by F. R. Tallis
I called out to Bazile, ‘Stop! No more! I have misled you! I see it all clearly now. I am insane. I need sedation, electrical therapy, the water cure. Please, I am sick. Take me to the Salpêtrière! Take me to Charcot, I beg you.’
‘Ah, Monsieur Clément,’ said Father Ranvier, ‘the enemy is now at his most dangerous. Do not be seduced by superficially attractive arguments. Even if you doubt the existence of God, our foe can yet be beaten, but if you doubt the existence of the Devil, all is lost.’ His words resounded in the recesses of the old church, returning ‘all is lost’ as a portentous echo. The columns began to waver like fronds in a stream and I sank into a prolonged delirium.
I saw lurid visions: Thérèse, writhing luxuriously beneath a grotesque incubus, the winged demon of the cathedral taking flight and Courbertin climbing out of his grave and walking the streets of Montparnasse with the stilted gait of the living dead. I saw medieval townsfolk dancing with skeletons, oceans of fire and the discoloured eyes of the Port Basieux bokor.
It seemed that I was in this fevered lunatic frenzy for an eternity, time enough for the great pyramids of Egypt to become dust. And when finally I awoke, rising up through the cloudy medium of my disordered imaginings, my body welcomed me with blinding pain: no longer restricted to my head, but spread through every burning nerve. My face was pressed against the ground, but I could see the cloth of the straitjacket, scuffed and torn. In my mouth, I could taste blood, not sweet and fragrant, but sharp and metallic.
Bazile and Father Ranvier were looking at me with horrified expressions. They were both sitting cross-legged and breathing heavily, as if they had recently completed a task that had required sustained physical exertion. Father Ranvier looked tired and dishevelled – his spectacles were tilted at a steep angle across his nose and his purple stole was unceremoniously wrapped around his neck like a scarf. The cold was unbearable. I rolled onto my back. On my forehead beads of perspiration had turned to ice, and the air smelled faintly of sulphur.
‘What happened?’ I croaked.
Bazile stood up at once. ‘Thank God! You’re alive. I thought it had killed you.’ He looked up at the vault, then down to me, and I guessed that he was estimating the distance I had been raised and dropped. Turning towards Father Ranvier, Bazile said, ‘We must stop now. Monsieur Clément may be injured. We can’t go on.’
‘No. That is not possible.’
‘But he might be in urgent need of medical attention. And this abomination, this hideous thing . . .’ Lost for words, Bazile waved his arms in the air. He swallowed and continued hoarsely, ‘This is not what we expected.’
‘We have no choice,’ said the priest. ‘We are bound to finish what we have started.’
‘Bazile,’ I cried. ‘You really must help me.’ I coughed up a clot of blood and spat it out.
The bell-ringer was about to step out of the circle, when the priest lunged and took hold of his leg.
‘Édouard!’ cried the priest. ‘It is not safe.’
‘Monsieur Clément may be dying.’
‘Indeed, and we must save his soul. That is our principal obligation.’
The priest stood, raising himself up by pulling on Bazile’s coat.
‘I cannot stand by and watch him suffer!’ said the bell-ringer.
The priest’s eyes were ablaze with fanatical zeal. ‘Have faith, Édouard!’
I remembered Bazile once talking of some spiritual crisis he had experienced in his past, and I sensed that a much greater struggle was taking place than was readily apparent. ‘Have faith!’ demanded the priest again. Bazile made an abrupt movement and shook off the priest’s determined grip.
‘It cannot be right,’ said Bazile, ‘To abandon him. Not like this.’
‘And what about your wife?’ the priest responded. ‘Is it right to abandon her? If you step out of this circle, then the husband whom she next meets may be a very different man to the one she married.’
The riposte was well chosen. Bazile was torn, uncertain, and Father Ranvier, observing his indecision, seized the opportunity to carry on with the exorcism. ‘Get out, impious one! Get out! Out with your falsehood! He who commands you is He who dominated the sea and the storms. Hear, therefore, and fear, Satan! Enemy of the faith! Enemy of humankind! Source of death! Thief! Deceiver!’ Each accusation felt like a cudgel landing heavily on my skull. ‘Depart this person!’ bellowed Father Ranvier. ‘Root of evil! Warp of vices!’ He shook his fist and bared his teeth. ‘Out, out! In the name of Michael, most glorious prince of the heavenly army! In the name of the blessed apostles, Peter and Paul, and all the saints! In the name of Jesus Christ, God and Lord! And in the name of Mary, mother of God, immaculate virgin, queen of heaven and hell: I cast you out! Be gone, demon, be gone!’
Father Ranvier’s frame sagged. It was as though this final invocation had sapped all of his remaining strength. He looked impossibly old, like an ancient tree, desiccated and encased in cracked bark. A clump of hair had dropped over his forehead and his slack mouth resembled a hastily sewn suture. His gravitas had withered away, leaving nothing in its place but a suggestion of weary dotage, or even worse, senility. The silence that followed was exceptionally dense. Like the silence after snow at night – layered, unearthly – and I watched with horrible fascination as each candle began to dim, each flame dwindle to a faintly glowing point of light. From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of respiration: moist, low-pitched and reminiscent of a large animal. The in-breath was short and harsh, like a gasp, the out-breath long and accompanied by a liquid rattle.
‘What is that?’ whispered Bazile. But the priest did not reply.
The presence, formerly experienced as an abstract threat to the self, was now more substantive and possessed recognizable attributes: predatory intelligence, a savage disposition and malign purpose. It seemed, though – and I am not sure how, exactly – that it impinged upon the senses primarily as a noxious stench, vile and fetid. My empty stomach contracted and I began to retch. The will to destroy and obliterate was so fundamental to its nature, that proximity alone was sufficient to stress the fault lines of the mind and encourage fragmentation. A descent into madness seemed imminent. This effect was not confined to the inner world of the bystander. Once again, I heard stones shifting and felt a sprinkle of mortar on my face. It was as if materialization had placed an unbearable strain on the physical universe. Everything, from the bones within my aching body to the vault above my head, seemed in danger of being torn apart by indiscriminate and wayward forces. And at the centre of this ‘system’ was a molten core of hateful intent, a desire – no, more than that: an insatiable craving, lust – for human torment. I could sense its excitement, the registration in its consciousness of our vulnerability, its salacious hunger for flesh and its thirst for blood.
There was a ruffling of leathery wings and a loud snap, like the sound of a loose awning in the wind. The candles went out and we were plunged into darkness.
‘Father?’ said Bazile. Instead of the old man’s voice, I heard a clop – as if a horse were tentatively testing the ground with its hoof. ‘Father Ranvier?’ Bazile persisted, but the priest seemed to have fallen into a kind of trance.
The bell-ringer struck a match and I saw his disembodied face floating above the ground as he searched desperately for the oil lamps. He found one, lit the wick, and adjusted the regulator to produce more light. When he looked up again, he screamed, the same scream that had issued more than once from my own mouth when confronted with the incomprehensible. The demon had emerged from the shadows. It moved quickly: stance forward-leaning, like a bull preparing to charge, septic eyes, eager and luminescent, horns tapering to points of precise and deadly sharpness. A snarl revealed fangs and the slithering fork of its tongue. It lashed its tail, whipping up a spray of stone chippings that stung my face. Terror, indescribable terror, made me jabber and weep. To see it again, at close quarters and unquestionably real, reduced me to mewling idiocy.
Father Ranvi
er, who had until that moment been immobile, seemed to recover his senses. He snatched the wand from the table and aimed it at the demon, muttering something in a language I did not recognize. Then, at the very top of his voice, he yelled, ‘Adon, Schadai, Eligon, Amanai, Elion.’ Bazile had fallen to his knees, both hands clamped tightly over his mouth. Pneumaton, Elii, Alnoal, Messias, Ja, Heynaan . . .’
The demon halted at the edge of the protective boundary and glared at the priest. I saw its arms rising, talons opening out in the lambency of the oil lamp, and slowly Father Ranvier began to ascend. He gained height, until his head almost touched the ceiling and then drifted out of the circle. At first, his limbs flailed around, but he was soon overcome by superior forces and his attitude became stiff and erect, like a soldier standing to attention. There was a ripping sound, and the priest’s cassock and underclothes dropped to the ground in shreds, revealing a scrawny physique. Bereft of dignity, his shrivelled genitalia retracted into a wiry nest of grizzled hair. He began to rotate and his wrinkled buttocks came into view. When the turn was complete, his bladder failed, and a stream of urine trickled down his thighs and dripped from his calloused feet. The demon raised its arms for a second time and brought them down forcefully, emitting an effortful aspiration. What I saw next was so horrible, so utterly repulsive, that I very nearly swooned. Father Ranvier’s skin was stripped from his body. It came away in one piece, like the slough of a snake, and for a brief moment stood on its own – a papery, hollow man – before collapsing. The priest shrieked and I flinched at the thought of so much pain: shrill, howling, bright-hued pain, incandescent scalding agony. His exposed muscles looked raw, lobster red, and glistened as if coated with a reflective laminate. Father Ranvier’s face, although hideously transformed, was still recognizably his own. A few tufts of white hair still adhered to his bleeding scalp and his pale eyes were as distinctive as ever. His jaw trembled and the muscles attached to it began to bunch. He was evidently making a supreme effort to speak. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I heard him croak the word, ‘Tetragrammaton.’ And, a second or two later, his body burst into flames. Instinctively, I curled into a ball to protect myself from the scorching heat.
My terror had reached a limit beyond which there was nothing except mute vacancy. When the conflagration had exhausted itself, I straightened my back and peered through a veil of thick smoke. Father Ranvier’s incineration had been total, and nothing remained of him except the smell of cooked meat and charred flakes in the air. The triumphant demon had not budged. It swung its head round and looked at Bazile, who was cringing and repeating, ‘Merciful heaven, preserve us!’ Then, reversing the movement, it fixed its eyes on me.
A faint white light had appeared, softly glowing in the middle distance. Its gentle insinuation dispersed like milk in water. I was too much in the thrall of those venomous eyes to be distracted. However, the light grew brighter and I realized that its origin must be the sphere of glass. The demon’s expression altered and – insofar as one can interpret the rearrangement of such crude features – the alteration suggested wariness or caution. Shafts of brilliance were soon shining through the hazy atmosphere and the light became so bright that I could no longer look at it directly. I heard the demon snort, a deep growl, and then a stuttering, scraping sound, as if it were digging its talons into the ground to resist traction. There was more shattering of stone and I realized that a struggle was taking place. I was buffeted by a blast of air as the demon beat its wings, and then it roared: an appalling expression of towering rage. There was more lurching, and crashing, and I thought the vault was finally going to come down on our heads. But instead, there was a strange rushing, experienced more in spirit than through the senses, followed by an abrupt and total silence. The bright light was suddenly extinguished and for some time the ground shook – a soft, prolonged tremor. When I looked up, the demon was gone.
Bazile stepped out of the circle and walked towards the glass sphere. On reaching his destination, he craned forward, examined the object and drew back suddenly. He made a hurried sign of the cross, removed his coat, and threw it over the sphere in a single movement. On returning, he knelt and helped me to get out of my restraints.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think anything is broken.’
He nodded and whispered, ‘God in heaven!’
Both of us were in a state of shock.
As I sat, with my back against one of the columns and rubbing my sore legs, Bazile lit more candles and started to clear up Father Ranvier’s materials. He collected all of the items together, including the sphere (which he kept wrapped in his coat), and put them in the large canvas bag. He then turned his attention to Father Ranvier’s remains. Although he was able to handle the shredded clothes, when it came to picking up the priest’s skin he baulked, and I saw him turn away. After composing himself, he made another attempt, but the ‘bundle’ he had lifted unravelled, revealing its human outline. Bazile’s face crumpled in disgust and only after several more endeavours did he manage to fold the skin into a shape that would fit into the bag. Finally, he erased the chalk marks with the heel of his shoe and I was reminded, curiously, of my old associate Tavernier, destroying the vèvè on our journey to Piton-Noir.
When I looked at my pocket watch, I thought it had stopped. ‘What is the time?’ I asked. Bazile consulted his own timepiece, and we discovered that only an hour had passed since our arrival. Clearly, the materialization had violated so many natural laws that even the flow of time had been affected. We climbed the stairs of the north tower and stumbled into Bazile’s parlour. Taking our usual places at the table, we sat, dazed, saying nothing, until the morning was well advanced, and even then, all that we could utter were short declarations of horror and incredulity.
‘When you depart, you must take the crystal with you,’ said Bazile.
‘I don’t want it!’
Bazile sighed. ‘I am sorry, Clément, but it is your . . . responsibility.’
‘I can’t.’
‘I am afraid you must.’
‘We could destroy it. Yes, let us do that.’
‘And risk the release of what is now trapped inside?’
‘Then I shall bury it!’
‘And what if someone digs it up?’
‘I’ll take it somewhere remote. A distant country.’
‘Wherever you go, it won’t be safe. The glass might break.’
‘What are you suggesting, Édouard? That I carry this abhorrent thing around with me for the rest of my life?’
‘Yes. And perhaps at some point in the future you will find a solution to your predicament. But until then . . .’
‘And what if I die before that is possible?’
‘You will have to make some form of provision. I am sorry.’ Bazile glanced over at the canvas bag.
‘What are you going to do with Father Ranvier’s remains?’
Bazile stood up and went to his sideboard. He removed a large scissors and set them down by the stove.
One cannot expect the authorities to believe us. If we implicate ourselves in Father Ranvier’s disappearance, then we will both become suspects in a murder investigation.’
Again I was reminded of my time on Saint-Sébastien, and how Tavernier had urged me not to go to the police. I was visited by a sense of déjà vu.
Bazile removed Father Ranvier’s skin from the canvas bag and unfolded it on the floor. It looked like a slumbering ghost, transparent and slightly greenish. The priest’s beard and most of his wild white hair were still attached and served as a vivid reminder to us that only minutes earlier this ghoulish sheath had been occupied. The bell-ringer squatted, opened the stove door and began cutting. I saw him detach Father Ranvier’s right hand, now a drooping glove, and toss it onto the flames. The skin began to crackle and the room filled with a smell not unlike roasted pork. Bazile closed the stove door and said, ‘I think I am going to be sick’.
14
I spent most
of the following two weeks lying on my bed, looking up at the ceiling, smoking, thinking. Although I had not broken any bones, I had sustained some superficial injuries and I was suffering from exhaustion. Be that as it may, I felt quite changed – restored – much more my former self. Like the rest of humanity, when the sun had dropped below the horizon I began to feel tired, and when the sun rose I felt refreshed and alert. My fingernails grew at a normal rate and I was able to discard my eye-preservers. Even my nightmares were different: no longer vivid, fiery visions, but dark reflections, like moonbeams on water. I was still haunted by impressions of recent events, particularly the exorcism, but I also experienced episodes of giddy excitement when I remembered that I was now free of the demon’s influence.
During this period of convalescence, I wrote several letters to Thérèse, declaring my affection and expressing my desire to see her again soon. I received only one reply which was short and apologetic: our next meeting would have to be postponed, because Courbertin’s cousin was in Paris and she was occupied with the settlement of some family business. I thought nothing of this. Later that afternoon Bazile arrived with a selection of cold dishes prepared by his wife. We ate together at my dining-room table, but our conversation was subdued. It is said that shared adversity brings people closer together, but in our case something indefinable seemed to have come between us.