When the sun rose on the day that followed the sacrifice, only smoke and dust remained. I asked the elders if the god Nyarlatorix ever returned, if they had ever looked upon him. Wide eyed and haunted they shook their heads. “The stars were never right,” they said. “But if they were, the seas would boil, the rock would melt, the great city of old would rise from the depths, and mankind would be extinguished…or worse.”
During this discourse, there was a boy standing at the edge of the firelight. In my previous travels, I had often seen the look of a man who knew more than he was letting on, and his was clearly such a case. When the elders had finished I allowed them to disperse before I slipped away to meet the boy in a more private location. I found him standing at the water’s edge, as if he had been waiting for me. He spoke freely and without coercion. He divulged a story, the horror of which I could not have imagined.
He had snuck out the last time the black ships had come, when he was but a child, his curiosity overriding his good sense. Upon the island in the distance he observed a great and strange light, one unlike any he had ever seen. A raging fire was the only comparison he could make, but one of purple flames that undulated and pulsated instead of flickering. One that gave a cold, harsh light that sucked the heat from his body, even at that distance. It illuminated the night, and he could make out shadowed figures, dancing and throbbing wildly about the circle of flame. The stars turned to blood, and the sky changed. The boy had no knowledge of the heavens, no names for the constellations that wheeled above. But from his words, I had little difficulty divining what he saw, and such was the power of his story, I saw it, too.
Gone were the familiar, the comforting, the shimmering diamonds that I had come to know and love, that had guided me in my many conquests in the north. But there were stars. Oh yes, there were stars. Just not the pin-points of light I had come to expect. No, these were great orbs of fire.
The boy’s words painted a picture of the impossible. According to him, some stars shone clear and bright as the sun, and yet their light gave no illumination. Others seemed to pulse, to beat like the heart of some great beast. Still others seemed to dance together, twirling in great pinwheels as he watched. And yet more would fade in and out, disappearing completely, only to return a few seconds later. Of one thing he was certain—there was nowhere on earth with that sky. Nowhere.
Somehow, he told me, it was not the sight of such things that was the worst. For while he stared upon them, above him came the sound of massive beating wings, and the wind ripped at his body as a great shadow passed over him. I wish he could have told more, but in that moment, as whatever foul beast soared above the boy, he recounted that he had slipped into oblivion. He had fallen into a stupor. When he awoke, the sun had risen, and only lingering smoke remained on the island to confirm the presence of the visitors.
The black ships were gone.
The bravest of my men scoffed at these tales, as we had all scoffed at a thousand lesser myths in days gone by. Two of them set off across the salt marshes at low tide, determined to uncover whatever treasures the frightful tales might be meant to hide. One moment, they were laughing and singing. In the next, they had vanished beneath the shifting sands. Despite our best efforts, we could not save them. They were taken, unintended gifts to whatever dark power ruled that accursed island.
And so we abandoned that place, leaving it and its infernal legends to the mists of time.1
* * *
DeWitt’s translation ends here, at least as regarding the Mont. No other record of Caesar’s writings, extant or partial, is known to contain this fascinating excerpt. It is believed that if such a chronicle ever truly existed, it is now lost. Most scholars have concluded, however, that DeWitt fell victim to an elaborate hoax.
In any case, the small island remained desolate and unoccupied for another five centuries, whatever tenebrous stories that hung about its shores cloaking it in a seemingly impenetrable shroud of mystery and foreboding—that is, until the arrival of the Merovingian kings heralded a new dawn for that benighted coastline.
The Merovingian were fervent devotees of the cross, but their pagan roots were not so distant that they did not still know much of black magic and its nameless antecedents. So when the great king Clovis sought to conquer the isle—and perhaps harness its power—he would do it not with armies and swords and shields, but with the emblem of his God. So Clovis built upon the Mont a holy temple, a Christian abbey that grew into a monastery, and also grew in power and influence, until finally it came to be the majestic spired mountain of God we know now.
And yet, while the monks do not speak on it, it is rumored that to this day, the men who dwell upon the rock face have never forgotten the island’s dark history…
Chapter 31
Diary of Rachel Jones
July 27, 1933
We arrived in the tiny hamlet of Beauvoir as the sun was fading to darkness. The great orb dipped into the sea, and the outline of Mont Saint-Michel burned in the sky, its pinnacle pointed at the celestial heavens like a flaming spear driven into the waters.
I had been eager to arrive, for in a moment of naïve stupidity, I had cornered Margot in an empty cabin, desperate to ease the tension that was growing between us. How foolish could I be?
“We didn’t ask you to come into our lives,” she told me. “We were happy. I was happy. As happy as I have ever been. The day I met Guillaume was the best of my life. The day I met you, the worst.”
What does one say to that? Protestations of love, of the hole in my own heart filled, they all seemed so pointless. Insulting even.
Ugh, rereading what I’ve written so far makes me ashamed. The men out to save the world while the women bicker over a boy’s love. How clichéd.
Yet there’s no time for such emotional trivialities now, as our assault on the Mont is due to begin before the sun next rises. Inspector Villard has proven quite resourceful. We had not been in Beauvoir for more than a half hour when he led us to a small pub in the center of this quaint and picturesque town. There we were to meet a man, a sheep-herder by the name of Alain. He apparently knows the salt marshes well.
“He says he grew up here,” Villard translated, as the man spoke only the barest amount of English. “That he and his brothers would play on the flats at low tide when they were younger, much to their parents’ distress.” Both men laughed at that. “Now he herds sheep that feed on the grass that grows in the salt marshes. He says we should dine on some, that it has a unique flavor.” Alain made a gesture meant to convey the gastronomic delights we could expect to experience.
“Maybe later,” said my father. “Can he take us across?”
Inspector Villard nodded. “Yes. He says that the high tide has only just passed, two hours or so ago. The next low tide will come early tomorrow morning. At 2:30, 3:00 A.M. Perfect for us.”
“And what then? After we cross the marsh, how do we enter the fortress?”
Inspector Villard turned to the man and said a few words in French. Alain listened and then began to nod vigorously.
“He says that there is a back stairway, one that is used by the men of the village to deliver supplies. It leads to an elevator, a sledge of sorts.”
Alain smiled and began to make hand over hand motions.
“Apparently, we will board the sledge, and he will pull us to the top using a rope and pulley system.”
Henry groaned. “Sounds safe.”
“So that’s it then?” my father said.
As if in answer, Alain leaned back in his chair and took a deep pull from his pint.
“Yes,” said Villard, “that’s it.”
“Well, there’s no reason for us all to go. We’ll divide up again. Villard, you and I will go up with Guillaume. Henry, you stay behind with the girls.”
“Now wait a second,” I said, in no mood to be treated like a child—or worse, consigned to the periphery because of my sex. “I think we have proven ourselves more than capable over the last few w
eeks. And besides, you are going to need all the help you can get on this one. I’m coming with you. And that’s that.”
My father began to object, but then Guillaume, sweet Guillaume, interrupted.
“As much as it pains me, I have to agree with Rachel.” Margot rolled her eyes. “We don’t know what we will face. She can fight; I’ve seen it. And Margot can be a terror.” Of that, I was certain. “We need them.”
Henry nodded in agreement. My father looked to Villard for support, but he only held up his hands. “They are in your charge, monsieur. You must decide. For my part, I wish only to see this thing done, and in that I believe they could provide invaluable assistance.”
My father audibly groaned. “All right,” he said. “All right. We all go together. But for now, I suppose, we wait.”
And so there we sat. Customers came and went. Regulars all; in fact it would not surprise me if the entire populace of that tiny village visited the pub at one time or another during the night. We watched them, were entertained by them as the minutes seemed to crawl by. Or some of us watched them, I should say. Villard, Alain, my father, even Henry had drifted off to sleep in chairs or on the floor in the dark, somewhat quieter corners of the place. The three of us—Margot, Guillaume, and I—we could not even begin to think of rest. I suppose it speaks to the darkness those men have seen in their lives that, in the face of a momentous event such as the one before us, they are able to attain peace.
Margot, for her part, did not stay in our company long. She drifted away from us to be alone with her thoughts. I wish there was something more I could do. But the simple fact of the matter is that there is nothing for it. Nothing at all. And as much as I hate to admit it, annoyance is rapidly replacing pity, no matter how guilty I should feel about what has transpired.
“Are you scared?”
Guillaume broke me from my omphaloskepsis, just in time too, lest I had fallen into a state of such self-obsession I might never have escaped.
“No, not at all,” I said, but before I had even gotten it out I saw the doubt in his mischievous eyes. “All right, perhaps a little.”
“I suppose it does come with some danger. But I have faith we will come through.”
I smiled at him, but then his countenance darkened ever so slightly, and so too did mine.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I just want you to know,” he said, his eyes downcast as if raising them would have simply required more strength than he had ever possessed, “if anything happens, that I love you.”
“Oh, Guillaume,” I said, taking his face in my hands and lifting it so that his eyes could meet mine. But then I hesitated. I’m not sure why. Something came over me, some moment of brutal honesty that had to escape. I found myself searching the room for Margot, until finally I found her sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. “Guillaume,” I said, “I care for you, and when I think about the possibilities for the future I can barely contain my joy. One day I may love you, as you say you love me. But right now, that girl over there cares for you more than you know. So if you are speaking from your heart tonight, just in case it is your last opportunity to do so, perhaps you should talk to her, as well.”
Guillaume looked from me to her, while I searched his eyes for the rejection, the hurt, that I did not intend but he might have suffered nonetheless. I did not see it. In fact, I saw something else, something I could not quite place, as if the gears of some machine were in motion. I admit, it confused me. But then it cleared, and I felt foolish for my over-analysis of a man who must be awash in a sea of conflicting emotions. I leaned forward and covered his hands in mine.
“It will be all right, Guillaume. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
A shadow flickered across Guillaume’s face. It was nearly imperceptible, so fleeting that I wasn’t even sure it was real. Then he smiled. “I know, Rachel. I know.” And I believed him, for that was the look I perceived, an almost mocking sneer of utter confidence. “Now I think I’ll take your advice,” he said, gazing at Margot. He patted me on the leg and rose. My eyes followed him, and my heart went with him.
The night fades away, and I should rest. I feel that the next few hours will determine the course of not only my life but perhaps the lives of us all.
* * *
I cannot write. Even though I know I should. I cannot. I see it when I close my eyes.
I am undone.
Someone else will have to record what happened in this accursed place. For the future, for posterity. For something greater than me.
But perhaps there won’t even be a future. Not anymore. Not after what we have done.
Chapter 32
Journal of Carter Weston
July 28, 1933
The monastery is quiet as the sun rises over the channel, but even the first rays of morning cannot lift the gloom that has descended upon us all. I shall record what happened on this accursed rock as best I can, for whatever posterity may remain.
We left the pub in Beauvoir under the dark of a dying moon. None moved in the streets of the hamlet, as the hour had long since struck when good people would be upon the roads. We crept through the shadows. What did we fear? Perhaps we already felt the crawling fingers of evil spreading around our throats.
We reached the salt flats at low tide, and even in the dim light of a bare crescent moon they shimmered in the darkness, beckoning us to come to them, like the sirens of old. Tricking us into believing that we would find sure footing there. Fortunately, Alain knew better.
“Follow him closely,” Villard said, interpreting both Alain’s words and his gestures. “Step where he steps. And be very careful. The sands are treacherous, and they will seize you in an instant.”
It was an admonition we were in no mind to ignore. So we followed, each footfall landing where the person in front of us had just strode. Were anyone watching, could anyone see, we would have made for a macabre spectacle. I could think only of the lines of wounded in the War, blinded by German gas, hand clasped on the shoulder of the poor fool in front of him, trusting that wherever he led was somewhere that they all wanted to go. Such was our faith in Alain. If he was not true, if his skills were less than he had led us to believe, then a suffocating death awaited us all.
The wind whistled across that desolate plain, and the sting of sea-salt and sand threatened to blind us. On those winds rode a storm, and we had not quite reached the half-way point in our journey when roiling clouds joined the great mountain of stone before us in blotting out the sky. With the moon and the stars—feeble lights though they might be—obscured, and the village of Beauvoir having long ago snuffed its candles and electric bulbs for the night, the shroud that fell upon us then was as complete as in the days before God said let there be light.
The occultists speak of the full moon as something to fear, believing that the orb at its most luminous commands the minions of evil. I must imagine that those who hold such views have never huddled in utter darkness, prayers for a single spark of illumination going unheard and unheeded.
Alain, however, must have the eyes of a cat. For even as we stumbled blindly, he remained true. When we reached the stone walls of the citadel, it seemed I breathed for the first time since we had stepped upon the flats.
“The sledge is in the rear,” said Villard. “We must go around.”
Even though our path took us scrambling across moss-covered boulders, this part of the journey went quickly. The sledge broke into view, a mass of hulking wood that at first I mistook for another large stone. My eyes followed the rope that ran up and into the dark void above. Hundreds of feet above. I thought to myself—how truly desperate we are to do this, to look into the face of such ultimate madness and go forward with it anyway.
Alain said something in French and Villard nodded. “He says for us to climb into the sledge’s basket and he will pull us up. We should come out in the store room beside the kitchen. From there, we are on our own.”
“He thinks he
can pull us all the way to the top?” Henry said. The doubt in his voice reflected what we were all thinking.
“Faith, my friend,” said Villard as he climbed aboard. “The pulley is designed to carry much heavier cargo than us. Besides, we have faced worse dangers, no?”
It wasn’t the most reassuring thought, but with our prize so close, there was nothing else for it. I followed behind him. The rest joined, even Henry. We seated ourselves, backs against the shallow walls of the sledge, and all said our silent prayers.
Alain began to pull. Hand over hand, and we started to rise, foot by foot. The sledge climbed the wall. The angle grew steep, and gravity pulled us toward the earth below. Rachel, who had avoided me so studiously before, could not help but slide towards me as the climb continued. I held her tight, and she did not fight against me. Fear had overcome anger.
Our steady rise continued. Even as our height increased, I could make out no lights in the total darkness beyond. It was as if we were diving deep beneath the waves even as we ascended, into some abyssal sea of endless night.
And yet still, we rose. My eyes were fixed upon the walls of the monastery above, and within them there seemed to be an area of darkness somehow less solid than the rest. It was only when we came within reach of that black square that I realized why; this was the opening into which we would pass.
The sledge lurched forward one last time and slid to a stop in front of that cavernous darkness. Villard reached up and flipped down the locking hook to hold us in place. From his jacket pocket he removed a revolver with which he gestured at me. Henry and I pulled our weapons as well. Guillaume, Rachel, and Margot followed suit. On this adventure, we were traveling well-armed, care of the French police.
Villard led the way, and the sledge rocked gently like a boat on the waves as he stepped into the castle-monastery beyond. He stood on the edge, peering inside. When he signaled for us to follow, the girls and Guillaume entered, with Henry and me following behind.
He Who Walks in Shadow Page 20