The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  I was overcome by a kind of inebriate madness. Shaking my fist, I shouted, ‘Go back to hell! You have been defeated! Go back to hell and never return! It is over! Do you hear me? Over!’ The wind was still whistling above the crackling accompaniment of electrical activity. ‘Go back to hell!’ I yelled above the noise. ‘You foul, pathetic creature! This child is free – and you will never have possession of her again!’

  There were no more materializations, and the formless darkness receded through the twinkling veils.

  I had always been the weaker party. But now, as the balance of power shifted, I became drunk with excitement. I wanted to taunt, mock and gloat, to revel in my victory. I let go of Annette, stood up and screamed abuse into the void. ‘You have been defeated and I have won!’

  Bazile and Father Lestoumel were scrambling at my feet. Then, I saw Annette’s supine body sliding away. She was travelling fast, her legs slightly raised, her hair trailing, as if being dragged. I choked on my own words as she passed through the shimmering divide. My adversary was no longer visible. But neither was Annette.

  The despair that I felt is impossible to describe. It fell upon me like a weight of marble: a devastating, crippling despair that I knew I could never live with. Bazile guessed my intention and grabbed my arm. He hauled himself up and hollered into my ear. ‘No. Don’t do it, Paul!’

  ‘Let me go,’ I protested.

  ‘The portal will close and you will be trapped there forever.’

  ‘Let me go, I say!’

  ‘For the love of God, Paul. You can do nothing now.’

  I prised his fingers from my arm, pushed him away and ran towards the threshold. The wind was at my back and I almost took off as I passed through the undulating waves of luminescence. I ran and ran, through glowing nebulae and cobwebby threads of light, and kept on running, beyond where the wall of the tower should have stopped my progress. The strength of the wind lessened and I found myself charging blindly through a sulphurous mist. I could feel pumice breaking beneath my feet, and the surface over which I travelled became uneven. ‘Annette?’ I called out. ‘Annette?’ The atmosphere thinned and I recognized an all too familiar landscape: a black sky riven by crimson lightning, an expanse of cinders giving way to a massive staircase of congealed lava, crags and smoking vents, belching pools of molten rock.

  There was a loud detonation, and a tower of flame climbed to a great height. The blast sent me sprawling onto a carpet of hot ash. I quickly jumped up and waved my scorched hands in the air.

  Unlike the occasion of my first descent into the pit, when I had arrived naked, this time I was still wearing clothes – the same clothes that I had put on in my rooms at the chateau two days earlier. They had travelled with me between worlds; however, the blisters that were already rising on my palms confirmed that, in one other respect, my circumstance was very much the same. I was fully embodied, with blood and organs and nerves that had the capacity to thrill with pain.

  The smell of burning leather made me leap off the ash and I proceeded between two boulders, both of which bristled with large, flat-headed nails. Manacles hung down from rusty hooks and medieval instruments of torture lay abandoned and half buried in dunes of volcanic dust.

  ‘Annette?’ I cried. ‘Annette? Where are you?’

  I emerged into a shallow depression of shattered stone, and saw a tiny crumpled figure lying on the ground a short distance ahead. I hastened down the incline and slid to a halt, falling on my knees at the child’s side.

  ‘Annette?’ I whispered, lifting her face off a pillow of cracked granite. The blood on her lip had dried, but there were fresh lacerations on her cheeks. Her smock was torn and parts of her hair had been singed. I touched her lips and said, ‘Annette? Can you hear me?’

  Her eyes opened. ‘Monsieur Clément?’

  ‘Yes, Annette.’

  ‘Have I been unwell again?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Why is the sky black? Why is the sky on fire?’

  I tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Hush. We are going home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes. Can you stand?’

  ‘I think so. Where are we?’

  ‘Annette. Take my hand. We must go now.’

  But I did not move. There was a trickling of scree and a shadow fell across Annette’s smock. My heart was hammering against my ribcage, and my courage drained into the earth. I was paralysed, unable to even turn round. Instead, I watched with weird fascination, as Annette’s pupils dilated and her mouth opened wide. There was a beat of silence, before the scream came.

  The demon had positioned itself on the boundary of the depression. It looked immense, silhouetted against a delta of blazing reticulations. Its great wings unfolded and it stood, legs set apart, proudly surveying its domain. I was in no doubt that we were in the presence of a true prince of hell, and my instinct was to prostrate myself and beg for mercy. I withered in its sight. The demon threw its head back and roared. A clap of thunder shook the ground, new vents opened, and the horizon burst into flames.

  Annette’s fingernails were digging into my skin.

  ‘Monsieur Clément, Monsieur Clément . . .’ she repeated my name, again and again.

  ‘Run, child,’ I said. ‘Quick. This way.’ I tugged her upright and we bounded up the incline, back towards the portal, but the loose stone was treacherous and we kept on slipping. I looked over my shoulder and saw the demon loping after us, horns thrust forward. ‘Quick, Annette, you must run faster.’

  ‘I can’t, monsieur. I can’t.’ She had already fallen several times and blood was streaming from the cuts on her knees.

  ‘You must!’ I hauled her over the top. We ran between the boulders and out, into the open space beyond. I paused to get my bearings. The wide flat steps of lava were clearly visible, as were the bubbling pools of liquid rock. In the distance, I could see the coruscating mists of the portal. ‘Not far now,’ I said to Annette. ‘Just over there.’

  We set off again, giving the hot ash a wide berth. A meteor landed close by and we were showered with debris. Annette yelped with pain. ‘We cannot stop,’ I said. ‘We must go on.’ It was then that the air filled with a harsh barracking and a flock of demons soared into view. They glided over the lava steps and circled above us. One by one, they dropped to the ground, forming a ring that made our escape impossible. My old adversary appeared between the boulders and snarled some commands. The horde stamped their feet and waved their pitchforks, shrieking and grunting in their infernal language.

  ‘What will they do to us?’ asked Annette. I could not give her an answer. The thought of how these devils would abuse her made me feel quite sick. I could feel Annette trembling beneath the thin and filthy material of her smock. ‘Is this a dream, monsieur?’ she continued. ‘A nightmare? Tell me that I am dreaming.’

  The demon fixed its venomous eyes on Annette; its lower jaw sagged and its tongue slithered out. It tasted the air and the cast of its expression became eager and lascivious. Then it raised its arm, and a single talon sprang up, its curvature suggestive of beckoning without the necessity of movement.

  ‘No,’ I cried. ‘You shall not have her!’ A pitchfork hissed through the air and pinned my foot to the ground. I wrenched it away and enfolded Annette in my arms. The troop flapped their wings and jeered. More demons were landing on the lava steps; one of them was carrying a decapitated head which it tossed in the air and kicked. The head flew through space and descended into a pool of magma, where it sizzled and evaporated.

  Annette was sobbing into my shirt. I held her close and said, ‘Dear child. Know this. Whatever happens, you were loved.’ She would be tortured for all of eternity and it was my fault. I was to blame! It was only right that I should burn, that I should be skewered and roasted. But I could not countenance the suffering of a stainless innocent. ‘I am so sorry,’ I said, tightening my embrace. ‘So very, very sorry.’ Tears streamed down her face and, out of habit, I searche
d my pockets for a handkerchief. How curious, that this reflex, this vestige of normality, should find expression, even in the depths of hell. My fingers made contact with something papery. It was the amulet: the amulet that I had copied in the library – the Seal of Shabako.

  The demon lunged forward, and as it did so, I removed the parchment from my pocket. As soon as the charm came into view, the creature drew back. Its thick brows came together and it produced a lengthy sibilance. The amulet was emitting a bright, golden light. I whirled round, brandishing it like a torch, and our tormentors were thrown into disarray. Some opened their wings and took off, while others covered their eyes.

  Here was old magic: power that required no faith or belief in an all-knowing God to have its effect; a power as morally neutral as magnetism.

  ‘Get back!’ I commanded as the monsters fled. ‘Get back!’ The ruddy luminescence of the portal was fading. ‘Come,’ I said to Annette. ‘We are running out of time.’ At that moment, my adversary chose to pounce. It leaped high and was almost upon us, its fangs bared and claws extended. Without thinking, I raised the amulet and shouted, ‘Away!’ A bolt of lightning streaked from my fist and exploded against its chest. The demon spun backwards and crashed into the hot ash, raising a column of grey cloud. I did not stop to enjoy the spectacle, but simply clutched Annette’s hand and shouted, ‘Run!’

  I held the amulet high, and its radiance repelled the swooping demons. Pitchforks rained down and thrummed after impact, producing a strange, metallic counterpoint. The glittering mists of the portal lay just ahead of us. We ran, faster and faster, until we were swallowed up, and could see nothing but a wall of dense fog. There was no way of determining direction in this featureless expanse, and I wondered if it were possible to get lost in the spaces between worlds. Would we be there forever, trapped in a state of eternal transition? The lights were dimmer and it occurred to me that the portal might already be closed.

  The acoustic changed and the ground became level.

  ‘Keep going,’ I said to Annette. ‘We are almost home!’

  I could hear the skittering of pebbles on flagstones. The fog parted, and its dissipation revealed a solitary shimmering veil. Through this ghostly partition, I saw two flames – oil lamps – the welcoming light of our own world.

  ‘This way,’ I said to Annette.

  Although we were now sprinting, the distance between ourselves and the veil was not diminishing as fast as it should. The very fabric of space seemed to be stretching, denying us progress proportionate to our effort.

  My lungs were aching and I was overcome by a terrible feeling of tiredness and fatigue.

  ‘It cannot end here!’ I cried out, and miraculously my anger released some last reserve of strength. Pulling Annette along behind me, I accelerated. It felt like running up an impossibly steep hill. Soon, the veil was floating in front of me – but its edges were contracting. I yanked Annette forward and pushed her through. Her body seemed to meet some resistance, and the child let out a cry. I pushed harder and saw her fall to the ground on the other side. Two figures rushed out of the darkness: Bazile and Father Lestoumel.

  The bell-ringer was peering through the glare, as if trying to make out something distant or indistinct. ‘Édouard!’ I yelled, but he could not hear me. I saw him reaching out and his fingers penetrated the veil. Each digit became elongated and moved slowly, like the tentacles of a sea anemone. Concentric rings of light rippled outwards from the rupture as I leaned forward with my right arm extended, straining until we touched. Our fingers found mutual purchase and interlocked. Bazile pulled hard, and I was drawn closer to the veil; however, I could not make the transition. Then, dismayed, I realized that it was no longer Bazile who was dragging me through to his side, but it was I who was dragging him through to mine. His attenuated wrist and forearm were now clearly visible.

  ‘Let go!’ I cried. My friend held fast. ‘Let go!’ I struggled to free myself, but Bazile was strong and determined. He did not give up. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and imagined the tearing of ligaments, the ball of the joint being torn from its socket. An old memory surfaced: climbing a mountain of rubble during the siege and seeing a pale arm sticking up from the wreckage – tugging at the hand – feeling the whole limb come away. Had I been offered a cruel presentiment of my own end? A foreshadowing of my own dismemberment and demise? Had my doom been decided upon before the stars were scattered across the void?

  ‘No!’ I screamed – and jumped.

  When my feet left the ground, there was a subtle change in the interplay of forces. Bazile’s grip tightened and I seemed to be passing through a medium much thicker than air. Enormous pressures built up around me and I feared that I might be crushed. There was one more burst of red lightning – then nothing.

  I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I remember is Bazile’s head, eclipsing the high Gothic ceiling.

  ‘Paul,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Where is Annette?

  ‘Just here.’

  I sat up. Annette was lying close by, Father Lestoumel beside her.

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  I let myself fall back. ‘Is it over now – do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bazile, making the sign of the cross. ‘It is over.’

  26

  Annette slept for several days and I did not leave her bedside. When she awoke, she talked of ‘bad dreams’. It was obvious to me that she was not speaking freely. Gentle coaxing had little effect: she remained reticent, and I could not persuade her to unburden herself. In the end, I was forced to recognize my limitations and cede authority to a superior healer: time. Father Lestoumel took me aside and offered me some consolation. ‘Do not underestimate goodness,’ he said. ‘The child is more resilient than you think.’

  I did not return to Chambault. When I spoke to Hélène of my intention to remain in Paris, she said, ‘If that is what you want, monsieur.’

  ‘Would you be so kind,’ I asked, ‘as to arrange the transfer of my possessions to the Hôtel Saint-Jacques?’ I gave her a card. ‘Much of what I own has already been packed.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  I scribbled some prescriptions: ‘Give these to Monsieur Jourdain. I am confident that Monsieur Raboulet and Annette will continue to benefit from my preparations; however, I would strongly recommend that you appoint another house physician. As you are probably already aware, Monsieur Jourdain is frequently indisposed.’

  On the morning of her departure, I asked Hélène what she was going to tell her family. She replied that she had discussed the matter with Father Lestoumel and he had agreed to talk to Du Bris, Raboulet and Madame Odile on her behalf. He must have also told her much of what had transpired in the north tower of the cathedral, because she added, ‘Monsieur: what you did for Annette – it was a very brave thing. We will be forever in your debt.’ The directness of her gaze was unnerving.

  ‘No.’ I did not expect, or even wish to be forgiven. ‘You owe me nothing.’

  Hélène sighed and offered me her hand. I raised it to my lips and did not look up again until she was gone. A beam of sunlight slanted through a gap in the curtains, and I stood alone, breathing the lingering scent of her perfume.

  The following week I wrote a letter to Charcot, requesting – with due humility – that he consider me as a prospective employee, should any suitable positions become vacant at the Salpêtrière. I was summoned to his office by return of post. He was perfectly civil. ‘So, country life didn’t suit you, eh? I didn’t think it would. And yes, Clément, of course you can come back. There have been some very exciting developments.’ The hysteria project was still Charcot’s principal preoccupation and much progress had been made in my absence. It had been discovered that the symptoms of hysteria could be reproduced using hypnosis: a phenomenon of great theoretical and practical significance.

  I had imagined that returning
to work at the Salpêtrière would feel strange. But I was quite wrong. In fact, it felt very natural and I soon settled into a routine of ward rounds and research activities.

  With the exception of Charcot’s soirées, I did not see very much of my colleagues outside the hospital. Even so, I did not crave company, and there was always Bazile. I often found myself walking to Saint-Sulpice with a joint of lamb clamped under my arm, which Madame Bazile would later cook. And after we had dined, Madame Bazile would retire, and Bazile and I would smoke, drink and talk.

  It was just like old times.

  We revisited the same theological problems, the same arguments: ‘I cannot believe in a perfect, all-knowing God, because a perfect God would not have created hell. Nor would He, by virtue of foreknowledge, have condemned so many souls to such a dreadful fate. The best we can hope for, I fear, is a good but flawed deity: a creator unable to exercise control over His creation, who battles with the forces of evil, much the same as we do.’

  Bazile would listen patiently, and when I had finished he would doggedly reaffirm his faith. ‘We are like insects, crawling over an edition of Montaigne’s essays. With our limited sensory organs and minuscule brain, what do we perceive? A flat surface? Perhaps not even that. Montaigne’s wisdom is right there, beneath our feet. But it is not accessible. And no matter how hard we try, we will never understand the great man’s thoughts on virtue, indolence and cruelty – or benefit from his opinions concerning Cicero, Democritus and Heraclitus! Montaigne, and the complexities of human life, are utterly beyond us. Yet Montaigne’s wisdom exists! The human world exists! And that flat surface is very misleading. One should never confuse evidence with reality, or facts with the truth.’