by Nelson Rusk
As the days passed, Quebec City seemed under siege by mysterious forces. The general climate of paranoia intensified and became palpable. Mr. Muir had urged each of the confederates from the daily meetings under St. Roch's Church to make sure no furtive eyes followed them to their hiding place. Since his misadventure in the underground of Quebec City, Muir had the impression he was under close surveillance. Many times, when he walked the streets of Quebec City, lost in a crowd of onlookers, he noticed suspicious individuals spying on his actions. On many occasions, he heard, during night walks, the sound of footsteps behind him, or noises betraying a human presence. One night, as he was returning from a late meeting in the church’s basement, he thought he saw in the pale light of the illuminated sky the shadowy silhouette of a man with a deformed face or wearing a horrible mask. The mysterious stranger stood at the top of a staircase connecting the lower town to the upper town. Mr. Muir made a detour to avoid meeting the man, but the gloomy complexion and abnormally smooth skin of his hideous face urged him to speed up his pace when he was walking in the city, and not to take any detours from the crowded places.
The unhealthy atmosphere hovering over Quebec City culminated on January 24. Mr. Muir wrote that his subsequent interviews with some of his companions revealed that nightmares of a terrifying reality plagued an abnormal number of them in the night leading up to that fateful day. They spoke of energy balls burning in the heavens, of breaches in our reality offering vistas of unknown worlds inhabited by unimaginable creatures, of terrifying visions of immaterial entities, of eternities of destruction in the middle of an unending inferno. When the reign of familiarity resumed in the morning, it was easy to attribute these visions to an attack of temporary fever, whose sudden appearance to many dreamers was a coincidence. However, and this convinced Mr. Muir of the link between these events, three people confessed to having heard a name repeated in their dreams. The name was so strange that they noted it and could later tell it to the narrator, in a low voice, as if they were afraid to attract attention by uttering the name without circumspection. These were strange and rhythmic syllables, whose best approximation in written form was Azathoth.
That day, Mr. Muir noticed the songs coming from Phillips' quarters as soon as he woke up in the morning. It was strange because he usually only heard these melodies late in the evening. On reflection, the narrator did not remember seeing the aide-de-camp for some time. As it was a day with training leave, Mr. Muir stayed in his quarters. He tried to distract himself by reading but could not concentrate. According to him, there was an atypical lightness in the air. The appearance of all objects seemed abnormal. Muir surprised himself several times by looking at certain objects that had belonged to him for a long time as if he was seeing them for the first time. This strangeness worsened as the day progressed. It was as if the most elementary laws of physics were being rewritten before his eyes. Mr. Muir was pacing in his room, unable to resign himself to leaving it, unable to stay there because he felt suffocated.
By suppertime, Mr. Muir could no longer cope with the situation. He set off for the daily meeting in the parish of St. Roch. It would not start for several hours, but it was impossible for him to wait any longer. When he left the Château Saint-Louis, the aberration in the sky, now visible in broad daylight, horrified him. Dismayed, he looked around, searching for signs of panic, but no one seemed to have noticed it. The narrator confessed at that moment he doubted his mental health. With beads of sweat running down his forehead despite the winter cold, the man took the path that would lead him to the lower town and St. Roch.
Saint-Joseph Street, in the heart of the old St. Roch district, circa 1900.
Mr. Muir regained his spirits as he moved away from the upper town and the castle, as if proximity to the aberration caused the extreme agitation he had felt all day. When he arrived at St. Roch Church, Father Tremblay was still in his sermon, and the church was full of believers. The congregation noticed his sudden and noisy arrival. He hurried to take a seat, sinking on the hard bench. Despite the state of physical and mental fatigue that held him back, Mr. Muir was slowly getting better. He had always been a believer but never practiced. In recent months, the incredible events he had witnessed had put his faith to the test. However, there, in this consecrated place, among his fellow human beings, he seemed to regain the common sense of humanity that inhabits us all, the eternal bond that makes us all brothers despite the countless differences separating us. This salutary thought helped to restore Muir's composure.
About 45 minutes later, the mass ended. The believers stood up, silent, and left at a slow pace. A middle-aged man put his hand on Mr. Muir's shoulder as a sign of comfort, and a brief glance passed between the two men. When everyone was out, Father Tremblay approached Mr. Muir. He was a man in his seventies, still strong for his age, with a sharp mind and a soothing voice. “You feel it too, don't you?” he addressed Mr. Muir. The latter nodded in agreement. The father continued, “Let's go to the basement right away. The others will join us there.”
The two men went down the stone stairs into the vault overlooking the street. Father Tremblay unlocked the heavy wooden door. The two men entered the cellar, which oozed moisture. Still distressed by his raw nerves, Mr. Muir slipped onto a chair at the table while Father Tremblay lit a few candles, filling the area with a bright and recomforting warmth. Other confederates arrived. Constable Thompson, Private Amherst, and Private McEntyre. More and more men from all walks of life had joined their cause, so many that Muir no longer knew them all by name.
By 9 pm, the flow of newcomers had dried up. That evening, a disquieting silence entombed the congregation, each man lost deep in thought. It had been a long day for most and there were many confused faces around the table. Mr. Lavoie was still not there. Despite his excessive alcohol consumption, he had never missed a meeting. The confederates started without him. As usual, Mr. Muir began the evening by inviting any participants with news to announce themselves. It was then that many described the disturbing dreams of the previous night. Almost all confessed to having felt an obvious discomfort throughout the day. This discomfort was worse among those living in the upper city.
One participant was describing the discomfort he had felt and speculating about where it originated from when a series of muffled knocks banged at the front door, with the sounds echoing in the vault. The speaker stopped talking and everyone turned toward the door, in apprehension. A series of blows resonated once again. Eric Thompson, who sat by the door, was the first to come out of his torpor. He got up and went to open it.
Staircase leading from the basement of the St. Roch Church to the street.
At the top of the stone staircase, at street level, laid Mr. Lavoie's body, lit by the supernatural light that engulfed the sky. A blade had slit his throat, leaving a terrible wound several centimeters wide. The stream of blood had dried up, but it must have flowed abundantly because a scarlet gutter had spilled down the stairs, forming a clotting accumulation in front of the door. Upon seeing this, Constable Thompson, a good friend of Mr. Lavoie, rushed up the stairs. Mr. Muir, who had remained frozen in shock by the situation, stood up from his chair and shouted, “No, Eric, don't go out!” Others joined him and the whole assembly, immobile the moment before, became a moving and frenetic mass.
Oblivious to the men behind him shouting at him to come back, Thompson reached Mr. Lavoie's cold body, lifting his head with one hand. It was only then, when he was at street level, that he understood his mistake. Around him, coming out of nowhere, about ten hooded carmine-colored silhouettes stood in a semi-circle around him, impassive and solemn. The moment seemed to remain frozen in time. Thompson looked at his opponents with a defiant look. They returned it to him.
Thompson broke the scene first. Realizing the danger, he stood up and tried to turn back down the stairs. He did not have time as an out-of-sight assailant threw a glass jar toward his face. Mr. Muir, who had reached the doorway, screamed to warn him, to no avail. The shock wa
s violent and a foul-smelling liquid splashed Thompson. The hard impact pushed him back down the stairs. The constable gave a brief scream before his body tumbled chaotically into the narrow and steep passage. His inert form fell at the feet of Mr. Muir, who watched helplessly as the scene unfolded.
As Muir grabbed Constable Thompson to pull him in, the cultist troop rushed down the stairs. Mr. Muir backed out of the door frame, squatting to avoid the press, while his allies led by McEntyre approached the door to block the way to the assailants. Amherst unloaded his rifle into the invaders pouring through the door, letting out a blast that reverberated in the cramped space. The projectile hit one of the irreligious monks and smashed his skull, spilling blood on the wall and throwing the man backward as if he weighed nothing.
This loss did not stop the fanatics spreading throughout the room. Muir's men were unprepared to counter the speed and ferocity of the cultists. Five hooded silhouettes had penetrated before the confederates could oppose any resistance. Other threatening figures were pushing behind them on the stairs. In their hands sparkled sharp steel blades. When they slashed in the air, a man screamed and blood flowed. None of the men gathered in the church had a melee weapon. They did not need it. Driven by the holy anger of seeing their sanctuary desecrated and sure of the merits of their cause, they punched and kicked their opponents relentlessly. Through tireless efforts, some cultists fell, unconscious or dead. Yet, each cultist who collapsed in this way had time to stab three of Muir's allies with suicidal abandonment. Anyone who slumped to the ground was trampled by the hysterical human tide and risked death.
Muir watched over Thompson, still groggy from the shock he had received on his temple, covered with the viscous liquid. Unable to be at the forefront, Muir grabbed a bottle of wine in an alcove in the wall and threw it with all his might into the cultists' press. Someone let out a growl of pain. The number of invaders was decreasing. The balance was tipping in the favor of Muir's allies. The narrator, for a moment neglecting Thompson, who had stood up, stepped forward in the melee. At that moment, an attacker pointed at Thompson and grunted an order in a guttural language.
A fanatic stood out from the crowd, receiving an inhuman number of blows. He rushed to a candle lighting the room, grabbed it with both hands and threw it toward Thompson. The narrator says time seemed to stand still. He saw the candle fly through the room in an unstoppable arc. Thompson, dizzy and distracted, was looking in another direction. Muir screamed a warning but the din of the battle covered the cry. When the flame of the candle touched Thompson, the conflagration was instantaneous. Muir saw his friend and ally of the last few weeks burn like a living torch. Thompson screamed, a sound that, according to Muir's writings, he would take to his grave. Muir saw Thompson's terrified eyes and one last look passed between the two men before they lost sight of each other. Thereafter, only Thompson's screams punctuated the last tremors of the life that was leaving him. Until he fell silent.
The fire did not consume only a single victim. Reminiscent of the events in the junkies’ apartment, the blaze moved like a living being. The flames spread and devoured other men, both allies and enemies, with their fiery wrath. The small enclosed room filled with smoke. A horrible smell of burning human flesh became omnipresent. Total chaos reigned, and it was no longer possible to discern friends from foes. Many rushed through the exit door to escape the massacre. The basement of the church emptied and the fight transposed to the outside. Soot covered all fighters, their clothes blackened and burned, their hair smoking.
Unbeknownst to the belligerents, the noise caused by the fighting, the screams, the shouts, combined with the blue smoke coming out of the church, alerted the residents of the neighborhood. While, a few minutes earlier, St. Joseph Street was deserted, dozens of citizens were now coming from all directions to watch the scene. At the limit of his strength, both physical and emotional, Muir had no thought of doing anything other than continuing the fight. Father Tremblay, seizing the opportunity, addressed the assembled crowd:
“Listen to me! Listen, everyone! These people in pagan clothes are responsible for the fires that raged in the city this winter. They are the devil's henchmen or worse. They had the audacity to strike at the very heart of your church! They killed and looted a holy place consecrated by Almighty Christ. They respect no law, human or divine. By the grace of God, help us give them their just punishment. Rain God's vengeful anathema on these vile sinners!”
The uncertain crowd took a long time to react to the seriousness of Father Tremblay's accusations. A few seconds passed as the battle raged. Then, the bravest men came forward to lend a hand to Muir and his people. This triggered a crowd movement and soon all men of fighting age rushed at the invaders, whose unorthodox clothes distinguished them from the rest of the crowd. The resulting fight was unilateral. Incensed, driven mad by the exhortations of the priest, the mob tore the irreligious monks to pieces. The crowd’s rage, when released, had no bounds. For many, it had been a long winter, full of grief and bitter patience in the face of dire events. All knew a family member or close friend whom the destructive fires had thrown out on the street. The violence exerted on the hooded men served as a release for all these emotions that remained imprisoned.
When all the followers were dead or dying, the agitation faded. The massacre had quenched their thirst for blood. Near him, Muir saw Amherst reloading his rifle, intense and concentrated. McEntyre, wounded by a dagger, was using a piece of clothing to bandage the cut. Realizing they won the battle, Robert Muir let himself fall to the ground, overwhelmed by the sudden realization of the loss of his friend Thompson and countless other allies. The price paid for this victory was high. However, he knew from the moment he dedicated himself to defeating Phillips that he could only achieve his goal through blood and tears. He had prepared for it and would not back down.
Despite the satisfaction of his most immediate needs for revenge, the tension of the crowd was still palpable. The citizens of Quebec City perceived, on a subconscious level, that their city was under attack. They craved to repel the invaders, whoever they might be. Father Tremblay, feeling this, took the initiative again:
“Allies and friends! None of you can now ignore the terrible evil besieging our city. These people you have just struck down, representatives of an ancient paganism, have developed such a certainty of their power that they strut among us in the most blatant way. We must push them back while we still have the strength. Please join us! Tonight, we will walk on the Château Saint-Louis, where the source of this pestilence lies. There is no place, no time more crucial than here and now. If we are correct about the nature of the evil we are facing, your lives will only have been important depending on how you behave in the coming moments. Will it be with valor and courage in the face of the forces seeking our loss, or with cowardice and renunciation of the bond that unites all men?”
As the narrator points out, he only understood Father Tremblay's intentions halfway through the speech. Still, he realized the priest was right: if they wanted to overcome the ignominious cult in Quebec City, now was the time. Even before the end of the speech, Muir was standing like the others, screaming to the sky. The crowd of about sixty people marched toward the upper town. The procession was noisy and chaotic, but there was a sense of tacit assurance. Each participant was confident that the reasons for his anger were justified.
As the crowd moved from one district to the next, it grew larger and larger. The rallying cry of the crowd was irresistible. Fear in the face of last winter's unexplained events, the constant presence of the ghostly aberration above Quebec City's sky, the general resentment of the French-Canadian population for the English invader, all these feelings combined into an explosive mixture that excited the crowd. Gendarmes tried to stop the riot, but realized either the futility of their efforts or the legitimacy of the joint venture, and joined in.
When the crowd reached the Château Saint-Louis, there were nearly 200 people. All felt that the discomfort caused by the circ
le of moving light in the sky reached its zenith. According to Muir’s writings, it only then became clear that the epicenter of the phenomenon hovered above the castle. Like a mirror offering views of another world, the sphere was spinning, deforming and reforming constantly. At its sight, unmistakable, some screamed, others cried. The soldiers guarding the castle seemed hesitant. Muir later learned the governor ordered them to shoot in the crowd. Other times, other customs. Napoleon had had cannons fired in the crowd at the Tuileries a mere forty years earlier. That night, however, no soldier fired. Perhaps it was because of the presence of the officers Muir, Amherst, and McEntyre, who were urging them to let them pass. Perhaps it was because of the insidious evil they too felt radiating from the place they were guarding.
As the soldiers allowed the crowd to move forward inside the front garden of the castle, the bustle became more and more apparent on all three floors of the building. Lights were on and it was possible to see through the windows soldiers rushing and hurrying. The crowd, with the three soldiers in the vanguard, broke down the main door by the weight of their number. Entering the building, it ransacked and looted everything in its path. Through brutish force, it destroyed, threw on the ground, and trampled valuable art objects and paintings imported from Europe. The crowd stretched in a long procession up to the bottleneck of the main gate. The small size of the area made it possible to move forward only one or two people wide.