by Nelson Rusk
It was Amherst who saw it first. Near the middle of the heap of ashes, half buried under the ruins, a charred human skeleton, slender and gracile, laid with its scorched skull turned skyward. A skeleton of a boy or... of a young woman. Amherst screamed, raising his rifle at the skeleton, his finger on the trigger. Then he released it. The other two men approached, horrified. Mr. Muir commented, “It must be one of the abducted women. Undoubtedly.” It was futile to say more.
Muir, Amherst, and McEntyre continued to the 2nd mound. Then to the 3rd. And the 4th. At each of them, they found the same debris, with the same macabre discovery of a human skeleton. In the 5th, however, it became apparent that the fire that had burned down the others had been extinguished well in advance. It was still possible to see the wood structure before its destruction. According to Mr. Muir's writings, it was some wooden construction, with a vaguely human shape, about five meters high by two meters wide. An artisan of coarse skill had carved a sneering, grimacing face on the structure. Several arms seemed attached to the trunk, like an anthropomorphic spider. The hands attached to these arms were mostly charred, but fire had spared one and it was possible to discern a curved dagger.
While the bizarre shapes discernible in the wooden structure hypnotized the three men, a sound resonated, thundering in the suffocating silence of the plain. Amherst screamed again. Obviously, the situation was playing on his nerves. McEntyre headed for the sound, then motioned for the others to come. Fear was evident on his face.
Mr. Muir recounts in detail what happened next. He approached a form that stood out from the rest. It was a half-carbonized woman. Her legs were a black ruin, dry and flaking. Gradually, the top of her legs to her waist took on a vaguely human form. Purulent lesions of transparent yellow mucus covered the skin. The fire’s primal power had liquefied all protective tissues. The upper part of her body was not much better, and it was only possible to see a general human shape. The fiery blaze had swept away the rest. Near her neck stood out blue pigments that painted a large skin area. Most of the pigments had trickled down and fused with the molten flesh.
Then there was her face. Disfigured to its utmost and unrecognizable, it was nevertheless human. Too human. McEntyre, a veteran of innumerable battles against the redskins, burst into tears at the sight of the young woman’s remains. One of her eyes was dangling, slipping on her cheek. In the other eye, the soldiers glimpsed nameless suffering. Her soiled hair stuck out in a dry bundle and hung, barely held to her head. A full half of her lips had been liquefied. With the other half, she was trying to produce incoherent babbling. Devastation and ruin imprisoned her body in a cage of agony, but her mind preserved a spark of life.
Mr. Muir approached her despite the suffocating heat of the ashes. Grabbing his flask, he carried it to the lips of the young woman, who gave out a groan of pain. Most of the water fell on the ground, crackling and smoking, but some of it flowed between the ruined lips. Spasms agitated her body as the purifying element spread through her. Her only arm rested on Muir's shoulder, and brought him closer until the woman's mouth almost touched the soldier's ear. She murmured, hiccupping, “Om Namah Shivaya. Fire and water will purge the earth when Master Shiva returns.” Then, as Mr. Muir stared at her without understanding the meaning of these words, she exclaimed, as a gleam of frenzy pierced her only valid eye, “Iä, Iä! Azathoth, the Universal Destroyer! You will meet your end in the otherworldly flames!”
This last tirade seemed to distress her to the point of madness and, agitated by jolts, she screamed lamentations in an unknown language, howling, bellowing, and rolling her only valid eye. Amid the insane gibberish, always came the words, “Om Namah Shivaya. Iä Azathoth!” She was repeating them with an almost imperceptible underlying malice and sense of threat. At that moment, her features convulsed into an inhuman grimace in which a blissful adoration and an abyssal terror mixed. The howling resounded in the snowy plain, disturbing the fragile peace. Mr. Muir, his mind wavering, stood up and stepped back hesitantly, hypnotized and frightened by the intensity of the situation. McEntyre, frozen on the spot, recited an inaudible prayer.
A deafening explosion rang out. The whole upper part of the young woman's skull burst. The shot immediately silenced the mantra she recited. Amherst was standing straight, panting, his rifle propped on his shoulder and aimed at the woman. This evocative tableau went on for about ten seconds, then the deadlock came to an end. Amherst lowered the gun, muttering, “I had no choice.” Nobody contradicted him. Mr. Muir put his hand on the back of his friend, trying to bring him the comfort he was unsure of feeling himself. After a while, the three men agreed to continue their exploration.
The other mounds contained nothing different from the others. Only the fifth had partly escaped the fire’s wrath. Willingly or not, it was impossible to know. In almost all mounds, the remains of a human skeleton were visible, although strongly charred. Nobody doubted that these were the nine missing women. The three men agreed to inform the police as soon as they came back to town. Mr. Muir felt it was better to get the information out through the young constable Thompson, who according to him was the only one that had shown a more than superficial willingness to find a culprit to the fire at Sir Long's house.
The three men left the plain, passing a small hill crossed by a path. The morning mist was rising. Mr. Muir, turning toward the scene as his companions continued, saw in the snow near the tumuli a symbol traced by the hands of man. He described it as “a great triangle, equal on its sides, superimposed by three circles on its points, with a circle barred by a vertical line in its center.” Mr. Muir considered recalling Amherst and McEntyre to return to the plain and examine it, but changed his mind. Nothing in the world would force him to return to that criminal, demonic place where fiends performed barbarous rites in the name of an unknown principle or god, undeniably antithetical to life.
Church on the island of Orleans, after it became inhabited, around 1900.
January 12th, 1926
In the Footsteps of Mr. Jacquard
M y mind reeling while reading this part of Robert Muir's tale, I teared off the imaginary link that bound me to the manuscript and found that, in the urban landscape visible from my room, a glow of dawn began to appear. My throat dry and my stomach gnarled, I noticed with surprise I had read all night. It had been impossible to take my eyes off this horrifying story, as if Mr. Muir himself, probably dead for several years, stood over my shoulder, behind my back, retelling the story.
Getting up from the desk with a grunt of effort, I extinguished the candles, rendered obsolete by the incipient light, and found clean clothes for the rising day. I took a quick shower in the shared bathroom, hoping that its revitalizing effect could wash away my slovenly appearance, which suggested a sleepless night. This last term was not strong enough to describe the hypnotic fever that had possessed me when reading the tale of Robert Muir. Although it was impossible that everything he had written was true—no history book corroborated these events—enough elements recalled what I had seen in the castle that I could not ignore it. Could this strange symbol written on the note I received be the same as the one seen by the narrator? It had to be a mere coincidence. But then, how to explain it?
I started toward the castle, thoughtful. Only when I arrived in front of the building itself did I decide it would be interesting to share the events of the day with Sir Hugh. As rector of the history department, he had helped me a few times and his poise, tempered by so many years of research and exploration, would surely assuage my nerves already on edge, despite the earliness of the day.
Prescott Gate, on the Côte de la Montagne, circa 1870.
I went straight to the office prepared for me. Its disposition had not changed since I had left the night before. For lunch, I nibbled a few pieces of the cold meal that was still there. I was gathering my belongings for the day when Mr. Martin entered the room, without warning, and glanced at me. Then, as if he had determined that I was not in such a bad state, he said:
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“Mr. Lefrançois told me briefly this morning about your accident, as he was leaving. Are you well? What happened to you, can I see?” he asked without waiting for an answer as he approached me and grabbed my arm for inspection. I pulled it from his grip, surprised by my abruptness. He continued without flinching, “How did you hurt yourself so? Are you able to perform your tasks this morning?”
Faced with so many questions, I reassured him as best I could, insisting that the wound was only minor, a statement contradicted by the bandage speckled with brownish blood covering my forearm. He looked at me, dubious:
“You should not have walked in the castle alone, especially in the old wing. Next time, wait for one of my men or myself to accompany you.
It is not that serious,” I replied, slightly annoyed that Mr. Martin assumed I could not walk around the castle as I pleased. Then, wishing to test his answer, I asked, “Why do you warn me so? Has anyone else been hurt while exploring the castle?
Injured? No, not that I know. Why?
And Mr. Jacquard?” I added, feigning if not indifference, at least ignorance.
“Ah! Mr. Jacquard. It is true he was injured while welding with his torch. And we have not seen him for a few days. Honestly, I did not expect much from him and, in that sense, I was not wrong. I do not think we will see him again soon. Problem with authority. He did not follow my orders.”
We looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Mr. Martin seemed a reliable man, with a certain integrity and, above all, hardworking and competent. However, I could not get out of my head the thought he was not telling me everything. The look we exchanged only solidified this conviction. I took advantage of the apparent embarrassment in his eyes to ask him:
“Yesterday, on my desk, I found a strange note I have some difficulty interpreting. Do you have any idea what it means? A symbol is visible on the paper, when observed in a certain light.” He seemed surprised when I asked him that, but took the paper and looked at—or pretended to look at—the symbol.
“It does not remind me of anything. I do not think I have seen it anywhere else. Do you have any idea who might have sent this to you?” Once again, we looked into each other's eyes and a flow of information passed. This time, it was impossible to ignore it: Mr. Martin knew more than he let on. I deemed it better to remain silent about this realization. It was better to discover with my own eyes what was going on rather than angering him by voicing my vague suspicions.
“No,” I said laconically and unreservedly. Then, after an embarrassing silence, I released the tension by continuing, “Well, it's time to start the day. Something positive did come out of my research yesterday. I have here a list of the most valuable objects in the old wing. Can you give this list to your men and tell them to put aside these items and, of course, to pay attention when transporting them?” I gave him a few pages of my journal. He grabbed them and gave them a quick review.
“Yes, of course, no problem! You are the expert,” he said, glad to move on to a topic on which he had control. He seemed eager to prove his good will. After many assurances he would give my list to his men, he finally said: “On that note, I have to leave. It will be a busy day. We must finish moving the furniture as soon as possible. I'll be on the renovation site, if you need me.”
I nodded as he left. I had a strange apprehension about what seemed to be going on at the castle. The disappearance of Mr. Jacquard, the strange silhouette I saw yesterday in the light of the moon, this cryptic note with its symbol with sinister implications. My imagination grew all the more agitated because it mixed all of this with the terrible events about which I had read during the night. Was there a connection between the two? How would that even be possible, given the chasm of over ninety years separating Mr. Muir and me? Pushing these thoughts out of my mind, I left the room and headed for the old wing. On the way, I met Alise. I thanked her for yesterday's supper and asked her to do likewise today, assuring her that, this time, I would be there.
When I arrived in the old wing, the atmosphere was completely changed from yesterday. The lights burned bright and men busied themselves every which way. After my conversation with Mr. Martin, I wanted to interrogate the workers themselves regarding Mr. Jacquard’s character and disappearance. The best place for this would be in the temporary staff room the employees had set up in the former servants' quarters. I went there at a quick pace.
The place was a hectic mess. Several employees were busy preparing for another hard day's work. Everybody seemed like rough fellows, with rustic and worn-out clothes, accustomed to physical work and accepting it as their inevitable lot. When I entered the room, all eyes turned to me, inquisitive. Despite the little money I had, it was obvious that I did not come from the same background as these men. The simple fact of my student occupation represented a gap between our realities, at a time when university studies were only available to the most fortunate. Feeling the pressure of their attention, I quickly stated:
“Hello, gentlemen. I was wondering if any of you had known Mr. Jacquard, who worked here until about three days ago.” It seemed, in front of those men who did not tolerate long speeches, that it was better to go straight to the matter. A young man with blond hair, in simple overalls and a checked shirt, answered immediately:
“Did someone finally find him, this chicken-heart? I bet he took refuge under the skirt of his dear mother and that's why nobody saw him since!” At these words, there was a general laughter as the author of the joke looked around him, seeking accomplices and approvals. Then, a man in his forties, with shaggy hair, a black beard, and a dark complexion, stepped toward me and silenced the assembly with a disapproving look. He said to everyone:
“What Mr. Laverdière means is that Mr. Jacquard left his position without saying a word three days ago, with no regard for the co-workers he was putting in trouble, and this, after whining to each of us for weeks about his fears of working in the basement. If it was not for the fact that it’s difficult to find a welder, he’d have been replaced before having the chance to desert.
Did he tell you what these fears were, exactly?” I answered uncertainly, put on the defensive by the irritated tone of my interlocutor.
“Nothing that makes sense, sir. Only an irrational fear of darkness and of strange sounds. Believe me, there’s no shortage of that in centuries-old basements. Nothing but the rantings of a young man who developed his imagination to the detriment of honest work, as prescribed by the Lord,” he added, seeing straight through me with his stare, implying that I shared this propensity with Mr. Jacquard. I let go the insult and persisted:
“Did he have friends here, someone he could have confided to before being reported missing?
No, sir. He worked mostly alone and took back in the evening the hours he too often missed in the morning. There was no one here who had the privilege of calling Mr. Jacquard a friend, and if you want to be ours, it’d be best not to introduce yourself by asking questions about an individual who casts disrepute on our company. With that, gentlemen,” he said, addressing the rest of the lot, “it's time to stop chatting and get to work.”
The gathering of workers immediately retired to their respective posts, spurred by his injunction. The black-bearded man stood immobile for a moment to make sure that everyone followed his order, without looking back at me. When the room had emptied, he left after them. On the way, he gave one last look in my direction. I was unprepared for such a demonstration of obvious contempt and barely hidden fury, which went beyond the annoyance he had shown in front of the others. I had put my finger on a suppurating wound, although I was not sure what this wound was. It seemed unlikely that the mere fact Mr. Jacquard gave their firm a bad name could provoke such a reaction.
Disconcerted by this cold welcome and the negative emotions I had raised to the surface, I returned to my desk with a heavy head, the mind haggard due to my sleepless night. Just before I closed the door, someone tapped on my s
houlder. “Quick, go in, I have to talk to you. I prefer that no one sees us.” I turned and saw one of the youngest workers that previously stood in the staff room. I obeyed, intrigued. He followed me inside, closing the door behind him. Then, as if moved by a compulsion to express thoughts that had been tormenting him for too long without finding an outlet, he confided in me at a frantic pace, stumbling over certain syllables in his eagerness:
“My name is Marc Desmarais. I wanted to talk to you away from the others, especially Mr. Bernard, the tall black-haired man who answered to you earlier. Since Daniel—Mr. Jacquard—left without a trace, no one wants to say he kept company with him anymore. Although it’s true that Daniel often appeared dreamy and that most of the workers did not fraternize with him, he was not lazy nor did he make up stories. I was probably his best friend here, and I'm worried about what happened to him.
Mr. Bernard lied when he said Daniel worked at night to take back the hours he missed in the morning. Foreman Martin forced him to work in the evening since he was the youngest. The piping dates from the old castle and is so corroded that a worker must work there day and night. I don’t know if you've ever gone down to the basement”, I nodded, “but no one likes to work there. Daniel was no different from the others. He sometimes did more than a single work shift. One night, he burned his hand with his torch. From that moment on, he began to say… weird things.
