Quebec City in Flames

by Nelson Rusk

  I waited for the man of letters to complete his preliminary examination of the book. Given the speed at which he turned the pages, it was clear he was not reading everything. Still, his frowning face and darkening expression gave me enough clues about his general perception of the grimoire. Although I had not read a single line of it, I had the impression to understand all its obscure ramblings. I knew anything I’d read from this book would transpose me to the dread dreams of last night. By a strange phenomenon I could not explain, the writings had become indelibly imprinted upon my mind.

   “Have you read the contents of this compendium, Mr. Roussin?” Sir Hugh asked, without preamble, dead serious. I nodded. It was not a lie. He continued, “The nature of the content, besides the constant references to the outer gods and the ancient gods, remind me of what I have been reading about the sect whose alchemical symbol you asked me to investigate. I had never in my life heard such babbling and gibberish. I would laugh it away if it were not that several elements concur.

  For example, I looked at the colony's ancient records. A soldier named Robert Muir was indeed stationed at the Château Saint-Louis. I could also determine that a high number of fires occurred in the year before the destruction of the castle. The sheer quantity of these unsolved crimes led to widespread criticism of the then fire chief. A few months after the fire in the castle, high instances in the colony forced him to resign. Not only that, but shortly after his resignation, a raging crowd chased him through the streets and hanged him. There is no doubt that this period in Quebec City's history was turbulent and full of secrets that even later inquiries could not clarify.

  I could establish that a man named Phillips was the governor's aide-de-camp in 1834, as you mentioned. This Phillips was a veteran from the East Indies, from where a conflict with local authorities drove him out in disgrace. I had to dig deep and use favors from Quebec's City Hall to gather more information on this subject. A more detailed report of the incidents existed in the colony's military archives, as the army had conducted a thorough investigation.

  According to my readings, a sect of fanatics operated at that time—we are talking here about the 1820s—in India, West Bengal. The name of the cult was Siba Aguna in Bengali, or Shiva's Fire. Phillips, who served in the British garrison in Calcutta, led a mission to hunt down the head of the cult and bring its master before His Majesty's court. This mission was of the utmost importance to British forces, which were seeking to legitimize their presence in these foreign lands. To rid the region of this sect, whose origin was legendary among the local population, would have provided the British governor of the region, a certain Daniel Webb, a significant amount of sympathy.

  Residents of the region accused this sect of many religious misdeeds and offenses, exaggerated or not. They were reportedly responsible for the disappearance of many young people, whom they used in demoniacal ceremonies in honor of forgotten gods from the dawn of time. Their preferred sacrificial method was fire, which they worshiped almost indiscriminately with their infamous gods. Among the population, elders familiar with ancient legends claimed the cult had discovered an unknown process to accelerate the spread of the fires they started throughout the region. Their depredations razed many Indian buildings of vital historical importance. According to sources, their vile modus operandi included the desecration of ancient religious sites and their destruction. To what despicable ends, no one knew.

  Some claimed the master of the tribe was a man whose name was unknown, but answering under the title of Ajatothera Rasula, or Messenger of Azathoth. The elders claimed he was old when they were young, that his true age was counted in centuries and that he had the ability to change from one body to another, leaving his old carnal envelope behind when it became obsolete. Colorful tattoos representing flames, destruction, and grinning gods all at once covered his body. Despite his erudition, few villagers had the courage to go to the mountains seek his counsel, for his wisdom went hand in hand with his absolute inhumanity. Particularly superstitious scholars even speculated he could cause flames of ravage and destruction to rain down on the entire world if the arrangement of the stars so prescribed.

  It was in this context that Phillips plunged into the depths of the Ayodhya rainforest at the head of a contingent of about fifty British soldiers. The vast complex of hills and deep caves in this region was known to shelter members of the cult. Very little information emerged from this expedition after it left the fringes of civilization. There were reports that fights erupted near the village of Kudna, where the British contingent pushed the cult back into the mountains after suffering heavy losses. Despite an injury suffered by Phillips himself, he ordered the pursuit of the routed followers in the surrounding mountains, disregarding the villagers’ warnings.

  After this offensive, contemporary records lost trace of Phillips and the contingent he led for almost a year. He found himself again in the spotlight of civilized history when he returned to the British garrison in Calcutta, against all odds since his military funeral had already taken place. Many assumed he had lost his mind. He seemed to have forgotten all memories of his previous life, besides having difficulty expressing himself in English, his mother tongue. He struggled to explain a crazed fanatic had inflicted the awful wound under his right shoulder blade with a khukuri blade. The wound had become infected, and he had to remain a prisoner of the sectators for months to regain his vitality. The new series of tattoos covering his body aggravated the rumors about him, Phillips having never given in to this tribal deviance. He now had tattoos like those of the Indian sectators.

  Phillips stated in his broken English that the cult Siba Aguna was in fact misunderstood and that its worshipers, far from being evil, were seeking the salvation of humanity. When he described his stay among them, he sometimes let go fragments of information suggesting they treated him more like a valued guest than a prisoner. He seemed to have adopted many of their habits, several witnesses noting that they had seen him praying to strange and ancestral gods, performing ceremonies with shady individuals from who knows where.

  Phillips’ behavioral aberrations soon became known to all, garnering him much disapproving attention and numerous enemies. Over time, Phillips' command of the English language came back to him to a certain extent. Despite this renewed ability to communicate, those around him felt an obvious, though inexplicable, uneasiness in his presence. In this turmoil, the British authorities had no choice but to reassign him. Governor Webb sent him to a place where Phillips would not risk falling back into his fold: Quebec City, in British North America.”

  Sir Hugh looked at the effect his long presentation had on me. Despite my state of overexcitement due to the events of the previous day, if Sir Hugh's intention was to leave me dumbfounded, he had succeeded. What would Robert Muir have given to get his hands on all this information? My interlocutor seemed proud of the state he had put me in. Undoubtedly, it was a matter of pride for him to see that the pupil had not yet surpassed the master when it came to seeking information. He continued:

  “It is not all. I had to search the vaults of the Quebec Parliament to find out what Phillips did when he landed in the New World. The least we can say about him is that he was diligent. Fresh off the boat, he set out in search of fertile ground for his religious ideas. He found them in the local Freemason chapter. Many English nobles were eager to transplant these pagan traditions to the New World, they who were used to such nonsense in Britain. According to the testimonies of some local aristocrats familiar with these practices, Phillips had little difficulty in infiltrating this circle of scholars and implanting his ideas from the most remote regions of ancestral India.

  To encourage the disgusting coupling between the barbaric practices of the worshipers of Siba Aguna to those of the Freemasons, Phillips incorporated the core of alchemy that permeated most Freemasonic dogmas of the time, creating an impossible gestalt between religions at opposite ends of the spectrum. He took over leadership of this sect, dictating its belief
s, rites, and above all the nature of the accepted sacrifices. For this was the strong element of this Indian import: the slaughter and annihilation of the flesh, especially that of women, whose procreative capacities were an anathema in the eyes of these disciples of destruction.

  Through unspeakable sacrifices, the cult reached an unprecedented level of power. It subsequently became difficult to separate reality from fiction, even in official sources. Overstated reports told of supernatural apparitions and phenomena occurring in the night sky of Quebec City. These phenomena reached their peak on the night of the destruction of the Château Saint-Louis. It is difficult to get anything out of the police reports of that time, so contradictory are they. In truth, a large part of the police was compromised and worked, knowingly or not, to conceal the evidence rather than to gather and examine it.

  It was only several years later that some elements of the investigation appeared in credible publications, which nevertheless remained outside the public domain. Several repentant followers claimed to have been present during that fateful night. Despite popular belief, there were survivors of the explosion that shook the castle. These cultists foresaw the danger and evacuated through the underground before the fire destroyed everything.

  According to the survivors, that night's ceremony was the culmination of Phillips' rituals. Throughout the winter, this lunatic had prepared the ground for a massive ceremony involving all members of the cult. The ritual was a refinement of the same technique his predecessor used to change bodies. This time, however, the body chosen as the new receptacle would not be that of a sacrificial victim, but of Shiva Himself under his destructive aspect. God knows what these degenerates had in mind, but they thought they could transform their high priest into a living incarnation of Shiva.

  That same night, Phillips had sent a troop of fanatics dedicated to dying for their cause against a coalition of his opponents—the one formed by Robert Muir. Their purpose was to distract the band, to destroy it if possible. As you know, this attack failed and, ironically, led to the failure of the ritual. It is impossible to know what caused the final explosion under the Château Saint-Louis, except that it directly resulted from Robert Muir’s intervention. His presence that night reduced the pretenses of the cult to naught... that is, for several decades.

   So, you think the events of the last few days are a resurgence of the same cult?” I asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from Sir Hugh.

   “Who could doubt it? The circumstances are identical. I know that young men like you do not open newspapers anymore, but I have looked through the news of the last few months. When considered side by side, the arsons form a long and nightmarish arabesque whose regularity admits no possibility of coincidence. Not to mention the singular incidence of kidnappings.”

  With these words, some of the rage that had left me since the morning invested me again. I got up from the chair, unable to stay still because of the stormy emotions in me. “They kidnapped Alise,” I confessed, without wanting to dwell on the subject, my voice full of bitterness.

   “Who?

   Alise, a chambermaid at the Château Frontenac. I had invited her to stay at my house last night, while I was exploring the catacombs under Quebec City. The vile degenerates kidnapped her while raiding my apartment.”

  I walked from one end of the office to the other, empty-eyed. The detached tone with which I had made this statement should have frightened me. A few days earlier, I could not have talked about life and death with such glibness. However, the implausibility of recent events had created a barrier between my consciousness and my senses. I looked at what was happening to me with a detached eye, and embraced the progressive annihilation of my accustomed life as if it were an unavoidable passage. In an almost inaudible voice, I whispered several times, each time with a subtly different intonation: “Human life is the fiery crucible that forges our hopes and fears. At the end of the journey, everything is but dead wood, and Master Shiva awaits us for the final immolation.”

  When I came out of this introspective torpor, my eyes settled on Sir Hugh. He seemed shaken. His features drawn and his face tight, he grabbed the arms of his chair with both hands as if trying to arrest himself during free fall. For several seconds, he had been trying to reach me:

   “Mr. Roussin! Mr. Roussin! It is imperative to act quickly! If the cult has taken hold of this woman, there is a high probability that her sacrifice will soon follow. Do you have any idea where this ritual might take place?

   Maybe. Probably in the same place as ninety years ago. But the fortifications under Quebec City are a veritable labyrinth. I would need someone to guide me through them.” I went quiet, thinking about the possibilities. I sat down, my head between my hands and leaning against the desk.

   “So?

   Jean Beaumont!” I called out, still slumped on the desk. “This gutter dog burned Alise with the mark of the cult. He must know where the cult took her.

   Then we must call the police and ask for their help.

   No,” I shouted, getting carried away and standing up suddenly, sending the chair backward. Despite his iron composure, proven countless times during his exploration of the colonies and contacts with the natives, Sir Hugh flinched. My maniacal outburst gave the right measure of my current temperamental instability. I tried to calm down. I continued, “Under no circumstances should we notify the police. It is obvious this is the first institution the cult has infiltrated and neutralized. How else could they act with impunity? Warning them would not serve our cause. Moreover,” I began, hesitantly, “sending this cult into the darkness from which it arose is my duty. My life’s work. My only responsibility. I will not avoid it! "The intensity in my eyes told Sir Hugh everything he needed to know about my resolution.

   “I cannot help you. You know that. In my prime, I would have been happy to be at your side to stop these abominations. Now, I am afraid I would be a burden more than an asset.

   I will not need help,” I said in a state of hysterical overexcitement. “The most difficult will be to find out where this infernal ritual is taking place. When I do, I will find a way to end it.” Sir Hugh didn't seem convinced. He continued, rising and heading toward a glass cabinet at the back of his desk.

   “I am reluctant to give you this, considering your current mental state. You may hurt innocent people or yourself. Still, allowing you to enter the beast's lair without a weapon would be suicidal. Of two evils, I will therefore choose the least.”

  At these words, Sir Hugh grabbed a Colt pistol model 1900, caliber 0.38, hung in the window. He weighed it in his hand, with obvious nostalgia. Then he took a handful of rounds, put half a dozen cartridges in the magazine with an agile and experienced hand and handed it to me.

   “Have you ever used a firearm, Mr. Roussin?” I shook the head. “This one got me out of trouble more than once, in the Congo and again in the Amazon. You will need it. When you want to fire, you need only to remove the safety, aim, and pull the trigger. Very easy. Too easy, in fact. Make sure you know what you are shooting at and do not shoot in vain.”

  I handled the weapon in my hands, trying to assimilate its essence, to get used to its weight. When one has never held a weapon, one cannot imagine that such a small thing could be invested with such meaning, with a personal will as real as that of a living being. I held in my hands both fascinated and frightened an element of dense lethality, designed and refined for a single purpose: to kill.

  A long look passed between Sir Hugh and me. At that moment, more than at any other time, we understood each other. In the opacity of our academic relationship, we had been nothing but strangers. In the dry cold of his office, after contemplating together the naked horror of human existence in its worst murderous perversions, we had become brothers; if not biological, at least in arms. "Good luck, Mr. Roussin," he told me, solemnly. I nodded, held the gun in my jacket pocket and left his office.

  Descent into the Hea
rt of Corruption

  My mind filled with a thousand ominous thoughts, I took the usual path to the Château Frontenac. It was difficult for me to appreciate the beauty of Quebec City, its majesty, its history, knowing what evil spells and abominations lurked in its dark and hidden bosom. Lost in these unhealthy thoughts, I reached the castle gate in the middle of the afternoon. I took a deep breath and contemplated the bright horizon of the weak January sun, for what I assumed would be the last time. With a heavy heart, I entered the inner courtyard, then the building itself.

  I had never been in the kitchens of the castle before, but I knew they were located straight ahead, at the base of the main tower. I greeted the receptionist, without asking her for directions. She knew me and let me pass without saying a word. It was easy to find my destination; all I had to do was head toward the origin of the racket. Several double doors opened into the kitchen. Openings from which clouds of steam emanated allowed the cooks to place the plates on a counter where the service staff could pick them up.

  Many waitresses and maids were busy in all directions, taking meals with them when they were ready. From outside the kitchens, I could not see the cooks. A man in impeccable clothing, whom I assumed to be the supervisor, was busy at a desk, scribbling countless invoices in a hurry. I approached him and asked about Jean Beaumont. At no time did I consider the possibility that Beaumont did not work today. He was there, I could feel it. The supervisor finished writing his current invoice before replying, in a voice that did not approve of wasted time—something I clearly was for him—that Mr. Beaumont was at his post in the kitchens at the moment, but that he could not take a break. I agreed with him.