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.
The words of the inquisitor rang in my ears as I looked at this ugly thing in the firelight. “She will suffer what? A quarter of an hour at most? And what is that to the eternal fires of hell?”
Oh, Deborah, who never willfully harmed anyone, and had brought her healing arts to the poorest and the richest, and been so unwise!
And where was her vengeful spirit, her Lasher, who sought to save her grief by striking down her husband, and had brought her to that miserable cell? Was he with her, as she had told me? It was not his name she had cried out when she was tortured, it was my name, and the name of her old and kindly husband Roelant.
Stefan, I have written this tonight as much to stave off madness, as to make the record. I am weary now. I have packed my valise, and I am ready to leave this town when I have seen this bitter story to the end. I will seal this letter and put it in my valise with the customary note affixed to it, that in the event of my death, a reward will be waiting for it in Amsterdam, should it be delivered there, and so forth and so on.
For I do not know what the daylight will bring. And I shall continue this tragedy by means of a new letter if I am settled tomorrow evening in another town.
The sunlight is just coming through the windows. I pray somehow Deborah can be saved; but I know it is out of the question. And Stefan, I would call her devil to me, if I thought he would listen. I would try to command him in some desperate action. But I know I have no such power, and so I wait.
Yours Faithfully in the Talamasca,
Petyr van Abel
Montcleve
Michaelmas, 1689
Michael had now finished the first typescript. He withdrew the second from its manila folder, and he sat for a long moment, his hands clasped on top of it, praying stupidly that somehow Deborah was not going to burn.
Then unable to sit still any longer, he picked up the phone, called the operator, and asked to speak to Aaron.
“That picture in Amsterdam, Aaron, the one painted by Rembrandt,” he said, “do you still have it?”
“Yes, it is still there, Michael, in the Amsterdam Motherhouse. I’ve already sent for a photograph from the Archives. It’s going to take a little time.”
“Aaron, you know this is the dark-haired woman! You know it is. And the emerald-that must be the jewel I saw. Aaron, I could swear I know Deborah. She must be the one who came to me, and she had the emerald around her neck. And Lasher … Lasher is the word I spoke when I opened my eyes on the boat.”
“But you do not actually remember it?”
“No, but I’m sure … And Aaron-”
“Michael, try not to interpret, or to analyze. Go on with your reading. There isn’t much time.”
“I need a pen and paper to take notes.”
“What you need is a notebook in which you can record all your thoughts, and anything that comes back to you about the visions.”
“Exactly, I wish I’d been keeping a notebook all along.”
“I’ll have one sent up. Let me recommend that you merely date each entry as you would in a free-form diary. But please continue. There’ll be some fresh coffee for you shortly. Anything else, simply ring.”
“That will do it. Aaron, there are so many things … ”
“I know, Michael. Try to stay calm. Just read.”
Michael hung up, lighted a cigarette, drank a little more of the old coffee, and stared at the cover of the second file.
At the first sound of a knock, he went to the door.
The kindly woman he’d seen earlier in the hallway was there with the fresh coffee, and several pens and a nice leather notebook with very white lined paper. She set the tray down on the desk and removed the old service, and quietly went out.
He seated himself again, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and immediately opened the notebook, entered the date, and made his first note:
“After reading the first folder of the file, I know that Deborah is the woman I saw in the visions. I know her. I know her face, and her character. I can hear her voice if I try.
“And it is more than a safe guess that the word I spoke to Rowan when I came around was Lasher. But Aaron is right. I don’t really remember this. I simply know it.
“And of course the power in my hands is connected. But how is it meant to be used? Surely not to touch things at random, the way I’ve been doing, but to touch something specific …
“But it’s too soon to draw conclusions … ”
But if I only had something of Deborah’s to touch, he thought. But he sensed there was nothing, or else Aaron would have sent for it too. He examined the photocopies of Petyr van Abel’s letters. That’s all they were- photocopies. No good for his anxious hands.
He thought for a moment, if such confusion in one’s mind could be called thought, and then he drew a picture in the notebook of a necklace, showing a rectangular jewel in the center, and a filigree border, and a chain of gold. He drew it the way he would draw an architectural design, with very clean, straight lines and slightly shaded detail.
He studied it, the gloved fingers of his left hand working nervously in his hair, and then curling into a fist as he rested his hand on the desk. He was about to scratch out the drawing when he decided against it, and then he opened the second file and began to read.
Fourteen
Marseille, France
October 4, 1689
Dear Stefan,
I am here in Marseille after several days’ journey from Montcleve, during which I rested at Saint-Remy and made my way very slowly from there, on account of my wounded shoulder and wounded soul.
I have already drawn money from our agent here, and will post this letter no later than one hour after I finish it, and so you will receive it on the heels of my last, which I posted upon my arrival last night.
