Quebec City in Flames

by Nelson Rusk

  The fire ravaged the house and the adjoining barn.

  My mouth agape before this sight, I opened the car’s door and got out. With a volition of their own, my legs carried me forward, toward this scene that monopolized the entirety of my mind. I had the vague impression that people were running and shouting around me. I was like a zombie, my brain eaten away by the terrible fever that possessed me. I had to get as close as I could to the house, whose ravaged structure was already collapsing. I felt on my skin the infernal heat emanating from the blaze. Of all my senses involved in this charade, it was the sense of smell that overwhelmed me the most. For, amid all this chaos, reigned the pungent and disgusting smell I associated with the castle. A gaggle shook me and I fell to my knees, with the crowd of onlookers behind me trying to get me up again.

  The screams of a woman pulled me out of my shattered state. Perhaps she had begun howling earlier, but it took a while for the sounds to break through to me. I got up with the help of other onlookers and walked toward her. The woman was lying on the ground, surrounded by a crowd trying to contain her fury. I asked around who she was until an old man told me that she was Mrs. Martin, who lived in the burning house. This answer galvanized me to action, and I pushed people out of the way to reach the woman.

  Kneeling beside the woman, I grabbed her by the shoulders as she struggled and screamed, plunging my eyes into hers to bring her reason back. Her gaze showed stark madness, but when it met my eyes, she stopped screaming and whispered instead: “The fire is alive. I saw its face. A grotesque and demonic face haloed by flames. And it saw me too. And it laughed.” What she was saying made no sense. Instead, I tried to bring her back to reality by asking where her husband was. It was impossible to obtain a coherent answer from her. I had to raise my voice until I began to scream my questions at her, carried away by rage and disbelief. The onlookers around, bewildered, tried to separate us, but I grabbed him her with my hands. It was only when I mentioned her children - the three children I had seen in the portrait - and asked where they were that she came out of her hysterical torpor. She stammered, screaming and crying:

  “He took them. The fire took them. I've never seen flames like this before. They twisted and swarmed in the house, vibrating around me and hitting the walls with a force that made the whole structure tremble. When the children came down from the upper floor, the entire world went up in flames! They ran along the walls and surrounded them, like a living inferno. I could see Eli screaming, but I no longer saw Claire and François. I tried to get them out of there, but the fire was so intense... so horrible. I could feel its warmth as certainly as the evil that radiated from it. Then I heard an explosion and something, I don't know what, threw me out of the house. Or I got out on my own, I don't know anymore! But I was here. And the children were inside. The children! They can’t have survived! Nooooooo!”

  Her delirious monologue, delivered with fanatical intensity, had left me speechless, frozen on the spot. The same immobility had seized the crowd who listened, captivated, to her story. It was only after her final long complaint that I returned to the present time and became conscious again. I noted the woman's hands were deeply burned, attesting to her attempts to reach her children in the blaze. She no doubt suffered beyond reason, but not once did she mention her own injuries. All this time, she kept screaming only about her children, droning each of their names like curses toward heaven and the gods. Eli, Claire, and François. This tragedy forever branded their names in my mind.

  After a moment that seemed like an eternity, police officers gathered around us. They tried to get information from Mrs. Martin, but she seemed to be in a deep hysteria. They brought her with them when they realized her mind languished in an impenetrable fortress. One of the police officers stayed to collect the testimonies. Someone from the crowd tried to explain as best he could what Mrs. Martin had said. However, from the lips of a healthy individual, this story seemed to be pure manic fabulation. The police officer rolled his eyes, rejecting the whole story as a hallucination. He ordered the crowd to disperse.

  Standing up, I noticed that the fire department had been dispatched to the scene. They could change nothing about it but had to be present. The house had collapsed in its foundations and the fire retracted for lack of fuel, without weakening in its intensity. Resigned, I went back to the car. On the way, I saw Mrs. Martin handcuffed to the back of the ambulance car. Moved by an impulse, I approached and asked her, whispering so the police officers in the background would not hear: “Did you see anyone, whoever, prowling around your house before the fire?” I had to repeat the question several times before I could get an answer from her:

  “Yes, I remember now,” she said as if she had to look for this memory in the depth of her mind. “There was no one there. I heard no one. But I heard... I don't know what it was. I thought the windows in the living room broke. And an object, a vase or something, I don't know, exploded on the floor. A liquid spilled from it with an abominable smell. And that's... Yes, I think that's after that... that... Iä! Iä! Iä!”

  I recoiled as she screamed this powerful syllable with a loud, shrieking voice. All police officers turned around, surprised, and hastened to grab her and calm her down. I slipped on the side of the ambulance car to avoid being seen and hurried back to the car, hiding in the dark.

  I started the engine and soon left the premises. I took one last look at the house which was now a pile of smoking ashes. My return to the castle was not pleasant. Violent tremors shook my body, and I had trouble driving. I no longer expected the return of Mr. Martin, let alone Mr. Jacquard. But beyond these possible kidnappings, I was in the throes of violent emotions at the idea someone used Mr. Martin's children for retribution. The reprisals mentioned in the message on the office wall had been carried out and, as written, had targeted what was most valuable to him. When thinking about that, I doubted my sanity, the very truth of what I had seen. However, I only had to think of what had happened this morning in the castle’s underground passages to make tangible in my mind the threat hanging over me.

  Nocturnal Convocation

  When I arrived at the castle’s parking lot, I parked the car in the same place where it was earlier. I went back to Mr. Martin's office, where I put the car keys in his coat pocket. Without delay, I left the room and went back to the university. For reasons I could not fathom, contacting the police and presenting them with the many facts gathered regarding this case never crossed my mind. Even if they believed me, the brutal force of the police could not thwart the events set in motion in the past few days.

  I walked through the door of the Laval University around 10 pm. I wanted to meet Sir Hugh tonight, but had not anticipated the late hour of my return. I went to his office anyway and left a note that I would like to meet him first thing in the morning. When I arrived at Sir Hugh's office, I saw that the door was ajar, signifying he was available. Despite the impromptu hour, I knocked on the door and, indeed, Sir Hugh ordered me with a brief command to join him.

  I walked into the cramped office, always careful when I was there not to topple or break a trophy, stuffed animal, or any other personal item of probably inestimable value. Despite the unexpected nature of my visit, Sir Hugh showed nothing more than his same stoic natural expression, a mix of Victorian reserve with a state of perpetual concern. Without looking up at me and while continuing to write, he addressed me:

  “Good evening, Mr. Roussin. As I asked you to keep me informed of any significant findings, I assume that something significant has happened. What do you have to report?

   Good evening, Sir Hugh. Yes, I wanted to see you about the situation at the Château Frontenac. Hmm... I...”, I hesitated, uncertain of how to approach the subject.

   Have you found anything of historical value,” continued Sir Hugh, focusing on the tangible side of my presence there. Happy to buy time, I replied:

   “Yes, many pieces of furniture are of cultural and patrimonial significance. I had them set aside. T
here is even a good quantity of furniture from the Château Saint-Louis that can be salvaged, despite its condition.

   But that is not why you are here,” he added all at once as if dictating a fact. For the first time since I entered his office, Sir Hugh looked up and stared into my eyes.

   “No, indeed. Some events have made me believe that more is happening at the Château Frontenac, and even in the ruins of the Château Saint-Louis, than a simple superficial observation could reveal.

   Continue.

   My research has met with resistance from a... group... which seems to operate from the basement of the castle. I was personally threatened.

   Threats, you say? In what form?

   A message left on my desk. It was encrypted so that the letters would only appear when revealed by heat.” As I had the message in my pocket, I gave it to Sir Hugh. He took the time to read it before answering anything. He frowned and seemed in great reflection. When he had finished, he resumed:

   “Have you ever seen the symbol at the end of the message? Do you know what it represents?

   I had never seen it before I got the message. But, since then, I have seen it in a few places, each time related to this group. What do you make of it?

   It is hard to say. The symbol appears to be a combination of several other symbols. It is a composition of simple geometric shapes. Hmm. Maybe.” Sir Hugh paused, thinking. I did not interrupt this line of thought. He continued, “This kind of assembly of geometric shapes reminds me of alchemical symbols. Although they are uncommon today, scientists and magicians employed them for centuries to represent chemical elements or processes. This is not an area in which I am familiar, but I have a book on this subject that could enlighten us. Could you look in this library?” He pointed toward a series of shelves extending to the ceiling, overflowing with dusty books nobody seemed to consult.

   “What am I searching for?” I asked, trying to take in the extent of the accumulated knowledge in this library. I was not familiar with the titles I saw there. Some covered pseudo-scientific fields, others touched esoteric subjects.

   “Arcana alchimiae, by Theophrastus von Hohenheim, also known as Paracelsus,” he replied with a solemnity that made me uncomfortable. It was rare to hear Sir Hugh so serious and, when that happened, it was better to listen carefully.

  I took a long time to find the book in question in the dusty library. Time had worn out and erased the bindings of most volumes, making it difficult to identify them. I soon found a section on alchemy. There was an unsuspected quantity of famous reference books: Die enthüllte Natur and Die Wirkung der vier Elemente, other works by Paracelsus, Historiae Miraculum by Borellus, The Hieroglyphic Monad by Dr. John Dee and La Très Sainte Trinosophie, whose authorship scholars dispute between Cagliostro and the Comte de St. Germain.

  Sir Hugh’s library.

  I finally found the decrepit volume. It was a short work, barely eighty pages long, but with tight writing and difficult to read. Grandiloquent illuminations decorated some pages, making those that were not bleak in comparison. I noted several alchemical symbols scattered throughout the book before handing it over to Sir Hugh, who read it with greed. When he saw the first alchemical symbol on a page, he approached the book with the message I had given him. From time to time, he would take notes in his personal notebook, drawing symbols. As his study got longer, I thought about sitting somewhere but found no chair uncluttered with documents.

  “Hmm,” he began after a long time, “The symbol you gave me is indeed a combination of alchemical symbols. Many of the drawings match or are at least similar. Look here.” He pointed out in Paracelsus' book a simple equilateral triangle resting on its base. “This symbol is well known and unequivocal. It is fire, one of the basic elements of alchemists.” At that mention, my whole body collapsed. There could not be a more obvious link between the symbol and the events of the past few days. I don't know if Sir Hugh noticed it, but he went on.

  “Another symbol seems obvious. The circle with a straight vertical line running through it is the symbol of saltpeter. I don't know what link there may be here with fire, but artificers used saltpeter for decades in creating explosives, such as gunpowder. This symbol is quite clear. As for the three circles, it is more difficult to be categorical. As best I could find, the simple circle, with no further addition, is not an alchemical symbol. If the three circles at each corner of the triangle represent a single symbol, it is then possible to link them to the alchemical symbol of oil, which is three non-jointed circles forming a triangle. Therefore, the symbol—this is, I remind you, pure speculation—would in my opinion be a combination of fire, saltpeter, and oil. Does that make sense to you, Mr. Roussin?”

  Sir Hugh must have read the meaning of the distressed look I gave over his conclusions since he did not wait for my answer before pressing the matter further, “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  Despite this clear injunction, and for a reason I could not explain to myself—the same reason that prevented me from alerting the police—I could not tell Sir Hugh the most disturbing elements of the story. I told him about the kidnapping of Mr. Jacquard and the probable kidnapping of Mr. Martin. I told him I had found a notebook from the Château Saint-Louis fire, and how its author described events related to the present situation, relating in particular the mysteries noted by the author regarding Phillips, the aide-de-camp. I pointed out the multiple links between the fire symbol and the apparent worship of flames by the members of this strange cult, the flames which they called the Universal Destroyer.

  Why did I fail to mention Robert Muir's discovery on the Island of Abraham, the assault I suffered at the hands of the group and even the fire at Mr. Martin's house? I could not say. Perhaps I had the impression that these events, so unnatural and contrary to everything I had experienced until then in my life, could not coexist in a world where logic and reason were the driving forces of the universe. Perhaps I saw expressing these events in words as an insult to everything I believed in and took for granted, these events that were impossible in a coherent universe. Perhaps such a breach in my worldview was ultimately more dangerous to my mental health than the banal physical threats of a group of fanatics. After my long discourse, Sir Hugh answered:

  “What you are telling me, Mr. Roussin, is very disturbing. Do you think it necessary to contact the police?

   For the time being, I can handle the situation on my own. After all, the group only approached me in writing,” I lied. “It would be difficult to alert the police without more information about the nature of the danger, if there is one.

   Hmm...”, he said. I thought at that moment he would question the truth of my word, as he would have been quite right to do, but he added instead “I will refer to your judgment for the time being, Mr. Roussin. However, keep me informed of any development. I will continue to look at how alchemy could relate to all this. It seems strange that this pseudo-science forgotten by the modern world could have so many fanatical worshippers. I will see if I can find the link that seems to be missing between the events experienced by this officer, Robert Muir, and the today’s events. The past, even the recent one, is often opaque, but if this group has made as many waves as it seems to have, I am confident I can trace its origin.

   Thank you for your help, Sir Hugh,” I replied, grateful for the help he wanted to give me and feeling guilty for not telling him the whole truth. The next time we talk about this, if it comes, I will tell him everything. Yes, next time.

  I said goodbye to Sir Hugh and left him in a state of worried concentration worse than the one in which I had found him. I was nevertheless pleased to have consulted him. In a case as strange and unorthodox as the one I had gotten myself into, I could not have a better ally. If there was anything to learn from the pile of old books in his library, he would find it. For my part, it was time to go back to my room. I wanted to continue reading the rest of Robert Muir's story. A few days ago, it would have seemed
absurd to me to hope that a tale from three generations ago could shed light on the present. Recent events had prepared me to put this kind of doubt aside.

  As I walked the familiar path to my room in the department, I noticed that I was no longer looking in the same way at the walls covered with graduation portraits, the trophies, and other university awards, the electricity lanterns installed a few years ago. Under the thin veneer of normality that the university displayed, I could detect unsuspected depths that had escaped my attention before. Even when I arrived at the door to my room, something intangible had changed and nothing could restore the old order of things.

  Physics Museum of Laval University.

  I had been living at Laval University for two years. Yet, when I turned the knob to my room, I felt like I was entering the unknown. Never had I checked if someone had forced the knob. I had never entered this room with apprehension, expecting... what? A knife in the dark? The idea was ridiculous. Nonetheless, I entered with caution and gave a general look around before venturing further. Nothing had changed. For a moment, a feeling of contentment overcame me as the blessed wave of the familiar and the common swept over me. I had missed that feeling.

  Tired in body and soul, I wondered how I could finish reading Mr. Muir's diary tonight. I had not slept at all last night and today was an exhausting day. And yet, the urgency required by the present situation required sacrifices I could not ignore. If knowledge could be a weapon against the evil infesting the castle, then I had to arm myself with it as soon as possible. It was out of the question to have another encounter like today, in the underground, in which I was defenseless and unprepared against my enemies. It almost ended in misfortune.