Witchy Illusions: A Novel

By Stephen Spotte

Witchy Illusions recounts the trial of Mademoiselle Ambrosine, a girl of fifteen accused of witchcraft in France in autumn 1515. Her lawyer is Barthélemy de Chassenée, a historical figure who became famous when in 1508 he defended the rats accused of eating the people’s grain stored at Autun’s granary and growing in nearby fields of the département of Saône-et-Loire.

During Mademoiselle Ambrosine's trial, justice plays out erratically, and nothing is ever clear. The proceeding turns increasingly opaque and the issues become more convoluted and muddled by legal precedent. Arguments about God’s will, mankind’s place in nature, and whether demons defecate and have erections obscure focus on the central issue of the defendant's practice of witchcraft. These and similar metaphysical issues puzzle and invigorate everyone, the court and spectators alike, and it becomes evident that Inquisitor Institoris might have met his match in Mademoiselle Ambrosine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Books
• Release date: Jul 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005912918

Stephen Spotte

Stephen Spotte, a marine scientist born and raised in West Virginia, is the author of 23 books including seven works of fiction and two memoirs. Spotte has also published more than 80 papers on marine biology, ocean chemistry and engineering, and aquaculture. His field research has encompassed the Canadian Arctic, Bering Sea, West Indies, Indo-West Pacific, Central America, and the Amazon basin of Ecuador and Brazil. ANIMAL WRONGS is his fifth novel. He lives in Longboat Key, Florida.

Book preview

Chapitre un

Being dead has its ups and downs. On the upside you can stop worrying about death. The saying you only live once is easily flipped on its head because you only die once too, and the instant that moment arrives the memory of whether the experience was agonizing or serene no longer matters and never did. Why? Because the recollection of physical pain to the living exceeds memory’s capabilities. Dredging up and replaying in the mind the exact feeling of a laugh or a bone snapping are equally impossible. You might recall the event, but reprising the actual sensation is impossible.

Such trivial issues then pale before the depressing scene all around, as you soon discover after stepping over the line separating the quick from the dead. Souls in uncountable numbers stumble here and there in differing states of disbelief and confusion, many not having fully realized their change in substantiality, others refusing to accept that death is even possible. Included among the former is the same contubernium of Roman soldiers in tight formation that routinely marches past me, eyes focused ahead, sandals kicking up clouds of spectral dust. Beside them a ghostly decanus barks the cadence in Vulgar Latin. They disappear into the mist in perfect formation only to return from the opposite direction. Of those refusing acceptance of their personal mortality are tattered wisps clawing at the windows of their former dwellings or pounding with a self-detached arm or leg on what once were their doors, wailing See me! See me! Their manic actions are for naught: the dead are invisible to the living, the latter deaf to their voices. For these solipsistic pilgrims eternity will seem exceptionally long.

And I? My name is Barthélemy de Chassenée, born in the year of our Lord 1480 at Issy-l’Evêque, Burgundy. I was in life an attorney noted for successfully defending the rats of Saône-et-Loire who ate the peasants’ grain ripening in the fields and stored at the granary within the city walls of Autun. That tribunal occurred during the year of grace 1508 in Autun’s ecclesiastical court. Later, I was advocate for Madame Truye, a sow accused of devouring a child in its bassinette on a farm outside this same city; still later I represented a putative werewolf, actually a harmless eccentric gone mad with rabies who terrified the citizens of Magny-Cours but did them no harm. I lost both cases in secular court, outcomes for all purposes preordained in these times that decree unequivocally mankind’s exalted position in the hierarchy of earthly life, the only being created in God’s image, making such a belief beyond reproach. The proceedings, however, were not without astonishing publicity that did much to burnish my reputation throughout central France, reaching even to Paris and substantially increasing my wealth.

Please excuse the momentary distraction, but a frantic soul is pounding on the door of his former house using a rotting leg torn from his own corpse and shouting at the inhabitants. Failing to elicit a response he now tries to force the latch. It will not budge. He moves to a window and peers in, shading his eyes with a hand. I move closer and look over his shoulder. He ignores me, perhaps unable to perceive my presence. Together we watch two children sitting on the bare wooden floor playing a desultory game involving sticks of different lengths. Nearby a woman, evidently their mother, sits on a man’s lap. He reaches underneath her tunic and forces a hand between her legs causing her to squirm about. She throws back her head and laughs soundlessly, like an image in a painting. The children ignore them. My ghostly eavesdropper collapses into a sitting position and holds his head in his hands. He weeps. Eventually, he stands on his remaining leg and hops to another window of the same house. I follow, and together we peek inside. This room is inhabited by an old woman. She sits alone in a chair knitting with arthritic fingers, humpbacked and frail; her hair is gray, eyes cloudy with cataracts. A low fire flickers in the hearth. The man wails and scratches at the window. He wants to touch her. He pounds the glass with ghostly fists, making no impact. Unaware, she does not look up. His mother? No, his wife. The children and her lover, where are they? Grown, gone, perhaps dead. Life in these times is short for most, and mean. Eternity is unending, but earthly time zips by in a blink, a heartbeat. Between the first window and the second has passed a lifetime.

Humbert de Révigny, my adversary in court and always my friend, served as prosecutor in the three trials I mentioned. I learned early in the tribunal of the rats that Révigny had died several years before and taken up residence in Hades, that Satan occasionally furloughs him back among the living to participate in legal proceedings he finds amusing or threatening his hubris. Révigny once spoke openly to me about this unusual arrangement, his discourse ending with an ambivalent shrug as if to say, that’s it, there’s nothing more. He enjoys the high status as a member of Satan’s inner circle, while complaining that the surroundings are deficient in some ways. He mutters repeatedly about the weak reading light, but most annoying is the constant noise and disruption, notably the shrieks of the damned burning at their fiery stakes mingling in chorus with those of the demons torturing them; this and the ceaseless din of construction as Satan’s minions excavate new passageways through bedrock to accommodate an endless flood of immigrants from Purgatory. And, of course, the heat can be distressing. Hell evidently is about pain, heat, and distraction.

I shall say it straight out, then let the matter drop: Révigny appears to me as a green demon who always smells faintly of burning sulfur. His demonic form is tall and thin with slouching posture and eyes that change color depending on his level of excitement. When he’s bored or merely idle they pulse in luminescent green, shifting to pale yellow if his mood is thoughtful, then to bright yellow when slightly aroused. When he becomes excited or angry the yellow flashes hot orange and at its peak a blinding red at which instant they glow like a pair of fiery coals. Perhaps most marvelous is what I call his cocoon, a transparent and mostly impermeable membrane covering his entire body that moves and flows in synchrony with his own movements. Inside this device is a supply of burning brimstone, the fumes of which its inhabitant prefers to breathe instead of earthly air. This is, as I say, how I perceive Révigny. To the living his appearance is that of a bald, decrepit older man shuffling toward his end of days, avuncular, charming, and harmless. If only they knew!

Révigny, speaking as Satan’s representative, had once offered me a seat in Hell’s inner circle when my own end-time arrives. Realizing that Heaven was never an option I anticipated the experience with considerable curiosity, although at the moment I seem to be doing penance somewhere else, perhaps Purgatory. If so, the surroundings are nothing like the clerics describe. Where are the souls roasting in their personal fires that burn hot but never consume, of which Purgatory hints and Hell guarantees? And the demons dashing about tormenting everyone, where are they? I hear howling and sobbing; I hear and see anguish everywhere, although nothing that might signal physical pain. Perhaps this netherworld into which I fell at the instant of death is merely Purgatory’s ante-room; maybe the worst is yet to come.

We can’t see our feet for the gray, odorless fog swirling around our lower legs. It offers no resistance. Everyone seems to be standing knee-deep in it regardless of individual height, child and adult alike. Whatever the name of this milieu, we inmates appear trapped in an airy firmament. I sense nothing solid beneath me, but neither can I see a sky. Instead of a panorama the horizon vanishes into this endless mist where sounds are absorbed, sometimes returning as faint echoes: the remainder of a scream or a fragment of an agitated curse.

Occupants of this strange place, at least those near enough to observe, appear unaware of their predicament and of those around them. They act oddly incurious, self-absorbed, wandering aimlessly like discarnate barnyard fowl, each seeking something different, something necessary to fulfill a personal need or desire, all struggling toward an individual goal. No one seems fulfilled. My former senses lie dormant, unable to be aroused with any immediacy. I too wander in this perpetual mist out of touch with myself, although I seek nothing. What I see, hear, touch, smell, feel are delayed perceptions similar to dreams and snippets of memories. The state of now felt by the living, that vital moment in which life takes place and we exist, disappeared the instant I crossed over. Since then every thought and footstep, every gesture, seems to have occurred before, although somewhere else, not here. No, surely not here. . . .

Once oriented I looked around for quill, ink, and paper then realized, to what purpose? What would I write, and who would read it? A ghostly pen dipped in ghostly ink; inconsequential words scratched on spectral paper could result only in ghostly sentences invisible to the living. How do you post a ghostly letter, and who could deliver it through the barrier? So, indeed there is no way of re-crossing the divide, no means of relaying a message. To the living a ghost and his spectral accoutrements truly are invisible, or I concluded until remembering that Révigny makes the crossing routinely in both directions. How strange that must be.

Without having realized it I died suddenly of apoplexy during an erotic daydream in the midst of the werewolf trial, although only Révigny noticed. Everyone else thought I fainted and assumed the bailiff had aroused me by putting wet compresses on my forehead and eventually helping me to my feet. The end had come as I stood before the court delivering a heated rebuttal, all eyes watching. I fell dead in my lawyerly robe in the manner of a soldier dying in battle with sword in hand, a shepherd gripping his crook, a priest clutching his cross, a farmer whose gnarled fingers will not unclasp the hoe. All of us struck down by the reaper on life’s individual fields of battle, each in his private instant of now. Without being conscious of it the fatal blow had been struck on Tuesday the 2nd of October, the year of our Lord 1515.

My death followed a hiatus of unknown duration, at least to me. During the event I saw a blinding white light. As it attenuated and eventually vanished I too thought I had lost consciousness momentarily and recovered, but obviously not. After court adjourned for the day Révigny and I, as was our custom, went to the tavern of the inn where we lodged and sat at our usual table. I recall Révigny’s depthless eyes modulating between vivid orange and fiery red. He was clearly distressed about something, alternately crossing and uncrossing his bony green legs and sighing, his forked serpentine tongue once flopping out and resting a moment on the table. After squirming about in his chair and gazing at the ceiling he looked directly at me and said, Do you fear death, Barthélemy?

Less than disliking the prospect of absence from life, I said.

Well put. Do you pray?

"No. I don’t think it’s