They crossed the cellar and began moving aside old sacks and barrels and pieces of rubble and timber as quickly as they could. It wasn’t long before Lesage located the battered wooden door. It was waist high, with a brass handle in the shape of a child’s hand. The hand’s knuckles shone with wear. He could scarcely believe it. ‘It’s here,’ he whispered. ‘It’s here. As the map says.’
With some effort, Lesage wrenched the door open and, holding the candle in front of him, peered through into another dark passageway. ‘Come,’ he said to Madame Picot.
Almost on hands and knees, he clambered through the doorway, followed by Madame Picot. Once inside, he held the candle high. It did not look promising. More piles of plaster and broken rock, like the leavings of a quarry. The tunnel in which they found themselves seemed to stretch far into the distance, much further than their paltry candlelight could illuminate. A musty breeze, like a man’s dying breath, arrived from its furthest reaches.
‘The treasure should be hidden behind a large stone with an eight-pointed star scratched into it,’ he said, and began scouring the walls, running his hands over the rough and crumbling bricks. He felt nothing aside from slicks of moss, rusted bolts and occasional lengths of old chain. Deeper and deeper into the tunnel he ventured, stumbling over debris and broken rocks.
What if the witch had been right – what if there was no treasure, or it had already been taken? It wasn’t likely, for Bertrand had assured him that he possessed the only map in existence, but it was possible. Lesage pressed on, his enthusiasm somewhat diminished. A shadow fell across his heart at consideration of the fate of the poor blacksmith, not to mention his own destiny. His conviction that the treasure existed was the only thing that had given him determination enough to survive his years in the galleys; but what if this was proven to be false? What then? He paused and looked around. At his feet lay a coil of rusted chain and at his shoulder were rough stone blocks, their surfaces scored with the markings of the tools from which they had been hewn. Dear God. He muttered a solemn prayer under his breath – for poor Bertrand, for himself – and, strangely, the words upon his tongue were like a balm.
Then, there, to his astonishment, almost directly in front of him: a large block of stone with an eight-pointed star scratched into its surface, its dimensions roughly that of a man’s splayed hand. Lesage stepped back. He was panting and, despite the cellar’s cold air, his brow was slick with sweat. He could barely speak. During those long years in the dungeons and galleys among those common criminals he had thought himself cursed, but now the opposite appeared to be true. It was merely the shape of things was so difficult to discern; hidden away it was, like the bones beneath one’s skin.
‘There it is,’ he managed to say eventually, and in the confined, echoless space his voice sounded thin and weak.
Madame Picot peered over his shoulder. ‘What is that written underneath it?’
Lesage held the candle up and peered closer. The witch was right. Below the star, a word was scratched into the stone. He wiped away some of the loose dust. ‘It’s Latin. Cave.’
‘What does that mean?’
He did not like to say it aloud. ‘It means: Beware.’
The candle flame flickered in a draught, bent low, then wriggled upright. Lesage was uneasy. He had been involved in many magical ceremonies over the years and they never failed to infuse him with fear, for one never really knew exactly what would happen. There were countless tales of men and women being molested by those they had sought to control. The Spaniard, for instance, who was driven mad and threw himself from a belltower; the furrier from Toulouse who was devoured – skin and hair and nails and all; the woman who was afterwards compelled by them to murder a baby. Catherine had always said of demons, Treat them as you would a disobedient child. Spirits were violent, temperamental and greedy by nature and it was evident that Madame Picot, despite her powers, was inexperienced in these matters.
Madame Picot touched a hand to her shoulder. ‘When I was injured, I had a strange encounter. A meeting with Hellequin, the overseer of the Wild Horde.’
Lesage scrutinised the witch for signs of mockery or pretence, but she appeared as candid as ever. She stared at the ground and, in that strange moment, imbued with such stillness, and with candlelight flickering on her cheek, she resembled a statue. Most unexpectedly, Lesage was reminded of how his mother had been in the weeks after his brother drowned, her expression that of a woman resigned to perpetual sorrow. It seemed an eel squirmed through his heart at consideration of his family; it had been so many years since he had thought of Pierre – or his mother, for that matter – and decades since the terrible day suddenly brought to mind. ‘Hellequin? You spoke with him? Truly?’
‘You have not seen this creature?’
‘Of course not.’
Madame Picot appeared annoyed at this response. ‘He is a tall man. He rides a black horse. His breath smells of bones and old meat. You know, I have wondered more than once in the past few days if I have been transported to hell. This city is . . .’
Lesage shuddered at the thought. ‘Oh no, madame. I can assure you that there are a great many people in Paris who are very much alive.’
She hesitated for a moment. ‘He told me that death is a great palace with many rooms and magnificent gardens. A place with no earthly concerns, free of disease and pain. It sounded . . . very peaceful.’
‘Perhaps it was a dream, madame? Or a vision?’
‘I fear he was attempting to lure me to my own death.’
‘Or to console you for the deaths of those you have loved.’
Although outwardly calm, it was clear Madame Picot was in the grip of a delirium. Grief was an unpredictable burden for a woman; it killed or deranged some, yet made warriors of others. His own mother had not coped well after Pierre’s death, and he feared that Madame Picot was also of the former variety.
‘Tell me, monsieur, what do you recall of that place? The place from where I summoned you? Were you free of disease and pain, as Hellequin told me?’
Lesage grunted bitterly. Hardly. ‘I think the man you spoke with was a liar, madame. Perhaps for some particularly vile men it resembles a garden or palace, but for me it was nothing like that at all. Before we left Paris, they branded us so we might be more easily identified should we escape.’
‘Is that the Devil’s mark then, on your forearm?’
Again he was disturbed by how much the woman knew; she couldn’t have seen the brand, for he was most careful to hide it beneath his sleeve at all times. The Devil’s mark, indeed. It was as good a name for it as any. ‘When we finally arrived in the dungeons we were beaten and shackled. We rowed all day long in the summer. There were battles with filthy Turks and the Genoese. The winters were spent locked in the port prison, but it was not much better there. Men volunteered to pull the bodies of fever victims from the streets to get out of the prison for an afternoon. I saw so many horrible things. Each day was an eternity.’
Madame Picot looked at him with the confused expression of one who has been roused from a deep slumber. She squatted and began to scratch a circle on the ground with her knife. ‘They say that all things might be forgiven. Do you think that is true?’
Only those who have sinned terribly need to believe such a thing, he thought, although he said nothing. He felt an intense urge to piss. ‘Make sure there is no break in the circle,’ he reminded her. ‘And we must stay inside it. Whatever happens. Whatever they might say.’
The woman was clearly afraid. Her eyes were dull and her mouth was tight, as if sealed against the very air. ‘I know this,’ she snapped. ‘But tell me: how many spirits are there? Does your secret map tell us that?’
‘I’m not sure. One or two, I think. The demon named Baicher is the master of hidden treasure. He is the most . . . the most dangerous, I’ve heard.’
‘What does he look like? Is he terri
ble?’
Lesage tugged at his sleeves. ‘That I don’t know for certain, but I think so, yes. They might take any human or animal shape.’
The crow fretted and flapped in its cage. Perhaps the creature knew something. Yes. Probably. So close now. So close. At Madame Picot’s invitation, he stepped into the circle she had scratched onto the ground.
‘Should you not take the crow from its cage?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry, madame. Wait one moment.’ He placed the cage on the ground. Unable to suppress the inconvenient bodily urge any longer, he scurried along the tunnel until he was out of her sight and pissed against the wall. Sweet relief. Then he returned, stepped into the circle and removed the thick cloth covering the cage. Then, using the cloth as a makeshift glove, he grasped the unwilling crow and angled it through the cage door.
‘Are you prepared?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes. Say the spell, woman. Let’s be done with it and get away from here. I do not like this place one bit.’
Madame Picot gave him a cold look before taking out her black book and holding it unopened in her hand. She seemed to be taking a long time. Then, instead of reading the book, she closed her eyes and gripped it tighter, as if absorbing the conjurations through her skin. What on earth was she doing?
Lesage waited for Madame Picot to begin, but before she said a word, her eyes snapped open and she swung about to stare along the tunnel, into the inky darkness beyond the candle’s light. With her free hand she crossed herself.
‘Dear God,’ she said. ‘I can hear them.’
‘What, madame? Hear what?’
‘Demons.’
Lesage stood absolutely still, but he couldn’t hear anything. A distant plink of dripping water, then silence. The crow struggled under the cloth in his hands; he could feel its delicate bones, its tiny thrashing heart. Then it fell still. He looked around, sick with fear and anticipation. Again he listened. Still nothing. He was about to tell the witch to hurry when he heard them. Madame Picot was right. Voices, yes, certainly those of demons, even a chilling shriek of laughter that uncoiled from the darkest reaches of the cavern. This was followed by some vile and tuneless singing: ‘Hands on her hips, the little Antichrist wheezes, and howls and swears by the death of Jesus. Oh, I’m a dirty old man and a whore suits me fine . . .’
‘Stand fast,’ he sputtered, although he himself had a powerful compulsion to flee. ‘And don’t step out of the circle or we will both be devoured.’
25
Lesage cowered as the voices drew closer. More hideous cackling. Presently, a man and woman stumbled from the tunnel’s gloom, growing larger as they approached, their features becoming more distinct. They were a rough-looking pair indeed, wild-haired and grinning at some private joke as they lurched along arm in arm. Upon seeing Lesage and Madame Picot, however, they halted their carousing and drew apart, but shakily, as if only by holding each other had they stayed upright at all.
The fellow was fat and greasy-cheeked, wigless, but with a cloth cap on his head. In contrast, his companion was pinched, with the waxy complexion and demeanour – cringing, but defiant – of a woman much used, doubtless in assorted unpleasant ways. If Lesage did not know the two strangers, he was at least familiar with the type of dangerous and unpredictable people they had undoubtedly been when alive; the drunken boor and his boorish whore, each made bolder by the villainy of their crony.
The man scratched his face and looked unsmilingly back and forth between Lesage and Madame Picot. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. Then, when he received no answer: ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘We might ask the same of you, monsieur,’ replied Lesage after a short silence in which it was clear Madame Picot was not prepared – or not able – to answer.
‘No business of yours, my friend.’
‘As is ours here none of yours.’
The unpleasant fellow nodded at this – as if Lesage’s response accorded with the unfavourable impression he had already formed of him. Then he snorted energetically and turned aside to spit thickly against the wall. He wiped spittle from his mouth before again regarding Lesage and Madame Picot with a wary contempt. He peered over Lesage’s shoulder. ‘Who else is with you two?’
‘Nobody,’ said Lesage.
This was true, and yet, quite unnerved, Lesage glanced behind. There was nothing, of course. Only the darkness, their own shadows juddering along the wall in the candle’s light, the door through which they had come.
He waited for Madame Picot to perform her banishing spell – to do or say anything – but it seemed she had been struck dumb in the presence of these two curious fiends. He elbowed her, but could elicit no response. The crow wedged under his arm, which had been silent until this moment, squirmed and squawked forlornly.
The strangers flinched and exchanged nervous glances. ‘What have you under that cloth, monsieur?’ the woman asked. She affected a gruff tone of voice, but it was plain to see she was afraid.
‘It’s only a bird,’ Lesage said.
‘A bird? A bird? What for? Who are you people?’
Still Madame Picot was silent; clearly it was up to Lesage to deal with these horrible creatures. Thinking to ingratiate himself somehow, he bowed. ‘I am the magician Lesage and this is Madame Picot, the Forest Queen.’
The woman snickered and wiped her nose along her chalky wrist. ‘The Forest Queen, eh? I see. Which forest would this be? Up to mischief, I’ll bet. Well, this is my patch down here, sweetheart, not the fucking forest. No trees in these tunnels that I can see. Anyway, I don’t remember seeing you here before.’
Silence followed. Lesage sensed a cool breeze emanating from the darkness behind the strangers. He glanced at Madame Picot, who was as immobile as a statue. Her lips were cracked and strands of hair had unravelled from beneath her scarf and hung loose around her temples. In one hand she clutched her black book. Why would she not do anything? Perhaps these demons had already performed some diabolical trick on her? Either that or Madame Picot was lying about her book containing a spell to evict them, even though she had boasted of it. She blinked, and something throbbed in her neck, but in all other ways she was inert.
With a nod of her bony chin, the woman indicated Madame Picot. ‘Why does this Forest Queen of yours not say anything? Tongue stuck in her pocket, eh? Eh?’
Perhaps emboldened by the whore’s witticism and by Madame Picot’s continued inaction, the fellow produced a pistol from his belt and, brandishing it in front of him, took several steps towards them. ‘I’ll shoot you in the face and then cut out your tongue and stick it in my pocket if you don’t say something, bitch.’
Terrified, Lesage took a step backwards, almost stumbling in his haste. ‘Say it, madame,’ he hissed. ‘Do something.’
The fat fellow holding the pistol hesitated – puzzled, somewhat fearful. ‘Say what?’ A pause. ‘What is it exactly you are doing down here?’
His whore grabbed his upper arm and pointed to the ground at Lesage and Madame Picot’s feet. ‘Look! They’re standing in a circle. Be careful, Louis. I think they are witches.’
The fellow nodded assent, then wrestled with the flintlock of his pistol before aiming it at them. ‘No. I think they look more like devils. Are you devils?’
The man waved the gun around and, as he took another step towards him, Lesage felt his guts slacken. A groan escaped his lips. Pater Noster, he thought, don’t let me come so close to my treasure only to have me killed at the final test.
‘Are you devils?’ the man repeated.
‘No,’ Lesage stammered. ‘I am a . . . man.’
The woman grinned. Her teeth glinted like tools when she spoke. ‘Prove it to us. Prove you are a man.’
Lesage opened his mouth to speak, but could make no sound. He stared at the pistol’s long and narrow barrel. What could he say? How to prove he was a man? How to itemise for
them the myriad ways he felt pain, or love, or fear – if indeed these were signs of mortal life? He thought of his parents, of his wife Claudette. He recalled, inexplicably, a summer’s afternoon when he was a boy and he tried to jump a low fence and failed, how his brother had laughed and laughed. The earthy flavour of bruised grass in his mouth, a yellow bug crawling along a fallen leaf, sun hot on his back. Life, his life.
The man pulled the trigger of his pistol. Lesage yelped and flinched, but the weapon failed to fire properly. Instead, it discharged no more than a disgruntled fizzle and flash. The man jumped back and swore as a loosed ember or shard of powder burned his wrist. The pistol clattered to the ground.
Then, finally, Madame Picot spoke, and her voice was loud and authoritative. ‘I conjure and exorcise Baicher to come to me by the three names of God, Eloy Afinay, Agla, Ely Lamazabatany, which were written in Hebrew, in Greek and in Latin, and by all the names which were written in this book, and by He who drove you from high in the heavens. I command you by the great living God and by the sainted Eucharist which delivers men from their sins that, without delay, you come and put me in possession of the treasure you own unjustly and leave without noise or smell or terror towards me.’
The two fiends stared at them in alarm, their faces like milky puddles in the gloom.
‘Take the crow and be gone,’ continued Madame Picot with a wave of one hand. ‘Venite. Venite. Ainsi soit-il.’
With shaking hands Lesage unhooded the crow and held the creature out, its claws gripping his skin like the talons of a shrunken witch. He shrank back; the crow, after all, was a clever and most sinister bird. But rather than flying off, as he would have expected, the bird merely hopped from his hand to the floor, where it shrugged its glossy black feathers back into place and looked around with displeasure, its black eyes glinting. Lesage half expected the creature to speak – pass sentence, perhaps, in a provost’s grave and scrupulous tones.
City of Crows Page 23
