In which the house begins to make itself heard.

A mile from the parsonage, Thorel Felix walked down a road on the outskirts of Cideville.  He patted his shoulders and wondered which of his blankets would keep the wind out if he cut it to serve as a cloak.

He turned left towards a bridge near the site of the railway. Sweat-streaked men in brown coveralls walked along the trestles, gathering up their bottles and kerchiefs, then headed for the cluster of white canvas tents that were their temporary home.

Felix’s head ached. The privileged boys, the priest’s boys, they would recover.  Would the priest Lariat listen?  He shook his head, which made it ache a little more.

A hand-lettered sign saying DEVIATION pointed to a detour to the other side of the bridge.  Water dripped from the roof as he passed through a tunnel, sounding plick plock, plick plock.

Michaud, Pouliotte and Campus were waiting on the other side.

“Spiritus immundos,” Felix greeted them. Then he withdrew a three-inch stiletto saw and a length of rope from under his cloak, which he handed to Michaud.

“These should work,” Felix said. “They come from the auction, so keep them hidden on your way to Yerville so they cannot be linked to Cideville.”

“Did you talk to the priest about releasing him?” Pouliotte asked.

“Little talk,” said Felix.  “More demonstrating.”

“But he got the message?” Campus nodded eagerly.

“He will listen,” said Felix.  “He must listen.”

They bid one another goodbye. Felix walked for another half-hour, climbed a fence, picked up a staff he had leaned against it on the other side and made his way through Emile Pain’s field to where a flock of sheep huddled against the wind.  As he counted the sheep his head began to clear.  He shepherded them into the barn, checked them for burrs and bites, poured water into a trough for them, and shut them in. Then he walked towards a small sod hut built into the hillside.

As he approached a dozen cranes awoke and watched Felix unlock his front door.  They had been drawn to spend a night or two of their winter migration near the hut on Emile Pain’s farm ever since Thorel Felix moved in there some seven years ago.

He ate a raw turnip he found on the shelf and sipped from a water jug.  The hillside was quiet as the birds settled back to sleep. Felix could hear the swallows of water as they coursed down his throat, the thud of the jug on the wooden table as he put it down, the squeak of his chair amplified by the silence around it as he took off his shoes.  He lifted the window, relieved himself out into the pitch path around the side of his hut, and went to bed.

Back at the parsonage, Seigneur Robert de Saint Martin thumbed through Father Lariat’s parish accounts. There were stacks of books from his father’s times and before, when it was not yet a parsonage. From time to time he paused with his finger and then made a note in a small journal with his insignia on its cover. While Saint Martin’s clothes lacked braid or trimmings they had been fitted by an attentive and expensive tailor.  His nails were pared and buffed, although the forefinger of his right hand was stained blue and yellow from chemical burns.  From the pocket of Saint Martin’s grey velvet vest glinted the seeing eye of a small brass spyglass-telescope.

He drummed his fingers on the table top.

Not far away, fruitwood burned in the fireplace from the last of the season’s cuttings, casting the room with light and shadow.  The mantel that enclosed the fire was painted with Biblical scenes: on the left, a young David held Goliath's head by its hair, the giant’s face stunned and florid; on the right, Judith carried Hollofernes’ grimacing head impaled upon her sword. Neither of the two Biblical heroes had any expression at all.

At the sound of the front door Saint Martin lifted his head and said, “Ah.”

“Good evening, Saint Martin,” Lariat removed his gloves. “I apologize for my delay; I had to go with Bunel to put the organ keyboard we purchased in the church closet for safekeeping. Say good evening, boys.” Gustave came down the stairs, slowly.

“Good evening, Seigneur.”

“Good heavens, Gustave, you seem downcast. Are you all right?”

“He is fine, aren’t you?” Lariat patted the boy’s shoulder.  “One of the witches gave him a fright.”

“Really? Do you wish . . .”

“I will take care of it. Gustave, go get your supper in the kitchen. Bunel, you too.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I looked at the books while I was waiting,” Saint Martin waited for Lariat to sit across from him.  “You’re right. There is really nowhere else to cut.”

"I could take in more boys, I suppose," said Lariat.  "Three more boys would pay off the debt."  He smiled sadly. "Three more boys and I would be a schoolteacher.”

After Saint Martin signed the books and appended his named with “Intendant, Cideville canton,” the two men ate in the dining room. Lariat said grace and Madame Charvet spooned out braised dove in a wine sauce onto their plates.  Saint Martin saw the housekeeper’s forearms had a dozen or so V-shaped welts.

"Good heavens, madame," he said.  "What has happened to your arms?"

"It happened when I culled the doves," Madame Charvet said briskly as she added a clutch of small potatoes to his plate.  "They were in a mood tonight. There must be a storm coming."

“Well, it would be about time, although I am sorry for their means of forecasting it,” Saint Martin told her.  “Those wounds may fester,” he added.  “I could send my maid over with antiseptic.”

“We have plenty of antiseptic here,” Lariat said.

"I washed them," Madame Charvet shrugged.  “I’d cover them up if they bothered people but they need to air. I’ll leave the bowl and the spoon, sirs, if you wish to help yourselves. Will there be anything else, Father?”

“Yes,” said Lariat.  “There is a sheepskin on the chair in my study which I would like cleaned and made into slippers.”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Not tonight, of course.  As soon as you can find the time.”

After dinner Lariat told Saint Martin about the incident at the action.

“Was it blue light from his hands or purple?”  Saint Martin asked.

“I can’t remember,” said Lariat. “It mostly happened before I arrived.”

“It could have been mercurial phosphorescence. Or static electricity,” said the seigneur.  “A charge, merely, not sorcery.  Although some people do have what is called vertue, or bodies with a particularly high voltage. I had heard that someone in the coven had this capability.  It must be Thorel Felix.”

“That makes him dangerous,” Lariat countered.  “The superstitious react strongly to a show.”

“The witches are only dangerous if you engage with them,” said Saint Martin.  “You already did so when you had Gosselin jailed. And if you choose to do so again, after the trial, you would be agreeing with them that Gosselin’s conviction was not the end of the matter.”

“Not engage with them?” Lariat replied.  “The Church defends the ways of God in the world.  They worship Satan.  How can I not engage with them?”

It was midnight when Lariat saw his guest to the front door, and the wine had warmed his heart. “Thank you for visiting, Saint Martin,” he shook the seigneur’s hand.  “It is always stimulating for men of intellect to converse.”

“Thank Madame Charvet for dinner, if you will,” Saint Martin peered out at the night sky. “We are nearing the solstice,” he said. “Look at the stars.”

“You didn’t bring your carriage?” asked Lariat.

“I have my horse in your stable.”

“Ah.  Good night.”

After Lariat locked the door he went to the foot of the stairs where a six-foot grandfather clock clicked ponderous time.  It had been in his mother’s family. When he was given the parish at Cideville he had had brought it from Rouen as a reminder of his home.  On top of the filigree face was one short hand that leaned to the left of midnight, meaning the time was eleven, one hour to midnight.  Next year whenever he took the train from Cideville to visit Paris he would need to install a minute hand on the clock to help him catch the train on time.

In the kitchen, Bunel sat chewing on one of the split cold doves. He must have gone out again, Lariat reflected.

“Did you buy the axe as well?”  Lariat asked him.

The boy nodded, his mouth full. “I gave it to Alex.”

“Any change?”

“I gave it to Madame Charvet.”

“All right.  Clean up after yourself and go to bed.”

Upstairs in his room, Gustave lay on his bed and looked at the figures painted along the edges of his ceiling: mermaids danced with sea creatures and sailors cast lines for goggle-eyed fish. Gustave watched them by the guttering flame of his candle until he thought Father Lariat’s time limit for reading in bed had expired. Then he blew the candle out and lay back in the dark. The face of Thorel Felix immediately filled his mind. He thought of Latin, he though of sweets, but whenever he relaxed, the face loomed, and after a while Gustave began to whimper into a pillow.

There were three short thumps along his wall.

“Shut up, Gustave!” Bunel yelled as he passed by to his room further down the hall.

Gustave wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to stay quiet. Half an hour later a movement made him look out his open door -- Father Lariat was approaching.  The priest held a thorium lamp in his right hand, filled with heated salts that cast his face with a green glow the color of the sea.   The Father’s left hand held something too.

"Here,” Father Lariat came into Gustave’s room.  “Take it.”

He held out a small, carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.  "Maybe she will help."

Gustave reached and took the figure.  “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.

“Do not be afraid, Gustave,” the priest told him. “The Lord is your salvation and I am your protector.  You have nothing to fear from witches. Good night.”  Then he turned and left the room.  The green light floated away down the hall and disappeared.

After putting away the parish books and writing letters for another hour Lariat looked in on Gustave.  The boy was asleep, clutching the figure of the Virgin Mary in one hand and a twisted length of bedsheet in the other.  Too tired to be frightened, Lariat thought with a smile.

He shut the boy’s door.  He was turning to go upstairs to his own room when he heard a muffled drumming coming from Bunel’s room.  Under the door was a faint light.

Lariat set his jaw.  Just last week he had given Bunel vivid descriptions of the burning fires of hell when he caught him in the stables, grasping himself by the root. Now he would have to resort to the switch.  Lariat took a deep breath and flung open Bunel’s bedroom door.

But Bunel was asleep. Calvados the dog lay on the floor beside the bed, alert, panting, its gaze fixed on the small table by the window. In addition to the usual youthful odors of sock and shirt, the room smelled of iron filings,.  Lariat bent to look between the table and the window.  He could see nothing move.  But he could hear a thump, thump, as if the table were hitting the wall, over and over.

It is a stick of furniture, Lariat told himself. It is inert.  He looked at Bunel, who was sleeping as deeply as a felled prizefighter, his mouth open and spittle trickling onto his pillow.  His feet stuck out over the end of his bed.

A flutter of white curtains made Lariat realize the window above the table was open.  He reached up to the wooden shutter with both hands and slammed the casement down into the sill.  Bunel moaned in his sleep but did not wake up.

There, Lariat declared to himself.  The noise came from outside.

Calvados the dog whimpered and Lariat motioned for it to follow him out of the room and down the corridor.  On the walls as they passed, murals of wine harvests and peasant festivals flickered to life then faded to shadow.  Lariat led the dog downstairs, shoved it out the front door, and climbed the stairs one last time to the third floor where he slept, each time he stepped, each step hissed to his imagination: Free. Gosselin. Free. Gosselin.