Chapter 18 #2
“Many spirits can have muddled limbs and borrowed features. The Lesser Key of Solomon details the characteristics of seventy-two demons. Here is a prince of Hell with the head of a lion and the feet of a goose. Oh, and here you see the fifty-first spirit, Balam. He has three different heads from three different creatures, and the tail of a serpent. Ah, interesting. It says he rides a bear and can make men invisible.”
Father de Sancy flipped the pages of the book, lost in his research again.
“Why look, here is another. Marchosias, a great and mighty marquis of Hell. He appears in the shape of a cruel she-wolf with a gryphon’s wings and a serpent’s tail, vomiting fire.
It says, ‘He is a strong fighter and giveth true answers to all questions.’ ”
“Mar-co-see-us?” élisabeth shivered as the syllables tripped off her tongue.
If this particular spirit was a fighter, could that account for how she attacked the men in the alley?
She peered at the scratches of ink on the parchment, wondering at the connection between the black lines and the rising turmoil in her stomach.
“Is he a wolf with wings and a serpent’s tail? ”
“Yes, that is how he appears. Oh, I would dearly love to exorcise this devil from whomsoever he inhabits. If Marchosias is bound to tell the truth, I would learn a great deal.” The priest shut the book and laboured to stand up. “Now, I haven’t time for any more questions.”
“Please.” élisabeth stopped him. “How… how can this demon be defeated?”
The priest grunted with disapproval, as if her question were too simple to warrant a proper reply. “Exorcism. Thorough, precise exorcism. Sometimes it takes weeks. Sometimes years.”
“So long,” she murmured.
“Yes. To be frank, it’s sometimes hardly worth saving these demoniacs, there’s so little of their souls left by the time the demon departs. Don’t look so alarmed, child! Many of them are secretly witches anyway. Only fit to burn.”
The priest gave them both a slight nod as he departed, leaving them alone in the library. élisabeth tried to take a step towards the door but her legs failed. Maman Poulin caught her as she stumbled.
“Thank the Holy Virgin you left Normandy,” the widow whispered as she pulled élisabeth close. “You are safer here in New France.”
élisabeth clung to the widow. Her teeth chattered and she could feel a fluttering in her stomach as the demon—did the priest say Marcosi was its name?—attempted to unfurl its wings.
Was she not worth saving? Was she as good as damned?
“Come, we will go back to the chapel to absolve ourselves from such dark thoughts.”
They took the path between the seminary and the hospital until they reached the chapel.
élisabeth followed Maman Poulin into a pew, barely noticing as a handful of other villagers slid into the seats nearby.
At least she understood how she had savaged the men who tried to attack her in the alleyway.
Marcosi was a wolf. His fangs were what must have torn the lip of the branded man.
And if the demon had gryphon wings as well?
Well, that would explain the feeling she had of being ready to take flight whenever he was at his most unsettled.
Even the existence of a serpent’s tail made sense, for he often slithered around her body and into her bowels.
Everything she had been feeling for the past months could be explained, now that she knew there was a great marquis of Hell inside her.
She gripped her rosary between her palms and rubbed the beads against her knuckle bones while the Latin droned on around her.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
She could not tell the priest—she could not face the shame of undressing before him, or the pain he would inflict. But if she could not tell the priest, she could not confess her sins. If she could not confess, she could not take communion, putting her soul ever more in peril.
My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not see the soldier Francoeur until she left the chapel.
He was talking to another man on the churchyard path, his sandy curls unmistakable. élisabeth felt the demon unfurl his wings in her stomach and flap them mightily. She pressed herself against the chapel door to prevent Marcosi lifting her off the ground. She hoped Francoeur had not seen her.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Maman Poulin had not missed her cowering by the entrance.
“Maman Poulin, I… I am quite shaken by all we have heard today. I need to sit a moment longer.”
The widow followed her gaze. “Isn’t that the habitant who made you an offer?” She had a shrewd look on her face. élisabeth swallowed. Of course Maman Poulin would know of Francoeur’s proposal.
“I cannot speak to him. Not now.”
“Goodness, child.” The widow sighed loudly.
“Then leave him to me.” She pattered down the path after Francoeur.
élisabeth stood in the shade of the H?tel Dieu walls, rubbing her rosary between her hands, feeling the beads against her bones.
Surely one witch could undo the magic of another.
Surely she would not need to submit to torture to be cured.
She felt the demon turn twice in her stomach.
Stay down, Marcosi, she prayed, though she knew he did not obey her.
She waited until she saw the widow curtsey and the soldier walk away before creeping forward to rejoin her.
“I think he was lingering in the hopes he might speak with you,” Maman Poulin said. “I said you were unwell, and he was disappointed, for he cannot stay in town.”
élisabeth looked away in the hopes she might deter the widow from saying any more. She did not want to discuss Francoeur. She wanted to figure out how to dispel the evil spirit that dwelled within her.
Maman Poulin prattled on, oblivious.
“He was here to fetch flour for his neighbour’s wife. Can you believe his neighbour has turned coureur de bois and gone west to Odawa territory, leaving his new wife alone all winter?”
The demon Marcosi thrust his horns into her gut. The blow was so fierce she almost fell forward.
“Some men.” The widow shook her head. “You shouldn’t let that one get away, Lili, for he would not do that to you.”
“What did you say?” Her voice caught in her throat.
“Francoeur is a good one. He’s thoughtful and speaks as he should.”
“No. About his neighbour.”
“Oh. He’s left his wife to go off and trade furs.”
“Did… did he mention… did he mention the wife’s name?” élisabeth’s whole body began to tremble.
“Ma chère, look at you, you have been bitten by the cold. We’d best get home. A brisk walk will chase the shivers away—”
“Please! Did he tell you his neighbour’s name?”
“Good grief, girl, there’s no need to shout. He said her name is Jeanne. Jeanne Roy.”
élisabeth did not hesitate. She searched the horizon and saw Francoeur heading down towards the river path.
She hiked up her skirts and ran pell-mell after him.
She could hear Maman Poulin cry out but she did not stop.
She did not even feel the ground beneath her feet.
Her hair came loose at the back of her hood, her stockings fell down around her ankles.
“Francoeur!” élisabeth called out. He turned and stopped, putting his hand up to block the sun from his eyes.
“élisabeth?”
She stopped in front of him, breathing heavily. He grinned at her dishevelled state. “You are unwell, I understand?”
She blushed. “I did not see you in the chapel. I ran after you because… because I feared you would think me very rude for not wishing you a good afternoon.”
“I could never think badly of you.” Francoeur’s expression clouded over. “I was thinking badly of myself. After our last meeting.”
“You have nothing to feel badly for, it is I who…” Her voice trailed off, then she looked up. “I liked the blueberries very much.”
He nodded thoughtfully. She squinted into the afternoon sun, wondering how to proceed. “I understand you live very near my friend Jeanne Roy. I did not realize you were neighbours. Tell me, how does she fare?”
“The duchess?” Francoeur scratched his beard. “She has remarkable fortitude. She seems to manage very well all on her own.”
“élisabeth Jossard!”
The tenor of the widow’s voice made élisabeth fear she was about to catch a slap. She looked up and saw the widow trundle towards them, her bosom jiggling as she ran. When she caught up she pulled élisabeth away by the elbow.
“What are you doing? Throwing yourself after that man like a wolf on a rabbit! When I said you shouldn’t let him get away, I did not mean for you to chase him through the streets.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I do understand.” The widow took in the figure of Francoeur standing just out of earshot, his hands clasped behind his back. “You can’t leave clean laundry on the line for too long, lest the wind carry it off. But, Lili, let the man come to you, for pity’s sake.”
“No, Maman, you misunderstand. I do not want to marry him—”
“There’s no need to play coy now. Half the village has seen you run after him. The other half will know about it by tomorrow. I would say you’ve made your decision.”
Maman Poulin pushed élisabeth towards Francoeur and took an exaggerated step backwards, though élisabeth had no doubt she could still hear perfectly well.
“Lili has something to say to you,” she encouraged.
The wind ruffled the pine trees, and a raven cawed, once, twice.
A sign a change was coming, or an ill omen.
If it were the latter, then there was nothing she could do but pray.
If it were the former, well. Everyone else seemed to understand what she must do.
It was only élisabeth—poor, lovelorn Lili—who was too stupid to understand.
A spinster could not travel around the island, looking for months on end for the strip of land where Jeanne Roy had settled.
A spinster could not charge into the tavern, lay a shiny écu on the table and call for the best rider in the land to bring the witch to her.
A spinster would sit in the congregation’s farmhouse, outstaying her welcome, bearing reproachful looks from the nuns and their hired hands as the cabbage and turnips ran low in the winter months.
She would waste her best years waiting for the chance to happen upon the missing sorceress in the market at Ville-Marie.
She needed to marry Francoeur to get to Jeanne Roy, but she would need Jeanne Roy’s magic to make a marriage to Francoeur work.
She looked at the sandy-haired soldier. She judged him to be five to seven years older than she was.
Old enough to marry, young enough not to be set in his ways.
He was not small and lithe like Rémy. He had arms like tree trunks, as Lou would say.
élisabeth looked at the tight fit of his doublet against his chest. She could not deny he was strong. Francoeur would make a good husband.
But she would make a terrible wife. A wolf with gryphon wings lived inside her. She was barren. By marrying Francoeur, she would ruin his life.
Unless the witch could cure her.
The raven cawed again, mocking her dilemma. What will you do? What will you do? For all the brides’ talk of choices, she had none. She clasped her hands together and began the squeeze and prayer.
“élisabeth?” His hodgepodge hazel eyes filled with concern, and something inside her relented, just a little. She took a deep breath and spoke softly, so that Maman Poulin could not hear.
“The truth is… I am afraid.”
He reached forward and took her hands in his, squeezing gently so that she could not rub them together anymore.
“There are many things in this world to fear,” he said softly. “I promise you that I am not one of them.”
She looked up at him. “So. We shall be married?”
Francoeur nodded, a flicker of amusement on his lips. “If that is your desire, then yes. I accept your proposal.”
élisabeth’s heart lifted and sank at the same time, a tipsy dance. It was decided. She would never marry Rémy. She would never return to France. She would wed this habitant and hope the witch could cure her so that she did not make both of their lives a misery.
In the pine trees, the raven cawed.
And in her belly the demon waited, an ember that would set the whole forest on fire.