Quebec City in Flames

by Nelson Rusk

  After a run where angels and demons could have paraded by me without my noticing, I arrived in the entrance hall of the archive floor. In the now occupied office, a clerk looked at me with suspicion while, haggard and glassy-eyed, I caught my breath. I looked back several times, but nobody seemed to follow me. When he decided that I was not a madman, the clerk politely told me: “In the future, when you search the archives, you should bring a lantern with you.”

  The clerk's ironic remark made me burst out with a sudden laugh and I had to support myself with my hands on my knees, so hilarious seemed this statement. Despite my dazed state, I soon noticed that the man was watching me with a look that seemed to cast doubt on my mental health. I concentrated on coming back to my senses and could do so after a while. Embarrassed by what had just happened, I asked the man: “Did you see the people who entered the archives after me? They wore red togas. Or maybe it was only one person.” A long silence ensued. “I saw no one but you,” he replied with no need to add anything more.

  The discomfort was palpable. This conversation was going nowhere. Without trying to save the situation, I took leave of the clerk and rushed up the stairs, leaving him alone with his questions. As I climbed the stairs, I put my clothes back in order. I appeared in front of the reception on the ground floor in an almost decent state. It seemed increasingly difficult to hide the nervous frenzy I perceived hiding behind my eyes. I left the City Hall in front of the receptionist, whom I greeted without receiving an answer.

  Paying Respects

  When I emerged in the open air, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Without me noticing, the hours of the day had gone by at an incredible speed. On this short January day, the sun was already declining and indicating late afternoon. After the events I had just experienced, it was out of the question to return home for the time being. I felt the need to walk, which I did. My body was still in shock from the unexpected panic, but physical activity helped to get my mind back on track.

  I walked down St. John Street. The most venerable of Quebec’s transport arteries teemed with onlookers and tourists visiting the old town despite the winter weather. I mingled with the crowd, feeling in its embrace the safety and conformity of being one with my fellow human beings. It was not a feeling I often sought, being a natural loner since my teenage years. Yet, for once, it seemed to me that, when confronted with the inhuman, the sadistic, and the cruel, the remedy could only be the brotherhood unique to humanity.

  View of St. Jean Street, circa 1890.

  I reached Place d'Youville. In the summer, a popular market animated the large square. Winter increased the pace of all passers-by, each rushing to their destination to find shelter from the harsh Quebec winter. Without thinking about it, I continued on my way and passed the Côte d'Abraham. My feet seemed guided by their own will. I gave them free rein.

  It was only when I arrived in front of the St. Matthew's Chapel, after a few minutes' walk, that something clicked in my mind. I had been led unaware to the exact location of Robert Muir's and his family's last resting place. I had then no other possible motivation than to find his gravestone. Driven by this thought alone, I dashed around the small Anglican chapel and entered the cemetery itself.

  St. Matthew's Chapel and Cemetery in 1860. The place has changed little since then.

  St. Matthew Cemetery was just a small piece of land that had long since reached its full capacity. The establishment of the site began shortly after the British conquest, which necessitated the creation of a Protestant burial site, as the French-Canadian population was Catholic. Many of the cemetery's stelae dated back to a venerable age of the colony. Given the small size of the place, I had little difficulty finding the Muir family's gravestone, in the shade under a huge maple tree. Moved more than I had thought, I put one knee on the ground and read the inscription in a low voice.

  Here lies the late Robert Muir, accompanied by his wife Marie and their children, Aidan, William, Lorraine, and Rory. In death as in life, Robert Muir never relinquished the missions that Providence assigned to him. He sleeps the sleep of the brave, like all those who have lived according to their conscience, under the protection of the Divine, and in the faith of their ancestors.

  I laid a hand on the stone. The personal nature of the epitaph suggested a companion of Muir had written it, someone who knew about the battles he had fought against the evil sect. The author’s admiration for the integrity and courage of the officer was clear despite the brevity of the message, as well he might. Robert Muir sacrificed his life for the cause of cosmic good and the prosperity of his descendants. Here laid a man who could stand without shame beside our most illustrious ancestors who defended the colony, the likes of Champlain, Frontenac, and Montcalm.

  In comparison, it was difficult for me to look favorably at my situation. Robert Muir had made several allies in his struggle. I had only recognized one of my only allies too late, leading to his disappearance or death. He had never backed down from a confrontation with his enemies, at least not without a fight. I had to run away several times. I was not a seasoned soldier, veteran of many campaigns. I realized that my hand was shaking right now in view of the mission assigned to me. Before long, I knew it, I would have to face again the horror and malice of my opponents. My allies were few, I had little information about my enemies, and I didn't know where and when they would strike.

  One thing was certain, however: the ultimate showdown was approaching. Events had accelerated since yesterday and I felt a sickly restlessness as danger loomed in, like a soldier on the eve of a battle. In this state, each sensation was exacerbated, isolated, and stretched to its extreme. The sunset light filtering through the branches of the cemetery trees, warming my frigid skin. The dry sound of snow sinking under my feet. The hard, granular coldness of the gravestone. All these sensations, trivial in normal times, became of paramount importance with the approach of mortal danger. I would have liked to make them last forever.

  I remained prostrate in front of the gravestone for a time impossible to quantify. Despite my initial fear, I made peace with my situation and the dangers that threatened my life. In a quiet voice, I thanked Robert Muir for sacrificing himself to eradicate this evil cult. I swore to honor the torch he gave me through his diary. In the grip of a strong melancholy tinged with pride, I stood up and took a few steps backward to have a complete view of the grave. I bid my last farewell in silence to this man who seemed so close to me, despite the fact we had never met. Driven by a new resolution, I turned around and left the cemetery.

  I resolved to return home. If fate were merciful, I could enjoy a short sleep before tonight. I had planned to inform Sir Hugh of the latest developments and perhaps monitor the Château Frontenac for any trace of illegal activity. But before that, a more primordial need arose when I realized that a voracious hunger had taken hold of me. It was no surprise: I had eaten nothing for the whole day.

  I liked to have dinner at Kerhulu, a restaurant opened a few years ago on the Côte de la Fabrique, just next to the university. Its French-inspired dishes and generous pastries delighted a clientele that consisted mainly of intellectuals and students. Despite its reputation, its prices were affordable, which suited my limited purse. I went there by retracing my steps on the St. Jean street.

  I ate at a small table for one person, near the window. It was a quiet evening at the restaurant. The arctic temperature encouraged customers to stay cozy at home. I warmed up with a starter of French onion soup, followed by a portion of rooster in a burgundy sauce. In the interval between the end of my meal and the reception of the bill, I almost fell asleep at the table. My eyelids were heavy, and I felt the extreme fatigue that had accumulated over the past few days.

  After paying, I hurried back to my room in the university dormitory. The evening sky was just appearing on the horizon, but I could not begin my work before I got a few hours of sleep. I slumped on the bed. Tiredness seized me and never let me go.

  Oneiric Torments

 
The first sign something was wrong was when I noticed again the spectral eye appearing in the sky through my window opening. It was out of question I would let myself go through the same tribulations as yesterday and I turned my back on this apparition. I fought and fought, but always the eye appeared in the sky, like a gaping abyss filled with immemorial wisdom. I knew from my own experience it could rapidly transform into a thirst for vengeful destruction. Driven by the desire to act, I stood up to draw the curtains in front of the window, hoping by this illogical reasoning to conceal the apparition behind it.

  I had a few seconds of rest. Peace did not last. As soon as I laid in bed, I noticed a burning circle in the shadow of the curtains. This circle grew in intensity until it gleamed like a fiery firebrand. The curtains could not tolerate such heat. The blaze of fire tore them apart. The flames spread to the window frame, then on the walls, touching and setting fire to my bed, which erupted into a gigantic ball of volcanic fire. I knew it was only a dream, but could not stop it. My will had withered like a faded flower before this cosmic power manifesting itself before my eyes. I observed the phenomenon with the passivity of a spectator.

  The flames surrounding me obscured my view. My world had shrunk and confined itself to the small universe of my bed, where I rested like a sacrificial victim bathed in eternal flames. Although the most terrible sufferings wracked my body, my mind was well awake. I could sense the appalling visions I received came from that despicable eye in the sky as if this world belonged to it. It was the origin, the conduit, and the destination, if that was possible.

  When I got used to this nightmare, tolerating the moment and telling myself that it would eventually end, I felt another presence. It was not an ethereal conjuration but a concrete and tangible form. A human figure was coming toward me. I was so frightened that I had to repeat to myself for my own mental health it was a dream, reciting this thought as a perpetual litany.

  The mysterious man came near me and stood at my bedside with the same presence as a sovereign in front of a subject. His features became clearer, his silhouette sharper, and his movements apparent. The man was tall and slender, naked except for a white loincloth at the waist. His skin was of a milky and denatured ivory color. It took me a while to understand what it meant. From his feet to his neck, his entire carnal layer was a fabric of grotesque scars, the product of a long and total exposure to a fiery blaze. By a compulsion I could not explain myself, it was impossible for me to look up at his face. I could only glimpse it from the corners of my vision. I sensed an unspeakable ugliness caused by burns of dreadful proportions.

  Still unable to look up at him, I heard his words echoing in my head as if he was whispering them in my ear:

  “You have the mark, Mr. Roussin. You are mine. I hold you in the same web that trapped your precursor. I have released upon him the full power of the Universal Destroyer. Through me, he heard His voice and knelt before His omnipotence. He was destroyed down to the depths of his soul and his physical shell. No part of his legacy will spread in this world. His obliteration is total, by the grace of my master. Om Namah Shivaya. Iä Azathoth. Whatever His form, the Lord of Destruction always takes His due. The only question is when.”

  The man's words were concentrated vials of sonic poison, resounding in my head like hellish thunderclaps unleashed one after the other. I felt the frail structure of my reality deteriorate as external forces intruded. The words dripping with contempt continued to resonate but a steady drumbeat added to them in the background. Was it the sound of a press, or one of those huge industrial machines? An increasingly conspicuous noise overloaded my senses. I felt my soul tearing away from reality, my body dissolving into a vaporous consistency.

  In a spasmodic startle, I escaped the flames and found myself prostrated again in an uncomfortable position on the sweat-soaked sheets. Reality seemed to have taken over, but a steady and insistent noise was still ringing in my enclosed room. I finally understood that the sound, which had taken me out of the torpor of restless sleep, came from the door of my room, on which someone was hitting hard. I got up, confused and shaky, and approached the door. Normally, I would have opened with no second thoughts. Those days were over. I asked over the noise of the knocks: “Who is there?” If the person on the other side identified himself as Satan coming to collect my soul, I would have believed him on his word. Instead, I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard Alise's voice say, “It's me, Mr. Roussin. Thank God, you're there! Open, please!”

  I opened the door and sighed with relief to see Alise. She did not wait for my invitation to enter and eagerly walked through the door. She seemed agitated, and took her hat and coat off with jerky movements, frowning with worry. I pulled out my only chair for her to sit down, which she did. We exchanged no words. I leaned on the edge of the desk, waiting for her to share her reasons for coming. She began in a weak voice as if speaking to herself:

   “Tonight, I asked Chef Méthot to finish earlier than normal. He owed me for all the hours I work. He let me go around 6 pm. I left the castle as usual. Instead of returning home, I went to kill time in a restaurant overlooking the Place d'Armes, from where I could observe the comings and goings from the castle. Around 7 pm, I saw some craftsmen leave, including Mr. Bernard. I know you suspect him. I have always found that there was something strange in his attitude. When he talks to me, I feel cold. As if I were just a piece of meat to him and he wouldn't care if I died this instant, right in front of his eyes.

  View of the Place d'Armes and the inner courtyard, from the Château Frontenac, circa 1905.

  Anyway, the group of craftsmen split up on the Place d'Armes. Most of them left alone in their respective directions. Four men stayed with Mr. Bernard and followed him across the Place d'Armes toward the St. Jean street. When I saw this, I... I...”, she hesitated as she noticed my disapproving look.

   “You followed them,” I added, with a voice full of reproaches, though filled with admiration for her courage.

   “Yes. It's not fair you should bear this burden alone! I'm as much a part of this as you are. Don't think I don't know the meaning of the look you gave me when you saw the burns on my hand. I'm in danger, am I not? It must be some initiation or filthy baptism. A way to mark me for their cult. I don't want to end up like Mr. Martin!” she burst out with passion. When I looked into her eyes, I did not see in them the fear I expected to detect. Rather, there was a determination and a willingness that refuse to bend in the face of adversity. My admiration for her only grew.

   “You're right, Alise. Forgive me for underestimating your valor. Please understand that I did it only for your safety, to keep you away from the horror of the situation. It is useless to impose this burden on both our souls if mine could bear it alone.” She stared at me, her eyes confused, her thoughts indecipherable. Then she laid a hand on mine. Without saying a word, I held it.

   “So, I followed the group of men from as far away as I could so they wouldn't see me. They walked along the St. Jean street, discreet and silent, which differs from the way Mr. Bernard behaves at work. They turned on the Côte du Palais and went down to the intersection with the St. Vallier street. They stopped in front of the Boswell brewery. At that moment, I didn't dare to come any closer, since it would have been easy to see me. I hid near the ramparts above the cliff, from where I had an excellent view of their activities.

  Boswell Brewery below the cliff in the upper town.

  The group stayed in front of the brewery for almost ten minutes before an accomplice opened the basement hatch for them. The five men rushed down the steps, watching the vicinity to make sure no one saw them. At that moment, I almost gave up my surveillance, telling myself that they could spend hours there. Perhaps it was only a drunken binge in the brewery's bowels. However, something in their enigmatic attitude, in the clandestineness of their motives, made me stay there and observe them.

  After an hour of waiting, my patience paid off. In retrospect, however, it would have been better f
or me never to see what ensued. Furtive hands opened the basement hatch again. About ten men came out wearing the reddish toga you described me. I had difficulty seeing them. The winter darkness and the absence of street lights at the bottom of the rampart cliff hid them from prying eyes. But not mine!” she added with pride, adding a smile of satisfaction.

  “Some of them crossed the street and headed toward the foot of the cliff, just below me. It was impossible for me to see there because of the slope. I heard the squeaking of a door opening. The other men followed them, gesturing in what seemed like an elaborate cavalcade, disheveled but silent. I was so focused on them I did not immediately see the woman the last cultist pushed out of the hatch. I stared with terror as she advanced in the dim light. A gag obstructed her mouth, pushed down to the point of suffocation, and her naked body shone with sweat despite the freezing cold.

  This scene was already enough to horrify me. The worst was yet to come. When the woman walked through a reflection of the moon, I could see her face. It was swollen and part of it had horrible scars, but I recognized it! It was Lucie, I could swear it! She works as a housekeeper at the castle. No one had seen her since yesterday. When she tried to free herself from their grip, a hooded man rushed toward her and pummeled her with a brutal blow to the face. She collapsed. Her face dripped with blood as her deep wounds and blisters opened. Despite her gag and even from where I was, I heard her bellow in pain. I will never forget her complaints. I should have stepped in, done something, but terror, disbelief, and the abjectness of the scene riveted me to my hiding place.”