Strange Isles, Sonorous River

By Edward Sublett

Strange Isles, Sonorous River, is a novel inspired by a real occurrence in the south of France in the 1950’s, when an entire village experienced an inexplicable outbreak of physical and psychological disorders: normal men, women and children, gradually become psychotic as they experience horrific hallucinations, seemingly endless insomnia, and death.

An American writer, Damon Cristann, who, after wandering aimlessly about Europe for years, returns to Provence,’ in the south of France, in an attempt to recover his creativity in a place he once loved. He arrives, not only to find love with the mysterious sister-in-law of his publisher, Lydia Lazare, but find he has arrived just as the small French town of St. Martin descends into a mysterious medieval madness. Men, women and children, gradually become psychotic as the "plague" is discovered to be caused by the bread of the village bakeries. Hundreds of insomniacs wander the ancient, narrow streets of St. Martin, night after night, as the town gradually goes mad. All the characters, each wounded by some senseless tragedy in the past, confront again their suffering, trying to find meaning, each in his, or her, own way, including the atheist town doctor, Rousseau, who confronts the scholarly parish priest, Pere Jurrard, in the climatic scenes of the novel. The tragedy is played out against the backdrop of a region which was the crucible of the Cathar heresy-an attempt to explain suffering in the world in the 12th Century- the beginning of the Inquisition, and the slaughter of tens of thousands of Cathars by the "crusaders" from Rome.

The title of the novel originates from the poem, and the spiritual interpretation of the poem, a “Spiritual Canticle,” by St. John of the Cross, confessor to St. Teresa of Avila, and author of the phrase and concept, the “dark night of the soul.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Sublett
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310022029

Book preview

Strange Isles, Sonorous River

A novel by

Edward Sublett

Copyright © 2015 Edward Sublett

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

PROLOGUE

Lightning flashed as the driver leaned over the steering wheel of his car and looked into the darkness. The driver hesitated where he had never hesitated before. Heavy rain changed the colors of the landscape to onyx, the runoff flowing along the curbs of the cobblestone street. Frowning, he looked for something familiar in the dark streets, but what was familiar in the daylight was unrecognizable as part of the black landscape. Lightning danced briefly on the hood of the car. Finally he recognized a sign over a restaurant and he knew where he was and turned right.

Pulling up alongside the curb in front of a small house Rousseau sat still for a moment, his strong hands on the top of the steering wheel. He had a large head, salt and pepper wavy hair, and a thin black moustache.

Looking back over his shoulder toward the umbrella on the rear seat, Rousseau decided it was pointless to use it because by the time he opened it and fumbled with it at the door, he would be wetter than by not using it. Instead, he grasped the medical bag next to him and opened the door. In one motion he opened the door, bag in hand, and ran to the door.

Rain fell on the back of his neck as he knocked loudly. No one responded. He pounded harder. The door swung open slowly and an elderly woman with gray hair in a black dress stood before him.

Ah, Doctor Rousseau, come in.

She stood back quickly to let him out of the rain.

I’m afraid you can do no good. Madame Guierreux is in there with Pere Jurrard. He is giving him the last sacrament.

Dr. Alex Rousseau put his hand on her shoulder as he shut the door. Maybe it’s for the best. His heart has been failing for some time and I know it has been hard on Madame.

Yes, that’s true.

I am glad you could come over, said Rousseau, she will need some company tonight.

The woman nodded her head toward the staircase across the living room, but it was not necessary because Rousseau knew the house well.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Rousseau stopped short of the partially opened door. Inside the room Father Jurrard leaning over Monsieur Guierreux’s motionless body. Rousseau preferred to be gone before the priest arrived. He did not know why it bothered him when he met the priest under these circumstances, but it did. Jurrard was in his seventies, with white, thick straight hair and wire-rimmed glasses, but the lines in his face seemed to reflect more the effects of weather than age.

The doctor thrust his hands into his pockets. He wondered why priests could not retire like other men when they got old. Pere Jurrard ought to have retired long ago. Rousseau did not know why he felt such distaste for older priests more than younger ones. Perhaps it was just this one priest. But, then it was just as well that it was Pere Jurrard; he could not endure Pere Meran at all.

Rousseau saw the priest turn and say something to the woman sitting on the other side of the bed. Then Father Jurrard bent over the man in the bed again and turned with a pained expression to the door. He's gone, thought Rousseau, pushing the door ajar to enter. Leaning over the elderly, white-haired man, Rousseau listened for a pulse. Nothing. The priest was behind him talking quietly to the woman.

Rousseau left the room and went downstairs to summon the undertaker and make out the death certificate. He looked at Jurrard talking to the woman and thought grudgingly that the priest was good at that. Lingering downstairs as Madame Ferney and the priest consoled Madame Guierreux, Rousseau listened to the sound of the clock ticking and the murmur of the rain outside. He wondered how the priest had arrived. Fool probably walked, he thought, listening to the downpour outside.

She will be all right, said the priest walking up to him. She’s a strong woman. I doubt she will need the sedative. At our age, we learn to accept these things, you know. But they were married a long time.

The priest reached for his raincoat, and looked as if he were about to say something, but hesitated.

Here it comes, thought Rousseau, if he calls me my son, I won't be able to stand it!

Alex, the priest began.

Yes? answered Rousseau, irritated.

I'm sorry I make you so uncomfortable at these times. It is my presence that makes you so uncomfortable, isn't it?

No, of course not.

The priest sighed and drew back the curtain to look out into the dim, rainy night. How is Marie? he asked.

She is well. How did you get here? inquired the doctor abruptly.

I walked. I have an umbrella.

Rousseau thought about letting him walk, then said, Come, I'll drive you.

That isn’t necessary; it’s not far, the priest replied.

Come on, said the physician. As the two men left the house and made their way to the sidewalk, Rousseau cursed the weather under his breath.

This is always an unpredictable month, said Jurrard. I can walk to the rectory; really.

Goddamn it, Rousseau muttered. Get in, he said, swinging the car door open. The priest shrugged his shoulders and stepped into the car. The two men drove in silence up the gently sloping hill until the dim lights of the rectory became visible. In a few minutes they were in front of the grey stone building.

They sat in the car looking through the windshield in silence, listening and watching the rain in the dark. They could just make out the dark shadow of the rectory and the two pale windows glimmering in the mist. Father Jurrard hesitated, his hand on the umbrella.

It will be dawn soon, said the priest.

Yes, said Rousseau.

Outside, lightning flashed and was swiftly followed by thunder. Rousseau was staring into the dark, no longer thinking about the priest. Hearing the click of the door handle Rousseau awoke from his reverie and turned to the priest.

Good night, he said.

Good night, replied Jurrard as he stepped from the car.

As Jurrard made his way across the yard, he heard the sound of the car slowly moving on the gravel behind him. In the illumination of another bolt of lightning, he looked up at the church not far away and sensed that something was wrong. Another flash of lightning revealed the broken silhouette of the Virgin atop the tower. Biting his lower lip and quickly turning, Jurrard made his way to the door.

The priest entered the rectory, hanging up his raincoat on the coat rack. He thought it was too early for anyone to be up, but as he looked up the stairs at the end of the foyer, he saw a somewhat shaken Meran coming down the stairs toward him. Almost simultaneously the housekeeper entered from the kitchen.

Did you see? asked Meran. He was a short, heavy man in his late forties with a large pouch around his middle, a round face with thin lips, and a prominent chin.

Father Jurrard turned and looked out the dark window in the direction of the church. Yes, I saw it. The Virgin's statue, you mean.

Yes, said the housekeeper and Meran in unison. Father Meran glared at the housekeeper, but she seemed not to notice his annoyance.

It happened two hours ago, said the housekeeper, her dark eyes wide.

Mlle. Marbeau, please get Pere Jurrard and I some hot tea.

It's a warning, said the gaunt woman, her sharp chin shoved forward. Our Lady is warning us. It happened before the war, and as long as anyone can remember such a thing has been a warning of terrible things to come. She appeared about to continue when Father Meran cut her off.

Omens are superstition! As a good Catholic, you cannot believe in such things, especially in this day and age!

Just the same… said the housekeeper swaying back on her heels.

Please get the good father some hot tea. Can't you see he’s drenching wet?

The housekeeper went off, mumbling, to the kitchen.

Jurrard stood at the front window, listening to the rain and holding back the drapes as he gazed out into the black morning.

Meran walked up beside him and looked out the window toward the place where the church was. Pere Jurrard?

Staring out into darkness, Jurrard said nothing.

Pere Jurrard, are you going deaf?

I'm sorry, what was it? Jurrard said quietly.

As he turned to look at the other priest, Meran dropped gracelessly into a brown leather chair by the window.

It's going to cost the devil to repair it, Father Meran said.

There was silence as Jurrard smiled to himself and turned back to the silence and the dark outside, studying the blackness as he leaned against the window sash.

I suppose everyone will be talking about it in the morning, Meran continued. Mrs. Marbeau will see to that! He put his hand on his forehead. Sometimes these people remind me of peasants in the Middle Ages. I think Sunday I'll give a sermon on superstition.

Jurrard glanced at the other priest with a gleam in his eye. Don't you believe in miracles, Pere Meran? The supernatural?

Meran began to bloat like a toad, then looked ill at ease. I believe in the despicable irresponsibility of lightning.

Jurrard resumed staring out into the darkness, down the road where Alex Rousseau had come and gone. Our Lord does give us warnings, he said softly, as if to himself.

What? said Meran.

Father Jurrard remained silent.

There was the tinkle of teas cups and silverware, and Meran stood up to receive his cup of tea.

Well, said Pere Meran, you can stand there staring into the dark the rest of the night, but I’m taking this up to bed.

Jurrard too retired to his room, just as there was the first hint of morning light. But he had little desire for sleep. He paced the floor until his room was filled with light, hesitating occasionally before his desk to glance at the historical monograph on which he had been working. But his thoughts wandered from the French Revolution to the dying M. Guierreux to whom he had given absolution and the last rites. But more often the face of a young girl came to mind, and then the sad eyes of Rousseau. Sometimes Jurrard would stop and look at the crucifix and remember that small girl's face. Finally, he stopped at the window and drew aside the curtain to stare in the direction of the road leading away from the rectory. Bright morning light filtered through the leaves of the trees near the window.

Turning away, he looked down at his Jesuit cassock. He removed his glasses and ran a hand over his eyes and sighed. He sat at the small desk in the room. Turning sideways, he rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. Finally, glancing up at the crucifix on the wall, he knelt to pray.

* * *

Dr. Rousseau entered his living room from the kitchen. He was cleanly shaven, wearing a new suit that he managed to make look old. Dark wood panels covered the walls, and the faded colors of divan and drapery seemed to reflect the yellow light upon everything within. A middle-aged woman with neat blond hair tied at her neck sat staring into the empty fireplace with its wood mantel and hearth. She had intense blue eyes and fine features, which were now becoming thin. She sat in a wheelchair near a crescent table with a carved jade lamp on it. She turned her attention to the vase of dying roses on the table when she heard Rousseau's footfalls.

I have new roses for you, he said, placing a different vase where the old one had been. How are you this morning? Did you sleep well?

Yes. Did M. Guierreux die? she said without looking up.

Yes, I’m afraid so.

I wish I could go to see her; they were nice people.

I know you were fond of them, Marie. I’ll take you over there after I return from the office.

You don’t look well, Alex.

I’m fine, he said more testily than he had intended. He took the vase with the old roses with him into the kitchen and returned with a tray on which there was a baguette, butter, and a pot of coffee.

I sent Helen home for the day and made you breakfast myself this morning. He smiled, but she seemed not to have heard.

Did you hear, I made you breakfast myself?

Oh. Thank you, she said and smiled. Have you had breakfast, or are you having some of this?

I’ll join you, he said, placing the tray on the dining room table.

He pushed her toward the dining room, up to the table, then walked to the parlor and put the new red roses on the dining room table.

As he went into the kitchen to fetch the plate of bacon, Marie asked, Did you stay up all night in the library? The hearth seemed used. You didn’t come to bed.

Yes, he replied from the kitchen. I was reading. It was already early morning when I returned.

You didn’t get to sleep at all?

No, but I feel fine anyway, not at all sleepy.

You should come home and take a nap this afternoon.

Perhaps, he said as he returned from the kitchen.

They sat silently eating.

Helen will be back this afternoon, Rousseau said after a while.

CHAPTER ONE

An empty temple stands on an island in my heart,

uninhabited in a season of falling leaves and empty clouds.

In some place hidden from my view

I discern the scampering of animal feet,

hear the soft panting of lovers in a corner of

the island where no one loved before.

Flesh enters flesh, and there is the sound of a lonely bird,

a moan, and there is the hollow sound of falling.

Damon Cristann

As the train lurched around another bend, Damon Cristann glanced up from what he had written and drew back the curtain from the window. He inhaled the humid air cool and musty with the smell of wet fields and trees. In the distance he could see the town of St. Martin in a bend of the river flowing south to the Mediterranean. Orange and brown mottled rooftops interrupted the horizon between green vineyards and rows of olive and almond trees. Cristann leaned forward for a better view, but the train turned again so that the town vanished behind green hills covered in pine and scrub oak. He reached for his notebook.

Sometimes one word, one single hapless event evokes a quivering behind the back of the stomach; it becomes a spider that suddenly appears in the abdomen and with shivering feelers creeps along the back of the spine and up the neck, bringing with it memories we thought we had buried. And some memories bring back memories of other things. Latching onto one ring after the other the mind involuntarily travels back along the chain of memories that disappears into the ocean of the unconscious, and we see the people we knew, faces in the dark, rosy cheeks and pallor, wrinkles and graying hair, dead loves and lovers, tears on cheeks; we see the thing we missed all our life, that one particular person or thing or idea that was lost in the scuffle of life, lost somewhere in the refuse of our past experiences. We try to recover it, only to find it a dream, always a dream. Or is it here in St. Martin? Back across the years come the same words, the same kisses; but death hides behind panels of fear the faces of those we have loved.

The train pulled into a small railway station just on the outskirts of town. Cristann shoved the notebook into his briefcase, and stood up. Quickly he grabbed his two suitcases, and went down the passageway and disembarked from the train. He stepped down onto the pavement and began walking up the road. In the distance Damon saw the spires of the small but impressive Gothic church atop the hill, the grey stone rectory, and below it a sprawling white villa.

Cristann brushed his straight, light brown hair from his forehead. Lines ran down from around his eyes, and there were several deep creases on his forehead. It had been five years since he was last here. It had been April, and the almond trees were in bloom, their white blossoms falling in the afternoon breeze onto hedges and sidewalks like snowflakes in the warm sunshine. The air had been thick with the smell of burning grapevine trimmings, a sweet musty smoke that reminded him of the peat fires in the cold damp air of Ireland. There was the odor of mimosa blossoms in the fields. Now in June the vineyards were green, the lavender fields in thick purple rows, and the air filled with the aroma of the rosemary hedges and wild thyme. In the distance, rows of tall plane trees acted as windbreaks and defined the boundaries of fields that contained neat rows of almond or olive trees.

Damon looked at the distant spires of the grey stone cathedral rising above the other buildings in the town. He frowned. The statue of the Virgin that topped the facade of the church was broken on its left side, leaving the silhouette of the Virgin pointing a single hand down toward the town in a gesture resembling the pointing of an accusing finger. Cristann sighed.

A few houses here and there were set back from the road, taupe colored plaster or stone. Red poppies bloomed against the fences, and deep purple iris looked almost black in the shadows of the brick walls edged the border of the road. Next to some of the houses were green citrus trees that in spring lit up the fields around the houses with pink and white blossoms. A reddish-brown rooster in one yard crowed arrogantly at Damon as he passed. Its salvo was echoed by another in a yard further ahead.

Men dressed in dark colors peddled along the edge of the road with large baguettes protruding from wicker baskets on the backs of their bikes. A housewife walked past carrying bread wrapped in newspaper. An old bent man wearing a beret punctuated the road with his gnarled cane as he passed by.

Cristann turned right onto a street that he knew became the main boulevard of the town. Eighteenth and Nineteenth century buildings with ornate iron balconies lined both sides of the street and were fronted by a row of plane trees that shaded the buildings most of the day. Further down the boulevard, shops and cafes intermingled with houses and government buildings.

As Cristann veered right onto Rue Lyon, he passed through an archway that led into the old section of the town. The buildings, some stone, some half-timbered, pressed close on both sides but these attorneys are much more. East of the main boulevard the town became formless, the streets darker, the air closer. Cool in the winter and spring, during the summer these narrow streets became oppressively hot and close, and the townspeople gravitated to the open squares on the boulevard, to the sidewalk cafes, especially those near a fountain. The cobblestone streets became so narrow in places that an automobile could not pass through them. Telephone wires and power cords crisscrossed here and there above Cristann’s head, running down the outside of houses to windows or corners of doors. Lampsonce gas, now electrichung on the side of buildings from ornate iron hangers.

No street seemed to travel straight to its destination. The streets meandered like a maze always leading to another crooked street. Cristann thought the people that had built the streets liked where they were, and were not in a hurry to be somewhere else. They left the impression that it was less important to get to your destination than to enjoy the pleasures of the walk in the graceful and angular streets. Only his instincts for this town he loved so much let him know that the street that he was on would lead toward the hill where the cathedral and Felix Lazare’s villa looked down at the river and the town.

As Cristann came to a small square at the corner of Rue Lyon and Rue de Clovis, he stopped in front of a bakery with most of its products gone. A sign in the window said, Prix du Pain in handwriting familiar to Cristann, and below it were the prices of Baguette, Fantaisie, Ficelle, Campagne, Pain, and Fibres. His mouth began to water. As he stepped inside, there was the aroma of bread and sweets. Behind the counter stood a huge man, with receding black hair, and an expansive smile under a large red nose. He was talking with an elderly woman dressed in black. The dark haired man glanced at Cristann, then went on attending to his customer. After the woman left, the baker turned his attention to Cristann, standing there with two pieces of luggage in his hands.

Can I help you? the baker asked. He eyed the traveler carefully, squinting with nearsighted eyes.

"Bonjour, said Cristann, with a smile. Commet’alle vous?"

The large man's chin dropped and he wiped his thick moustache on his bare arm. Damon! He reached across the counter and grasped Cristann around the neck, and then slapped his shoulders. He hurried around the counter to stand in front of him, then kissed him on both cheeks.

So long. What, five years? he said it as if he were counting them silently on his fingers.

Yes, I guess it has been that long, Cristann said in halting French. My French is rusty, Jean.

"Umm. Ces't passable, Jean shrugged. Sa va? You look well."

"Sa va bien. A little older."

We are all, said the baker, running a hand through his thinning hair and laughing. And where have you been all this time?

Cristann shrugged. Many places. And how are Marie and the children?

"Tres bien."

And Pere Jurrard?

The good father is a little frailer, but wiser than ever.

There was silence, and Jean squinted.

Business seems good, said Cristann, looking at the nearly empty windows of the bakery.

Ah, yes, said Jean with pride, seeming to get even taller than he was already. But the quality of the flour, it is not good. The government! Ugh! He threw his hands up in contempt. "The flour is of poor quality. It’s gray. I never received gray flour before. The bureaucrats tell us the supply is limited and we must take what we can get. The last shipment was disgusting. The bread from it is flat. I must use more salt. But one does the best one can.

Maria is at the neighbors and the children are in school. You must come back when they are here.

Yes, certainly, tomorrow, Cristann nodded. I am on my way up to the chateau to see Felix."

Jean looked at Cristann in silence for a moment. You look troubled, my friend.

Cristann smiled and grasped the baker's elbow. "I’ll tell you later, Jean. Tell