Charlotte was relieved to leave the cave at last, although it was unclear how long she had spent there, and Madame Rolland seemed unable to advise her. It had been some days and nights, at least. The late afternoon was warm, quite cloudless. Her injured shoulder made movement of her upper body awkward and painful. Madame Rolland followed, urging her on, muttering angrily upon encountering any tree roots, rocks or uneven ground that hampered their progress. She chattered as they walked, telling stories of her life in the forest, explaining the magic. How to make vinegar, a prayer for warding off foxes. The summer a noblewoman came to consult her for her warts. Starlings were not to be trusted. Circles and signs and incantations. There was an order to the world, she said, to the movement of the stars and the life of plants and animals – but one might, with the proper tools, alter its course.
‘Our gift is to be able to interpret it,’ she wheezed. ‘The magic is imperfect, of course. It’s like throwing a line into a river or stream – you can never be sure exactly what kind of fish you’ll get until you see it on the bank. You can try, of course, and I’ve seen people use all sorts of special tricks to catch the fish they want, but it doesn’t always work. Don’t fret, woman. It will become clear. There is hope and trust. Command the elements and they can be yours.’
Their progress was slow, but, eventually, they cleared the forest and arrived at a barren crossroad. Madame Rolland called out for her to stop. Charlotte was sweating, breathing heavily. The bandage on her hand was moist with blood. The sun was sinking slowly into the west and the pale dirt of each of the four roads faded into the distance, their surfaces rutted from the carts that had travelled this way. There was no wind in this part of the forest, only silence, like that of an abandoned world. Soon it would be night and Charlotte felt uneasy. She worried about wild animals, about mercenaries and ghosts.
Madame Rolland, now at her side, surveyed the site and nodded approvingly. She squatted, produced a tinderbox and, after several attempts, managed to light a lantern.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘take your knife and draw a circle the way I told you. Come, woman. Quickly. While the time is right.’
Charlotte pulled the knife Madame Rolland had given her from her dress pocket, crouched down and, ensuring she remained in its centre, she carefully scratched a wide circle around her in the gravel road. The sound of the blade across the pebbles was loud and even, like a little animal’s spitty hiss. Then, prompted once more by Madame Rolland, she drew a triangle within the circle, dividing it into three more or less equal parts. This, the old woman had told her, was part of the sacred formula.
‘Now. Write the letters J, H and S along the bottom length of the triangle. Make it precise. And draw a cross at the beginning and end of those letters. There. Yes. Like so. Good.’
Charlotte hesitated. She felt sick with fear. Madame Rolland, perhaps sensing her anxiety, shuffled over to her.
‘Remember what I have been telling you. Treat him as you would a disobedient cur. Firmly, and with authority. It is sometimes difficult, for men do not take kindly to a woman telling them what to do. They think they are something better than they are, always unwilling to know what they truly deserve. They are like dogs; you must never let them sense your fear. And – most important of all – be very careful of any deals he might try to strike with you, for such creatures can never be trusted.’
‘And I can send him back whenever I wish?’
‘Of course. He is yours, madame. You will summon him and you are able to banish him. Like any old servant.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘A single word said three times and he will be returned, as it is written in your book. Sending him on his way is easier than calling him up.’
She paused again. The lantern on the ground had attracted a frantic maelstrom of insects that eddied in its light. Around they went. Closer, further away, now closer. Gone again. The night beyond the lantern’s meagre glow was black and vast and filled with a multitude of unknown things. She thought of Nicolas, her poor son. I would walk through fire.
‘Come, Madame Picot. It’s time. Take up the book. Close your eyes. Say the words. We are between the dog and the wolf. When all great and wondrous things happen.’
Dusk, the old woman meant; when the moon rose to replace the sun in the sky. Charlotte hesitated. She looked around, as if farewelling the world she had known. She held her book in one hand and the knife in her other. Finally, she closed her eyes and listened to the voices. They swirled in the air around her, close to her face, like smoke, like moths, they whispered to her and to her alone. And she repeated what they said.
‘In the name of Adonay, Eloim, Ariel, Jehovah and Tagla. I beseech you to release a spirit from his domain to come and speak with me in a decent voice without undue noise or stench. To do as I command. Venite, venite. In the name of God and our Father. Come now, without delay. Venite, venite. In subito. Ainsi soit-il.’
A wind through the forest’s many trees. Charlotte opened her eyes. She waited. Nothing. She was relieved, disappointed, exhilarated. Time passed. She turned to Madame Rolland.
‘But there is no one coming.’
‘Don’t move,’ the old woman hissed. ‘These things take time.’
‘How long?’
‘As long as it takes. But you must wait inside the circle. It’s your only protection. You cannot leave now. But I must go. Goodbye, Madame Picot. May God be with you.’
‘No, madame. Don’t leave me here alone!’
But Madame Rolland had turned away. ‘Don’t fret. You’ll not be alone for long.’
‘Please. What if some other man comes to do me harm? Thieves? How will I know?’
‘Oh, you’ll know.’
And with that the old woman shuffled away until she disappeared from sight, as if borne on the evening’s warm tide.
Charlotte glanced around at the forest, up at the darkening sky, at the road stretching out until it dissolved from sight. She considered the circle in which she stood, and she felt even more afraid.
The night passed. The lantern’s light grew faint and eventually it sputtered out. Such awful solitude. She prayed under her breath. ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .’
Overhead the immense apparatus of God wheeled ceaselessly around the earth. She kneeled on the hard road and licked salty sweat from her lips. A nightingale sang out – tremulous, urgent, quite beautiful. Crickets, the insistent musical abrasion of their tiny legs. A petal tumbled from its stalk to the forest floor. She heard the scrabble of animals over fallen logs – foxes, perhaps, or martens – their paws on rotting wood, pausing to scratch behind an ear, blinking. The smell of soil filled her nostrils, decaying bugs, the stink of a dead hare several leagues away.
Then finally, towards dawn, she detected a human noise. Petrified, exhilarated, she stayed her breathing and cocked her head to listen. Dear God, what had she done? There, footsteps on the road, a long way away but drawing closer, a man murmuring a children’s rhyme to himself.
And, by this time almost familiar, her heart singing its own strange song. Your blood, your blood, your blood.
She stood and tucked her knife beneath her shawl.