The Ant Returns - Chapter V - Dans Sacré-Coeur de Sainte-Madeleine (In which Rob gets a taste of the Inquisition) (823 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: The_Ant
Rating: 1.76 on 28 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-02-03 13:34:54 EST
(Prologue - http://www.ubersite.com/m/57985)
(Chapter I - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58042)
(Chapter II - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58125)
(Chapter III - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58205)
(Chapter IV - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58437)
==Chapter V - Dans Sacré-Coeur de Sainte-Madeleine==
When the party arrived at Sacré-Coeur de Sainte-Madeleine, Rob's first thought was that the church suffered from delusions of grandeur.
They had passed through the center of town, crossing the hulking and sturdy Chandon bridge, and Rob's heightened Ant senses, the overwhelming input of which he had once learned and now forgotten to selectively ignore, were battered.
A few of the main streets were cobbled, with shallow gutters on each side. The gutters were clogged with refuse. Sluggish rivulets of urine and wastewater washed over and around the rotting leftovers of meals and unidentifiable clumps of decaying matter. Most of the streets were simply hard-packed earth, and they had soaked up and absorbed so much waste over the years that they were nearly black.
Before crossing the bridge, the largest building he saw was a grim three-story edifice that looked like a combination meeting-hall and center of government. It sure didn't look like a hotel, even though a faded sign over the wide doorway read, Hotel Cru. In front of the hotel was a dry fountain topped by a bronze lion. The lion was covered in pigeon shit, and two of the culprits were dozing on the lion's metal mane.
At that point Rob could already see that the spire of the bell tower, on the far side of the bridge, was the tallest structure in town.
Between the church and the hotel was a cluster of one and two story buildings bisected by the Chandon, which was a feeble creek with greenish waters, and the bridge, an overwrought structure of stone and mortar that probably could have withstood a cannon assault.
The façades of most of the buildings were clean, but as the horse he was on carried Rob along the street he could see into the narrow alleys and lanes between the houses, dark, dank, filthy corridors over which loomed walls streaked with generations' worth of piss and shit from countless chamber pots emptied out of the windows.
Since the inhabitants of Pont Chandon didn't seem to make a whole lot of effort to keep things clean, Rob figured they got pretty jazzed when they got a good rainfall to wash things down.
People came and went, all of them eyeing Rob with open curiosity.
A man leading a mule pulling a small covered wagon filled with bread, loaves of every shape and color. Three barefoot girls wearing little more than rags, who looked as if they had been walking or playing in mud. A woman toting a wide basket on one arm who paused, crossed herself, and hurried on.
Few shops seemed to bear any signs, yet in wide doorways or on carts set to either side of the doors Rob caught glimpses of bread loaves, wedges and wheels of cheese, jugs of what had to be wine, baskets of fruit and vegetables, bolts of cloth, freshly-milled lumber, and bloody cuts of meat.
Once over the bridge the clotted gutters and soiled alleys became scarce, and pristine buildings surrounded a wide square where the road opened up before the church.
The inhabitants of this side of the Chandon appeared to be faring better than most. A young boy who looked like an arrogant little snot, wearing a short blue jacket with brass buttons and new shiny shoes, sneered at Rob. A man in a garish red coat and a hat with a bobbing white feather shielded the eyes of a woman in a high powdered wig and a voluminous green dress containing enough material to clothe the three little girls with muddy feet many times over.
The shops here were upscale, topped with bright signs, fronted by elegant doors with polished knockers, and faced with glass windows behind which the expensive wares were on display; watches, writing implements, apparel that was more costume than clothing, and books.
A well-heeled man of about thirty years stepped out of a doorway with a small, heavy chest under one arm, and a girl on the other.
The Abbé, lost in thought, did not notice the man.
Rob noticed him, thought he looked very familiar, and tried to remember if he had any ancestors who could have been French.
The girl was hidden in a silk cape and hood, but Rob saw her brush aside ringlets of golden hair as they passed. She received a kiss upon one hand and then her and the man went their separate ways.
Slouching in the next doorway down was a young man wearing a loose white shirt, high boots over dark trousers, and a dark cape. He had long, loose hair the color of piss, and he looked from Rob to the man with the chest and back again, winking at Rob.
Rob wondered what the hell that was all about.
To one side of the square, which was being swept clean by a man with a nose so big it had to comprise at least a third of his cranial mass, was a guano-free fountain, topped by a veiled nymph holding up a cornucopia from which clear water flowed.
Across from the fountain, half-hidden in the shadow of the church, was a guillotine. The machine was solidly built of polished wood and gleaming metal which sat upon a raised platform, and it was so clean it could have been constructed yesterday.
The Abbé glanced at the device and muttered, "Like us, it is but an instrument of a righteous and wrathful God."
"It does not look like it has been used," Rob said.
"Not yet," the Abbé agreed, "But it is ready. It is ready."
"It rests close to the church," Rob said, thinking out loud. "On church ground. On sacred ground?"
The Abbé scowled and said nothing.
The church was constructed of heavy, dark stone on the highest plot of land in the area. It had arches and pinnacles and flying buttresses, and a smaller spire behind the bell tower. The rising sun glinted and danced on gold leaf.
Rob saw an assortment of dour-faced saints looking down on him, each of them frozen in intricate stained-glass windows. The wide, worn stairs led up to massive doors of black oak, which were covered in minute carvings of angels and sinners. The church wasn't very big, but it had been built big.
To one side of the structure was a small cemetery. To the other, was what looked like a small garden.
Overlooking all of this from the top of the church were a few ravens, and more than a dozen large gargoyles. Rob thought he saw one of them move and shook his head, figuring it was just a bird shifting around.
"Three generations!" the Abbé called back to Rob. "Skills passed from father to son, lifetimes given in pious service to our loving Lord. Service and commitment that continues to this day. And this is the result!"
Rob wasn't impressed. He saw a town in dire need of care and maintenance squandering its time and resources on a single building.
The party veered around the church along a path of cinders, into and then through the garden to the Abbé's private grounds. There was a fine home and a stable tucked behind the church, less a large cottage than a small mansion.
The Abbé has done well for himself, Rob thought.
The riders dismounted at the stable, where two grubby boys came and took the reins of the horses.
"Send word to the Comte," the Abbé snapped to one of the boys. "He must bear witness. He asked to be present if any unusual strangers were brought into the village. Get him now!"
Rob was lead to the back of the church and down a flight of stairs.
Inside, the basement of the church was gloomy and damp. A log popped and hissed in a fireplace in the corner. Near it was metal rack holding what looked like an assortment of clubs.
Brother Noiret produced a large key, unlocking and pulling open a heavy door reinforced with bands of iron, beyond which were more stairs leading downward. The clubs in the rack by the fire were actually torches, and Noiret lit four of them in the fireplace.
With the Abbé leading the way, Rob went down the long row of stairs, the dampness in the air becoming chill.
*
A storybook dungeon.
Rough rock walls sweating niter. A brazier containing a crackling fire, nasty iron implements. Slender tongues of flame licking out of sconces on the walls. Cobwebs dangling from the vaulted ceiling, adorned with the dry, hollowed-out husks of a thousand insects. A man-sized metal cage. A row of shackles fixed to one wall. A table with leather restraints at both ends, the wood stained with old blood. A chain of massive iron links depending from the ceiling. At the end of the chain, rusted manacles. Held within the manacles, Rob.
When the soldiers and Noiret had rushed him at the bottom of the stairs, Rob briefly considered fighting back—then he thought of old Béatrice, and let them pull off his coat, search him for weapons, and then fix the manacles to his wrists, trying not to show any pain when Noiret went to one side and turned a wheel in a shadowed alcove. With a loud ratcheting sound Rob's arms were hoisted above his head.
He was left alone, dangling like a piece of meat, for at least a day, maybe longer.
The flames in the sconces guttered and died. Bugs explored him in the dark. After some time, he drifted away, coming back to pain and a distant cock-crow.
He heard a door pried open above, heard boots on the stairs. His captors returned, reignited the sconces, shared quiet banter while waiting for the Abbé to descend.
The mercenaries were stationed near the stairs.
The one who had watched over the road when Rob first met the Abbé was named Huber. He stood at ease, keeping his hands busy. The fingers of the right were caressing the pommel of a saber hung at his side. The fingers of the left were energetically burrowing into his nostrils.
Fassel, having replaced his reformed épée, leaned against the stairs and yawned.
Brother Noiret stood between Rob and the alcove, cracking his knuckles and grinning. One of his teeth was dark brown, the others cracked and broken. All of his teeth shared a uniform coat of what looked like mold.
The Abbé seated himself in a comfortable high-backed chair. He sipped wine from a tin cup and looked Rob up and down.
He leaned over a small table and picked up a finely carved pen, dipping the nib into a small bottle of ink and writing on a sheet of rough paper. Talking softly to himself, the Abbé said, "On this, the 25th day of June in the year of our Lord one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-four, we gather in the task of holy inquisition in the matter of a stranger—"
Rob tuned out the Abbé, his mind suddenly filled with panic and confusion.
Something was going to happen in just a few days, on the first day of July, but Rob had no idea what. He was certain that he had to stop whatever the hell was going to happen any way he could.
The Dominican now reached out, ripped off Rob's shirt, and then stood back.
The Abbé set down the pen, retrieved a small, heavy, crumbling book from the table, and began peppering Rob with questions about God and Jesus and Mary and the devil. He laboriously asked Rob if he knew this demon or that demon, actually naming them.
"Abbadon. Abduscius. Agniel. Baalberith. Baphomet. Bresches. Beleth." The Abbé's voice was calm, but he was watching Rob with restrained eagerness.
"Belial. Caacrinolous. Caim. Chemosh. Dagon. Decarabia. Draci. Dumah."
Rob replied, "Je nuh say quah," after every name was announced, saying it so often he actually began to sound bored.
"Elimih. Exael. Flouron. Forcas. Forneus. Fumaroth. Gaap. Gadriel. Gomory. Gressil. Hael. Halpas."
Hours passed. The Abbé exhausted the resources of one book without results, and opened another.
Rob began to nod, and a bucket of cold, foul water was splashed on him.
"This church has a unique approach to baptism," Rob mumbled.
The Abbé wasn't amused. He gestured to Noiret, who was near the alcove, picking his teeth with a splinter. With another turn of the wheel Rob was hoisted upward until he was balancing on his toes.
"Comfortable?" the Abbé asked. He frowned, thinking the man was nothing but muscle and bone, and wondered if he could knock this stranger down in hand-to-hand combat.
"Yes," Rob replied, hearing someone else coming down the stairs. "Thank you."
Noiret suddenly slapped Rob, putting all of his muscle behind the blow.
Rob tasted blood, and spit it out. Little colored blobs danced across his field of vision. They looked like tiny prancing pigs. He stared to smile at that, and Noiret lashed out again.
Anticipating the blow, every muscle in Rob's body tensed. There was a smack and a cry of pain, and Rob was surprised to see Noiret cradling an injured wrist.
"Remarkable," the Abbé said. "What do you think of this, mon ami, le Comte?"
A man in a flowing black cloak paused on the last stair. His receding hair was thin and gray, tied back with a ribbon of black velvet. He had a full beard and mustache, silver-white and carefully trimmed. He wore a jeweled patch over his left eye, a dark coat and trousers, glossy leather boots that came up to his knees.
Rob wondered who this fancy clown was. Probably some rich guy who paid a little coin to watch poor slobs get roughed up.
"I think it is fascinating," the man said, apparently delighted to lay eyes on Rob, and secretly delighted by the lack of recognition in Rob's eyes. "But you are wasting your time, Lucien. This one is not in league with the devil."
"Let the church decide that, my friend," the Abbé said, rising from the chair. "I believe this man, if he is a man, to be a threat to the sanctity of the community."
"Since the subject of discussion is community," the man wearing the eye-patch said, "did you happen to see Henri Collison today?"
"Henri? No."
The man on the stairs glared, furious.
Rob was trying to remember where he had heard the Comte's voice before... and why the name Collison struck a nerve. He was convinced the Comte's voice was familiar. The man had the same kind of accent as Huber and Fassel, the Prussian mercenaries, and Rob was sure he had once talked to the man, but that was clearly impossible... wasn't it?
He was so caught up in this speculation that when the Abbé used a triple-folded cloth to lift a two-foot iron bar out of the brazier, he only glanced at it with disinterest.
Of course, his interest was suddenly piqued when the Abbé turned and began walking steadily closer, the iron bar held out before him, its smoking, red-hot tip getting too close for comfort.
On the end of the bar was a glowing, red, stylized P.
"Paganus," the Abbé whispered.
Rob considered lashing out at the Abbé, but it was already too late, and as the end of the metal bar, which was really just a branding iron, was pressed against his left shoulder, he shouted some half-formed nonsense, smelled and heard his skin cooking like bacon, and passed out when the pain hit him.
The Abbé stared intently at Rob's hanging form. A minute passed. Then two. No devils flew out of the stranger's mouth, nor did any imps escape from his anus.
The Comte sighed. He moved his jeweled patch aside and with one finger he gently stroked a circular scar above his eye, which was dead and sightless, reflecting the light from the sconces like tarnished pewter.
"There could still be something inside this pagan," the Abbé said. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. "Some hidden malignancy."
"Enough," the Comte said, his voice growing harsh. "Either cut him open from toes to tresses and discover for yourself he is just a man, or let him go. I have people who can keep a hidden eye on him, should he do anything... unseemly. We have other matters to discuss. Acts of treachery, committed against the people, in this very town."
The Abbé, intrigued by the Comte's words, relented. He turned to Huber and Fassel and said, "Return him to the farm, and bring back Guertain and Rancon.
As Rob was released from the manacles and carried up the stairs like a sack of turnips, the Abbé took a sip of wine and then threw his cup at the wall. He had done this before. Usually, those he burned or cut died long before any dark spirits manifested themselves, crying out their last hope that someone might intervene. And when they were dead, the Abbé would get angry, feel cheated, and throw his glass at the wall. Eventually, he started taking his wine in a tin cup, wondering if he was going mad, wondering if the living gargoyle he had seen late one moonlit night a month ago, leaping off the roof of the church and sailing away on wings of translucent membrane, had been nothing but a twisted waking dream made real by his drive to uncover and vanquish the evils he suspected of hiding in people.
"Not to worry," the Comte said, clapping the Abbé on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll exorcise a demonic presence some day, Lucien."
"I hope so, Comte Pfaltzer," the Abbé said wistfully. "I truly hope so."
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 11:53:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:24:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-02-16 14:51:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-08 15:22:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-02-05 00:02:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Don't let some noob get to you...
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-04 12:42:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Falconer (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:29:34 (#)
Ranking: 2
Fantastic, i'm intrigued as to why Pfaltzer let him go...
--
Falc... Pfaltzer could kill him, but with the Collison family line intact the Ant will just return again to stop Pfaltzer... P's concern is getting rid of Rob's ancestor, Henri, in a way that is not disruptive to the flow of time.
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-02-03 22:31:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice.
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (user info) at 2005-02-03 22:19:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Mitch is just a loser with no talent. Even I do better.
I think he just wants to brag about being the cause of getting something on most heated. Pity the noob doesn't know how it works.
That said, I want more.
Although, if you've been following the Elemental series, you know you've got competition.
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 20:52:34 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
yes keep em coming, jack the uberlord mccullum almighty baron of uberland.
leitungswasser von wasserhahn.
And i'll be the first one to actually read every word and speak/rate my opinion.
I'd like to mention that this WHOLE review trail started with my one-word review: "yawn."
I never knew a word could be so powerful.
Thanks jack... your insecurity has given me more attention than i could've ever hoped for (and it also brings out your true character, 'uberlord').
Careful, the emperor has no clothes.
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-02-03 20:05:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Keep 'em coming, Jack.
As for Mitchapalooka:
You know what they say about people who live in glass houses......
Everything you ever wanted to know about Mitchapalooza
User id: 15851
Registered on or around: 2005-01-26 03:27:01
# Messages posted: 2
# Reviews written: 41
# Times these posts have been reviewed : 50
# Hits: 460
Average rating of all messages: -0.84
Everything you ever wanted to know about Jack_McCallum (Current Uberlord)
User id: 11326
Registered on or around: 2004-08-16 18:09:01
# Messages posted: 117
# Reviews written: 1637
# Times these posts have been reviewed : 1987
# Hits: 46655
Average rating of all messages: 1.14
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 18:47:31 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
jack.
-2.
you have no talent.
deal with it.
ps: yawn.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:42:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:29:32 (#)
Ranking: -2
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wow jack... tough words (well, for you anyway). careful, your insecurities are showing.
And unlike your balls, they seem HUGE. not hugged enough by your mom when you were younger?
Also..... yawn = "involuntary reaction to fatigue or boredom"... and your dumbass stories always provoke both fatigue AND boredom.
PS speaking of 'no balls and a big mouth', say hi to your dad for me.
--
-2 only works once, fuckhead.
Submitted by Falconer (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:29:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fantastic, i'm intrigued as to why Pfaltzer let him go...
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:29:32 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:59:08 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:21:04 (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
--
Since this implies you can do better, I'll see ya in Ubermadness, pal.
Unless of course, you are a noob with no balls and a big mouth.
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wow jack... tough words (well, for you anyway). careful, your insecurities are showing.
And unlike your balls, they seem HUGE. not hugged enough by your mom when you were younger?
Also..... yawn = "involuntary reaction to fatigue or boredom"... and your dumbass stories always provoke both fatigue AND boredom.
PS speaking of 'no balls and a big mouth', say hi to your dad for me.
Submitted by Remission (user info) at 2005-02-03 17:17:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I love this series!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:59:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:21:04 (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
--
Since this implies you can do better, I'll see ya in Ubermadness, pal.
Unless of course, you are a noob with no balls and a big mouth.
Submitted by stardamage (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:29:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
These just keep getting better. I found myself worried abour Rob and whether he'd start remembering things. That's always a good sign. Keep it up, please!
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-03 16:21:04 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-02-03 15:20:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:49:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I can tell you've done your literary research for this series. Excellent skills, Jack!
Submitted by ess-arr (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:33:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
incredible detail... I likesy
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:17:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:01:53 (#)
Ranking: 2
These parts are amazing in a completely different way than the original series. The originals were like a fascinating comic book, I could picture the characters. These bring to mind scenes, as if I am watching a movie.
I know you probably can't tell *ahem*, but I just love this series.
--
Glad you're enjoying it.
The original was written for a laugh-- I really enjoyed the all-out grossness of it. But I came to really like Rob (both The Ant and the real-life Rob) and Schroedecker, so I brought them back and found I had a lot more to say about them.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:15:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2005-02-03 13:47:48 (#)
Ranking: 2
Does this mean I have to go back and read the rest?
--
Hell, yeah. Take your time. It won't be going anywhere. Understanding what has gone before will make the payoffs at the end better. Or so I hope.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:14:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Adjomak (user info) at 2005-02-03 13:42:44 (#)
Ranking: 2
The story keeps getting better and better, with more fine attention to detail. But seriously, are you telling me that one stone to the temple was enough to give Rob amnesia? I mean, he's got 100 times the human strength, and yet he can be taken out that easily?
--
Remember, as stated in The Ant, Rob is very strong, but NOT invulnerable. Unless he anticipates a hit, he cannot protect himself against it. Which could make for a very dangerous situation, in the guillotine, for example.
THANK YOU for appreciating the detail. I actually did a shitload of reading on France during Revolution for this silly shit.
That's a nice benefit of writing. Enforced research = enforced learning.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:08:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Kicker of all ass indeed.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-02-03 14:01:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
These parts are amazing in a completely different way than the original series. The originals were like a fascinating comic book, I could picture the characters. These bring to mind scenes, as if I am watching a movie.
I know you probably can't tell *ahem*, but I just love this series.
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2005-02-03 13:47:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Does this mean I have to go back and read the rest?
Submitted by Adjomak (user info) at 2005-02-03 13:42:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The story keeps getting better and better, with more fine attention to detail. But seriously, are you telling me that one stone to the temple was enough to give Rob amnesia? I mean, he's got 100 times the human strength, and yet he can be taken out that easily?