Spirit of Lost Angels

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘Hmm, this variolation sounds suspicious,’ Monsieur Bruyère’s wife said, cradling another new baby.

  ‘Not at all suspicious,’ my mother said. ‘Why as far back as half a century ago, an English lady living in Constantinople said the smallpox there was harmless, with the use of ingrafting. It was an operation performed after the great summer heat abated,’ she explained. ‘An old woman came with a nutshell full of the matter of the best smallpox. She ripped open a few veins, injecting as much matter as could lie upon her needle head. The fever began and they took to their beds, but after eight days they were quite well again.’

  ‘So why was the King not variolated?’ the clog-maker’s wife asked.

  ‘Ah, the King wrongly thought he’d already had the smallpox, so was immune,’ the mountebank said, retrieving his story from my mother. ‘Besides, despite some advocating variolation, our country is much opposed. Our great thinker, Voltaire, had seen it practised while exiled in England and begged his fellow Frenchmen to variolate “for the sake of staying alive and keeping our women beautiful”.’

  ‘How did the King catch the smallpox?’ Léon said.

  ‘It is said he caught the speckled monster from a girl child delivered to Versailles for his pleasure,’ the man said.

  ‘Ha, serves him right,’ cried a quarry man. ‘Qu’il aille au diable!’

  ‘Why did we hate the old King, monsieur?’ Léon said as the people cheered the defunct king gone to Hell.

  ‘Because he was a bad king,’ the man said. ‘We peasants suffer the most taxes — roads, salt, cloth, bread, wine …’

  ‘Not to mention those lazy nobles who charge us banalités to use their flour mills, their granaries, their oil and wine presses, even the community ovens!’ a stone-mason shouted, his eyes blazing. He pulled a morsel of rough grain bread from his pocket. ‘The price of a loaf of this wretched stuff has risen to eleven sous — half the daily earnings of some. I heard it will be up to fourteen by next spring, but do our wages rise? No!’

  ‘I don’t know how we are to keep paying the lord’s rent, or buy candles and fat to cook with,’ the clog-maker’s wife said.

  Everybody nodded.

  ‘And what goes on at Versailles?’ the pedlar continued. ‘Court society passing its days devising intrigues to catch the King’s favour and feasting on banquets of meat, fish and candied fruit.’

  ‘Tell us about the old King’s death,’ the baker said.

  ‘Well,’ he began. ‘The King spent a pleasant evening dining with his mistress, Madame du Barry, at Trianon. The next day he woke with the fever.’ Nobody spoke as the man paused.

  ‘The King got worse so his six physicians, five surgeons and three apothecaries decided to bleed him, but that didn’t help. On the fourth day, the face rash broke out. He became delirious and received the last sacrament. The court assembled in the Œil de Bœuf antechamber and waited. His face became swollen, and the hue of copper. A single black scab covered the face of our once-handsome ruler, as if he’d been burned or severely scalded. They say the smell was foul.’

  We all wrinkled our noses.

  ‘One month ago, at three o’clock on the morning of 10 May, 1774, his candle was snuffed out. The old King was dead.’ He paused, running his tongue over his lips.

  ‘And since his death, people all over are welcoming the new rulers — the fair-haired, blue-eyed King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette,’ he said, ‘in streets decorated with flowers and triumphal arches.’

  ‘Long live the new king and queen!’ chimed several people.

  ‘But,’ the traveller said, holding up a hand. ‘Many say we must be wary of a young simpleton king who tinkers with locks, and a foreigner queen with expensive tastes.’

  ***

  The sun dropped westward, behind the Monts du Lyonnais, throwing its amber light across Lucie.

  As the sky turned a darker blue and the villagers gathered in the meadow, Père Joffroy held back his cassock with one hand and, with the other, touched his blazing torch to the stack of dried sticks and wood. The flames lapped at the kindling, quickly building to a noisy crackle that vied with our cheers.

  ‘Gather all, for this celebration of the solstice,’ the priest said, beckoning us closer. ‘Let us rejoice in our Midsummer bonfire we have built together, to protect us. For, as the sun turns southward yet again and the veil between this world and the next thins, evil spirits roam free.’

  Wearing the wreaths we had made from the yellow, star-shaped Saint John’s flowers that covered the meadows like thousands of tiny suns, everyone began to circle the fire, leading their animals in the sunwise direction.

  ‘On this Midsummer night — Holy day of Saint John the Baptist — we embrace fire and water, symbols of purification,’ Père Joffroy chanted as he blessed the horses, cows, sheep, goats and pigs, so they would bear more young and have longer lives.

  Grégoire and I each took one of our mother’s hands.

  ‘Come and dance,’ I said, trying to coax her to join in the celebrations. Even though she held our hands and feigned happiness, I sensed, as I often did since that day she’d claimed God no longer existed, Maman had stopped believing in everything — especially things that were meant to ward off evil and misfortune.

  Tragedy had visited us twice. Félicité and Félix, and our home, had been gone six years. My father had been dead for two, and even as Maman said we must not think of those things; we must get on with the living, it seemed she, herself, could not forget them. It was as if those cursed accidents had broken something inside her — a thing nobody could fix. She continued to teach me to read and write; to explain the birthing skills and instruct me what plants and flowers to use for the different sicknesses, but she seemed to trudge through each day, eternally sad.

  ‘I hope you’re dreaming of me?’

  Startled, I jumped. Léon adjusted my floral crown and took my hand. ‘Come and enjoy this night with me, Victoire, and forget our work, the hunger and sickness, for a moment.’

  I gripped Léon’s hand and together we circled the flames, watching them leap closer towards the darkened sky, which would not go entirely black on this longest day of the year — only deepen to the inkiest blue before paling again.

  ‘The firelight makes your eyes the same dark green as the Vionne,’ Léon said. ‘That’s what I’ll call you from now on — Mademoiselle aux yeux de la rivière, eh, Grégoire?’ He looked across at my brother. ‘Your sister’s new name, Miss River Eyes?’

  Grégoire, holding the hand of the clog-maker’s daughter, Françoise, threw Léon and me dark looks, but I couldn’t help feeling flattered. My cheeks burned and I was aware of the buds of my breasts tingling as they pressed against my chemise; of my hips brushing the coarse cloth of my skirt.

  When Léon paid me attention, I forgot my mother’s sadness, my brother’s jealousy. All I felt was the warmth that started in my ankles and crept up my legs, the heat peaking at the top of my thighs. It was that same strange but pleasurable sensation as when I removed my cap at night and brushed my hair out, or when I lifted my chemise and ran my hand across the patch of light brown fuzz below my belly.

  Firelight made macabre shapes of the wrinkled, toothless faces of the old people. The younger faces — scrubbed clean for the festival — glowed pink and smooth as ripe peaches. Flames threw shadows onto fat oak trunks, and I conjured up horned beasts with drooling jaws and ravens with hooked claws. I loved this time of year, when we all laughed, danced and made jokes together, giddy with the scent of flowers, the pulse of summer sweat and dirt.

  People leapt higher and higher, Léon the highest of all.

  Armand Bruyère beamed. ‘That is how high this year’s harvest will be then!’ he announced, and we all clapped and cheered.

  The flames began to lose their force, and the fragrance of grilled sausages, mushroom and cheese-filled crepes, pâté and sweetbreads filled the night air. Baskets brimming with fruit appeared. The dancing slowed and people began to drop
, exhausted, to the ground.

  We washed our feast down with blessed water from the Vionne and wine from Monsieur Bruyère’s grapes, and I beckoned to Maman, standing alone, to come and sit beside me to listen to the stories people had saved up for this special night.

  ‘What of this Bête de Gévaudan the journeymen speak of?’ Grégoire asked.

  ‘Ah, the Gévaudan beast was an unusually fierce and daring wolf-like creature that roamed for two years, killing twenty people!’ Monsieur Bruyère said.

  ‘Oh là là,’ several people cried.

  I felt something creeping up behind me. I shivered and spun around, staring into the woods, dark in the waning firelight. I imagined the Night Washerwoman hidden amongst the greatest oaks, washing the shrouds of all her children she’d killed; the woman you had to be careful not to come upon, or she’d ask for help and you too would be covered in the blood of her infants. The trees were still though, nothing moved.

  The stories were over, and I had eaten more than I normally would in a week. I patted my swollen stomach and, with the other villagers, Maman, Grégoire and I curled up beside the glowing embers and closed our eyes.

  I awoke some time later, rubbed my eyes and stood, tugging down my crumpled petticoat. Maman was gone, probably to the church room where she liked to sit, alone. Grégoire was gone too, back to his wood-working.

  ‘See, the sun also dances with joy,’ Léon said, as I bathed my bare feet in the sacred, early dew. I looked to where Léon pointed, beyond the village, at the stripes of pale sunlight throwing soft lavender shadows across the hillsides.

  ‘As if we have washed the world clean and it shines like our very own diamond,’ I said, as Père Joffroy sprinkled more holy water for the crops.

  We scattered the bonfire ashes across the fields and, blessed, I went home feeling safe and protected.

  At least until the next storm.

  6

  Dawn still darkened the countryside when I ducked outside to empty our chamber pots. Geese honked, a flock of doves scattered like ash and birds swooped and shrieked watery notes, as if announcing this summer day — the beginning of the harvest.

  I skipped up the steps of Saint Antoine’s. From the top step of the church, I looked out beyond the fields, and the vineyards boasting their new grapes, to the Monts du Lyonnais, westward boundary from where the clouds brought storms and rains — our allies and enemies. Grégoire had convinced me by then, angels and witches played no part in the coming of storms.

  Planted by the farmer in October and November, then nurtured like a baby for seven months, I knew a single rain or hailstorm could destroy the entire crop. I relaxed when I saw the early sky was cloudless — a distant pale blue where the sun was rising; not the slightest hint of a storm.

  We washed our bread down with water, Maman and I caught our hair under our caps and we set off with Grégoire up to Monsieur Bruyère’s farm.

  ‘I don’t care about the hard work, or if the day goes on for hours and hours,’ I said. ‘Harvest time is so much fun, I wish it would last all the year.’

  ‘That’s true, Victoire,’ Maman said, ‘but don’t forget we must still work hard if we are to rebuild our home.’

  I stared at her. ‘Rebuild the cottage? It has been six years, Maman — six winters in that damp church room. I don’t believe we will ever have our own home again.’

  My mother didn’t reply; I knew she had no answer. She merely put her head down and fell easily into the same circular movements as the other adults, all swinging their scythes in perfect rhythm.

  The fields hummed and ticked with insects, and as the morning wore on, the sky turned a sharp blue, the sun slanting in low slices along the dry grass, and forming haloes around the hedges.

  The other girls and I gathered handfuls of the cut wheat, breathing in its familiar summery smell, as we tied it into sheaves others would flail, to remove the grain.

  When sweat plastered our shirts and chemises to our backs, and our throats were parched, we sank down in the shade of the hedges and slaked our thirst with water and wine.

  Small boys chased about ferreting out hedgehogs, which they then burnt to stop them sucking out all the cows’ milk.

  ‘Surely they don’t truly suck the cows’ milk?’ I said to Léon, as he sat beside me, his smell of earth, hay and horse filling my nostrils.

  ‘Do you still believe in silly peasant legends?’ he said with a knowing grin.

  ‘Well those silly little boys will only grow into silly big men,’ I said, feeling a little pulse of something like fear or nervousness, but it was neither of those.

  ‘And how would you women fare without us silly big men?’ he said.

  ‘You really believe we need men, Léon Bruyère? Who, I ask you, are all those earth-coloured figures working in the fields for months on end like a herd of beasts, even when they are sick, or blind, or with child? Women plough, we sow, reap and thresh.’ I swiped the sweat from my brow. ‘We gather firewood, cook and feed families, clear snow, milk cows and fetch water. Who makes the cheese and bread, spins the cloth and washes the clothes?’ I spread my arms. ‘And you men come prancing along at harvest time, pretending to have done all the hard work.’

  Léon smiled. ‘Ah, a man can tell a girl is no longer a girl when she starts complaining about women’s chores.’

  I slapped his arm. ‘Get back to work, you.’

  When the hot sun reached its peak, work stopped again and everybody sat in the shade and munched on bread and saucisson, and raspberries and gooseberries from Monsieur Bruyère’s baskets.

  Afterwards, the young children frolicked about playing hide and seek. The men lay down, covered their faces with their hats and were soon snoring. The women whispered and giggled, apart from my mother, who sat, as always, on her own, her shoulders taut, her gaze rigid on the Monts du Lyonnais.

  ‘Do it to Léon,’ I said to the whispering women. ‘Please, choose him.’

  Several women rose and crept over to the dozing Léon. Three of them held him down while a fourth stuffed his pants with cow dung. Léon was soon wide awake and fighting them off, and we all squealed, tears of mirth streaking our sunburned cheeks.

  I laughed so much it pained my belly. Léon grinned, shook his head and went back to work.

  Grégoire strode towards me. ‘You only look like a fool,’ he hissed, ‘throwing yourself at Léon Bruyère. You know you’ll never have a decent enough dowry to marry him.’

  I smarted against the sting of my brother’s words. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do, Grégoire? You’re not my husband or my father.’

  ‘A brother takes care of his sister,’ Grégoire said.

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ I said. ‘Besides, Maman will help me get a dowry.’

  ‘Our mother isn’t much help to anyone these days,’ he said waving an arm towards the lone woman, on the edge of the group. ‘People are gossiping about her more and more, since she claimed there is no God, and stopped going to church. They say, with her potions, floral remedies and cataplasms, our mother is no more than a common witch.’

  ‘No, Grégoire, that can’t be!’ But I sensed my brother had not spoken in jest for once.

  ‘I heard some talking of magic spells she casts on swollen wombs,’ he went on, ‘the infant coming out hideously deformed, or dead.’

  ‘Poor Maman. How unjust they are.’

  ‘And remember what Papa told us?’ Grégoire went on. ‘Father Debaraz was the last person burnt for sorcery thirty years ago, but people are still persecuted for witchcraft, even for such a thing as blighting cattle with their evil eye.’

  ‘But Maman is a healer-woman, a midwife,’ I said. ‘She’s no witch … not at all!’

  ‘And didn’t Papa say the midwife and the healer-woman have always been associated with witchcraft?’

  A twinge of panic coiled inside me, waves of pain catching me low in my gut. Nothing could happen to my mother. With our father gone, we needed her more than ever.
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br />   A flush of heat swamped me and I needed to get away. I got up and wove a silent path away from them all, past the Bruyère farmhouse and down the grassy slope to the Vionne River. Sweat prickling my back and dampening my underarms, I threaded through the ribbon of willows lining the bank until I reached my special place.

  I braced my aching stomach and rested on a rounded stone. The sun shone through the transparent water, lighting up the rounded rocks on the riverbed, but where the bands of light cast shadows, the water was dark and furtive.

  A bird sang a deep and mournful, peow, peow, peow, as I knelt at the edge, cupped my hands and gulped down the cool, fresh water.

  I sat back on my heels and looked around. Save the birds, I was alone. I heaped my cap and apron, my petticoat, and my chemise on a rock and waded into the river, careful not to slip on the mossy stones. I drifted across to the deep pool until I was under the cascading water. I closed my eyes and threw my head back, letting the water seep into my skin until I felt refreshed from the inside out. The pain in my belly and lower back waned a little, and I shivered with the pleasure of my bare skin against silken water. As I lost myself in the birdsong, the rushing water like strong hands kneading my shoulders and back, I wondered however anyone could hate the water.

  I remembered I was supposed to be raking the cut wheat; they would surely miss me. I swam to the bank and as I stepped onto the dry grass, something prickled across the nape of my neck. I looked up into the grinning face of Léon Bruyère.

  Mortified, I bent over, trying to hide my nakedness. ‘What are you doing here, Léon?’

  ‘We always swim and fish together, Victoire. Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?’

  ‘Go away. Go! Stop staring at me.’

  ‘Besides, I hope you’ve not been fishing today?’ he said. ‘It is Sunday, remember? Your future babies could be born with the heads of fish.’

  ‘Give me my clothes. Please, Léon.’

  ‘That is, of course, if you believe all those silly peasant tales?’

  Then I felt it — a warm trickle. I glanced down at the dark pink liquid running across my thigh. Blood.