Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

Isabelle waited by the cart, the others sleeping. She listened for every sound. Close by she knew the source of the Tarn welled up and began its long descent down the mountain. She would never see the river again, never feel its touch. Silently she began to weep for the first time since the Duc's steward woke them in the night.

Then she felt eyes upon her, but not a stranger's eyes. A familiar feel, the feel of the river on her skin. Glancing around, she saw him leaning against a rock not a stone's throw away. He didn't move when she looked at him.

Isabelle wiped her wet face and walked over to the shepherd. They held each other's eyes. Isabelle reached up and touched the scar on his cheek.

– How did you get this?

– From life.

– What is your name?

– Paul.

– We're leaving. To Switzerland.

He nodded, his dark eyes calming her.

– Remember me.

He nodded again.

– Come, Isabelle, she heard Etienne whisper behind her. What are you doing there?

– Isabelle, Paul repeated softly. He smiled, his teeth bright with moonlight. Then he was gone.

– The house. The barn. Our bed. The big pig and her four babies. The bucket in the well. Mémé's brown shawl. My doll that Bertrand made for me. The Bible.

Marie was listing all the things they had lost. At first Isabelle couldn't hear her over the sound of the wheels. Then she understood.

– Hush! she cried.

Marie stopped. Or at least stopped saying them aloud: Isabelle could see her lips move.

She never referred to Jean.

Isabelle's stomach tightened when she thought of the Bible.

– Could it still be there? she asked Etienne softly. They had reached the River Lot at the bottom of the other side of Mont Lozère; Isabelle was helping Etienne guide the horse through the water.

– Hidden in that niche in the chimney, she added, it might have been protected from the fire. They would never have found it.

He glanced at her wearily.

– We have nothing left and Papa is dead, he replied. The Bible is no help now. It is not worth anything to us now.

But its words are worth everything, she thought. Isn't that why we are leaving, for those very words?

Sometimes when Isabelle rested in the cart, facing backwards out over the land they had covered, she thought she saw her father running along the road after them. She would squeeze her eyes shut for a moment; when she opened them he had disappeared. Occasionally a real person took his place, a woman standing by the road, men scything or raking or digging in the fields, a man riding an ass. All stood still and watched them pass.

Sometimes boys Jacob's age threw stones at them and Etienne had to keep Petit Jean from fighting back. Marie would stand at the very end of the cart, looking back at the strange boys. She was never hit by the rocks. Once Hannah was: it was only when Etienne turned to speak to her long after the boys were gone that he saw blood trickling down the side of her face from the top of her head. She continued to stare straight ahead as Isabelle leaned over to dab gently at the blood with a piece of dampened cloth.

Marie began listing everything she could see.

– There's a barn. And there's a crow. And there's a plough. And there's a dog. And there's a church needle. And there's a pile of hay on fire. And there's a fence. And there's a log. And there's an axe. And there's a tree. And there's a man in the tree.

Isabelle looked up when Marie stopped.

The man had been hanged from the branch of a small olive tree that could barely hold his weight. They stopped and stared at the body, naked but for a black hat rammed over his brow. His penis stood out stiffly like a branch. Then Isabelle saw the red hands, looked more closely at the face and drew in her breath sharply.

– It's Monsieur Marcel! she cried before she could stop herself.

Etienne clucked and began to run, pulling the horse with him, and they quickly left the vision behind, the boys glancing back several times until the body was out of sight.

For a few hours afterwards Marie was silent. When she began to list things once more, she avoided mentioning anything made by men. They reached a village and she simply repeated: – And there's the ground. And there's the ground – over and over until they had passed through.

They had halted at a stream to let the horse drink when an old man appeared on the opposite bank.

– Don't stop here, he said abruptly. Don't stop at all until you reach Vienne. It is very bad here. And don't go near St Etienne or Lyons. He disappeared into the woods.

They did not stop that night. The horse plodded on exhausted while Hannah and the children slept in the cart and Etienne and Isabelle took turns leading. They hid during the day in a pine forest. When it was dark Etienne hitched up the horse and led it back onto the road. A moment later a group of men emerged from the trees on either side and surrounded them.

Etienne halted the horse. One of the men lit a torch; Isabelle could see the axes and pitchforks among them. Etienne handed the horse's rope to Isabelle, reached into the cart and pulled out the axe. He set the head carefully on the ground and gripped the end of the handle.

Everyone stood motionless. Only Hannah's lips moved in a silent prayer.

The men seemed unsure how to begin. Isabelle stared at the one who held the torch, watching his Adam's apple dart up and down. Then she felt a tickling at her ear: Marie had moved to the side of the cart and was whispering something.

– What is it? Isabelle murmured, still looking at the man and trying not to move her lips.

– That man with the fire. Tell him about God. Tell him what God wants him to do.

– What does God want him to do?

– To be good and not to sin, she replied firmly. And tell him we are not staying here.

Isabelle licked her lips. Her mouth was dry.

– Monsieur, she began, addressing the man with the torch. Etienne and Hannah jerked their heads at the sound of her voice.

– Monsieur, we are on our way to Geneva. We are not stopping here. Please let us pass.

The men stamped their feet. A few chuckled. The man with the torch stopped swallowing.

– Why should we? he demanded.

– Because God does not want you to sin. Because murder is a sin.

She was shaking and could say nothing more. The man with the torch took a step forward and Isabelle saw the long hunting knife in his belt.

Then Marie spoke, the metal in her voice ringing out through the woods.

– Notre Père qui es aux cieux, ton nom soit sanctifié , she called out.

The man stopped.

– Ton règne vienne, ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel .

A pause, then two voices continued.

Donne-nous aujourd'hui notre pain quotidien . Jacob's voice rattled like pebbles underfoot. Pardonne-nous nos péchés, comme aussi nous pardonnons ceux qui nous ont offencés .

Isabelle, taking a deep breath, added her voice to theirs.

– Et ne nous induis point dans la tentation, mais délivre-nous du malin; car à toi appartient le règne, la puissance, et la gloire à jamais. Amen .

The man with the torch stood between them and the group of men. He stared at Marie, the silence stronger than ever.

– If you hurt us, she said, God will hurt you. He will hurt you very very badly.

– And what will he do to us, ma petite ? the man asked, amused.

– Hush, Marie! Isabelle whispered.

– He will throw you in the fire! And you won't die, not right away. You will lie in it and then your guts will begin to ooze and boil. And your eyes will get bigger and bigger until pop! They explode!

This was no lesson from Monsieur Marcel. Isabelle recognized the details: Petit Jean had thrown a frog into the fire once and the children had gathered around to watch its demise.