by Anne Rice
So now you know, Stefan, the story of Deborah, such as it is. And my shock to come upon the tragedy of the Comtesse de Montcleve, so many years later, in this fortified town in the Cévennes of the Languedoc and to discover that she was Deborah Mayfair, the daughter of the Scottish witch.
Oh, if only that bit of knowledge-that the mother had been burnt-had been kept from these townsfolk. If only the young bride had not told her secrets to the young lord when she cried on his chest. And her face lo, those many years ago, is fixed in my memory, when she said to me, “Petyr, I can speak to you and not be afraid.”
Now you see with what fear and misery I entered the prison cell, and how in my haste, I gave no thought until the very last moment that the lady, crouched there in rags upon her bed of straw, might look up and recognize me and call out my name, and in her despair, cheerfully give my disguise away.
But this did not happen.
As I stepped into the cell, lifting the hem of my black cassock so as to appear as a cleric who did not wish to soil himself with this filth, I looked down upon her and saw no look of recognition in her face.
That she did look steadily at me alarmed me however, and straightaway I said to the old fool of a parish priest that I must examine her alone. He was loathe to leave me with her, but I told him that I had seen many a witch and she did not frighten me in the slightest and that I must ask her many questions, and if only he would wait for me at the rectory I should be back soon. Then I took from my pockets several gold coins, and said, “You must take these for your church, for I know I have given you much trouble.” And that sealed it. The imbecile was gone.
Need I tell you how contemptible all these proceedings were, that this woman should be put into my hands thus without guards? For what might I have done to her, had I chosen to do it? And who had done such things before me?
At once the door was shut up, and though I could hear much whispering in the passage beyond, we were alone. I set down the candle upon the only furnishing in the place, which was a wooden bench, and as I struggled not to give way to tears at the sight of her, I heard her voice coming low, scarce more than a whisper as she said:
“Petyr, can it really be you?”
“Yes, Deborah,” I said.
“Ah, but you have not come to save me, have you?” she asked wearily.
My heart was struck by the very tone of her voice, for it was the same voice that had spoken to me in her bedchamber in Amsterdam that last night. It had but a tiny fraction of deeper resonance, and perhaps a dark music to it which suffering imparts.
“I cannot do it, Deborah. Though I shall try, I know that I will fail.”
This came as no surprise to her, yet she smiled at me.
Taking up the candle once more, I drew closer to her, and went down on my knees in the hay before her so that I might look into her eyes. I saw the very same eyes I remembered, and the same cheeks as she smiled, and it seemed this spare and waxen form was but my Deborah made already into a spirit, with all her beauty intact.
She made no move towards me but perused my face as she might a painting, and then in a rush of feeble and pitiful words I told her that I had not known of her distress, but had come upon this place alone, in my work for the Talamasca, and had discovered with great sorrow that she was the one of whom I had heard so much talk. I had ascertained that she had appealed to the bishop, and to the Parliament of Paris, but here she silenced me with a simple gesture and said:
“I shall die here on the morrow, and there is nothing that you can do.”
“Ah, but there is one small mercy,” I said, “for I have in my possession a powder, which when mixed with water and drunk, will make you stuporous and you will not suffer as you might. Nay, I can give you such a measure of it that you will die, if that is your wish, and thereby cheat the flames altogether. I know that I can put this into your hands. The old priest is a fool.”
She seemed most deeply affected by my offer, though in no urgency to accept it. “Petyr, I must have my wits about when I am taken down into the square. I warn you, do not be in the town when this takes place. Or be safe behind a shuttered window, if you must remain to see it for yourself.”
“Are you speaking of escape, Deborah?” I asked, for I had to admit that my imagination was at once inflamed. If only I could save her, cause a great confusion and then take her away by some means. But how could I do such a thing?
“No, no, Petyr, that is beyond my power and the power of him whom I command. It is a simple thing for a spirit to transport a small jewel or a gold coin into the hands of a witch, but to open prison doors, to overcome armed guards? This cannot be done.” Then, as if distracted, her eyes glancing wildly about, she said, “Do you know my own sons have testified against me? That my beloved Chrétien has called his mother a witch?”
“I think they made him do it, Deborah. Shall I go to see him? What can I do that will help?”
“Oh, kind, dear Petyr,” she said. “Why did you not listen to me when I begged you to come with me? But this is not your doing, all this. It is mine.”
“How so, Deborah? That you were innocent I never doubted. If you could have cured your husband of his injury, there never would have been a cry of ‘witch.’ ”
She shook her head at this. “There is so much more to the story. When he died I believed myself to be blameless. But I have spent many a long month in this cell thinking on it, Petyr. And hunger and pain make the mind grow sharp.”
“Deborah, do not believe what your enemies say of you, no matter how often or well they say it!”
She did not answer me. She seemed indifferent to it. And then she turned to me again. “Petyr, do these things for me. If on the morrow I am brought bound into the square, which is my worst fear, demand that my arms and legs be freed that I may carry the heavy candle in penance, as has always been the custom in these parts. Do not let my crippled feet wring pity from you, Petyr. I fear the bonds worse than I fear the flames!”
“I will do it,” I said, “but there is no cause for concern. They will make you carry the candle, and make you walk the length of the town. You will be made to bring it to the steps of the cathedral, and only then will they bind you and take you to the pyre.” I could scarce continue.
“Listen, I have more to ask of you.” she said.
“Yes, please, go on.”
“When it is finished, and you leave this town, then to my daughter, Charlotte Fontenay, wife of Antoine Fontenay, in Saint-Domingue, which is in Hispaniola, in care of the merchant Jean-Jacques Toussaint, Port-au-Prince, write what I tell you to say.”
I repeated the name and full address to her. “Tell Charlotte that I did not suffer in the flames even if this is not true.”
“I will make her believe it.”
At this she smiled bitterly. “Perhaps not,” she said. “But do your best at it, for me.”
“What else?”
“Give her a further message, and this you must remember word for word. Tell her to proceed with care-that he whom I have sent to obey her sometimes does those things for us which he believes we want him to do. And further tell her that he whom I am sending to her draws his belief in our purpose as much from our random thoughts, as from the careful words we speak.”
“Oh, Deborah!”
“You understand what I am saying to you, and why you must convey this to her?”
“I see it. I see it all. You wished your husband dead, on account of his treachery. And the demon struck him down.”
“It is deeper than that. Do not seek to compass it. I never wished him dead. I loved him. And I did not know of his treachery! But you must make known what I have said to Charlotte, for her protection, for my invisible servant cannot tell her of his own changing nature. He cannot speak to her of what he himself does not understand.”
“Oh, but … ”
“Do not stand on conscience with me now, Petyr. Better that you had never come here, if you do. She has the emerald in her possession. He wi
ll go to her when I am dead.”
“Do not send him, Deborah!”
She sighed, with great disappointment and desperation. “Please, I beg you, do as I ask.”
“What took place with your husband, Deborah?”
It seemed she would not answer, and then she said, “My husband lay dying when my Lasher came to me, and made known to me that he had tricked my husband and made him fall in the woods. ‘How could you do such a thing,’ I demanded, ‘which I never told you to do?’ And then came his answer: ‘But Deborah, had you seen into his heart as I did, it is what you would have told me to do.’ ”
I was chilled to my very bones then, Stefan, and I ask that when you have this letter copied out for our records, that the above words be underlined. For when have we ever heard of such conniving and willfulness from an invisible devil, such wit and such stupidity in one?
I saw this imp, as if loosed from a bottle, cavorting and wreaking havoc at will. I remembered Roemer’s old warnings. I remembered Geertruid and the things which she had said. But this was worse even than they might have imagined.
“Aye, you are correct,” she said to me, sadly, having read this from my mind. “You must write this to Charlotte,” she beseeched me. “Be careful with your words, lest the letter fall into the wrong hands, but write it, write it so that Charlotte sees the whole of what you have to say!”
“Deborah, restrain this thing. Let me tell her, at the behest of her mother, to drop the emerald into the sea.”
“It is too late for that now, Petyr, and the world being what it is, I would send my Lasher to Charlotte even if you had not come tonight to hear this last request from me. My Lasher is powerful beyond your dreams of a daimon, and he has learnt much.”
“Learned,” I repeated in amazement. “How learned, Deborah, for he is merely a spirit, and they are forever foolish and therein lies the danger, that in granting our wishes they do not understand the complexity of them, and thereby prove our undoing. There are a thousand tales that prove it. Has this not happened? How so do you say learned?”
“Think on it, Petyr, what I have told you. I tell you my Lasher has learnt much, and his error came not from his unchangeable simplicity but from the sharpening of purpose in him. But promise me, for all that passed between us once, write to my beloved daughter! This you must do for me.”
“Very well!” I declared, wringing my hands. “I shall do it, but I shall tell her also all that I have just said to you.”
“Fair enough, my good priest, my good scholar,” she said bitterly, and smiling. “Now go, Petyr. I cannot bear your presence here any longer. And my Lasher is near to me, and we would talk together, and on the morrow, I beg you, get indoors and safe once you see that my hands and feet are unfettered and that I have come to the church doors.”
“God in heaven help me, Deborah, if only I could take you from this place, if it were possible by any means-” And here I broke down, Stefan. I lost all conscience. “Deborah, if your servant, Lasher, can effect an escape with my assistance, you have only to tell me how it might be done!”
I saw myself wresting her from the mad crowds that surrounded us and of stealing her away over the walls of the town and into the woods.
How she smiled at me then, how tenderly and sadly. It was the way she had smiled when we had parted years before.
“What fancies, Petyr,” she said. Then her smile grew even broader, and she looked half mad in the candlelight, or even more like an angel or a mad saint. Her white face was as beautiful as the candle flame itself. “My life is over, but I have traveled far and wide from this little cell,” she said. “Now go. Go and send my message to Charlotte, but only when you are safely away from this town.”
I kissed her hands, They had burnt the palms when they tortured her. There were deep scabs on them, and these too I kissed. I did not care.
“I have always loved you,” I said to her. And I said other things, many things, foolish and tender, which I will not write here. All this she bore with perfect resignation, and she knew what I had only just discovered: that I regretted that I had not gone off with her, that I despised myself and my work and all my life.
This will pass, Stefan. I know it. I knew it then, only hours ago when I left her cell. But it is true now, and I am like St. John of the Cross in his “Dark Night of the Soul.” I tell you all consolation has left me. And on what account?
That I love her, and only that. For I know that her daimon has destroyed her, as surely as it destroyed her mother. And that all the warnings of Roemer and Geertruid and all the wizards of the ages, have been proven here to be true.
I could not leave her without embracing her and kissing her. But I could feel her agony when I held her-the agony of the burns and the bruises on her body, and her muscles torn from the rack. And this had been my beautiful Deborah, this ruin that clung to me, and wept suddenly as if I had turned a key in a lock.
“I am sorry, my beloved,” I said, for I blamed myself for these tears.
“It is sweet to hold you,” she whispered. And then she pushed me away from her. “Go now, and remember everything that I have said.”
I went out a madman. The square was still filling with those who had come to see the execution. By torchlight there were those putting up their stalls, and others sleeping under blankets along the walls.
I told the old priest I was not at all convinced the woman was a witch, and I wanted to see the inquisitor at once. I tell you, Stefan, I was bound to move heaven and earth for her.
But you know how it went.
We came to the chateau and they admitted us, and this fool priest was very glad to be with someone of importance, barging in upon the banquet to which he had not been invited, but I pulled myself up now, and used my most impressive manner, questioning the inquisitor directly in Latin, and the old Comtesse, a dark-skinned woman, very Spanish in appearance, who received me with extraordinary patience considering the manner in which I began.
The inquisitor, Father Louvier, handsome and very well fed, with fine groomed beard and hair and twinkling black eyes, saw nothing suspicious in my manner, and became obsequious to me as if I were from the Vatican, which I might be for all he knew, and merely sought to comfort me when I said perhaps an innocent woman was to be burnt.
“You never saw such a witch,” said the Comtesse, who laughed in an ugly deep-throated fashion and offered me some wine. She then presented me to the Comtesse de Chamillart, who sat beside her, and to every other noble of the surrounding area who had come to lodge at the chateau and see the witch burnt.
Every question I asked and objection I raised and suggestion I made to offer was met with the same easy conviction by this assemblage. For them the battle had been fought and won. All that remained was the celebration that would take place in the morning.
The boys were crying in their chambers, true, but they would recover. And there was nothing to fear from Deborah, for if her demon were strong enough to free her he would have done so by now. And was it not so with all witches? Once they were in chains, the devil left them to their fate.
“But this woman has not confessed,” I declared, “and her husband fell from his horse in the forest, by his own admission. Surely you cannot convict on the evidence of a feverish and dying man!”
It was as if I were flinging dry leaves into their faces, for all the effect it had upon them.
“I loved my son before all things in this world,” said the old Comtesse, her small black eyes hard and her mouth ugly. Then as if thinking the better of her tone, she said with complete hypocrisy, “Poor Deborah, have I ever said that I did not love Deborah, that I did not forgive Deborah a thousand things?”
“You say too much!” declared Louvier very sanctimoniously, and with an exaggerated gesture as he was drunk, the fiend.
“I don’t speak of witchcraft,” said the old woman, quite unperturbed by his manner, “I speak of my daughter-in-law and all her weaknesses and secrets, for who in this town does
not know that Charlotte was born too soon after the wedding, yet my son was so blind to the charms of this woman, and so adoring of Charlotte, and so grateful to Deborah for her dowry and so much a fool in all respects … ”
“Must we speak of it!” whispered the Comtesse de Chamillart, who appeared to tremble. “Charlotte is gone from our midst.”
“She will be found and burnt like her mother,” declared Louvier, and there were nods and assents all around.
And they went to talking amongst themselves about how very content they would all be after the executions, and as I sought to question them, they merely gestured for me to be quiet, to drink, not to concern myself.
It was horrible the manner in which they then ignored me, like beings in a dream who cannot hear our screams. Yet I persisted that they had no evidence of night flying, of Sabbats, of intercourse with demons, and all the other foolish evidence which elsewhere sends these creatures to the stake. As for the healing, what was this but the skill of the cunning woman, and why convict for that? The doll might not have been anything more than an instrument of healing.
To no avail!
How convivial and calm they were as they dined at the table, which had been her table, and on silver which had been her silver, and she in that wretched cell.
At last I pleaded that she should be allowed to die by strangulation before the burning. “How many of you have seen for yourselves a person die by fire!” But this was met with the weariest of dismissals.
“The witch is unrepentant,” said the Comtesse de Chamillart, the only one of them who seemed sober and even touched with a slight fear.
“She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most?” the inquisitor asked, wiping his mouth with his filthy napkin. “What is that to the eternal fires of hell!”
At last I went out and back through the crowded square where it seemed a drunken revel was being held around all the little fires burning, and I stood looking at the grim pyre, and the stake high above with its iron manacles, and then by chance I found myself looking to the left of it at the triple arches of the church doors. And there in the crude carving of ages past were the imps of hell being driven down into the flames by St. Michael the Archangel with his trident through the fiend’s belly.
