by Anne Rice
The words of the inquisitor rang in my ears as I looked at this ugly thing in the firelight. “She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most? And what is that to the eternal fires of hell?”
Oh, Deborah, who never willfully harmed anyone, and had brought her healing arts to the poorest and the richest, and been so unwise!
And where was her vengeful spirit, her Lasher, who sought to save her grief by striking down her husband, and had brought her to that miserable cell? Was he with her, as she had told me? It was not his name she had cried out when she was tortured, it was my name, and the name of her old and kindly husband Roelant.
Stefan, I have written this tonight as much to stave off madness, as to make the record. I am weary now. I have packed my valise, and I am ready to leave this town when I have seen this bitter story to the end. I will seal this letter and put it in my valise with the customary note affixed to it, that in the event of my death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.
For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.
The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.
Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,
Petyr van Abel
Montcleve
Michaelmas, 1689
Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment, his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.
Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.
“That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt,” he said, “do you still have it?”
“Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I’ve already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It’s going to take a little time.”
“Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald-that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher … Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat.”
“But you do not actually remember it?”
“No, but I’m sure … And Aaron-”
“Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn’t much time.”
“I need a pen and paper to take notes.”
“What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions.”
“Exactly, I wish I’d been keeping a notebook all along.”
“I’ll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There’ll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring.”
“That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things … ”
“I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read.”
Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.
At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.
The kindly woman he’d seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.
He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:
“After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.
“And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don’t really remember this. I simply know it.
“And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I’ve been doing, but to touch something specific …
“But it’s too soon to draw conclusions … ”
But if I only had something of Deborah’s to touch, he thought. But he sensed there was nothing, or else Aaron would have sent for it too. He examined the photocopies of Petyr van Abel’s letters. That’s all they were-photocopies. No good for his anxious hands.
He thought for a moment, if such confusion in one’s mind could be called thought, and then he drew a picture in the notebook of a necklace, showing a rectangular jewel in the center, and a filigree border, and a chain of gold. He drew it the way he would draw an architectural design, with very clean, straight lines and slightly shaded detail.
He studied it, the gloved fingers of his left hand working nervously in his hair, and then curling into a fist as he rested his hand on the desk. He was about to scratch out the drawing when he decided against it, and then he opened the second file and began to read.
Fourteen
THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES
PART II
Marseille, France
October 4, 1689
Dear Stefan,
I am here in Marseille after several days’ journey from Montcleve, during which I rested at Saint-Rémy and made my way very slowly from there, on account of my wounded shoulder and wounded soul.
I have already drawn money from our agent here, and will post this letter no later than one hour after I finish it, and so you will receive it on the heels of my last, which I posted upon my arrival last night.
I am heartsick, Stefan. The comforts of a large and decent inn here mean little or nothing to me, though I am glad to be out of the small villages and in a city of some size, where I cannot help but feel at ease and somewhat safe.
If word has reached this place of what happened at Montcleve, I have not heard of it yet. And as I put away my clerical garb on the outskirts of Saint-Rémy and have been since then the Dutch traveler of means, I do not think that anyone will trouble me about those recent events in the mountains, for what would I know about such things?
I write once more to stave off madness as much as to report to you, which I am bound to do, and to continue the business at hand.
The execution of Deborah began in a manner similar to many others, in that as the morning light fell down on the square before the doors of the Cathedral of Saint-Michel all the town collected there with the wine sellers making their profits, and the old Comtesse, somberly dressed, coming forward with the two trembling children, both dark-haired and dark-skinned with the stamp of the Spanish blood on them, but with a height and delicacy of bone that betrayed the blood of their mother, and very much frightened, as they were taken high to the very top of the viewing stand before the jail, and facing the pyre.
It seemed the little one, Chrétien, began to weep and cling to his grandmother, whereupon there ran through the crowd excited murmurs, “Chrétien, look at Chrétien.” This child’s lip trembled as he was seated, but his elder brother, Philippe, evinced only fear and perhaps loathing of what he beheld around him, and the old Comtesse embraced and comforted both of them, and on her other side welcomed the Comtesse de Chamillart and the inquisitor Father Louvier, with two young clerics in fine robes.
Four more priests, I know not from where, also filled the topmost places in the stand, and a small band of armed men stood at the very foot of it, these constituting the local authorities, or so I presumed.
Other important personages, or a great collection of those who think themselves very important, filled up the rest of the elevated seats very quickly, and if there had been any window anywhere that had not been opened beforehand,
it was opened now and full of eager faces, and those on foot pressed so close to the pyre that I could not help but wonder how they would save themselves from being burnt.
A small band of armed men, bearing a ladder with them, appeared from the thick of the crowd and laid this ladder against the pyre. The young Chrétien saw this and turned fearfully once more to his grandmother, his shoulders shaking as he cried, but the young Philippe remained as before.
At last the doors of Saint-Michel were thrown open, and there appeared beneath the rounded arch, on the very threshold, the pastor and some other despicable official, most likely the mayor of this place, who held in his hands a rolled parchment, and a pair of armed guards came forth to the left and to the right.
And between them there emerged to a hushed and wonder-stricken audience my Deborah, standing straight and with her head high, her thin body covered by a white robe which hung to her bare feet, and in her hands the six-pound candle which she held before her as her eyes swept the crowd.
Never have I seen such fearlessness in all my life, Stefan, though as I looked down from the window of the inn opposite, and my eyes met the eyes of Deborah, my own eyes were blurred by tears.
I cannot say for certain what then followed, except that at the very instant when heads might have turned to see this person at whom “the witch” stared so fixedly, Deborah did look away, and again her eyes took in the scene before her, lingering with equal care upon the stalls of the wine sellers and the peddlers, and the groups of random persons who backed away from her as she looked at them, and finally up at the viewing stand which loomed down upon her, and at the old Comtesse, who steeled herself to this silent accusation, and then to the Comtesse de Chamillart, who at once squirmed in her seat, her face reddening, as she looked in panic to the old Comtesse, who remained as unmoved as before.
Meantime Father Louvier, the great and triumphant inquisitor, was shouting hoarsely to the mayor that he should read the proclamation in his hands, and that “these proceedings must commence!”
A hubbub rose from all assembled, and the mayor cleared his throat to begin reading, and I then satisfied myself of what I had already seen but failed to note, that Deborah’s hands and feet were unbound.
It was now my intention to come down from the window and to push my way, by the roughest means if need be, to the very front of the crowd so that I might stand near her, regardless of what danger this might mean to me.
And I was in the act of turning from the window when the mayor began to read the Latin with torturous slowness, and Deborah’s voice rang out, silencing him and commanding that the crowd be still.
“I never did you harm, not the poorest of you!” she declared, speaking slowly and loudly, her voice echoing off the stone walls, and as Father Louvier stood and shouted for silence, she raised her voice even louder and declared that she would speak.
“Silence her!” declared the old Comtesse, now in a fury, and again Louvier bellowed for the mayor to read the proclamation and the frightened pastor looked to his armed guards, but they had drawn away on either side and seemed fearful as they stared at Deborah and at the frightened crowd.
“I will be heard!” my Deborah called out again, as loudly as before. And as she took but one step forward, to stand more fully in the sunlight, the crowd drew back in a great swarming mass.
“I am unjustly condemned of witchcraft,” cried Deborah, “for I am no heretic and I do not worship Satan, and I have done no malice against any being here!”
And before the old Comtesse could roar again, Deborah continued:
“You, my sons, you testified against me and I disown you! And you, my beloved mother-in-law, have damned yourself to hell with your lies!”
“Witch!” screamed the Comtesse de Chamillart, now in panic. “Burn her. Throw her on the pyre.”
And at this it seemed a number did press forward, as much out of fear as a desire for heroism and to draw favor upon themselves perhaps, or maybe it was mere confusion. But the armed guards did not move.
“Witch, you call me!” Deborah answered at once. And with a great gesture, she threw down the candle on the stones and threw up her hands before the men who would have taken hold of her but did not. “Hearken to me!” she declared. “I shall show you witchcraft I have never shown you before!”
The crowd was now in complete fright and some were leaving the square and others pressing to reach the narrow streets leading away from it, and even those in the viewing stand had risen to their feet, and the young Chrétien buried his face against the old Comtesse and again shook with sobs.
Yet the eyes of hundreds in this narrow place remained fixed upon Deborah, who had raised her thin and bruised arms. Her lips moved, but I could hear no words from her, and shrieks now rang out from some below the window, and then a rumbling was heard over the rooftops, far fainter than thunder and therefore more terrible, and a great wind was gathering suddenly, and with it came another noise, a low creaking and ripping sound, which at first I did not know and then I remembered from many another storm-the old roofs of the place were giving up to the wind their loose and broken tiles.
At once the tiles began to fall from the parapets, raining down singly and here and there by the half dozen, and the wind was howling and gathering itself over the square. The wooden shutters of the inns had begun to flap on their hinges, and my Deborah screamed again over this noise and over the frantic cries of the crowd.
“Come now, my Lasher, be my avenger, strike down my enemies!” Bending double, she raised her hands, her face red and stricken with her rage. “I see you, Lasher, I know you! I call you!” And straightening and flinging out her arms: “Destroy my sons, destroy my accusers! Destroy those who have come to see me die!”
And the tiles came crashing down off the roofs, off the church and the jail and the sacristy, and off the roofs of the inns, striking the heads of those screaming below, and in the wind, the viewing stand, built of fragile boards and sticks and ropes with crude mortar, began to rock as those clinging to it shrieked for their lives.
Only Father Louvier stood firm. “Burn the witch!” he shouted, trying to get through the panic-stricken men and women who tumbled over one another to get away. “Burn the witch and you stop the storm.”
No one moved to obey him, and though the church alone could provide shelter from this tempest, no one dared moved towards it as Deborah commanded the door, her arms outstretched. The armed men had run away from her in their panic. The parish priest had shrunk to the far side. The mayor was gone from view.
Overhead the very sky had gone dark, and people were fighting and cursing and falling in the crush, and in the fierce rain of tiles the old Comtesse was struck and slumped over, losing her balance and vaulting down over the bodies writhing in front of her, onto the very stones. The two boys clung to each other as a shower of loose stones broke upon them from the facade of the church. Chrétien was bowed under the stones as a tree in a hail storm, and then struck unconscious, falling to his knees. The stand itself now collapsed, taking down with it both boys and some twenty or more persons still struggling to get clear.
As far as I could see, all the guards had deserted the square, and the pastor had run away. And now I beheld my Deborah move backwards into the shadows, though her eyes were still on the heavens:
“I see you, Lasher!” she cried out. “My strong and beautiful Lasher!” And she vanished into the dark of the nave.
At this I ran from the window and down the stairs and into the frenzy of the square. What was in my mind I could not tell you, save somehow I could reach her, and under cover of the panic around us, get her free from this place.
But as I ran across the open space, the tiles flew every which way, and one struck my shoulder, and another my left hand. I could see nothing of her, only the doors of the church which were, in spite of their great heaviness, swinging in the wind.
Shutters had broken loose and were coming down upon the mad folk who could not get out through th
e little streets. Bodies lay piled at every arch and doorway. The old Comtesse lay dead, staring upwards, men and women tripping over her limbs. And in the ruin of the viewing stand lay the body of Chrétien, the little one, twisted so as it could not have had life in it.
Philippe, the elder, crawled upon his knees to seek shelter, his leg broken it appeared, when a wooden shutter came down striking his neck and breaking it as well so that he fell dead.
Then someone near me, cowering against the wall, screamed:
“The Comtesse!” and pointed up.
There she stood, high on the parapets of the church, for she had gone in and upwards, and balancing perilously upon the wall, she once again raised her hands to heaven and cried out to her spirit. But in the howling of the wind, in the screaming of the afflicted, in the falling of the tiles and the stones and the broken wood, I could not hope to hear her words.
I ran for the church, and once inside searched in panic for the steps. There was Louvier, the inquisitor, running back and forth, and then finding the steps before me, leading the way.
Up and up I ran after him, seeing his black skirts high above me, and his heels clacking on the stones. Oh, Stefan, if I had had a dagger, but I had no dagger.
And as we reached the open parapets, as he ran out before me, I saw Deborah’s thin body fly, as it were, from the roof. Reaching the edge, I peered down upon the carnage and saw her lying broken on the stones. Her face was turned upwards-one arm beneath her head, and the other limp across her chest-and her eyes were closed as though she slept.
Louvier cursed when he saw her. “Burn her, take her body up to the pyre,” he cried, but it was useless. No one could hear him. In consternation he turned, perhaps to go back down and further command the proceedings, when he beheld me standing there.