Holy Fools (29 page)

Well, I recall no familiars. Nor the mad flight upon the pitchfork. Doubtless the guards invented the rest to escape punishment. As for my part-yes, Perette, I was the Female with the lantern-I cannot explain it. And yet like you, I feel a reluctant gladness to know that he escaped. A vestige, perhaps, of my early loyalty, or a desire for an end to this long, long dream.

I had always known Giordano’s alchemies would serve me someday. The roundhouse, with its thick walls and barred windows, was far from certain, even for your explosive powders, but well placed, and with a fuse made from a length of powder twine leading to a central bolus, I felt sure it would serve my purpose. I approached the guards first, offered them ale and companionship, and picked their pockets neatly in the process. I could have cut their throats-the old Juliette might have done just that-but I wanted to avoid it if I could; I have seen too many cruelties to add to the number. As it was, the guards ran away the minute the powder blew: and my assessment of their cowardice led me to hope for at least two minutes before they returned.

LeMerle was still half asleep when I came into the cell, curled upon the straw with his ragged cloak around him. Better not to look at him, I told myself: simply leave the lantern and the keys and let him make his own way if he could. I saw him twitch like a wakening cat and turned to go, afraid perhaps that if I did not, then I might never find the courage to leave him again. But it was too late; he murmured something indistinct and held up his arm to shield his face, and, like Orpheus, I looked back.

Of course he had been tortured; I had expected it. I know what happens during interrogation. Even a full confession only counts under torture. His face, half-turned into the light, was a mask of filth and bruises. His raised hand was a talon, every finger broken.

“Juliette?” It was barely a whisper; barely a voice. “My God, what dream is this?”

I could not reply. Instead I looked at him on the floor on the roundhouse and I saw myself-in the cell in Épinal, and the
cellarium
of the abbey-and remembered how I had sworn eternal revenge, sworn I’d see him suffer. I felt a pang of surprise that the thought of his suffering did not satisfy me as once I had imagined it would.

“It’s no dream. Hurry, if you want to be free.”

“Juliette?” He was more alert now in spite of the ravages done to him. “By God, is it in very truth witchcraft?”

I would not reply, I told myself.

“My Winged One.” Now I could have sworn there was laughter in the tone. “I knew it couldn’t end this way. After everything we were to each other-”

“No,” I said. “You were born to be hanged, not burned. This is destiny.”

He laughed aloud at that. They might have clipped his wings, I thought, but my Blackbird still sang. I was startled to realize how much the thought pleased me.

“Why do you delay?” My voice was sharp. “Are you so comfortable here?”

Silently he held his chained wrists to the light. I threw him the bunch of keys.

“I can’t. My hands.”

Haste made me clumsy, and I must have hurt him as I unlocked the irons. But his eyes held me still, bright and mocking as ever. “It could be as it was, you know,” he said, grinning with the anticipation of triumphs imagined. “I have money hidden away. We could start again. L’Ailée could fly once more. Forget carnival, forget market-day venues-that trick of yours in the tower was worth
gold
-”

“You’re mad.” I thought so too. Torture, imprisonment, ruin, failure, disgrace…Nothing had yet touched that arrogant assurance of his. That look of not-to-be-denied. He never gave a thought to the possibility of refusal, of rejection. I picked up the lantern, ready to go.

“You know you’d love it,” he said.

“No.” I was turning already toward the door. We had seconds, at best, before the guards returned. And perhaps the harm was already done, that last glimpse of his face in the soft glow of the lamp printed in fire and forever onto my heart.

“Please, Juliette.” At least now he was on his feet, following me to safety. “All those years I was traveling roads, trying to find my way and I never knew where until now. All those times I worked toward something I thought I wanted, which turned out to be nothing more than a passing whim on the hunt for some other rainbow’s end; all those women I lusted for and trifled with and ultimately punished for being too short, or too soft, or too young, or too pretty-”

“We don’t have time for this,” I said. I shook his hand from my shoulder, but he could not be stopped, every word he spoke a new refinement of pain.

“Come on, admit it. Why else would you have come back for me? It was you, Juliette. Always you. It didn’t matter whether you loved or hated me, we’re two parts of the same. We fit together. Complete each other.”

Without looking at him, and with a terrible effort, I began to walk away.

“Stubborn! Haven’t I chased you long enough?” I could hear anger now, and a kind of desperation. My step quickened. I could see the half-open door of the roundhouse in the torchlight. I ran out into the cool air. I could still hear LeMerle behind me, losing his footing, cursing in the dark. My shadow ran before me like a wild thing.

“You fool!” He was shouting now, heedless of whom he might alert. “Don’t you understand? Juliette! Must I say it in as many words?”

I could not hear it. I would not hear it. I ran forward into the night, a rushing silence in my ears, though beneath the pressing of my palms I fancied I still heard him, a ghost of him, an echo of desire.

I fled fast and reckless
out of Rennes. Only I knew that it was two hunters I fled. And Perette, if it is a sin to be glad, then we are sinners both, for the thought of a world without LeMerle in it somewhere seems to me to be no world at all. I will write to you, sweetheart, and send the letter on with next season’s travelers. Tend my herbs well, but grow no morning glories among them. Chamomile brings sweet dreams, and lavender sweet thoughts. I wish you both, my Perette, and with them all the love you deserve.

It ends with
the players. For a second, looking out into the sun at the scarlet caravan drawing close to my own, I could almost believe they were the same troupe who came to us that day. Lazarillo’s World Players, Tragedy and Comedy, Beasts and Marvels. I tell myself I have seen enough of all of these. But the sun on their costumes, the sequins, the furs, the lace and scarlet and gold and emerald and madder and dusty rose, the piping of flute and beating drums, the masks and stilts and dancers all in greasepaint and road grime rang so sweet and so true in my heart that I opened my caravan window a crack to listen.

Fleur was with them, her blue dress flying bravely in the breeze, her dusty feet bare. She squealed and clapped as the fire-eater spat flame at the sun, the acrobats somersaulted from one another’s shoulders, Géronte leering at demure Isabelle, Arlequin and Scaramouche dueling with wooden swords bedecked with multicolored ribbons.

Fleur saw me watching. She waved at me and I saw something white in one hand, a handkerchief, perhaps, or a scrap of paper. I saw her speak to Scaramouche-a tall Scaramouche with a limp in the left leg and hair tied back with a ribbon-and he whispered in her ear and seemed to smile beneath the long-nosed mask. Fleur listened, nodded, began to run toward me, the white object-I saw now that it was indeed a piece of paper-waving in one hand. She pushed aside the brocade curtain that serves as a door in summer. “
Maman,
the masked man said to give you this.”

Another letter? I reached for the sheet, warmed by the sun and slightly crumpled from Fleur’s clutching hand, and saw that it was not a letter, but a playbill. I read:

LE THÉÂTRE DU PHÉNIX PRESENTS:

LA BELLE HARPIE

A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS

Beneath the cursive lettering was the drawing of a winged woman, hair flying wildly, standing atop a tower whilst a crowd of onlookers stared up at her in amazement. Above the design was a crest depicting a burning bird above a fleur-de-lis and a printed motto, which I looked at for a long, long time:

My song endureth.

Then, a little breathlessly, I began to laugh. Who was to doubt it? The Phoenix above the fleur-de-lis, no Blackbird now, but a bird reborn from fire…His audacity knew no bounds, his arrogance no limits!

Fleur looked at me in some anxiety. “Are you crying,
Maman
?” she whispered. “Are you sad?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, wiping my eyes. “The sun on this paper, that’s all. It stings.”

“The masked man said to give it to you,” she continued, reassured. “He said he’d wait for an answer.”

An answer? I moved slowly to the window. Looking very closely I could see the crest, painted in gold upon the panels of the caravan opposite: Théâtre du Phénix. The players were still at their performance, colors flying, flame, purple, emerald, and crimson. Only Scaramouche was still, plain in his black doublet, looking toward my window, eyes unreadable behind the mask.

“He said he’d go away if you told him to,” said Fleur from behind me. Then, as I still did not reply: “Why don’t you ask him in, at least? He says he’s come a long way, hundreds of leagues, to talk to you. It wouldn’t be polite, would it, to send him away?”

A pause, long as forever. Fleur looked at me with inquiring, innocent eyes.

“No,” I said at last. “I suppose it wouldn’t.”

My heart has joined the drumming of the tabor. My breath quickens. I see the small blue figure run across the grass toward the players. Scaramouche bends to hear her message, folds her quickly in his arms, and lifts her. Far away I hear her squeal of delight. Setting her gently back on the grass he turns again, pointing to his caravan, to the velvet-clad dwarf sitting on the steps with a monkey upon his knee…Then his eyes turn back to me, invisible behind the mask but unbearably bright nevertheless.

I feel a desperate urge to run to meet him, and an equally desperate longing to run far away in the opposite direction. I do not move. I am trembling a little, my stomach tightening with a dizziness I never felt when I walked the high rope.

Slowly, almost casually, the masked figure makes his way toward me. Halfway across the sward he takes off his doublet and throws it across his shoulder. The sun catches a mark, high up on his left arm, which shines silvery in the light. Then he puts out his hand, a tiny smile on his lips, in a gesture both tender and mocking.

From my window it almost looks like an invitation to dance.

JOANNE HARRIS
is the author of
Chocolat,
which was short-listed for the prestigious Whitbread Award. Joanne’s latest work is
Jigs & Reels
-her first ever collection of short stories. Her other critically acclaimed works include the novels
Holy Fools, Coastliners, Five Quarters of the Orange,
and
Blackberry Wine,
as well as
My French Kitchen,
a collection of her family recipes and reminiscences. She studied modern and medieval languages at Saint Catharine’s College, Cambridge, and taught French for twelve years at a boys’ grammar school. The daughter of a French mother and an English father, she lives in her native Yorkshire with her husband and their daughter.

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