The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  The old woman answered with irritation, ‘What sort of question is that, child?’

  Annette was puzzled by her grandmother’s response. ‘You said that God is all-powerful.’

  ‘Well, so he is! He can do anything!’

  ‘But if he made a stone that he could not lift, he would no longer be all-powerful. It would be something that he could not do.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, child!’

  ‘Actually,’ Raboulet set his book aside and sat up, ‘that is an extremely interesting question.’

  ‘Tristan!’ Hélène threw a cautionary glance in her brother’s direction, but he was not discouraged.

  ‘No, really. It’s rather clever. What do you think, Monsieur Clément?’ He winked mischievously. ‘Could God create a stone that he could not lift?’

  ‘It is a question that has troubled theologians for many centuries’, I replied. ‘What made you think of such a thing, Annette?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It just came into my head.’

  ‘In which case,’ the old woman scolded, ‘you should think more carefully before opening your mouth.’

  Raboulet ignored Odile and said, ‘Are you serious, Clément? Have theologians really considered this question.’

  ‘Yes. It is sometimes referred to as the omnipotence paradox.’

  ‘And what did these wise men conclude?’

  ‘They concluded that the question is invalid.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, smirking, ‘I can see why. The question seems to admit only two possible answers, both of which are rather disconcerting,’ he paused and added under his breath, ‘for believers.’

  ‘Enough of this talk,’ said Odile, glaring at Raboulet. ‘The child is already confused enough. She should not be encouraged to ask absurd questions.’

  Raboulet inclined his head, ‘My apologies, madame. You are quite right. Thinking too much never did anyone any good – particularly young women.’ His sarcasm was lost on Odile, who raised her chin, inflated her chest and engaged in some self-satisfied preening.

  That night I could not sleep. I got up and walked through the gardens. Monsieur Boustagnier had suspended rocks from the almond trees and they knocked together as I passed. These weights bent the branches and made them produce more fruits.

  Annette had wanted to know what I kept in my wooden chest. Then she had seen a gargoyle on the church. And now, one of the most problematic questions known to the medieval church had simply popped into her mind. I could no longer deny that something very strange was happening.

  The world turns and we move from light into darkness, from darkness into light. With light comes warmth, with darkness, cold. Everything that lives and breathes depends on the light for its continued existence. All growth is stunted by darkness. When light is plentiful, the earth is fertile, but when light is scarce, the winter months bring death and corruption. From the earliest times, light has been associated with good, darkness with evil.

  I had made my decision. The chest in my study could only be opened during the day, and preferably when the light was at its strongest. To attempt to open it at night would be folly. I went to the kitchen and informed Madame Boustagnier that I did not require lunch, and on my return bolted the first antechamber door, the second antechamber door and the door between my study and the library. I then found a jar full of keys that I kept hidden at the back of the cupboard. Tipping the keys onto the floor, I selected two from the jumble. I unlocked one of my desk drawers and removed a metal cash box. This too, needed to be unlocked. Inside was a third, more substantial key, its blade a complicated knot of serrated projections.

  The time had come.

  Light streamed through the windows, illuminating a swirl of glittering motes, and I tried to steady my agitated nerves by observing their slow, circular motion. The attempt was futile. My heart felt swollen and heavy – my breath came in gasps.

  Like a condemned man, I walked over to the chest, knelt down and inserted the key into the padlock. The key did not turn at first, and I had to use considerable force before a loud snap signalled that the shackle was free. I removed the padlock and, gripping two leather straps, heaved the chest open. Immediately, the trapped air inside escaped, carrying with it a stale, musty fragrance.

  The interior was full of thick, brocade curtains: a top layer of neatly folded squares and beneath these a second layer of densely compressed bundles. There was also a third layer of folded squares at the bottom. I could remember packing the chest myself, and how I had endeavoured to arrange the cloth in order to diminish the destructive effects of any knocks or collisions. Any damage – if I found any – must have arisen, not because of mishandling, but because of internal violence.

  I removed the folded squares and considered how best to proceed. It would be madness to unravel the bundles. Even a glimpse of what lay underneath might result in a weakening of my mental powers. I imagined a distorted, reptilian eye – seen through the convexity of the glass, magnified, bulging – and shuddered. A supreme act of will was required to fight a sudden urge to slam the lid down and flee. Looking away, I saw the bracelet of flowers that Annette had given me and was able to draw strength from the memory of her little act of kindness. I slipped my hands beneath the brocade and, bracing myself, extended the tips of my fingers. Like the sensory apparatus of an insect, they made trembling contact with the curved crystal. I knew, instantly, that my misgivings were justified. The glass was warm. I caressed the sphere and explored its surface. My hands began to hurt, and tendrils of pain crept up my arms. And then it occurred to me that to undertake a proper inspection I should surely push the curtains aside and take a look at what I was doing. It was not my thought, of course. The very substances of my brain were being tampered with. I was in dreadful peril and had to accomplish my task quickly. The pain worsened, I felt sick, and my vision blurred. Just pull the material aside . . . The thought had acquired the qualities of a command. Go on. It’s quite safe. I closed my eyes. A momentary lapse of concentration and I might have found myself yanking the curtains away.

  ‘You will not have control of my mind,’ I said aloud. My denial was followed by a retaliatory wave of nausea. ‘And you will leave the girl’s mind alone too.’

  I pressed on with my examination and discovered an irregularity on the otherwise smooth surface. It was just as I had imagined – a crack – like Doriac’s egg. I moved the soft flesh of my fingertip along the fracture to gauge its length, felt a stinging sharpness, and quickly drew my hand away. I opened my eyes and saw blood welling up from a cut. With great care, I put the curtains back in the chest, shut the lid and fixed the padlock.

  20

  I placed the heavy volume in front of Du Bris and opened it up.

  ‘The first of twelve library registers,’ I said. ‘This one was compiled by your ancestor, Roland Du Bris. The handwriting might even be his.’ Du Bris peered blankly at the faded ink. ‘The first eleven registers are complete; however, it would seem that towards the end of the last century, interest in the library waned. Thereafter, not all the acquisitions were catalogued.’ Du Bris poured himself a brandy and indicated, without speaking, that he was prepared to fill a second glass. I declined and continued: ‘The final register is very inferior. Hardly any of the nineteenth-century publications have an entry. Would you permit me to make the necessary emendations?’

  Du Bris shrugged. ‘It sounds like an awful lot of work.’

  ‘I would not find the task onerous.’

  ‘Well, Clément, if it makes you happy, then please feel at liberty to do so. I have no objection.’ He paused and added, ‘Do you mean to say, you’ve looked at every book in the library?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And have you found anything . . . valuable?’

  ‘There are many valuable books in the library.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But have you found anything of exceptional value?’

  ‘I am sure that there are dealers in Paris who would be anxious
to acquire many of these books.’ I passed my hand over the register. ‘Even so, it would be a tragedy if such a unique collection was broken up.’

  Du Bris took a sip of his brandy and said, ‘We’re not great readers.’

  ‘But future generations, perhaps . . .’

  ‘My grandfather used to take me into the library and read me stories. I never really liked him – or the stories. I much preferred playing outside.’ He looked towards one of the windows.

  ‘May I ask: have any of the books been removed from the library?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Are there, for example, any library books in your private apartment?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘See here.’ I pointed to a particular entry, ‘Malleus Daemonum – The Hammer of Demons – by Alexandro Albertinus, published in 1620: a treatise on exorcism. Now, just below, see, it says once again, Malleus Daemonum.’

  ‘A second copy?’

  ‘No, another Hammer of Demons, but this time one written several hundred years earlier, by the great alchemist Nicolas Flamel.’ I tapped the page. ‘Unfortunately, it is missing.’ Du Bris thrust out his lower jaw but said nothing. ‘I believe that it may be the only copy in existence.’

  ‘Which would make it very valuable?’

  ‘Valuable and of incalculable interest to scholars. I have examined all the standard reference works, and nowhere is there mention of Flamel’s Hammer.’

  ‘Then perhaps old Roland made a mistake. Perhaps there was no such book.’

  ‘I very much doubt that a man as fastidious as your ancestor would have made such a blunder.’

  Du Bris raised his hands, as if to say, ‘Well, what am I supposed to do about it?’

  I closed the register and continued, ‘I do not feel that it is for me to ask Madame Odile to look through her effects. I fear that she would consider such a request improper.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Du Bris, laughing. ‘That’s what all this is about. No, I quite understand, Clément, of course. I’ll explain the situation and get her maid to have a look. Her wardrobe is a veritable treasure trove – you never know what might turn up!’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur.’

  He stood, stretched out his arms and yawned. ‘Did you go to the village yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I thought I saw the grey mare. I was there too – some business.’ He smiled and then asked, ‘How is my daughter?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Drouart brought a small matter to my attention, a disturbance of vision; however, I am not unduly worried.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He shook my hand. ‘And Raboulet?’

  ‘In excellent health.’

  ‘We are all greatly indebted, monsieur.’

  I went straight to the library, where I immersed myself in magical writings: I read of ointments, philtres and potions, the consecration of lamps, wax, oil and water; of precious stones, secret seals and celestial correspondences – the twenty eight mansions of the moon – the preparation of amulets and talismans, incense and powders; and the characters that should be engraved on a protective ring. I applied myself to the The Devil’s Scourge, The Sworn Book of Honorius, The Key of Solomon – all the time amending the notes that I had been keeping for well over a year. Oblivious to the passage of time, I only registered the lateness of the hour when the fading light made it difficult for me to continue reading.

  There was a knock on the door.

  I gathered my papers together and stuffed them into a drawer before calling out, ‘Come in.’

  Hélène entered. ‘Good heavens, monsieur, I can hardly see a thing. Where are you?’

  I stood and lit some candles. ‘I am sorry, madame, I must have dozed off.’

  She made her way to my table and I pulled out a chair. ‘Thank you, monsieur.’ She pinched her dress and raised the hem a little before she sat. ‘The books you were reading couldn’t have been very engaging.’

  ‘No,’ I said, returning to my own chair. ‘They weren’t. I was refreshing my Latin.’

  She smiled somewhat nervously and made a few unconnected remarks about her own reading habits. As she spoke, I noticed that her hands were in constant motion, one revolving around the other. Eventually, she looked at me directly and said, ‘Monsieur Clément, I wondered if I might discuss something with you in confidence.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am worried about my brother. He is talking of Paris.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When he was younger he was always talking of Paris. He wanted to live there. In reality, he could never have made such a move because of his condition. He always knew that. But now, things are different. Your medicines have been very helpful and, once again, he is dreaming of theatres and the company of fashionable young men. He imagines that, very soon, he will be able to take Sophie and Elektra to the capital – that he will rent some rooms and support all three of them by writing articles.’

  ‘The life of a man of letters is notoriously insecure.’

  ‘He says that he is bored. I am sympathetic, of course, but he can’t go to Paris, can he?’ Her voice had acquired a pleading tone.

  ‘No,’ I answered. Hélène let out a sigh of relief. ‘But in the fullness of time, if he continues to enjoy better health . . .’

  Her face fell. ‘I would miss him.’

  ‘I am sure you would.’

  ‘Without Tristan’s amusing conversation, life here at Chambault will be very . . .’ her sentence trailed off and after a beat of silence she added, ‘I fear I am about to embarrass myself again.’

  I feigned ignorance. ‘Again? I don’t know what you are referring to, madame.’

  In the candlelight, her eyes looked particularly large. She bit her lower lip. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Is there something you could make up for me? An infusion, perhaps?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  As I began to rise she said, ‘No, monsieur. You do not have to prepare one now.’

  ‘But it is no trouble at all.’ I went into my study and mixed some camomile and lavender oil. When I returned, Hélène was standing by one of the shelves, examining the titles. I handed her the glass.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur.’

  ‘A very mild sedative. If you need something a little stronger, then let me know.’

  She looked around the library. ‘So many books.’

  We stood together, surveying our surroundings. It felt to me as if she was delaying her departure because she had something more to say and was struggling to overcome a scruple. I never discovered if my presumption was correct, because at that moment the silence was broken by a strange, plaintive cry. It had come from the antechamber. We both hurried in that direction but slowed as we neared the interior doorway. Something was standing in the shadows – small and pale. I felt Hélène’s fingers close around my arm and her grip tightening. Then, we heard a child’s voice: ‘Are you real?’

  Hélène stepped forward and whispered, ‘Annette?’

  ‘Are you real, Mother?’

  Of course I am real. What is the matter, my dear?’

  The child was obviously confused and I said, ‘She has been sleepwalking.’

  ‘Monsieur Clément?’ said Annette, ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Annette.’

  ‘I heard a voice, telling me that I should get out of bed and go to your room. It was peculiar, like my own voice, but different. I didn’t want to get up, but the voice was very stubborn. I climbed the stairs . . . but then I woke up – and found myself here – and I couldn’t tell whether I was still dreaming or not.’

  ‘You have been walking in your sleep, Annette. It happens sometimes.’ I turned to address Hélène. ‘I think you had better take her back to bed. I’ll get you a candle. It is quite dark now.’

  On my return, Hélène glanced from the flame to the other side of the antechamber and the black emptiness of the entrance. ‘I don’t know how she managed to find her way here i
n the dark. She could have fallen and injured herself.’

  ‘No,’ said Annette. ‘I was quite safe. The voice told me which way to go. It can see in the dark.’

  Hélène shook her head and wrapped a gentle arm around the child’s shoulders. ‘Come on, my dear. Let’s get you to bed.’ Hélène looked at me and delivered a mute request for reassurance.

  ‘Really, madame,’ I said calmly. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

  When they had both gone I went back to my table in the library. Hélène had left her infusion. I picked up the glass and drained it without pausing to take breath.

  21

  The following morning I received a note from the curé. One of the villagers had been involved in an accident. The man was in great pain and the curé begged me to come quickly. I dashed to the stables, saddled the grey mare and set off at a gallop. The address I had been given was not far from the market square and easy to find: a low building with a yard full of clucking hens. As I arrived, a door opened and the curé emerged. Oh, monsieur,’ he cried, pressing his hands together and shaking them backwards and forwards. ‘Thank you, thank you. Thank you so much.’

  I dismounted and said, ‘Where is Monsieur Jourdain?’

  The curé sighed. ‘He was not at home.’

  ‘You mean that he didn’t come to the door when you knocked.’

  ‘That is a possibility.’

  ‘Father Lestoumel,’ I said sharply, ‘something must be done!’

  ‘Yes,’ said the curé, ‘you are right and I am sorry.’

  We entered the building and I was immediately confronted by a curious sight. A woman was comforting two small children, but this charming little group – this artist’s impression of a domestic ideal – was mitigated by the presence of a bullock. The beast was poking its head through a hole in the wall, and behind it, I could see the low roof of a thatched barn. I was momentarily stupefied.

  ‘Please,’ said Father Lestoumel, tugging gently at my sleeve, ‘This way, monsieur.’ He led me into the next room, where I discovered my patient lying on bed sheets soaked through with blood. ‘Monsieur Ragot,’ said the curé, indicating the poor wretch. Another woman, considerably younger than the first and whom I supposed to be the man’s wife, was seated on a stool, mumbling prayers.