Chapitre Onze

Le Grenier Secret

Jehan

The sound of the Hymns, sung with reverent joy. The scent of incense. The flickering light of thousands of candles. Jehan was happy to walk the halls of St. Bardot's church again.

The funeral for his daughter had been heart-wrenching. His wife broke down and screamed as the monks placed the urn with Corina's ashes upon the small, wooden boat and sent it down river. The priest's insistence that the river would take her to be with Lyr proved to be little comfort. Broken as Jehan was, it hurt far worse to see his wife in such grief. He was not sad for Corina, she had gone on to the Ocean Paradise Lyr had prepared for them. It was Mallory's pain that brought him such grief now.

But the funeral was over, and he was once again in St. Bardot's church, the very place where he would have served as a priest had his older brother's death not altered his destiny.

Jehan knelt before the altar, behind which stood a statue of their God. A creature which was a man from the waist up, but a great sea serpent from the waist down. Lyr. Patriarch of the Imperial family and the only deity who cared about the fates of men. It was he who defeated and subdued the gods of fire when they sought to consume the world. It was he who brought the stars under his service so that he may write men's destinies in them. It was he who offered salvation to the righteous and the pure.

It was he who would take care of Corina now.

As Jehan knelt in prayer he heard footsteps approaching. Padded sandals, the sort the clergy wore. He knew who it was before even looking up. Those kind, blue eyes always made Jehan feel welcome. That white beard just made his face friendlier somehow.

"Your grace," Jehan said as he stood and greeted the bishop.

Bishop Obert took his hand firmly and shook it. He looked Jehan in the eyes and said, "I am so sorry for your loss, my friend."

Jehan choked back tears. "She is with God now, your grace."

"Jehan, please," said Obert, pulling him in closer, "We were very nearly brothers. How many times must I insist you call me Obert?"

Jehan glanced back and forth nervously, checking for potential eavesdroppers. "Might we speak of this elsewhere?"

Obert nodded. "You are here for a visit, then?"

"Yes," said Jehan, his eyes never leaving Obert's. "I'd like to visit."

"Follow me," said Obert.

The two of them left the sanctuary and the soothing music behind. Jehan followed Obert up a spiral staircase, twisting around inside of one of the church's spires. By the time they reached Obert's quarters at the top of the staircase Jehan was out of breath and felt a sharp pain in his chest. But that soon subsided.

Obert closed and locked the door behind them.

"How is he doing?" asked Jehan.

Obert felt along the ceiling until he found the small bit of string hanging from one of the wooden slats. "He still doesn't speak much. But... all things considered, that may be a good thing."

"Less likely he'll be caught if he doesn't make any noise," said Jehan.

"Are you ready, then?" asked Obert.

"Yes."

Obert pulled on the string and the wooden slat folded down. A ladder extended from the bottom, and through the gap Jehan could see into the attic. He sighed heavily before heading up the ladder.

In the shadows of the attic he could barely make out the shape of the one he was there to see. He was short, hunched over, and one of his arms was far larger than the other. His eyes, far further apart than most men's, glowed red in the darkness, and his white hair reflected what little light there was to reflect. As Jehan entered the attic, this young man was sculpting clay figures into the shapes of little people, undoubtedly one's he'd seen through the tiny window slits in his room.

"Demitri," Jehan said softly, to get his attention.

"Papa!" the boy said, just before hobbling over to Jehan and throwing both of his arms around him in an embrace. His narrow, pointed chin dug into Jehan's sternum. "I not see you so long!" Given how big the boy's tongue was in his mouth, Jehan couldn't imagine how hard it was for him to form each word.

"I know," said Jehan, patting him on the head. "It's been far too long, my boy." Demitri hobbled away from him, grabbed one of the dried clay figures from his shelf, and placed it in Jehan's hand. Jehan looked it over. "Did you make this one yourself?" Demitri nodded, enthusiastically. "You're getting quite good at this!"

Demitri smiled, took the clay figure, and put it back on the shelf. From the table beside his bed he picked up a lump of clay and handed it to Jehan.

Jehan laughed. "I'm afraid I'm nowhere near as good at this as you are, son." When Demitri simply stared at him with that loving smile of his, Jehan started manipulating the clay, trying to sculpt it into the vague shape of a human body. "I actually come with sad news. Do you remember me telling you about your little sister, Corina?" Demitri nodded and tilted his head. Jehan rolled some of the clay into a ball and placed it on top of his figurine, a poor attempt at making a head for the sculpture. "I'm afraid she's passed away. She went to live in Lyr's house."

The loving smile disappeared from Demitri's face, and the boy broke into sobs. Jehan rushed over to him, dropped the clay, and pulled him into another embrace. He buried Demitri's face into his chest, partially to comfort him and partially to muffle his cries.

"Shh... shh... it's alright, my boy," said Jehan, patting him on the head. "You'll still get to see her one day, when you go to Lyr's house."

Demitri sniffled and wiped his tears and nose on Jehan's cassock. Jehan felt for a moment as if he too might start to cry again. "Enough!" he said. "Be strong, boy!"

Slowly Demitri's sobs ebbed, and he pulled away from Jehan.

He cupped his son's sad face in his hands and brushed his hair away from his eyes. "I'm so sorry I haven't come to visit more often. There's just so much on my plate lately."

Demitri said nothing, but merely stared up at Jehan.

"Are you well-fed?" Jehan asked.

Demitri nodded enthusiastically.

"Good."

Jehan spent the next hour just spending time with Demitri, watching him sculpt his little clay statuettes. He was amazed at the level of detail in those faces. How was it that Demitri was able to see so much through those tiny window-slits? Or was he just imagining most of the features?

After the hour was up Jehan stood from the uncomfortable stool where he'd been sitting. "It's time for me to go, Demitri."

Demitri threw his arms around Jehan, nearly knocking him down in the process.

"I know." Jehan held his son tightly. "I'll miss you too."

With that, Jehan descended back down the ladder and closed slat above him.

Obert stood at the bottom. His eyes were glassy and sad, but his mouth smiled at Jehan. "It seems not everything witches create is evil, am I right?"

"Yes," said Jehan. "Strange as it is... occasionally even those devil-worshipers can create wonders. The real crime is not that he was ever created... but rather the curse that's been on him since birth."

"I feel the same," said Obert. The bishop scratched the back of his head, opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again.

"Is there something you wish to say?" asked Jehan. "Speak. I would hear it."

"I love my nephew, almost as much as you love him," said Obert. "He's... well, he's a reminder of the goodness my sister had before she joined that coven and sold her soul."

At her mention Jehan found himself missing Charlot, but considering the nature of their relationship he quickly banished such thoughts as potential adultery of the mind. "He's a wonderful boy."

"But I worry about him," said Obert.

"Because he is witch-born?"

"Yes!" Obert said, raising his voice for a moment, looking at the door nervously, and then returning to a lower tone. "We both know how the Church feels about his kind. Ever since they first started to appear the Church has declared that witch-born should be killed." Jehan rubbed both of his eyes and ran his fingers down his cheeks. Obert continued, "Even now, the Cardinal says that witch-born have the souls of demons and bodies twisted by black magic. That it's even more merciful to kill them than to let them live like that."

"I know what the Cardinal says," said Jehan. "And he's right."

"How can you say that?" Obert raised his voice again.

Jehan raised a finger to his lips to remind Obert to be quiet, lest Demitri hear their argument. Or worse, lest there be eavesdroppers. "How can I say that knowing what a good boy Demitri is?"

"Yes!" Obert hissed.

"Demitri was raised here, in this Church," said Jehan. "By a bishop, no less. Then you have to take into account all of the exorcisms we performed on him when he was only a babe. Do you remember those nights?"

"When storms rolled in and things just... flew off the shelves?" Obert looked down at the ground. "How could I forget?"

"We were sure he would kill us," said Jehan. "He was not even four years of age, but we were certain we were going to die. Nonetheless, for his sake we stayed with it. We kept up our prayers. We poured holy water and anointing oil on him over and over. He battled, and he screamed, and he flailed, but we held him still. Until we knew the demons were gone." Jehan rolled up his sleeve to reveal four scars in the shape of nail-marks on his forearm. "I'm still marked from that night. This is not the only scar he gave me. Demitri is the exception because of everything we went through to help him, and he's still cursed. So, yes, I agree with the Cardinal. For all other witch-born in the world it would be far better to simply kill them. Not all of them can be cured as he was. Most are already too far gone."

"You really believe that?" Obert asked.

"I do," said Jehan. "You remember the story of the witch-born who cursed an entire town with plague, yes? Or the one about the witch-born that set fire to an inn in the capital? The witch-born who caused an entire congregation at mass to fall into epileptic fits? They're dangerous, Obert! The devils send them to bring misery and destruction to our world, and they do!"

"So... so, that's it, then? The solution is 'kill them all?'"

"All but one," Jehan said.

Obert stared at Jehan in silence, his mouth hanging open. Jehan couldn't blame him for his shock. Sure, the bishop heard that kind of talk all the time, but not usually from him. Did Obert expect Jehan to be more sympathetic to the witch-born because he had a bastard son who was witch-born himself? Foolish. It was because of Demitri that Jehan truly understood just how dangerous the witch-born were.

"Don't worry," said Jehan, patting Obert on the shoulder. "I won't tell a soul about this conversation. Had it been anyone else suggesting the Cardinal was wrong about this I would have turned them over in a heartbeat. But you I love as a brother." Jehan slipped on his gloves as he prepared to leave. "Besides, I know you would never do anything to undermine the Church's efforts to rid this world of the witch-born."