by Nelson Rusk
Fear almost annihilated my conscious mental faculties, but an idea crossed my mind. As the locked door blocked the way up, I had no choice but to take the path down, and hope that the hatch led, if not to an exit, at least to a place where I could hide. My mind hypnotized by this one issue, I set out. Now that it had entered my thoughts, this idea of descending further down possessed me, despite its origin, which seemed as foreign as if it were not mine.
Going down the stairs two steps at a time, I ran forward at a chaotic pace, passed the electric chamber, then reached the first junction. An unexpected force hit me from the right flank, heaving me in the air and sending me crashing against the wall to my left. I lost hold on the electric lamp, which rolled on the ground near my head, lighting up in all directions and adding to my confusion. When it ended its run against the wall, a sound of broken glass resounded and darkness regained its rights, as if the reign of light in these catacombs held only by a tenuous thread.
Stunned by a blow to the head, I tried to get up, but something immediately fell on me, keeping my back against the cold, damp floor. Like a trapped animal, I struggled ferociously, rolling and punching in a desperate frenzy. My fists hit something solid, made of flesh. A faint, low groan was the only reward for my efforts as I felt the grip of one hand on my throat, soon followed by a second one. These compressed my trachea with a force that seemed inhuman, blocking the entry of air into my lungs. Although acting more through instincts than reason, I was certain at that moment that the fight I was waging was futile. Whoever it was, my assailant was slumped over me; it would be impossible to free myself from his grip by strength alone.
As I stopped resisting against the hands that grabbed my throat, I felt the surrounding ground, trying to reach the electric lamp. To my surprise, my fingers touched a metal object. My confused mind needed several precious seconds to probe its nature: it was the welding torch. I had lost all thoughts of it during my fall and the ensuing chaos. As my breath slowly left me, I put a finger on the trigger and raised the torch above me. I pressed. A blue flame came out, projecting its intense rays on the face of my assailant. What I saw then will haunt me beyond the years and until the blissful moment of my ultimate rest.
A smooth, hideous face of deformed flesh hung over me, appearing disembodied from its shadowed body. This bluish-white face occupied almost the whole of my vision, like a titanic star in a darkened sky. The unmistakable mark of fire had carved that face and erased any resemblance to that conferred to it by its original creator. No pilosity remained besides rare, thin hair partly hidden under a hood. The dried leather fabric looked more like a mask without emotion than a human face. Only the eyes sparkled with life. At the sight of my dumb horror, an unhealthy grin formed with difficulty on the stunted lips of my assailant.
I am not a violent man. My dreamy and curious nature is antithetical to this vice. I let wrath invest my soul only as a last resort and smother as soon as my opponent requests forgiveness. But in this position, my life slowly exiting my sore lungs and presented before the supreme horror of this mutilated face oozing hate, I reacted without thinking. I pressed the torch against the hideous face, holding the trigger down until blood circulation stopped in my finger. As soon as the intense flame touched the flesh, a hissing sound resonated as all moisture evaporated in an instant. Smoke and an abominable smell came out of the wound. With a slowness that would have been impossible for a sane individual, my assailant's demented eyes transitioned from an expression of indescribable joy to that of exalted pain.
For the first time, my enemy opened his mouth, and uttered a roar of rage. The mask of shapeless flesh that covered his face liquefied again under the effect of the flame, dripping on my neck and burning me in turn. Despite all this, his hold did not falter. It was an endurance test. My vision was confused and fuzzy due to lack of oxygen, but the inhuman howls he let out showed me exactly where he was. Eventually, his mind, no matter in which unknown limbs unknown to humanity it was, broke. His grip weakened, then relaxed and he rolled beside me, his back laying on the ground, his arms, hands, and fingers clenched in improbable positions while spasms wracked his agonizing body. A cramp lifted his chest. A tortured groan hissed from his lips. When this awful-to-contemplate physical activity ceased, his overworked nerves relaxed and his body became inert.
I was in bad shape. My throat was as insensitive as if it was no longer attached to my body, and I struggled breathing like I had just emerged from water after a dive into the abyss. Despite all my efforts, nothing but groans escaped my mouth. However, my vision was coming back, and my mind with it. From farther down the corridor, toward the center of the basement, the conscious part of me heard footsteps. The maniacal screams had alerted everything in the area. I did not intend to stay here to see who would come.
I got up with difficulty and ran toward the main room of the basement, taking a path in which I heard only silence. I ran with abandon, but I had the presence of mind to stop at regular intervals to check where my pursuers were. They did not seem very far behind, but the difficulty of discerning anything in total darkness was probably hindering them as much as it did me. To orient myself, I pressed the trigger of the welding torch, flooding for a few moments the corridor with its comforting light. I realized I was grasping the torch with both hands, in supplication, as if I had tied my life to this ultimate flame in a sea of darkness.
After a time that seemed eternal, I managed God knows how to return to the central room. I went in and ran down the stairs to the lower floor. I did not have time to probe for any potential danger. I raced into the maze of boxes and various objects, my reason gone. I had to turn back several times before finally finding the hatch leading deeper. In a state of semi-consciousness, I noticed that many new traces covered the ground. The padlock locking the hatch was still in place, although visibly in poor condition.
Frenzied, I knelt by the hatch and hit the lock using the torch, putting all my strength in the blow. I felt the metal frame of the torch buckle, but the padlock sank into its housing. Another blow and it broke completely. With difficulty, I tilted the hatch backward. The remains of the lock tumbled into the hole of the hatch. I turned the torch on and illuminated the opening. Filled with fright, I saw the flame flickering, perhaps due to the shocks the torch had just taken, perhaps because the gas tank was emptying. For the moment, the torch held, and I hastened to light the chasm at my feet.
The opening was narrow, about one meter by one meter. The walls of smooth, tightly stacked stone blocks denoted a construction earlier than that of the Château Frontenac. A rusted and dirty metal ladder descended along one wall, solidly embedded despite the passage of years and its visible state of disrepair. I hooked the trigger of the torch to my belt and began the steep descent into the opening. A dull sound marked each step, that of my feet on the metal. The shocks sounded like a broken bell and reverberated in the cramped duct. This reinforced my impression of the unreality and precariousness of my situation. The vertical passage was a bottleneck. The thought of crossing it again, while individuals whose goals were unknown guarded both ends, seemed increasingly improbable. I accepted that, for my salvation, I would have to find another exit to this underground complex.
Lost in thoughts, my heart leapt involuntarily into my chest when my feet reached, almost against all expectations, the uneven and unpolished ground of this new underground labyrinth. The hand of Man had carved the corridor. The dull, bare walls were made of brittle brick. Their apparent age confirmed my suspicions and, despite my state of overexcitement, an irrepressible curiosity overwhelmed me at the thought of being in the foundations of the Château Saint-Louis. This illustrious building, whose origins dated back to the golden age of the French presence in North America, was for any lover of colonial history an unexpected discovery, more than fifty years after its alleged total destruction. The pungent smell that inhabited all the surviving furniture of the castle reminded me of the circumstances of this destruction. Here, in the entrails of t
he building itself, the smell was stifling and made the air almost unbreathable.
Voices echoing from the top of the cavity brought me back to reality. I plunged into the maze. The construction was not as geometric as on the upper floor. Branch lines went off in every direction. I had to turn back several times. I investigated some doors leading into the corridor. Many of them led to what appeared to be personal quarters. This deduction I made from the various domestic furniture that cluttered the rooms, sagging under the effects of the time and decay. Other doors led to large rooms presumptively used for meeting and protocol. In some places, the ceiling had collapsed, stone and carpentry together, blocking part of the corridor.
Everywhere on the floor, there were clouds of stagnant blue smoke hovering near the ceiling. Luckily considering the age of the building, the ceiling was high, protecting me from the worst of the smoke. The mystery of its provenance never ceased to trouble me. I assumed that the people in my pursuit were responsible. However, for what purpose did they produced that smoke here in the depths of the earth? Considering the meeting I had with one, it was impossible to attribute to them any motives other than malicious ones.
In my present state, I had no way of estimating the duration of my wanderings underground. I was convinced it had been only too long. The flame of the torch was weak and sporadic. I did not dare to use it anymore, lest it faded out for good. It was impossible, after so much time, that my pursuers had not rejoined me on this floor. Any sign of my presence was therefore a risk I dared not take. My frantic race had slowed down, partly because of my failing breath, partly to avoid any noise. Piles of debris scattered everywhere made impossible any silent progression.
I decided to stop fleeing, reasoning it was better to let my pursuers believe I had escaped rather than continuing to roam at random. I hid behind a moldy desk at the foot of a door barely held in its hinges. I knew the meager sense of security this hiding place gave me was artificial, but what other choice was there? Maybe if I waited long enough, my pursuers would abandon the chase.
After about a minute, I heard the footsteps of several people approaching the room where I was. The group passed the door. One of them had to carry a candle or a torch, since a pale glow filled the room, covering it with the glimmer of a nameless threat. The stench of burning oil settled on me like a shroud. There was something mesmerizing about that smell, a vague, opiate aroma, that gave the irrepressible desire to get up, run, scream. I needed all my will to crush that desire and keep it away from me. From where I was, squatting under the desk, it was impossible to get a glimpse of my pursuers. A hoarse voice, speaking in English, echoed a short distance away:
“This door leads to underground passages beneath the city and in the open air. We have not heard him for several minutes now. He must have distanced us.” Several long seconds passed before a second voice answered him, authoritarian and cavernous. I thought I recognized some of its inflections, but could not determine its origin.
This seems indeed to be the case. Continuing the pursuit would be futile. He will soon understand what it costs to interfere matters that do not concern him. He will pay by blood what he did to Brother Ramaeshwara, as soon as the master has determined the just sentence. He has the mark. No matter where he hides, no matter where he flees, he runs unknowingly into the arms of the Universal Destroyer." At this mention, I had an uncontrollable shiver at the idea that this man, whose voice and words exuded evil, was aiming his threats at me, and seemed to know much more about me than I about him. He continued:
"You two, take care of Brother Ramaeshwara. It seems we'll be feeding the furnace tonight, after all. The Universal Destroyer has already baptized Brother Ramaeshwara in the past. He came out greater for it. If the stars are favorable, he will be illuminated this time again. The Great Blaze protects those who blow on its embers. Have no fear: when a fire has reached sufficient strength, turmoil makes it grow rather than extinguishing it."
Even before he finished uttering these words, the two individuals he was talking to left at a quick pace. Clearly, this man's orders were law. There ensued a moment of silence. Then the whole group left the room, leaving me alone in a sea of inky blackness, thinking about what I had just heard. Many of the things the man had said were impenetrable, but some snippets were reminiscent of recent memories. A few times, I thought I recognized the cohort leader’s smooth, arrogant voice. It exuded an air of command that allowed no refute. Even now, a few minutes after the fact, I remembered the strange way in which he enunciated his speech. A sing-song quality imbued the words and gave them both beauty and deadly finality.
The tomb-like silence projected me back in my dangerous reality. A smile came unbidden upon my lips. Unbeknownst to them, my pursuers had given me the means to escape their hold. According to what they said, the door in this room led to underground passages and the open air. That this information was a trap to my intention seemed unlikely. It was in any case impossible to turn back. I had no choice but to take this chance.
I got up with excessive caution. I knew my pursuers would resume the chase at the slightest sound. The chances of it ending again in my favor were slim. I opened the door leading out of the room and found myself, to my astonishment, in a corridor flooded by the faint glow of the moon. My surprise passed, I found that I was in a defense corridor constructed along the cliff of Cap Diamant. The nocturnal light entered through arrow slits carved in the stone. There was a strong smell of moisture in the passage, which had been in direct contact with the elements for more than half a century. Approaching an arrow slit, I sucked in the fresh outside air, trying to put behind me the unhealthy smell of the underground I had just emerged from.
The nocturnal light entered through arrow slits carved in the stone.
I did not dare linger, lest my incredible luck of finding an issue turned sour. I headed south. The idea of escaping through an arrow slit came to my mind, but the cliff in which they were constructed offered little hold for climbing. A fall would prove deadly. I decided to be patient and continue further. I was relieved to see on my left an open door in a circular bulge of the wall. The opening led to a spiral staircase of rusty metal, whose weather-ravaged structure was loose. Its steep, narrow steps, as well as the absence of a ramp, made my balance precarious. Nevertheless, in the present circumstances, this escape route represented my salvation.
I ran down the spiral staircase at a speed that was excessive given its condition. After a short descent, I arrived in front of a heavy oak door reinforced with steel plates. It could have supported a siege. My mind sagged at its sight, as I was sure it would be locked. I was contradicted in this assumption when I tested the handle: it turned unhindered. The door only needed a single shoulder push to pivot on its hinges. It was unexpected, and although it pleased me at the moment, I concluded that the comings and goings in these tunnels were more common than I had suspected. This thought did not reassure me.
As soon as the door opened, a merciless gust of icy air rushed into my lungs. Although this feeling was unpleasant, in the present circumstances, the harsh Quebec winter was preferable to the sticky dampness I had just left. Surprised by the shock of finding myself in the open air, I moved away from the door, hesitant. I was on a cobblestone street that I recognized as being the little Champlain street. Looking back to see where I came from, I noticed the entrance to the underground passages was not visible from the street. The door stood behind a projection of the cliff wall, at a location removed from the street. How many onlookers passed this projection of the cliff ignoring all about the forgotten secrets it hid, a network of underground passages that burrowed the ground of old Quebec City?
Small Champlain street in 1916.
I did not wear clothing suitable for the temperature and I knew the cold would hurt me before long if I did not hasten. I still had Mr. Jacquard's torch in hand. In the endless darkness of the subterranean passages, this torch was more than a simple tool; it held the mystical aura fire had for our ancestors
when night fell and blossomed with menace. In the light of day, however, it was difficult to reconcile this image with the present appearance of the object: battered, dirty, twisted, and unusable.
I hurried up the street toward the Casse-Cou staircase and the upper town. The houses in this poor neighborhood were of ancient construction and overlooked the street. The total absence of ornamentation was a spectacle of desolation for a history lover such as myself. At this hour of the afternoon, the street seemed abandoned. Only austere old men and a few dirty children strolled on the street. At the end of the pavement, I climbed up the Casse-Cou staircase that led to the upper town. I turned back toward Château Frontenac. Finally, after a short walk, I passed the doors of the inner courtyard, numb but relieved.
A Disquieting Disappearance
I returned to my office, seeking solitude to meditate on the extraordinary events that had just occurred. Meeting no one, I slipped into the office and closed the door. Wearily, I threw the torch on the desk where it landed with a dull sound, and I slumped unceremoniously in the chair. Tremors shook my entire body, some so violent it would be fair to call them spasms. The adrenaline of the last hours fell and an immense lassitude covered me like a veil, stifling my senses. The full understanding of what had just happened gradually invaded my mind, bringing with it fear and apprehension.
Someone had tried to assassinate me. There could be no coincidence to the fact that an unknow agent had blocked the lock of the door through which I had entered the basement. Undoubtedly, my enemies had planned the ambush, as suggested by their immediate arrival after I realized my isolation. As to the strange words uttered by the leader of my pursuers, I could not deduce their exact meaning. Already, my memories were getting confused. It was difficult to determine exactly what he had said, so unreal the whole situation seemed.
