Quebec City in Flames

by Nelson Rusk

  One thing that particularly bothered me in his speech was the mention of the Universal Destroyer. This expression, which was unusual, seemed familiar. I searched my memory to find where I had heard it and remembered the note a mysterious stranger had left me last night. Upon further thought, I also realized I had read it in Mr. Muir's story, which seemed to me a lifetime ago already due to my distorted sense of time. Universal Destroyer. What could these words mean? Was it an object, an agent, a principle, a person... a god? Unwittingly, I thought back to what Robert Muir discovered on the island of Orleans and the mad conclusions he had drawn.

  The faint sound of a knock at the door drew me from these meditations. I gave permission to enter. The door opened and I saw it was Alise. She slipped inside the office. Shy, she stayed near the entrance to address me:

  “Hello, Mr. Roussin. I had a message for you, but I did not see you before... Oh, my God!” she shouted, one hand on her mouth, surprise obvious in her eyes. This exclamation shook my passivity. I got up from my chair, on the lookout. “What is it, Alise?” I asked with excessive intensity. She replied, with a contrite face, “Well, Mr. Roussin, you seem to have just come out of a mine, if you pardon my expression.”

  I headed to the wall mirror hanging by the door. When I saw my appearance, I burst into a sudden, genuine laugh. It was as if some of the weight I bore on my shoulders since yesterday left me. I let the laugh last as long as its momentum would carry it, savoring the relaxation of my taxed nerves. Even Alise, uncertain at first, finally joined me with a chuckle. Of course, I looked as if I was coming out of a mine! Soot, dust, grime, and many other indescribable substances covered my skin. My clothes were in no better condition, wrinkled and torn in places. I could say the same for the bandage on my hand, which nurse Lefrançois would need to change again. With some discomfort, I noticed the bluish delineation of hands drawn clearly on my throat. I pulled my collar up to hide this disturbing detail but saw in the mirror that Alise's eyes had spotted it before she quickly looked away.

  Turning toward Alise, I explained to her my appearance by telling her of my mishap in the basement of the castle. I left out some details, such as my attackers and the fact that someone tried to block my escape. She listened with attention to my story and seemed satisfied with this explanation. I changed the subject. “So, what was that message you had to give me, Alise?” At this mention, her face lit up, and she seemed relieved to move on to another topic.

  “Oh, Mr. Martin came to see me about two hours after I met you this morning. He wished to see you. He told me it was very urgent and to give you the message he wanted to meet you as soon as possible.

   Did he tell you about what?” I asked, very curious. After all, we had talked to each other this morning. I did not keep a pleasant memory of this conversation, which gave me the distinct impression he kept secrets from me.

   No, he did not specify why. However,” Alise slipped into a sudden pause. She hesitated, her face tense. I approached her and asked her to continue, curious about what that meant. I had had enough mystery for today. At that moment, I had only ears for the truth. She continued, “Mr. Martin seemed agitated. I mean, I have only known him for a few weeks, but he has always seemed affable and in control of himself. Of course, since the disappearance of Mr. Jacquard, he was more anxious, but who would not be, losing one of his men in such a way?”

  At that mention, I glanced at Mr. Jacquard's welding torch resting on my desk. What would Mr. Martin say if he saw it, or rather, when he saw it, since it was out of the question to conceal this discovery? Would surprise overtake him at the thought his employee's disappearance had happened right here, almost before his eyes? Would he be saddened by the news? Would the underlying implications trouble him? Or would he be upset that this object provided irrefutable proof something strange was going on at the Château Frontenac, a dark play in which his employees—and perhaps himself—were actors? Despite all the reasoning I applied to the situation, I could not differentiate heroes from antagonists in everyone involved. She continued:

   When he came to see me, something visibly troubled him, and there was an urgency in his voice I had not heard before. He wanted to talk to you as soon as possible but did not specify the reason.

   And do you know where he is now?

   No, I do not know. He is not at his desk. I just went there. I wanted to warn him you had arrived. Every day, he spends the last two hours at his desk, immersed in his files.” She tried to hide it, but Mr. Martin’s absence, combined with his abnormal condition earlier in the day, troubled her thoughts.

   “Every day, you say? And he is not here today? It is indeed strange.”

  What could M. Martin have wanted to tell me so eagerly? Anxious, I sat down at my desk, hands crossed under the chin. It was difficult not to establish a link between the state of excitement that gripped Mr. Martin and the misadventure that happened to me. Without thinking it through, I got up and asked Alise to guide me to Mr. Martin's office. She thought about it for a moment and agreed. We left the room one after the other.

  It turned out that Mr. Martin's office was about twenty meters from mine. I entered the room at once, before Alise. She stood by the door, glancing shyly inside. The place resembled my office. Like me, Mr. Martin occupied a temporary workroom. Unlike me, however, Mr. Martin had decorated it to his liking, as provisional as it was. In exploring it, I discovered a whole other facet to the man. While he himself was cold and strictly professional, this room vibrated with life. A portrait of his wife and three children was prominent on a shelf. Plans and personal notes lined the walls. A half-read book on botany on the desk hinted to hidden interests. On a coat hook hang a series of jackets of impeccable taste and a warm coat. Although electric lighting was available in this part of the building, used candles on the desk suggested a taste for the rustic.

  I surveyed the room for about thirty seconds, wary, not daring to touch the possessions of others without their owner’s consent. And yet, against my good sense, I felt not the desire, rather the impulse and almost the duty to look more closely. A vague sensation of horrible prescience was operating on my mind. I had the crazy impression, impossible to repel, to be standing on the edge of the abyss and having to grope forward not to fall. If Mr. Martin surprised me on the spot, so be it. I would find a way to explain this misstep, however absurd it may be.

  I began my search at the most obvious place: the briefcase on the desk. It contained a great deal of paperwork, most of which concerned the construction company for which Mr. Martin and the other firm employees worked. Financial details, employee records, elements of the renovation contract of the castle. As I investigated the briefcase, I kept an eye on Alise, who, in the doorway, worried Mr. Martin would return at any moment. Her eyes invited me to do quickly but, like me, she was moved by an indefinable anxiety and seemed to approve tacitly my search of the place.

  After about ten frustrating minutes, I had to conclude that the briefcase contained nothing of interest. Abandoning subtlety, I searched the jackets and the coat on the coat hook. Still nothing except money bills, a comb, a pack of cigars, and car keys. The shelf on the wall contained only books that were the castle's property. Finance, geography, history. Nothing unusual. Even the currently read book contained neither annotations nor inserted notes. Despite the expected promises of revelations about Mr. Martin the room held, I had learned nothing new.

  By simple habit to facilitate reflection, my gaze fell on the sheets lining the wall. At first, I thought they were plans and sketches for the castle renovations. I approached to study them thoroughly. I soon noticed that these were old renovation files: site plans, technical drawings, contracts, and other miscellaneous paperwork. Their random distribution on the wall confused me. There did not seem to be any logic. Many of the papers were even upside down or showed their back.

  Getting closer to see the jumble on the wall, I noted the pungent smell of burning I recognized instantly, fleeting but present.
In trying to find the source, my eyes went to the ground. I leaned over and ran a finger over the worn tiles. A thin layer of black dust, like ashes or soot, had settled there. Electrified by an intuition related to what happened to me the day before, I asked Alise to close the wall lighting. Suspecting that I had an idea in mind, she did so without question. I seized a candle on the table and lit it with a match from my pocket. I put the incandescent light against the wall. Slowly, as the heat of the candle took effect, black marks formed on the papers covering the wall. After a minute, letters were visible. It became clear a message was written there.

  I was still busy blackening the message when a stifled scream made me jump and almost drop the candle. I turned toward the source of the noise. Alise’s eyes were fixed on the message, her face pale and a hand on her mouth, trying to hold back more screams. I stepped back to read better:

  Your mark will never fade away. It is therefore in your interest to cooperate and not to attempt anything against us. We know where you live. We know what is most precious to you. The flesh is the essential material of destruction, but it is in the soul it is realized in the most total way. Do not tempt the Universal Destroyer. His light is unquenchable and his hunger insatiable.

  Underneath this threatening message was the same symbol I had seen on the note in my office and traced on the floor of the plain in Robert Muir's account. By a timeless and unfathomable link, events that took place ninety years ago had repercussions to this day. What could this symbol refer to? I would have to talk to Sir Hugh, the rector of my department. If anyone could know the meaning of this, it was him.

  Seeing that Alise still seemed disturbed by the message on the wall, I tried to reassure her that Mr. Martin would arrive from one moment to the next. This attempt, however, was futile, since my words sounded hollow to my own ears. It was too early to be sure, but part of me was apprehensive that something might have happened to Mr. Martin. I tried keeping my mind on concrete matters and asked Alise for Mr. Martin's usual schedule. Drawing on her hidden reserves of composure, she replied:

  “He usually finishes his rounds in the castle and supervising the employees around 4 pm. Then he spends an hour, sometimes two, in his office doing paperwork or answering mail.

   So, you never saw him stay here after 6 pm?” Alise shook the head. I continued, “And is it possible that he just left earlier today?

   I do not believe so. His winter coat is still there. Why would he go out at this temperature without it? I also seem to remember that he usually brings his briefcase with him.

   “And the keys to his car were in his coat,” I added, coming to the same conclusion as she did. I pondered for a few seconds. “Okay. Here is what I am going to do, Alise. I will wait here for him to come back. He is probably in the middle of a delicate operation, hence his belatedness. It is useless to speculate and arrive at conclusions that have no basis in reality. On your part, continue your work. When do you leave?

   I only work until 5 pm today.

   Excellent. Do your best to clear your head from this whole situation. I will come here tomorrow morning at first light to tell you what happened. Likely, this is a vast misunderstanding.

   “All right,” she replied, doing her best to appear optimistic, for both her sake and mine.

  After this discussion, I took her hands in mine, trying to impart her all the strength I could. Finally, I enjoined her to leave, which she did. Left alone in Mr. Martin's office, any form of optimism seemed futile. Staring at the burned letters on the wall, I wondered about the implications. The writers of the message knew they had a hold on Mr. Martin. Otherwise, they would never have dared to utter such a threat in plain sight. What was this mark which the message mentioned? Was it a burn wound like mine? The fire seemed to be a primordial element of this... of this... It bothered me to use this word from another era and so saturated with meaning, but cult seemed the only way to talk about it.

  Exhausted, I put an end to these reflections and went to retrieve my book General History of New France, which I brought back to Mr. Martin's office. I had volunteered for a vigil that was likely to be long. I could use something to pass the time. I made myself comfortable in the chair and continued my readings. I had reached the events of the fire in the Montreal Parliament in 1849, which seemed strangely fitting, given the circumstances.

  Time passed at a tortuous pace. I tried to focus on my book, but a vague apprehension and an ineffable feeling that the present events had a meaning beyond the routine of everyday life kept me on my toes. I had to read most of the passages twice and would have difficulty summarizing my readings. When the supernatural and the unorthodox seep into common existence, it loses its reassuring banality, which cannot then be found again.

  5 pm came and went with no trace of Mr. Martin. I could see the sun setting in the room’s only window. A superb sunset over the St. Lawrence River, which I could not appreciate at its true value. The closer I was to the fateful hour of 6 pm, the more I looked at my watch. The hustle and bustle of the day gradually gave way to the quietness of the evening. Passersby in the corridor became sporadic. At around 5:30 pm, there were few employees left on the site. And still no sign of the foreman.

  When 6 pm arrived, darkness reigned outside. I had not read for a while, as I fixed my eyes on the clock and the office door. No one had been in the corridor for a few minutes. Then I heard the echoes of what seemed to be the last laggards. A group of noisy men passed by the office door. Among them was Mr. Bernard, the man with whom I had a minor altercation this morning, who assured me that Mr. Jacquard was a bad employee. When he walked past the door, he looked inside and seemed surprised—or perhaps suspicious—to see me there. It only lasted a second, but the look he gave me made me uncomfortable, just like this morning. I turned the situation around in my head for the next 15 minutes but reached a dead end.

  To be sure of my conclusions, I waited another hour. Despite the inky darkness, slightly attenuated by the moonlight, I lighted up no candle or bulb. This vigil and the impressions it created in me imprinted themselves indelibly in my head. Sitting in the obscurity of the office, I waited, motionless. My mind had cleared, all my thoughts had fled. I stared straight ahead, absent-looking. The atmosphere was menacing, full of intangible but anticipated violence. It was a fertile ground for the wildest ideas, like a nightmare where the most astounding illusions become possible. More than once, an unexpected noise startled me. A movement seen from the corner of the eye made me turn around with silent terror. I was victim of my own imagination.

  When 7 pm rang, I came to the realization that Mr. Martin would not come tonight. Perhaps, for some unpredictable reason, he was at home right now and I worried in vain. Maybe, but I did not think it likely. Moved to action, I got up all at once and grabbed the foreman's car keys that I found in his coat. I examined the employee register. According to it, Mr. Martin lived in the Trait-Carré borough near the Jesuit mill in Charlesbourg. It was a forty-minute drive. I gathered my courage and left, my mind tormented with unhealthy apprehensions.

  Threats Carried Out

  I had little difficulty finding Mr. Martin's car in the parking lot for the employees of the Château Frontenac, which was a few minutes' walk away. The car, a beautiful Ford T sedan, was one of the last in the parking lot at this late hour. I felt relief to see the cabin was closed, as the outdoor temperature fluctuated around 30 degrees Celsius since sunset. I put the key in the ignition and let out a sigh of reassurance to hear the engine humming. I took a deep breath. Saying I was confident behind the wheel would have been a gross exaggeration. I rarely drove a car, and in winter at that. In addition, my knowledge of the streets of Charlesbourg was limited. However, it was a case of force majeure. I engaged the clutch and headed for the lower town along the first avenue, which I would have to follow almost to its northern end.

  Aerial view of the Trait-Carré borough in Charlesbourg, in 1937.

  During the drive, I had plenty of time to thin
k about what I would say to Mr. Martin's wife. I should avoid conjecturing about her husband. It would be difficult to explain why I was in his car, and not him, but it would be unwise to send her into a panic by making assumptions that may have nothing to do with reality. How would she react? And what would I do next? Would she want to search for her husband with me in the depths of the castle? These questions deserved an answer but I preferred not to speculate on how the conversation would unfold. Either way, I would find out what to do. The situation could change a thousand times before that, so my conjectures were useless.

  And as for changing, it did. The first sign something was wrong was the glow on the horizon, in the darkness of the countryside, where only a few streetlights marked the first avenue. The closer I got to my destination, the more this glow grew, like a solar star rising in the starless sky. I think part of me had already analyzed the situation correctly, but this part did not seem to communicate with my reason anymore. That is why, when I passed the Jesuit mill and turned on the street of my destination, reality seized my heart with an iron fist, and did not let go. I had a silent hiccup, then I screamed as if I was losing my mind, so much so I had to park the car on the side of the street.

  About twenty meters from me, slightly off the street, an indescribable blaze engulfed an ancestral residence of French-Canadian architecture. I had seen nothing like it before. The fire was so powerful and animated by such demonic fury that the house had almost doubled in size. The flames had spread to the adjoining barn, which the primordial force also submerged. The fire could not have started a long time ago. It would have been impossible. A blaze of this magnitude is such a voracious parasite that it destroys its host in an instant. Around this apocalyptic scene, an ever-larger crowd had gathered. The heat emanating from the unfolding disaster was such that the onlookers stood across the street, near the front neighbor’s house. Fortunately, no other residence seemed within reach, since its subsequent destruction would have been ensured.