Next, After Lucifer

by Daniel Rhodes

  He squinted up into the merciless sun. He had left the villa only a quarter of an hour before, but his shirt was already plastered to his back. Linden had remained, declaring that she had seen enough churches in the past six weeks to last her a lifetime. He was secretly, if a little guiltily, pleased.

  It had occurred to him that the girl of his vision the previous afternoon might be a known phenomenon—an apparition that haunted that particular place and appeared under certain conditions. McTell had never had any sort of psychic experience, and was inclined to skepticism; probably she had only been an image of his fatigued mind. But there was no denying he had seen something, and there was a possibility, however faint, that a few discreet questions might shed some light. He started for the entrance, hoping he might encounter a talkative priest or caretaker.

  Inside, the coolness was refreshing. McTell walked through the nave, conscious of his echoing footfalls in the deserted building. Apparently the village was far enough off the beaten track so the cure feared neither theft nor vandalism, at least in daytime. The ceiling was high and groined, supported by fluted stone pillars; the aisles narrow, the altar simple, the walls hung with the Stations of the Cross. Not until he reached the farthest corner of the south transept did he come upon anything of real interest.

  At first glance, there was only a dusty triptych screen presenting some sort of pageantry. He quickly dismissed it, like the windows, as an imitation from a later century. But perhaps because it seemed so oddly out of place, he was impelled to peer behind it. Hardly visible in the darkness of the comer, about waist-high, was some sort of carving on the stone wall. He glanced around; the church was still empty. He edged behind the screen.

  Immediately his excitement jumped—instinct and judgment both assured him that the work was early and genuine—and rose again when he bent to examine it. The carving was small and crude—done hurriedly, he had the sense, on a single block of stone—and time had taken its toll. But the scene had been rendered with obvious ability and care.

  He was able to make out two figures for certain, and what might have been a third. The first, at the far right, was clearly of a man fleeing, with arms outstretched and mouth open wide in exaggerated horror. The second was of his pursuer, and this portrayal caused McTell to study the block intently for some time. The figure was very short and squat, muffled entirely in a hooded garment. A single limb was extended in pursuit; McTell would not have called it an arm because he was not at all sure the creature was intended to be human.

  The third figure was only a vague outline in the background. It might have been that of a tall man, standing on a hillock, watching. Behind him rose a mountain with a building on it. Beneath the scene were letters that McTell had to squint at to make out:

  S. BERTRANDE

  QUI DEMONIA EFFUGAS

  ORA PRO NOBIS

  In smaller letters still was added the legend:

  ann. Incarnationis veri Dom. mcccvii

  D. f. descrip sit

  “Saint Bertrand, who makest demons to flee, pray for us,” McTell said quietly. “Incarnation of the true Lord, 1307. D. f. hath drawn this.”

  He straightened up and looked around. The church was very still. Though illustrations portraying the miracles of a saint were not unusual, he had never seen anything like this. Then he noticed that the small window in front of him had side panes of clear glass. Although the glass had become viscous over the years, his recognition of the scene outside was instantaneous. He was facing south, as had the sculptor, who had etched the landscape into the stone precisely as he saw it. The mountain in the background was Montsevrain, visible in the distance; the building atop it, the fortress as it must have appeared seven centuries ago, before decay had set in.

  That much of the scene, then, was from life. And the figures?

  The pursuit was probably allegorical, he decided—the common-enough theme of Death hunting down the human soul, here in a somewhat offbeat representation. In any case, it was certainly worth a photograph. He took several with varying exposures, and was putting the Nikon away when he heard the echo of footsteps. Feeling like an intruder, he stepped quickly from behind the screen and walked to the nave to advertise his presence. The newcomer was a tiny wizened man in a beret and blue workman’s smock. He gave McTell only a glance and a “Bonjour, monsieur,” as he hurried back to the apse. A minute later he reappeared, carrying a pile of vestments.

  “Excuse me,” McTell said in French. “Are you by chance the sacristan?”

  It had been McTell’s experience that while the French would condescend almost graciously to stragglers with their tongue, they tended to be outraged at foreigners who dared to speak it well. Or perhaps it was a thyroid condition that made the little man’s eyes bulge.

  “Yes, monsieur,” he said. “I have kept this church these twenty-three years, and my father before me.”

  “Can you tell me anything about that carving?”

  The old man’s gaze followed McTell’s pointing finger, then returned to his face, this time seeming reproachful, as if McTell had betrayed a trust. “Carving, monsieur?”

  “The one behind the screen.”

  “Ah,” the sacristan murmured. “Monsieur has examined our church closely. I fear I know little about such things.”

  Amused and irritated, McTell said, “Surely there must be a story to it.”

  The little man glanced at the screen, then shrugged. “Long ago there was a bad business with some wicked knights.”

  “The Templars of Montsevrain?” McTell said sharply.

  “I know very little,” the sacristan repeated. His eyes seemed in danger of popping from his head. “Now, if Monsieur will excuse me—” He held up the pile of clothes and edged toward the door.

  McTell’s hand had already gone to his pocket. “For your trouble.”

  The sacristan stared at the fifty-franc note, glanced quickly around the church, and set the vestments down on a pew. The bill vanished into his smock.

  “It was their leader, the giant—” McTell did not quite catch the name; it sounded something like “Suloy.” The little man had stepped close and was speaking in a low voice, looking furtively around. A bit melodramatic, McTell thought; amusement was gaining.

  “He was the most evil man who ever lived, monsieur. Even now it is not good to speak his name. It is said that he made a bargain with the devil himself, that the devil granted him the power to command spirits. There was celui”—the word meant simply “the one,” but the sacristan gestured nervously at the carving—“always with him. He had a magic book bound in human skin, and he killed people and drank their blood to appease the devil.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It is said that he could raise the dead.”

  McTell looked into the old man’s eyes, and realized suddenly that he was genuinely frightened—that this was not a show for a tourist. The church was very quiet. Gently, he said, “And what happened to this gentleman?”

  “Burned, monsieur, by the Inquisition,” the sacristan declared. “But even death could not stop him. A group of priests had to”—here came a phrase McTell understood as bury the restless ghost—“and the doors of the cathedral were closed because evil had penetrated them.”

  Questions flared in his mind. What did it mean, “Even death could not stop him”? How could you bury a ghost? Who or what was this celui? And what was the origin of the carving?

  But the old man had evidently decided he had given his fifty francs’ worth of information. “Many thanks, monsieur,” he said, backing away and picking up the vestments. His look of reproach was back, as if McTell’s money had induced him to tell something he should not have.

  “But I’m very curious,” McTell said, reaching for his wallet.

  “Many thanks,” the old man repeated, this time shaking his head firmly. Then he paused, and finally said, “But if Monsieur would care to meet the cure, perhaps he can satisfy you. Monsieur Boudrie knows a great deal more about such things than I.”

>   McTell had considered calling on the priest anyway, tom between the hope of learning some interesting history of the region and the fear that he would be bored by a thickheaded provincial mired in dogma and peasant life. If the second proved to be the case, at least the encounter would be brief. “S’il vous plait,” he said.

  “Then if Monsieur will come with me.”

  The sunlight was blinding, the heat like a blow, but both were welcome after the almost sinister darkness of the church. He followed the hurrying sacristan around the apse, skirting the ancient graveyard, to the rectory next door.

  “Monsieur Boudrie, a visitor, a foreign gentleman,” the little man called crisply as they rounded the corner.

  McTell found himself looking at a man bent over a car’s open hood, feet braced wide apart, head far into the interior. He was wearing overalls and heavy black brogans, and as he backed out from under the hood, McTell saw that he was broad as an ox. His worst fears surged.

  But only for an instant. The cure's face was heavy and purpled with the broken veins of a drinker, and his graying hair flowed almost madly back from his forehead; but there was quiet determination in the set of his jaw and a deep, watchful intelligence far back in his eyes. For a moment neither spoke, and McTell had the sense that his entire being was measured by those eyes and filed away irrevocably in that massive head.

  Then the priest held out his right hand as if it were something he had recently found on the end of his arm and did not quite know what to do with. It was enormous, with cordlike veins crawling under the skin, and short stubby fingers black with grease around the nails. A stream of bright sticky blood was drying across the badly skinned knuckles.

  “It would be my pleasure to shake your hand, monsieur,” Boudrie said, “but as you see . . .”

  McTell smiled and held out his own hand. The priest wiped his palm on his overalls, then seemed to realize the gesture’s futility. As they touched, McTell was conscious of his own slender white fingers.

  “If you will excuse me, messieurs,” the sacristan said, bowing and retreating.

  They watched him go. “Little Rene, always in a hurry for dinner, or lunch, or an aperitif,” Boudrie said. “One would think he would be as fat as me.”

  “Perhaps he worries his weight off.”

  Boudrie turned to him with interest. In English, he said, “You are American, monsieur—?”

  “McTell. I didn’t realize my accent gave me away so quickly.”

  “On the contrary. It is only that I knew several Americans well”—Boudrie paused, then finished vaguely—“long ago. But I fear that my English is—how do you say?—rustee.” He waved deprecatingly at McTell's protest, and continued, “You are passing through?”

  “Actually, my wife and I are renting a house here, the de Renusson villa.”

  “Ah yes, I know that house. It once belonged to a family of that name, de Renusson. But it was sold, and now it is only used for vacations. There has been some trouble renting it, this summer has been so dry.” The priest’s pause was almost imperceptible, just long enough to make McTell wonder if Boudrie had heard about the use of precious water for something as frivolous as a swimming pool. “The farmers are throwing up their hands—and not forgetting a convenient excuse to drink away their afternoons.”

  “A pity,” McTell murmured uncomfortably.

  Boudrie shrugged. “This year drought, next year it will rain too much. Mysteriously, though, it all continues. Like this—this beast.” He swept his hand at the car. It was a tiny two-seat 2CV with a gearshift protruding from the dash; almost comically old and battered, rusted, upholstery in tatters. McTell found it difficult to imagine how the priest wedged his big body behind the wheel. Then he noticed that one of the hood hinges was torn loose, leaving fresh sheared edges of metal.

  “Odd,” he said, pointing. The car did not appear to have hit anything. “How did that happen?”

  Boudrie’s face clouded. “It is old like me, Monsieur McTell,” he rumbled, the hard syllables of the name almost cracking from his lips, “and brittle. Things give way unexpectedly.” He clasped his hands behind his back; his gaze turned inquiring.

  Here was a man with things to do, McTell thought, glancing with wry sympathy at the preposterous little car. Sparring was over. He chose his words carefully. “I’ve heard several bits of information about a rather lurid history of the fortress up there. I’m a historian myself, and I confess I’m intrigued.”

  The priest looked sternly in the direction of the sacristy. “I trust this information did not cost you too much?” McTell grinned. “Not too much.”

  “My good little Rene, filling people’s ears with fancy. Worse even than his father.”

  “In all fairness, I should tell you that I pressed him. I noticed that strange carving on the transept wall.”

  “Ah,” Boudrie murmured. He turned to gaze at the ruin of Montsevrain, looking, McTell thought, a little weary, like a man regarding the stronghold of an ancient and unroutable enemy.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been prying.”

  A moment passed before Boudrie turned back. “History refuses to stay buried, Monsieur McTell, as you surely know. But sometimes it emerges in a distorted form, and perhaps this particular distortion is not one for either this region or the Church of Rome to be overly fond of. You translated the inscription?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eh bien,” Boudrie said. “About that carving, I can tell you who did it, and when, and something of why. Saint Bertrand du Cians, a famous exorcist of demons, and during credulous times such things were always on people’s minds. I know a little, too, about Montsevrain and its occupants. You are correct, there is some quite unpleasant history connected with that place. But as you see, I am not exactly in a position to chat. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow and join me for coffee.”

  McTell pictured himself stiffly sipping coffee in a room lined with sanctimonious books and pictures of dewy-eyed Christs exposing their hearts—hardly the ideal setting to get the priest talking. He decided that the sensible thing would be to describe his vision to Boudrie right then and there, to find out if anything like it had been known to happen before. But again, that strange reluctance to share it overcame him; and a better idea came instead. Unless he was very much mistaken, the priest was fond of drink. A good meal with plenty of it would surely loosen his tongue.

  “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” McTell said.

  Boudrie looked uncertain.

  “I have to warn you we’re heretics,” McTell continued quickly. “Perhaps it isn’t proper for priests to break bread . . .”

  “These days, monsieur,” Boudrie said gravely, “what is proper is of no account—only what is convenient. The honor would be mine. It is only that I am reluctant to impose.”

  “Not at all. We’ve hired a cook from town, so it’s no trouble. And you won’t have to suffer American cuisine.”

  Boudrie smiled. “Anyone’s cooking is preferable to one’s own, non?”

  For the first time, it occurred to McTell that the priest was a bachelor—and if poor enough to fix his own car, then probably poor enough to keep his own house as well. “Tomorrow night?” he said.

  “Surprisingly, my calendar happens to be free.”

  “About six, for an aperitif.”

  Boudrie bowed and again offered his hand. Their eyes met briefly, and McTell realized that the subtle game of wits already developing promised to be as entertaining as the story the priest had to tell. This much was sure: Inside that clumsy body hid a man to be reckoned with. Above all, there was that watchfulness, that measuring, far back in his eyes.

  The heat continued, relentless; McTell had been thirsty for some time. He pulled away from the curb, heading for the red and white awning of a bistro on the village’s main street.

  ** ** **

  Etien Boudrie wiped his sleeve across his forehead and watched the American’s car pull away. A BMW sedan, new, expensive; clearly, the rumors
of money were true. A pleasant man, too—intelligent, decent, possessing the sort of quiet confidence that suggested he was used to getting his way without having to fight for it.

  Only—there was something. An unhappiness that had come once or twice into his eyes, that suggested a disappointment, an unsatisfied longing. Boudrie had been a priest too many years not to recognize it. There was no one who did not long for something he could not have. Though Boudrie was known as something of an expert in the history of the area, the truth was that he knew a great deal more about the mean and petty vices of its inhabitants. He had long ago given up the fiction of the confessional’s anonymity. It was impossible not to identify the voices coming through the screen, and all too often, he understood what was on a sinner’s conscience before the stammering words began.

  He had of course known McTell’s name, that he and his wife had rented the villa, and that old Amalie Perrin had been hired to cook for them—the last probably before they themselves did. These were among the dozens of bits of gossip reaching his ears every day, in a place so dull that the tiniest event was seized upon, examined, embellished, with connotations attached and stances taken until the utmost drama had been wrung from it.