City of Crows

by Chris Womersley

  ‘The ashes of arrows are the only cure for an arrow wound,’ said the old woman, proud of her handiwork.

  ‘I am amazed to be alive, so near to my heart went the arrow. I remember collapsing onto the earth. Voices. An enormous underground palace in which I walked for what seemed like days. A dream.’

  ‘Ah. What else do you remember of that place?’

  Charlotte tried to recall. The details were indistinct, as if glimpsed through water or fog. Flickering torchlight, faces, mouths. She covered the vile wound with her bloodstained clothes and marshalled her strength from the distant outposts of her body.

  ‘I remember bones, instruments, machinery. Odd things. I called out. People on high gantries. People weeping. I remember men crying out and laughing as if they were drunk on wine. Hellequin.’ She turned to the woman. ‘And I remember you, madame. You were there, I think.’

  ‘I have been waiting a long time for someone like you.’

  ‘Was I dead, madame?’

  ‘No. But very close.’

  ‘But I saw Michel, my husband who is dead. And the boy the pilgrims were taking to the shrine.’

  The woman appeared frustrated. ‘Yes, yes. You were well on your way.’

  ‘But you saved me? You went . . . down there?’

  ‘One might sometimes strike a bargain with Hellequin.’

  ‘What sort of bargain, madame?’

  ‘I know how to do many things. Alone, here, one learns to do a lot. You do not believe me?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to believe, madame.’

  ‘That’s as well. Certainty is an ignorance of sorts.’ She shuffled away and clattered about nearby before returning with a bowl brimming with a sweet-smelling broth in which leaves and twigs bobbed. ‘Here. Drink this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  The woman shook her head in annoyance. ‘It’s not poison, madame, don’t worry. Some herbs, leaves. All good things. Drink it. It will help you heal.’

  Charlotte was afraid, but sipped at the broth. Its flavour was raw and woody, but not unpleasant. The effort exhausted her.

  Madame Rolland observed her keenly. ‘But tell me, Madame Picot,’ she said, ‘to what lengths would you go to find your son?’

  ‘I would do anything. He is my last living child. I would walk through fire.’

  The old woman’s face contorted strangely with what might have been pleasure. ‘And you might get a chance to do that.’

  Charlotte handed back the bowl and soon fell into a dark and irresistible slumber.

  Charlotte drifted in and out of wakefulness and it seemed, on occasion, that she was journeying again down into the network of underground caverns and halls from which Madame Rolland had escorted her. Her body was leaden and in her nostrils were smells of damp walls, old fires, rust. She was afraid, consoled, weary. Her shoulder ached. When she woke, she saw Madame Rolland muttering to the fire and her pan of broth, conducting idle conversations with herself as she swept the floor or wrenched the skin from a hare.

  It was on one of these occasions that Madame Rolland lurched over, grasped Charlotte’s forearm and shook her as if she were a mischievous child. ‘So. What do you think will become of you now, Madame Picot?’

  Charlotte shrank back, then looked away, ashamed. It was not a matter she wished to consider. ‘Please. I must find Nicolas . . .’

  ‘You could go back to your village, I suppose. But who knows how they would receive you? Your husband dead, no man to look after you. You could move to a larger town, become a seamstress or maid. A washerwoman, perhaps? A nun? Be married again – if they allow you. A pretty woman like you would have no trouble finding a new husband, whether you want him or not. He might be a scoundrel. Some fellow who treats you worse than he treats his donkey. Or maybe a good man, who knows? I’ve heard there are some. You can work in the fields all day long, fetch water, then cook your family’s dinner. Have more babies, suckle them. Maybe one or two will even survive. No. But suppose you had someone to help you find your son?’

  The conversation was making Charlotte most uneasy. She wiped away her tears. ‘I cannot pay a mercenary or soldier. I have no family left. I don’t know where my brother is. I heard he was in Italy or Spain. Perhaps I should tell the magistrate?’

  The old woman scoffed and gripped her arm tighter. ‘No, no, no. Nobody like that. Official men are no good to you. The magistrate cannot be trusted. You are on your own now, madame. No. I meant another sort of person entirely.’

  ‘But what sort of person? You said it yourself – I have no army, no one to help me. I don’t even know exactly where they might have taken him. Is it you, madame? Would you help me?’

  Madame Rolland released her arm and laughed, revealing the few teeth like blackened tree stumps in her old, wet mouth. ‘No. I am only an old woman. Worse, even, than a young woman. I mean someone else. I know of a particular sort of man who will come if we ask correctly.’

  Madame Rolland attended to her bonnet, which had become loose on her head. Her hair, now uncovered, was grey and stringy, but something else caught Charlotte’s attention: on the left side of the old woman’s head, where an ear should be, there was instead merely a fleshy lump around the earhole.

  ‘What happened to your ear, madame?’ Charlotte asked.

  Madame Rolland paused to fondle the gristly protuberance between her thumb and forefinger. She considered Charlotte closely for a long time.

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s an old story, but it’s almost always the same one. I was born on an island a long way from here. When I was a girl they hanged my mother for being a witch and then they burned her body on a pyre. The curé there said she had conspired with the Devil to curdle the milk in a neighbour’s house, but she didn’t do any such thing. I watched it all. The whole island watched her hang. At least she was dead when they burned her. That was some fortune. Others were not so lucky. The screams of burning women are truly terrible to hear. I was accused of nothing, but the executioner sawed off my ear with his knife and threw it to the dogs. Then they banished me forever from the island – as if I would wish to return after what they had done to my family.

  ‘They bound my hands tightly, put me in a boat, and a fisherman called Dugret and three other men sailed me to the shores of Brittany. My father didn’t even see me off, he was so afraid. It was summer, but very cold on the water. I shivered and cried all through the crossing. My head was bleeding. I had dried blood crackling all over my cheeks, on my neck. Blood as thick as honey in my hair. The gulls circled. The men laughed and said they’d throw me into the water for their entertainment if I didn’t shut my weeping. On the shore they took all my money for their trouble, then they bent me to their will, all of them, and sailed away laughing. They threw my bonnet into the water when they were done. I had some bread and sausage in a basket, but that was all. My cloak was rags, everything was torn.’

  ‘You’re fortunate they didn’t murder you.’

  The old woman smiled. ‘I am not so easily murdered. I started walking east when I was able to, following the sun where it rose and then the stars at night. The moon was kindly. I stole food along the way, begged for money. And I did other things, of course. I slept in haylofts and fields. Some people were helpful, others not so welcoming. It was summer. Highwaymen roamed the forests and robbed people. Mercenaries were leaving the wars in the north. I came across bizarre tribes – people who bleed from their navels once each year. They were the Saracens; I don’t know if you have heard of such a people. I stayed with a family of Cagots who had webbed feet. In one forest I saw a naked man who could leap as high as a deer, and I also travelled for a time with an army of boys walking to work in the fields. The winter swallows. There are many incredible things in the world. More things than you could ever truly know.

  ‘I kept walking and, in time, I entered this forest. Here I
met a woman whose name was Vivianne. She took me in and gave me shelter. I told her what had happened to me – how some men had killed my mother for being a witch, even though she was no such thing. How they had sliced off my ear, the blood, what those sailors had done to me. She lived right here in this cave.’

  Here Madame Rolland paused, nodding to herself at the memory, chewing on a seed, the husk of which she soon spat out. She sighed, rearranged her grey cloak about her shoulders and prodded the fire.

  ‘Vivianne was very old. She was tiny, almost like a child, and was unable to walk without the aid of a stick she carried at all times. She had seen many, many things: hundreds of soldiers, all sorts of wars, truly unspeakable things. And she was tired. She asked me what I would wish to do to the men who had hanged my mother and cut off my ear, and I told her I wanted to kill them. When I said this she laughed so loudly and said: I’ve been waiting for you. She said she could arrange for some help to do what I wanted. She said she had something especially for me.’

  ‘She had a gift?’

  ‘Oh, much better than any gift.’ Madame Rolland paused again. ‘And worse, too. But it is true. I wanted very much to kill the men who hanged my mother, but I was only a young woman. What could I do? I didn’t have the courage. I had no means to do such a thing. Like you, I had no army of my own. No family to speak of. Vivianne said she might be able to find a certain type of man to assist me. She made me a curious offer, but it was on the condition that, if I accepted it, then I must, in turn, make the same offer to another young woman.’ She paused. ‘To a woman, perhaps, like you.’

  Charlotte rubbed her forearm where Madame Rolland had gripped her, and which still bore the dark, ghostly imprint of the old woman’s fingers. ‘You are the witch, aren’t you? The Forest Queen.’

  ‘I was not a witch, but they made me one.’

  ‘Is it true what they say about you?’

  ‘Which things exactly? That I have kissed the Devil’s arse? I have touched his cold, leathery skin? Felt him deep inside me? Yes. I have supped with him on many occasions. I have slaughtered children, too, and drained their blood to make a paste. I have met with hundreds of witches in the forest and we have lit fires and danced naked in the light of the flames. We have sung terrible songs and told terrible tales, and we have smeared ourselves with grease and risen into the air as if we were made of feathers.’

  Charlotte shrank back.

  Madame Rolland shook her head and laughed with grim satisfaction. ‘Ha. No, Madame Picot. They are stories only. My tricks are not quite so varied or exotic. It’s only simple magic. Old knowledge. I have never myself spied the Devil, although I have certainly spoken with some of his nasty servants. It’s only charms and baubles. Some healing, a few prayers. That’s all. You should be thankful for my skills – if anyone else had found you, you would be dead by now, that is for certain. Mostly it is harmless things. Recipes, love charms, spells for protection from bullets and fire, remedies for barrenness and ague. There is some darker magic too, of course – for there is never one without the other – but one need not seek out those particular spells. What foolish people call magic is nothing more than a way of seeing the world; of being alive to its design, understanding it for what it really is. There is some power in that. Probably the only power a woman like you or I will ever possess. They do not want a woman to take her fate into her own hands.’

  ‘No, madame.’

  ‘I have watched you longer than you know, Madame Picot, and you are strong enough. You are the same Charlotte Picot who was bitten by a wild dog and returned home to sear the wound with a poker turned orange in the fire. You are the Charlotte Picot who fought off that merchant who tried to force you to his will when your husband was away – even with the children in the house. You are the Charlotte Picot who buried her mother and father, who has tended crops and birthed lambs. Who has kept a family alive. Yes? You are stronger than you think.’

  ‘How would you know all these things?’ Charlotte looked around at the walls of the cave, at the low fire, and was moved to think how much this woman knew of her life. Her hand moved to her thigh where, indeed, a dog had bitten her many years ago. ‘What was the offer, Madame Rolland?’ she asked.

  The old woman considered her. ‘Do you really wish to know?’

  Charlotte hesitated. Her heart was beating rapidly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because it changes everything, woman. It is a gift – that’s true – but it is also a great responsibility. Most dangerous and powerful. And it can never be returned, only passed along to another woman. Never a man; they have enough power. Already they are popes and kings and prophets and gods. This is ours alone. We need to keep something special for ourselves, do we not? The only danger, Madame Picot, is that it must be passed along to another woman before you die. If it is still in your possession when you die, then your soul will be lost. This is the bargain that was struck to gain the knowledge. You must be careful.’

  ‘Please. Tell me. What was it?’

  ‘It was a book.’

  The silence between them thickened. Charlotte turned aside, afraid again. ‘I think it is a black book. I’ll not have dealings with the Devil, madame.’

  Madame Rolland shook her head. ‘Perhaps you do not understand me. I did not spare you from old Hellequin because of the goodness of my heart. I am old; my time is almost done. Soon I will be joining the Wild Horde myself. The power of the book needs to be passed along or it will be lost altogether. As will my own poor soul. You need to take the book from me – for my good as much as your own.’

  ‘No. The curé warned me about such books. He said they are corrosive and that –’

  ‘Monsieur Larouche? He is no saint. I can tell you many things about him. The same man who collects the tithes? The man who fucks every boy he can get his hands on? No. The book itself is not evil, woman. The choice is yours.’

  ‘No. You will not trick me, madame. A person’s heart is good or bad, that is all.’

  ‘You do not know a great deal of the world, do you?’

  ‘I know enough. I know not to handle these books.’

  ‘Imagine you are the queen of a great land, Madame Picot. The crown is yours. The sceptre. I know it is something you have thought of. You have imagined it when you were young and your brother slapped your face in anger. Imagined it after the terrible crops a few years ago when your family had to survive on milk and grass. Yes. You are queen and ruler. People look to you for guidance, to keep them safe and to protect them. It’s not the power, madame – it’s how that power is used. I am holding out the crown and sceptre to you. All you need do is take them.’

  Madame Rolland adjusted her bonnet again. ‘Think of your son. Alone, frightened. Are you going to allow those men to take him as easily as they have? No. You told me you would walk through fire to save your boy. They seek to limit us, but a heart contains all things, madame – especially a woman’s heart. She creates life, gives suck to her baby; her heart is tender and loving. But it has other elements, as well. It contains fire and intrigue and mighty storms. Shipwrecks and all that has ever happened in the world. Murder, if need be, and dragons and quakes. This book can help you bring back your son. The boy they took is not the only child you’ve had, is he?’

  ‘No, madame. There were three others. Two girls that died of fever some years ago. A boy who died in his infancy.’

  ‘God took them all?’

  Charlotte hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  Madame Rolland nodded. ‘And did you pray to this God of yours to save the lives of your daughters and your son when they were failing from the sickness?’

  ‘Of course I did! I prayed all night and day. And we did everything we could. We bled them, as others had done, but it was too fast. A few days. The fever was like a wind that sprang from nowhere . . .’

  ‘And did God assist you? Were your prayers answered?’

 
Charlotte did not answer immediately. Their bodies laid out as cold and stiff as boards. Candlelight, prayers, dark bloom of death on their faces and necks. ‘I just want my son back.’

  ‘And your husband? Did you do the same for him when he was dying? Prayers and the like?’

  Charlotte paused.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. All the prayers I knew.’

  Madame Rolland clucked her tongue. ‘All that begging. All that asking. For nothing. Well. I think perhaps it is time for the spirits to do our bidding, madame.’

  9

  La Corne resembled any other tavern dotted at intervals along a country road. Low ceilings, the smells of smoke and wine, knots of men eating and drinking at various tables. The patrons were mostly farmers, judging by their appearance, and perhaps one or two travelling merchants. An elderly woman sat in front of the fire, roughly dunking a chicken before plucking its feathers. A goat was curled up asleep on the floor nearby. In one corner a spinning wheel stood idle.

  Lesage paused in the doorway. He had been travelling for several days, mostly on the back of farmers’ carts, and had managed to put some distance between himself and Marseille. This made him feel better – but also slightly anxious. He had become used to his day being tightly regulated, and he was aware that he had lost some of his expertise in dealing with people. Only this afternoon, a farmer’s wife had chastised him for his ungracious manners after they had given him a ride. Yes, he needed to remember that he was a free man and that those he met on the road were also free.

  There were no unoccupied tables, so he lowered himself nervously, willing himself inconspicuous, onto a low wooden bench at which a bearded, large-shouldered fellow was already seated. The other man was huddled over a ledger in which were scrawled columns of numbers. When a woman approached him to ask what he wished to eat, Lesage felt, quite suddenly, as if he were in another country altogether, its customs unknown to him; a land in which his desires might actually be heeded. He was startled, but managed – after consulting his purse to check on his money – to order a bowl of turnip soup and a cup of wine.