by K C Norrie
Riene was there when they pulled him out. His leg was bent at an odd angle, but he was conscious and alive. A small cheer erupted as they freed him from beneath the debris. By the time they placed him on a pallet and set his leg straight to carry him to the church, he had lost consciousness again from the pain.
****
It was night. Saint Ange was lit by lanterns. Nearly a hundred dead so far, and many were still missing. No one would sleep tonight. Riene served red tea and soup to the line of people at Saint Paul's. The soup was prepared in cauldrons lined up behind the church and boys kept the caldron fires burning.
The dead were laid out on blankets and covered with sheets in the big clearing in the center of town in front of the church.
"There are so many," thought Riene as she surveyed them from the soup line. Old people and babies as well as young men and women covered the ground as they lay side by side.
The injured had been distributed among churches, businesses, and even private residences. Everyone wanted to help. Gabel lay in Saint Paul's and both her and Silas checked on his well being throughout the evening. They told him together about Bereitha. Riene thought Gabel may have already known. He was like that. Gifted and cursed, she thought.
Gabel asked them to search the debris of the Red Canopy for bottles of Golden Glow.
"It will help those with injuries," he told them.
They found enough unbroken bottles to distribute doses to all the wounded.
A young girl came to give Riene a break. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had been that young, she thought as she handed a ladle to her.
She walked out to the clearing where the bodies lay. The remorseless sky glittered with stars. She looked out over the many bodies. Loved ones were seated here and there praying and crying over them.
Silas stood watch over Madame Bereitha. He'd said, Madame Bereitha had been the warmest of women to him; welcoming him into her home as family. Riene walked out to join him, bringing him some soup, when suddenly it looked as though Madame Bereitha sat up and knocked Silas over with her head. Silas did not get back up. The body of Bereitha stood and began to step as Riene watched from across the expanse. The soup dropped. She started to run to Silas, but someone grabbed her from behind. It was Sister Grace.
"The dead rise tonight. Don't let them touch you! We must get Father Pierre."
Riene became aware that other bodies had begun rising upright to a standing position. She watched them shuffle across the yard in the lantern light.
The villagers who'd watched over them began screaming. Riene began screaming.
Father Pierre came running out followed by other men. He stopped near Riene and surveyed the scene.
"Save the living!" He bellowed. "Hell has come to Saint Ange, and I'll be damned if I let it win! Arm yourselves men!"
They held shovels and knives, axes and cudgels. Some held swords.
Riene grabbed a long thick tree branch from the pile of wood beside the soup cauldrons and ran out to join them.
Unearthly scenes loomed out wherever she looked. Hell. Father Pierre was right. Hell had come to Saint Ange. Had it dropped from the tornado? A dead came toward her. It was a demon with white eyes and its mouth was open baring fangs! Its skin looked gray in the night and appeared roughened and shriveled. She didn't recognize the thing as anyone she knew. These dead had all been good people; what had happened? Was this evil fate destined for them all? The thing stepped closer reaching for her with gnarled hands. Riene had to be very careful. She reached out with her stick and gave the thing a heavy poke. It barely reacted and Riene jumped back from the claws that tried to grab her. She noted the curved fingers and long grotesque nails. But the abomination moved stiff and slow. Riene ran behind it, raised her stick high and came down on its head with all her might. The head broke sickeningly; the gore inside escaped, as the thing hit the ground.
Riene's stick was now broken and useless. She let it fall to the ground as she looked at the fighting around her. She saw Father Pierre clearly in his white robe wielding a heavy cross over the head of one dead and it went down like hers. Those in darker clothing were harder to see, but she saw them outlined in various stances of battle. Keeping her eyes on the demons, Riene headed toward where she had seen Silas go down.
She sobbed heartbroken when she found him. His throat had been torn out and he could not be fixed. He had come to be the best of himself these last years. She said a prayer over his body and covered him with Bereitha's sheet; but first she pulled the sword from his side. She checked all sides of her surroundings before joining back into the fight.
She was not the only fighting woman. She saw Sister Theresa, Sister Grace and even that young girl from the soup line, using whatever they could wield as weapons. Riene thrust Silas's sword in through the colorless eyes of another dead and watched it drop. She thrust repeatedly at every dead she met, angry at the needless losses of Silas and Madame Bereitha.
When there were no more dead to fight the night quieted. Tears and exhaustion threatened to take over as the adrenaline evaporated. But there was no time to rest.
Lanterns had started several fires as they were tipped and strewn during the fighting. Men were throwing the bodies of those things into the fires, burning them to ashes. The night lit up in flames exposing the carnage.
Now there were even more wounded and dead. The young girl from the soup line was dead. Riene gently closed her eyes and said a prayer for her. She knew where Bereitha lay as she had witnessed Sister Grace kill her for the second time with a clout to back of a head. She placed the young girl's body on a nearby blanket and dragged her near Bereitha. She did the same for Silas then sat down beside them laying her head against her knees.
As her head was bent, she heard a sound and looked up to see a dark form shuffling toward her. Ice pierced her heart. She watched it warily as she felt around on the dark ground for Silas's sword. She couldn't make out who it was, but she sighed in relief and quit feeling for the sword as she realized the form carried a lantern.
"Riene?"
She recognized the voice. Gabel! She got up and ran to him sobbing.
"Silas is dead! And so many others! Gabel! What has happened? Were you able to foresee any of this?" She didn't let him answer. She explained about the dead rising into monsters with long fangs and how they had to kill them one by one. A battleground. "But your leg was broken! How did you come here?"
"Riene! You must listen. These dead will rise again. Father Pierre agrees. We need to help dig a trench around the bodies and burn them to ashes. If we fail, more will die."
Riene stared blankly at Gabel. She wanted to tell him about Bereitha. How could Bereitha kill Silas? But the thing on the ground wasn't Bereitha anymore.
"Do you understand Riene? Let's get the injured to shelter and the dead to the center of the square."
Riene nodded. They would work together.
They dragged Silas, Bereitha and the young girl to the center among the other casualties. Father Pierre was there to pray for their souls. Riene said one more goodbye to Silas and Bereitha and moved on to help drag others. There were so many.
By the time the pyre was ready, it was daylight. Father Pierre and Father David took turns leading the survivors in prayer as fire-tipped arrows waited for the signal. Prayers droned on and still no signal was given.
"What are they waiting for?" murmured Gabel to Riene. "Do they wait for proof?"
As in answer to his question a dead rose to its feet; then another. A command was shouted, and the arrows of fire were shot into the midst of bodies. They erupted in flames, as the crowd erupted in screams. But it was finally over.
Chapter 22
Derocque & Perret
Avocats a la Cour
Madame and Monsieur Montrell,
It is of my deepest sorrow to inform you of the untimely death of your son, Silas Joseph Montrell. The Chateau la Montagne requires your presence in a number of matters. My deepest sympathy as we await your
return.
Respectfully,
Jeremie Perret LLP
****
The letter dropped from Damas's hand. Feelings that had slept undisturbed in the background of his life awakened with such force, that he could barely catch his breath.
Silas dead? Could it be a mistake? His son was a man now, a father himself, and all Damas could think of was the night he was born and the warm squalling bundle he had taken from the nurse, a bundle of future.
What had happened?
I must let Cari know, he thought bending down to pick up the letter. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
****
Life had shattered.
Cari sat beside her husband's bed watching him breathe.
"No excitement. Complete bed rest. No, he cannot journey to Saint Ange at this time, his heart is not strong enough," ordered Dr. Guerin.
Cari sat. She tried not to think. All the thoughts hurt. She watched Damas's chest rise and fall, wondering how her own heart continued on, existing unfazed in a separate life. Cari pulled the heavy drapes across the window, removing that flawless blue sky from the room. She wanted to scream at the birds to stop singing.
It was like Darlena all over again. She'd let Darlena take her heart and soul with her when she died. Cari thought she had managed to live without them all these years only to find, too late, that they'd grown back without her noticing.
Silas dead. It couldn't be. Cari was not finished with him. There were things to say. Advice to give. He didn't even know she loved him. She'd forgotten to tell him.
She wanted to rush to Saint Ange, but what for? Silas would not be there. Max. She needed her grandson. Would he need her? Probably not. His memories of her must be stained with bitterness and criticism.
Two letters arrived this morning from the Chateau La Montagne. She read only one; the one from Madame Edith, in charge of running the Chateau staff. It was sent to inform her of Silas's untimely death, arriving the day after the one from Jeremie. Always level-headed and stoic, Cari wondered if Edith's mind had slipped, somehow escaping her notice. Her account of Silas's death was fantastical and alarming. The other letter was from Riene. Unopened and unread.
She supposed Riene's letter would inform her of the same thing. Perhaps they would receive a similar letter from everyone they knew telling them that Silas was dead. The thought was unbearable. All thoughts were unbearable. Food was unbearable. Sleep unattainable, though Dr. Guerin left something for her to take.
Arlene, her elderly personal maid since her marriage to Damas, sent a message to the Chateau informing them of Damas's condition and that their arrival would be delayed until his health improved. Arlene's eyes were swollen from crying, Cari could not stand to look at her.
"With deepest sorrow, Monsieur and Madame Montrell regret that they are unable to travel at this time due to the poor health of Monsieur Montrell. We ask for your prayers for a quick recovery that Monsieur and Madame may travel soon, to pay respects to their son."
Cari approved, and the letter was sealed and sent by personal messenger. A cold efficient message. It was not what she wanted to say. But everything she wanted to say, hurt too much. For now, it was enough to watch her husband breathe and let the thoughts float on by.
****
Dear Madame Cari,
Chateau la Montagne is once again in deep mourning. It breaks my heart to tell you that our Silas is dead. First there was a storm, and then a tornado landed right in the middle of Saint Ange. We all watched the destruction from the Chateau windows fearing for our lives. Madame Riene commissioned us all to help. She said there would be injured and lost that needed us. Silas agreed. I helped gather items, food and bandages and such. Monsieur Silas and the men carried everything to the cart, and he led the horse as we walked alongside. Only little Max stayed behind with the young Kathryn to watch over him.
It was a fearful walk. We didn't know what to expect. Most of us have family in the village and worried for their safety. Oh, you've never seen such destruction. Silas went right to work pulling people out from beneath the rubble of collapsed buildings. I got separated then. I went to check on my sister Evelyn and her family. When I got back to the church much later, it was Father Pierre who told me Silas was dead, died fighting the demons the storm brought in. Demons! They are calling it the Night of the Dead, because there are so many dead. Some from the storm and some from the fighting.
The dead rose to life.
That's what Madame Jeanette told me. She said she killed one herself with a big rock to the head and though I gave her a look filled with disbelief, she didn't back down. Too many others told me the same thing for me not to believe. I loved Silas as my own. They say he died a hero. Little Max's heart is broke. He adored his father.
Madame Riene says we will hold a ceremony, that the entire village will attend, to say goodbye to those we lost. She is going to erect a statue in honor of those who died. Right now, we are busy, cleaning, repairing, and putting things to right. I will watch for your return. My sympathies for you and Monsieur Montrell.
With deepest sorrow,
Edith.
****
No one would tell him how his father died, just that he died a hero or in a fire. He heard there had been fighting. He wondered how his father had lost his sword. His mother brought it back and made Andre, father's servant, hang it up on the wall of father's room.
If he was quiet enough, grown-ups talked and forgot he was there, though their talk was hard to understand. When he asked questions, no one answered. Or he could see them thinking up answers. Some things he heard he didn't want to think about. He imagined his handsome father fighting with his sword drawn. They talked of demons. Did his father fight demons? Max didn't care. He just wanted him back. He day-dreamed a story about how his father hid somewhere until the fighting was over, not because he was afraid.
"I must stay alive for my son Max!" his father would say in the dream. And then he would come home to Max, not a hero. Max imagined the door opening and his father walking in.
"They thought I died Max. But I was hiding until it was safe to come out. Here I am."
Max would run to his father and be caught in a great hug.
He couldn't sleep at night. He would get up and climb into his father's bed and fall asleep in the comfort of familiar smells. His mother asked him if he'd like this for his own room now.
"But I want don't want my things. I only want fathers' things."
"Of course. We'll leave your things in the other room."
During the day he always cried. His mother held him, and they cried together.
But his mother made him go with her every day to the village.
"We are planning a big funeral for all those who died. And we are erecting a statue to honor them."
He hated passing the corner where the building with the red canopy used to stand. It was gone now. It collapsed on top of his Grand-mere Bereitha, killing her too. She was not a hero, but Max missed her anyway.
"That is not your real grand-mere," his other grand-mere used to tell him. Grand-mere Bereitha was Uncle Gabel's mother, and he was sad too. They visited him at the church where he lived now. He didn't tell fortunes or sell tea anymore. He couldn't look at the sky anymore. Each day since the storm, Gabel would work on cleaning the rubble of his building.
"I am looking for things that survived the storm," he told Max.
Max knew what survived meant. Uncle Gabel had explained it clearly. It meant to exist after an event or a death. Uncle Gabel survived both an event and a death. So did Max's mother. She survived an event and two deaths. The things Uncle Gabel would be searching for, would be things that the building collapsed upon, that didn't break. They weren't living things, but things that weren't broken.
Today, when he saw his Uncle Gabel, he gave him a huge hug.
His mother Riene left them alone while she went to see the artist who would sculpt the statue.
"I found some thi
ngs I want to give to you. Follow me."
Max followed him to a tiny room in the back of the church Father Pierre had given Uncle Gabel to sleep in. Max sat on the edge of the small bed while Gabel reached a box on the shelf.
He handed three things to Max. A photograph of Grand'Mere Bereitha. A tin box she always kept sweets in to hand out to Max and a china teacup hand-painted with a rose, from which she always drank her tea. He could see her drinking it now, as he held her cup. He looked up to thank his Uncle Gabel and instead broke out in huge sobs of sorrow.
The cup survived the collapse, but Grand-mere Bereitha did not. The cup was not a living thing, but it survived unbroken, buried beneath all the debris of the building.
Max was a living thing, and while he survived what felt like a building of sadness on top of him, he wasn't entirely sure that he had survived unbroken.
****
Riene met with the sculptor who arrived from Paris. She showed him the square where the statue was to be erected. It was the square where they had burned the bodies. She told the sculptor only that there had been a fire. The sound of rebuilding could be heard throughout the village. The damage from the tornado was evident in every direction.
She met with the engraver, handing him a handwritten list of all the names to be inscribed on the plaque along with a poem she had chosen from a book in the Chateau library by a poet named Stavvick.
Gabel wanted to landscape the square, and she left him to it. It would help him heal.
She met with the churches and parishioners asking that the ceremony be performed on the front lawn of the Chateau la Montagne. Not just for Silas and Bereitha, but for the entire village of Saint Ange—for the families of every victim who died on the Night of the Dead.
She sat in on all the village meetings as they planned the reconstruction and repair of Saint Ange. The plans were anchors that kept her in place. They kept her from being swept away in a sea of nothingness, from drowning in sadness, from the feelings of being lostness in the nightness.
