apparition that seemed to shine with an inner light. A distant rumble of thunder from across the sea served as her introductory drumroll.

  From the frenzy came a voice: “Look! Above you! Look, I say!”

  More faces turned to watch. More voices, clamorous at first, then falling to an awed hush as the white figure glided across the shadowy air, seemingly to hover right above their heads.

  “Mère Marie!” wailed one voice from the depths of the congregation.

  “The ghost of Germaine!”

  “The Unholy Nun!”

  The veiled figure paused for a moment in its passage over thin air and made the sign of the cross. Silence, awed silence, fell once more as she prepared to speak.

  “My children.” My voice sounded terribly distant, the words resonating so far into the throat of the tower that they seemed barely recognizable. I could hear the beating of the rain against the wooden slats not five feet from my head and, somewhere across the water, a growl of thunder. “My children, do you not recognize me? I am Sainte Marie-dela-mer.” The voice I had chosen was deep and resonant, like those of the tragedians of my Paris days. A flutter went through the sisters like a breath of wind on the sea. “My poor, deluded children. You have been the victims of a cruel deception.”

  LeMerle was watching me; I wondered at what point he would realize that all was lost for him; what he would do.

  “Père Colombin is not what you think, my children. The man you see before you is a cruel impostor. No priest at all. A deceiver, whose true name is known to me.”

  The collective gaze moved from the man to the woman, the floating woman to the man…The silence was terrible. Then LeMerle lifted his eyes toward me and I could see the challenge in his face far below.

  Will it be war, then, Harpy?

  No malice in the unspoken question, simply a bright look of anticipation, the gambler’s fever heightened to furnace intensity.

  I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but I knew he understood.

  Cue thunder. That was luck, Juliette; it could just as easily have been mine.

  Did she expect me to run? I asked myself. Did she expect me to hide in the shadows? She should have known better. And yet it pleased me in some absurd way that my pupil should seek to outplay the master at his own game of deceit. She looked down at me, my lovely bird of prey, and we understood each other completely. In spite of myself, in spite of the danger, I played your game, eager to know how well I taught you.

  The crowd was all faces, mouths open as if to receive honey from the sky. Above me, the storm was approaching fast; the rain had turned to a hail that rattled against the slates like dice. Although I was partly shielded by the roof above me, it was in poor condition, and I was uncomfortably aware that a single one of those hailstones might be enough to break my concentration and topple me from my perch. Was this what he hoped for? I’d expected him at least to deny my accusation, but he seemed to be waiting, almost as if he had something else planned…

  The realization, when it struck me, almost cost me my footing. Of course! Even from my vantage point, with everything laid out below me, I had been misdirected, like the rest of them. I had been so busy watching LeMerle that I had hardly noticed Isabelle eclipsed in his shadow; only now as I scanned the little scene, did I understand his full intent. Isabelle herself was to be the fuse: what he wanted was not to light the flame himself, but to watch the bishop’s face as his niece sacrificed her own life, and who knows how many others, in a desperate attempt to beat the devil. She was poised to do it; a word might trigger her reaction. Now I understood the repeated sermons, the constant references to such martyred saints as Saints Agatha, Perpetua, Margaret of Alexandria, or holy miracle workers like Christina Mirabilis, who passed unhurt through flame to heavenly bliss.

  I could see it in my mind; heavily robed and anointed with oil, she would leap into flame as quickly as summer stubble. I’d heard of it happening onstage, in the ballet, as a tulle skirt brushes the overheated glass of one of the footlights and fire jumps like an acrobat from one dancer to another, making lanterns of them all, torching their hair, vaulting ceiling-high in a trembling tower of fire and smoke. Whole troupes devoured in seconds, said LeMerle, who had once seen it happen—but—my God!—What a performance!

  I could feel her eyes on me, now that I was awake to her gaze. I had to tread more carefully than ever; it was not enough to have interrupted LeMerle’s oratory or to have liberated the others from the dancing frenzy; it was not even enough to have thrown Père Colombin into doubt by endorsing the bishop’s claim against him. It was Isabelle I had to convince—only Isabelle. The question was: how much of the original Isabelle was left?

  “There is no such saint as Marie-de-la-mer.” It was as if she had sensed my thoughts. Around her, the sisters awaited their cue, and LeMerle observed his pupil with the smile of a man with a hand of aces.

  “As I told you before,” he said in a calm voice, “there is at least one deceiver here. Which is it to be? Whom do you trust? Who has never lied to you?”

  Isabelle looked up at me, then back at LeMerle. “I trust you,” she said quietly, and put out her hand toward the brazier.

  Her rope is too slack. I saw that at once. A moment ago I saw her change position and she swayed, gripping the invisible rope with her toes to stop it from swinging out of control. Where to now, my Harpy? Ten seconds and the place will be ablaze. A brave try, Juliette: but late, much too late. The pang I feel for you is real enough, but you chose this. I have to say I never imagined you’d really betray me, b
ut a wise man anticipates every eventuality. You’ll fly from your perch in flames, my bird. A better end, perhaps, than to live, wings clipped, among barnyard geese.

  “Vade retro, Satanas!”

  Isabelle’s hand faltered an inch from the coals. Even then it might have been enough, but for a sudden draft from the open side door. Damn it, Antoine. I told you not to leave your post, whatever happened. In any case, the girl faltered, looked up in spite of herself, recognizing the language of ancient authority. That was a foul blow, Juliette; using my own weapons against me. But is it good enough? And, seeing your advantage, will you play or will you fold?

  “The devil knows his Latin too,” I reminded Isabelle softly. I began to move, very slowly, toward the side door and the second brazier. A wise man always covers his bets, and if one fuse fails to light, it’s safer to have a second in reserve. But Antoine was standing at the side door, barring my exit with her huge body, and I saw that she too was watching the fake Virgin with a strange expression on her face.

  “Listen to me, all of you.” The Winged One speaks again, and I can hear a hoarse note in her voice. “Père Colombin has lied to you. He has deceived and tricked you since the moment he arrived. Remember the curse of blood? That was only dye, red dye, that he slipped into the well to frighten you. And the Unholy Nun? That was—” She stopped then, realizing her mistake, and I grinned and began to recite the rite of exorcism.

  “Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde—”

  “Look at his arm!” cried the fake Marie, in the voice of Juliette. “Make him show you the mark of the Virgin on his left arm!”

  Timing, my dear: timing. If you’d thought of that at the start, you might have hurt me badly. But we’ve passed the time for signs and symbols; at this stage we need something more visceral: something closer to the nerve.