The Witching Hour (55 page)

The inquisitor, Father Louvier, handsome and very well fed, with fine groomed beard and hair and twinkling black eyes, saw nothing suspicious in my manner, and became obsequious to me as if I were from the Vatican, which I might be for all he knew, and merely sought to comfort me when I said perhaps an innocent woman was to be burnt.

“You never saw such a witch,” said the Comtesse, who laughed in an ugly deep-throated fashion and offered me some wine. She then presented me to the Comtesse de Chamillart, who sat beside her, and to every other noble of the surrounding area who had come to lodge at the chateau and see the witch burnt.

Every question I asked and objection I raised and suggestion I made to offer was met with the same easy conviction by this assemblage. For them the battle had been fought and won. All that remained was the celebration that would take place in the morning.

The boys were crying in their chambers, true, but they would recover. And there was nothing to fear from Deborah, for if her demon were strong enough to free her he would have done so by now. And was it not so with all witches? Once they were in chains, the devil left them to their fate.

“But this woman has not confessed,” I declared, “and her husband fell from his horse in the forest, by his own admission. Surely you cannot convict on the evidence of a feverish and dying man!”

It was as if I were flinging dry leaves into their faces, for all the effect it had upon them.

“I loved my son before all things in this world,” said the old Comtesse, her small black eyes hard and her mouth ugly. Then as if thinking the better of her tone, she said with complete hypocrisy, “Poor Deborah, have I ever said that I did not love Deborah, that I did not forgive Deborah a thousand things?”

“You say too much!” declared Louvier very sanctimoniously, and with an exaggerated gesture as he was drunk, the fiend.

“I don’t speak of witchcraft,” said the old woman, quite unperturbed by his manner, “I speak of my daughter-in-law and all her weaknesses and secrets, for who in this town does not know that Charlotte was born too soon after the wedding, yet my son was so blind to the charms of this woman, and so adoring of Charlotte, and so grateful to Deborah for her dowry and so much a fool in all respects … ”

“Must we speak of it!” whispered the Comtesse de Chamillart, who appeared to tremble. “Charlotte is gone from our midst.”

“She will be found and burnt like her mother,” declared Louvier, and there were nods and assents all around.

And they went to talking amongst themselves about how very content they would all be after the executions, and as I sought to question them, they merely gestured for me to be quiet, to drink, not to concern myself.

It was horrible the manner in which they then ignored me, like beings in a dream who cannot hear our screams. Yet I persisted that they had no evidence of night flying, of Sabbats, of intercourse with demons, and all the other foolish evidence which elsewhere sends these creatures to the stake. As for the healing, what was this but the skill of the cunning woman, and why convict for that? The doll might not have been anything more than an instrument of healing.

To no avail!

How convivial and calm they were as they dined at the table, which had been her table, and on silver which had been her silver, and she in that wretched cell.

At last I pleaded that she should be allowed to die by strangulation before the burning. “How many of you have seen for yourselves a person die by fire!” But this was met with the weariest of dismissals.

“The witch is unrepentant,” said the Comtesse de Chamillart, the only one of them who seemed sober and even touched with a slight fear.

“She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most?” the
inquisitor asked, wiping his mouth with his filthy napkin. “What is that to the eternal fires of hell!”

At last I went out and back through the crowded square where it seemed a drunken revel was being held around all the little fires burning, and I stood looking at the grim pyre, and the stake high above with its iron manacles, and then by chance I found myself looking to the left of it at the triple arches of the church doors. And there in the crude carving of ages past were the imps of hell being driven down into the flames by St. Michael the Archangel with his trident through the fiend’s belly.

The words of the inquisitor rang in my ears as I looked at this ugly thing in the firelight. “She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most? And what is that to the eternal fires of hell?”

Oh, Deborah, who never willfully harmed anyone, and had brought her healing arts to the poorest and the richest, and been so unwise!

And where was her vengeful spirit, her Lasher, who sought to save her grief by striking down her husband, and had brought her to that miserable cell? Was he with her, as she had told me? It was not his name she had cried out when she was tortured, it was my name, and the name of her old and kindly husband Roelant.

Stefan, I have written this tonight as much to stave off madness, as to make the record. I am weary now. I have packed my valise, and I am ready to leave this town when I have seen this bitter story to the end. I will seal this letter and put it in my valise with the customary note affixed to it, that in the event of my death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.

For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.

The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.

Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment,
his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.

Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.

“That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt,” he said, “do you still have it?”

“Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I’ve already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It’s going to take a little time.”

“Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald—that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher … Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat.”

“But you do not actually remember it?”

“No, but I’m sure … And Aaron—”

“Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn’t much time.”

“I need a pen and paper to take notes.”

“What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions.”

“Exactly, I wish I’d been keeping a notebook all along.”

“I’ll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There’ll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring.”

“That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things … ”

“I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read.”

Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.

At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.

The kindly woman he’d seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.

He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:

“After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.

“And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to
Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don’t really remember this. I simply know it.

“And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I’ve been doing, but to touch something specific … 

“But it’s too soon to draw conclusions … ”

But if I only had something of Deborah’s to touch, he thought. But he sensed there was nothing, or else Aaron would have sent for it too. He examined the photocopies of Petyr van Abel’s letters. That’s all they were—photocopies. No good for his anxious hands.

He thought for a moment, if such confusion in one’s mind could be called thought, and then he drew a picture in the notebook of a necklace, showing a rectangular jewel in the center, and a filigree border, and a chain of gold. He drew it the way he would draw an architectural design, with very clean, straight lines and slightly shaded detail.

He studied it, the gloved fingers of his left hand working nervously in his hair, and then curling into a fist as he rested his hand on the desk. He was about to scratch out the drawing when he decided against it, and then he opened the second file and began to read.

THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES

PART II

Marseille, France
October 4, 1689 

Dear Stefan,

I am here in Marseille after several days’ journey from Montcleve, during which I rested at Saint-Rémy and made my way very slowly from there, on account of my wounded shoulder and wounded soul.

I have already drawn money from our agent here, and will
post this letter no later than one hour after I finish it, and so you will receive it on the heels of my last, which I posted upon my arrival last night.

I am heartsick, Stefan. The comforts of a large and decent inn here mean little or nothing to me, though I am glad to be out of the small villages and in a city of some size, where I cannot help but feel at ease and somewhat safe.

If word has reached this place of what happened at Montcleve, I have not heard of it yet. And as I put away my clerical garb on the outskirts of Saint-Rémy and have been since then the Dutch traveler of means, I do not think that anyone will trouble me about those recent events in the mountains, for what would I know about such things?

I write once more to stave off madness as much as to report to you, which I am bound to do, and to continue the business at hand.

The execution of Deborah began in a manner similar to many others, in that as the morning light fell down on the square before the doors of the Cathedral of Saint-Michel all the town collected there with the wine sellers making their profits, and the old Comtesse, somberly dressed, coming forward with the two trembling children, both dark-haired and dark-skinned with the stamp of the Spanish blood on them, but with a height and delicacy of bone that betrayed the blood of their mother, and very much frightened, as they were taken high to the very top of the viewing stand before the jail, and facing the pyre.

It seemed the little one, Chrétien, began to weep and cling to his grandmother, whereupon there ran through the crowd excited murmurs, “Chrétien, look at Chrétien.” This child’s lip trembled as he was seated, but his elder brother, Philippe, evinced only fear and perhaps loathing of what he beheld around him, and the old Comtesse embraced and comforted both of them, and on her other side welcomed the Comtesse de Chamillart and the inquisitor Father Louvier, with two young clerics in fine robes.

Four more priests, I know not from where, also filled the topmost places in the stand, and a small band of armed men stood at the very foot of it, these constituting the local authorities, or so I presumed.

Other important personages, or a great collection of those who think themselves very important, filled up the rest of the elevated seats very quickly, and if there had been any window anywhere that had not been opened beforehand, it was opened now and full of eager faces, and those on foot pressed so close to the
pyre that I could not help but wonder how they would save themselves from being burnt.

A small band of armed men, bearing a ladder with them, appeared from the thick of the crowd and laid this ladder against the pyre. The young Chrétien saw this and turned fearfully once more to his grandmother, his shoulders shaking as he cried, but the young Philippe remained as before.

At last the doors of Saint-Michel were thrown open, and there appeared beneath the rounded arch, on the very threshold, the pastor and some other despicable official, most likely the mayor of this place, who held in his hands a rolled parchment, and a pair of armed guards came forth to the left and to the right.

And between them there emerged to a hushed and wonder-stricken audience my Deborah, standing straight and with her head high, her thin body covered by a white robe which hung to her bare feet, and in her hands the six-pound candle which she held before her as her eyes swept the crowd.

Never have I seen such fearlessness in all my life, Stefan, though as I looked down from the window of the inn opposite, and my eyes met the eyes of Deborah, my own eyes were blurred by tears.

I cannot say for certain what then followed, except that at the very instant when heads might have turned to see this person at whom “the witch” stared so fixedly, Deborah did look away, and again her eyes took in the scene before her, lingering with equal care upon the stalls of the wine sellers and the peddlers, and the groups of random persons who backed away from her as she looked at them, and finally up at the viewing stand which loomed down upon her, and at the old Comtesse, who steeled herself to this silent accusation, and then to the Comtesse de Chamillart, who at once squirmed in her seat, her face reddening, as she looked in panic to the old Comtesse, who remained as unmoved as before.