Sleep eluded him. Marcel turned restlessly on his pallet, its straw rustling with every movement. In truth, he dreaded sleep. In his sleep he was prey to dreams. Awake, he was prey to Daedalus. Today he had served as an acolyte at mass. As he'd lit the tall altar candle, young Sean, sent up from the village to assist here and there, had turned to him and said, "Come to New Orleans." Startled, Marcel had almost dropped his tall taper. He'd seen the blankness in Sean's eyes and realized the boy had no memory of having spoken.
So waking hours were unbearably tense. And sleep-the dreams that twisted through his mind, making him wake sobbing, tears running down his face…
Death would be such a sweet release.
If only, if only…
The small cell he'd occupied for the last five years had become such a refuge for him. He'd almost become hopeful, as his days blended into one another, the seasons flowing through his hands like rain. He worked hard, studied hard, prayed with the fervor of the converted. And now, after everything, it was being taken away from him. His hope, his peace, his possible salvation, all being snatched away by Daedalus. And for what?
Marcel turned again, his face to the stone wall. From a foot away he felt the chill wafting off the stones and he closed his eyes. His single candle had guttered and gone out hours ago. Soon it would be time for matins, and he would have passed the brief night with no sleep. Through the one small, high window, he had seen the sliver of moon arc across the sky and disappear from view.
Then it was there with no warning: Marcel was once again standing in a circle before the huge cypress tree. Melita was beginning the incantation. He could see everyone's faces: Daedalus, watchful, intrigued; Jules, frightened, unable to move; Ouida, curious; Manon, excited, like the child she was. Himself. Curious, eager, yet with a dark weight on his chest: fear.
The storm, the crack of lightning. The white glow on everyone's faces, sending their features into sharp relief, like a frieze. He saw Cerise, her face young and open, her belly heavy and round. The child not due for almost two months. Then the blast of power, striking them all like a fist. His mind clasping the energy like a snake, writhing within him. The exaltation… the unbelievable power, the fierce, proud hunger they all felt, tasting that power. The gurgling spring, bubbling up from the ground, dark, like blood. Then the lightning flashed and they saw it was blood, and Cerise was holding her belly, her face twisting in pain. The blood around her ankles, Petra springing to her side, Richards face so young and white…
Marcel hadn't moved, had watched everything in a stupor, still drunk with the power that flowed through him.
Cerise had died as everyone crowded around her. Everyone except him and Melita, Melita had also been reveling in the power, had glanced across at him with a supremely victorious expression. The power lit her in glory, and she felt only an exquisite joy so sharp it bordered on pain. He saw that, saw Melitas face, as her younger sister died in childbirth on the ground.
Petra had held up the bloody, wriggling infant, small and weak, but mewling, alive,
"Whose child is this?" she had called, her voice barely audible over the pouring rain that was already washing Cerises body clean. "Whose child is this?"
No one had answered. Cerise had died without revealing the name of her child's father.
But Marcel had known.
Now, in his cell, he was jarred by the deep, pealing sound of the bells announcing matins, calling the faithful to morning prayer. It was still dark outside. Automatically, Marcel rose and walked to the chipped metal basin that stood on a rough table. He splashed icy water on his face. The water mingled with his tears and left his face flushed and tingling.
Moving as if drawn by invisible thread, Marcel plodded silently down the dark stone hall. Time to pray for his soul once again. To beg for mercy from the all-merciful Father,
It would do no good.