The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Yes,’ replied the priest. ‘Yes, with your cooperation, Édouard, I can help Monsieur Clément. But I must make one thing perfectly clear,’ he glanced from Bazile to me and back again. ‘The undertaking that lies ahead of us is highly dangerous. The demoniac who ran amok at the Salpêtrière – or at least the thing that had seized control of his faculties – recognized the presence of a superior power. Our adversary occupies an elevated rank in the infernal hierarchy. One does not confront such an entity with anything less than extreme trepidation. To do otherwise would be folly.’ Father Ranvier tapped the ends of his fingers together. ‘I can perform an exorcism and, by the grace of God, the demon will be cast out; however, that will not be the end of it. The demon will continue to exist in our world and retain its capacity to do harm.’

  ‘Why can’t it be sent back to hell?’ asked Bazile.

  Once,’ replied Father Ranvier, ‘there were books containing rituals for that purpose. But now they are all lost.’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’ I asked, desperation making my voice ragged.

  ‘We must attempt to confine it.’

  ‘You mean to imprison the demon?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘The Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II is reputed to have acquired a demon in glass which he subsequently exhibited in his museum of oddities. At that time, the practice of trapping spirits in glass and gemstones was quite common among the magical elite.’ Father Ranvier got up and shuffled over to one of the bookcases. He ran his finger across a row of spines and when he had found the tome he was looking for he returned to the table. The text, faded to ochre-brown, was dense and annotated throughout by different hands – some cramped, others more broad and flowing. Father Ranvier began to read: ‘Procure of a lapidary good clear pellucid crystal. Let it be globular or round each way alike and without flaws. Let it then be placed on an ivory or ebony pedestal . . .’ The priest raised his head. ‘Édouard, can you obtain the keys to the crypt of Saint-Sulpice?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Then let us meet there tomorrow, at dawn. I must make preparations. Do not eat or drink anything, except water, and keep a close eye on Monsieur Clément. He must not be left alone for a second.’

  12

  Bazile and I spent the rest of the day in the north tower of Saint-Sulpice. He had taken the precaution of locking the door, but this really wasn’t necessary. As the day advanced, I became tired and subsequently fell into a prolonged, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, it was past ten o’clock and the sky beyond the semi-circular windows had turned from grey to black. After attending to my ablutions, I sat down at the table.

  ‘Can we go for a walk?’ I asked Bazile.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think that would be most unwise.’

  He handed me a book of religious meditations and suggested that I read them.

  ‘Where is Madame Bazile?’

  ‘I’ve sent her away.’

  ‘Normandy?’

  ‘No: just round the corner. She’s staying with a friend – a widow.’

  ‘I’m sorry.

  Bazile raised his eyebrows, ‘What for?’

  ‘This imposition. Your inconvenience.’

  He shrugged, dismissed my apology with a gesture and lowered his head over the open pages of a Bible that he had evidently been studying while I was still asleep. The room was poorly ventilated and I was soon feeling extremely uncomfortable. ‘Édouard,’ I said, ‘I need some air. Please, let us go outside, just for a few minutes. I am . . .’ I paused to find the right words, ‘quite sane. I can assure you, I won’t try to run away.’

  Bazile sighed. ‘Can’t you see what it’s doing, Paul? Please, rest and ready yourself.’

  I tried to read through the meditations but found the piety of the authors overblown and their blandishments vaguely irritating. My discomfort increased and I loosened my collar. As my fingers brushed the chain around my neck, I was reminded of the cross that hung beneath my shirt, and I noticed that it was not merely warm, but hot, as if the heat from my body was accumulating in the metal. I glanced across the table at the top of Bazile’s head, his thick black hair divided by a makeshift parting. He was so engrossed in the Gospel of Saint John that his nose was almost touching the page. I looked from his crown to a large silver candlestick, and the idea of connecting one forcefully with the other entered my mind with a kind of casual indifference. The cross was now burning with a fierce heat, yet the pain was curiously cleansing. I pressed my palms together and offered Bazile my hands. ‘You should tie me up. I am having thoughts. Unwanted thoughts.’

  Bazile’s eyes widened as he registered the implication of my appeal. ‘It seems then, that the battle has already begun, but the very fact that you are able to make such a request clearly demonstrates that the first victory has been yours. No, I will not bind you. Let my belief in your innate goodness serve to strengthen your resolve.’ He then recited the Pater Noster, raising his voice on reaching the words, ‘deliver us from evil’.

  The night wore on. I experienced more unwanted thoughts, some accompanied by obscene images of degradation, others by violent urges of increasing intensity. Bazile suggested that we kneel and pray together, but prayer had little effect. Disturbing thoughts and images continued to assail my mind and it was only after the middle hour of darkness had come and gone that finally I detected a subtle change, a shift in the balance of power, the gradual reduction of the demon’s influence.

  Bazile filled two oil lamps and lit the wicks with a match. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

  ‘It isn’t dawn yet,’ I replied.

  ‘The sun will be up within the hour,’ said Bazile. ‘Come.’

  We descended the stairs of the tower and made our way directly to the crypt. As the door opened, a breath of air carried with it the smell of damp stone. I could not see very far ahead; indeed, it seemed as if we were walking through a void. The rich acoustic, however, betrayed the crypt’s unusual size, its unseen vastness. Eventually, we came to a rectangular area defined by columns and arches.

  ‘The remains of the original Saint-Sulpice,’ said Bazile, ‘The present church was built on the site of this earlier building, a modest house of prayer where parishioners worshipped for more than five centuries.’

  I judged that these crumbling remnants must be of medieval origin, although they might just as easily have survived from a more distant past: Roman times, or perhaps even earlier. Bazile and I smoked, paced up and down and engaged in some desultory conversation, and in due course my companion consulted his pocket watch and said, ‘I’ll see if Father Ranvier has arrived.’ He picked up one of the oil lamps and marched off, soon disappearing from view. I peered into the murky distance and listened: a key turning in a lock, a door closing, the lock again, and then silence.

  Almost immediately, I experienced an irrational terror of abandonment and my breathing became irregular. This ‘attack’ was far worse than any I had experienced before and came with a chilling suggestion of premature burial. I thought of Saint-Sulpice, directly above my head – its baroque bluffs and cliff faces, the immense dome above the transept crossing, all of that colossal weight, bearing down on the columns of the old church – and had to wrestle with a strong impulse to chase after Bazile. I imagined the vault collapsing, entrapment and a slow, agonizing death. Shadows leaped across the walls and I was overcome by a profound sense of being alone. It came as a great relief, therefore, when a few minutes later, I heard Bazile returning with Father Ranvier: footsteps, and the reassuring strain of human voices. The two men emerged from the gloom, Father Ranvier holding the oil lamp aloft, and Bazile struggling to manage what looked like a portable table under one arm and a canvas bag under the other.

  ‘Monsieur Clément,’ said Father Ranvier. He stood in front of me, gripping my arms above the elbow. ‘A difficult night, I hear. Still, by God’s grace you have survived the ordeal and by His grace we will be triumphant.’ Placing his hands on his hips, the priest looked around at t
he columns and arches before adding, ‘Hallowed ground! We have this to our advantage. Édouard, set up the table here, and then clear away anything that can be moved.’

  In spite of his age, Father Ranvier went about his preliminaries with surprising vigour. He took a white cloth from the canvas bag and spread it over the table, pressing out any creases with his palm. Several items were laid out: a crucifix, two candles and a lead-capped wand – unwrapped from a handkerchief of blue silk. It did not seem right that a crucifix, the principal emblem of the Church, should be placed next to an object commonly associated with stage magic, and Bazile’s remark about the Bishop not valuing Father Ranvier’s scholarship came back to me. Suspicion was swiftly displaced by curiosity when the priest produced a sphere of glass so heavy that lifting it out of the bag made him grimace. I came forward and offered to help him, but he turned on me and said with unexpected ferocity, ‘No, monsieur. You must not touch this.’ He positioned the sphere on an ivory base some distance away. On his return, Father Ranvier ran a length of cord around the table, making minute adjustments as he did so to ensure its circularity. He chalked various words and symbols around the circumference and drew a complex triangular figure inside; then he lit seven candles, which he placed at regular intervals equidistant from the table so as to create a ‘greater circle’ of light. Next, Father Ranvier produced a straitjacket and a leather strap. Naturally, I associated such restraints with lunacy and incarceration. Perhaps all doctors who specialize in the treatment of brain disorders have a fundamental fear of suffering the same fate as their patients.

  ‘I can’t.’ I said. ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘But, monsieur,’ said Father Ranvier, ‘you have already experienced the demon interfering with your mind, is that not so? And there will be worse, I am sorry to say, much worse, before our work is done. Our enemy will not relinquish its claim on your soul without contention, and when it is forced to accept the sovereignty of Christ, it will be enraged, disposed to perform acts of violence. If you do not wear these restraints, you will be placing all of us in terrible danger.’

  I could not argue. There was no logical objection and I duly submitted. After the jacket had been fastened, I sat on the ground, and Bazile bound my ankles together. ‘Have courage, my friend,’ said the bell-ringer. ‘Have courage.’ But I could see that he was troubled.

  Father Ranvier and Bazile stepped into the circle, after which the priest instructed Bazile to touch the ends of the cord together and to seal the break with candle wax. ‘Édouard,’ said Father Ranvier, ‘you must not step outside this circle. Whatever happens, do you understand?’ Bazile nodded and Father Ranvier handed him a black leather volume. ‘Let us begin.’

  The two men knelt on the ground and began a series of invocations, beginning with the Litany of the Saints. A psalm preceded an antiphonal appeal on my behalf. ‘Save this man your servant.’

  ‘Because he hopes in you, my God.’

  ‘Be a tower of strength for him, O Lord.’

  ‘In the face of the enemy.’

  ‘Let the enemy have no victory over him.’

  ‘And let the Son of Iniquity not succeed in injuring him.’

  When the invocations were concluded, Father Ranvier and Bazile stood up for the summoning.

  ‘Unclean Spirit! Power of Satan! Enemy from hell!’ The priest’s voice was resolute. ‘By the mysteries of the incarnation, the sufferings and death, the resurrection and the ascension of Our Lord Jesus Christ; by the sending of the Holy Spirit; and by the coming of Our Lord into last judgement, make yourself known to us!’

  I had imagined that the ritual would proceed without effect for some time, that there would be a certain amount of waiting before the demon was compelled to respond; however, when the summoning was ended, I felt a ‘change’, subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but gradually intensifying until the reality of the phenomenon was beyond question. Glances were exchanged and it was obvious that Bazile and Father Ranvier could also sense it: a presence, seeping into the atmosphere, nowhere and everywhere, a hiss beneath the silence, bringing to each of us an acute and almost painful awareness of our human frailties – the softness of flesh, the frangibility of bone, the precarious equilibrium of the mind. Its essence was threat, a wordless but unmistakable threat to the self. I tensed my muscles as if in readiness to receive a blow, and it seemed that this reflexive, physical reaction was complemented by some inner psychological equivalent: a contraction or shying away at the very core of my being.

  Father Ranvier made the sign of the cross and cried out, ‘God, Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I invoke your holy name and humbly request that you deign to give me the strength to expel this unclean spirit that torments this creature of yours.’

  There was a strange abrasive noise, like two rocks being scraped together, and a dusty shower of granulated mortar fell from above. I stared up at the vault and saw nothing remarkable, apart from a billowing sail of spider’s silk. My fear of being buried alive returned and I called out, ‘The vault is unstable. Quick, release me. We must get out!’ Bazile and Father Ranvier looked at me with blank expressions. ‘Didn’t you hear it?’ I implored, my voice becoming shrill with exasperation.

  ‘Hear what?’ asked Bazile.

  I rolled my eyes upwards. ‘The stones shifting!’

  ‘I heard nothing,’ said Bazile.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Father Ranvier.

  ‘Please. We must get out at once.’ I struggled hopelessly to break free.

  ‘Monsieur Clément,’ said Father Ranvier. ‘It is the enemy, interfering with your mind again.’

  I could not accept this. The mortar was real. ‘Édouard, help me. Please.’ Bazile winced and repeated his earlier exhortation: ‘Have courage, my friend, have courage.’ As he spoke these words, I noticed that his breath was clouding the air. It was getting colder and a shiver passed through my body.

  Father Ranvier began to recite the twenty-third psalm. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul.’

  I felt a curious loosening of the constituent parts of my character, a loss of integrity, a shift towards disintegration. Bazile was looking nervous.

  ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil . . .’ Father Ranvier faltered as the temperature plummeted. ‘For Thou art with me; Thy rod and staff, they comfort me.’

  The impression we all shared, I am sure, was of approaching menace, inestimable power, and I was overcome by a visceral, bowel-gripping fear. My teeth chattered and the world around me seemed to pitch and roll. When Father Ranvier had finished the psalm, he threw his arm out, fingers outstretched, as if he were a god releasing a thunderbolt. Stamping his foot, he roared, ‘I exorcize you, Most unclean spirit! Invading enemy! Filth! Be uprooted and expelled from this creature of God.’

  My head felt as if it had been struck by an axe. I experienced blinding, white hot pain, and then there was darkness, oblivion.

  13

  On opening my eyes, I was aware that a period of time had elapsed, but could not judge how long. It could have been minutes or hours. I was lying on my side some distance from my previous location. Two of the candles in the outer circle had been knocked over; my body ached and my thoughts were sluggish. Father Ranvier was chanting and Bazile was crouched at the edge of the circle – although still within it – studying me closely.

  ‘Clément, are you back?’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘No, my son,’ said Father Ranvier. ‘It is not over.’

  ‘I am still . . . possessed?’

  ‘You are,’ said the priest.

  ‘What happened?’ I repeated.

  ‘You lost consciousness,’ answered Bazile.

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied, annoyed that he was merely stating the obvious. ‘But what happened while I was gone?’

  Bazile glanced at Father Ranvier and something pas
sed between them: an unspoken request to proceed received reluctant approval.

  ‘You were raving – speaking gibberish – and . . . It spoke to us. A voice, coming through you.’

  ‘And what did it say?’ Bazile shook his head. ‘Tell me!’ I demanded.

  ‘Horrible things, obscenities.’

  ‘You must tell me what was said!’

  ‘It spoke of your friend, Madame Courbertin.’ Again, Bazile consulted the priest, who sighed and indicated that he should continue. ‘It said that she will not live long, and, very soon, it will have the pleasure of tasting . . .’ Bazile shuddered, ‘. . . tasting her blood in hell’.

  ‘The enemy is a liar – the great deceiver!’ cried Father Ranvier. ‘We must take no heed of what it says.’

  I tried to sit up. ‘Help me? Please. I can hardly move.’

  Bazile started towards the circle’s edge but Father Ranvier grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘No! You must not!’

  ‘But Monsieur Clément is in pain. Surely I can. . .’

  ‘No!’ The priest cried. ‘You will stay in the circle!’

  Bazile looked down on me, his expression full of pity. ‘I am sorry, Clément.’

  The priest returned to his table and began to recite a formal chastisement of the demon. He began in hushed tones, but was soon invoking the ‘word made flesh’ and delivering urgent reprimands. My head throbbed and I felt nauseous.

  ‘You are enjoined in His name! Depart from this person whom He created! It is impossible for you to resist!’

  As the priest’s haranguing of the demon went on, the pain in my head became intolerable. I passed out several times, and on regaining consciousness found myself first on one side of the circle, then the other, feeling worse and worse on each successive reawakening, until everything became confused and blurred. I can recall, however, a brief interlude during which I seemed to recover my mental faculties and reasoned thus: you damaged your nervous system during the experiment and have since been suffering from delusions and hallucinations. You did not go to hell and did not return possessed. Courbertin died naturally and, because of your guilty conscience, you imagined it was you who had killed him! You cannot trust your memories: they are adulterated by fantasies and dreams. Charcot is right. Demoniacs are hysterics and hysteria is a condition of the nervous system.