The Devil and Miss Prym (On the Seventh Day 3)

"Tear off some branches!" shouted Chantal.

But the stranger seemed to be in a kind of trance. She repeated her instruction twice, then three times, until he registered what she was saying. He began tearing off branches and throwing them down at the wolf.

"No, don't do that! Pull off the branches, bundle them up, and set fire to them! I don't have a lighter, so do as I say!"

Her voice had the desperate edge of someone in real peril. The stranger grabbed some branches and took an eternity to light them; the previous day's storm had soaked everything, and at that time of the year, the sun didn't penetrate into that part of the forest.

Chantal waited until the flames of the improvised torch had begun to burn fiercely. She would have been quite happy to have him spend the rest of the day in the tree, confronting the fear he wanted to inflict on the rest of the world, but she had to get away and so was obliged to help him.

"Now show me you're a man!" she yelled. "Get down from the tree, keep a firm hold on the torch and walk towards the wolf!"

The stranger could not move.

"Do it!" she yelled again, and when he heard her voice, the man understood the force of authority behind her words--an authority derived from terror, from the ability to react quickly, leaving fear and suffering for later.

He climbed down with the burning torch in his hands, ignoring the sparks that occasionally singed his cheeks. When he saw the animal's foam-flecked teeth close-up, his fear increased, but he had to do something--something he should have done when his wife was abducted, his daughters murdered.

"Remember, keep looking him in the eye!" he heard the girl say.

He did as she said. Things were becoming easier with each passing moment; he was no longer looking at the enemy's weapons but at the enemy himself. They were equals, each capable of provoking fear in the other.

His feet touched the ground. The wolf recoiled, frightened by the fire: it continued snarling and leaping, but did not come near.

"Attack him!"

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He advanced on the beast, which snarled more loudly than ever, showing his teeth, but still retreating.

"Chase him! Get him away from here!"

The flames were burning more fiercely now, and the stranger realized that they would soon be burning his hands; he did not have much time. Almost without thinking, keeping his eyes fixed on those sinister blue ones, he ran at the wolf, which stopped snarling and leaping, spun around and disappeared back into the forest.

In the twinkling of an eye, Chantal had scrambled down from her tree. She had soon gathered up a handful of kindling from the ground and made her own torch.

"Let's get out of here. Now."

"And go where?"

Where? To Viscos, where everyone would see them arriving together? Into another trap where the fire would no longer produce the desired effect? She slumped to the ground, her back suddenly racked with pain, her heart pounding.

"Make a bonfire," she said to the stranger, "and let me think."

She attempted to move and let out a cry--it was as if someone had stuck a dagger in her shoulder. The stranger collected leaves and branches and built a fire. Every time she moved Chantal contorted with pain and let out a dull groan; she must really have hurt herself when she was climbing up the tree.

"Don't worry, you haven't broken anything," the stranger said, hearing her cry out in pain. "I've had the same thing. When your body reaches an extreme of tension, all the muscles contract and make you pay the price. Let me give you a massage."

"Don't touch me. Don't come near me. Don't talk to me."

Pain, fear, shame. He must have been there when she was digging up the gold; he knew--for the devil was his companion and devils can see into the human soul--that this time Chantal had intended to steal it.

By now, he also knew that the whole village was dreaming of committing a murder. He knew that they were too frightened actually to carry out the crime, but their intention was enough to answer his question: human beings are essentially bad. And since he knew she was about to flee, the wager the two of them had made the previous evening meant nothing, and he could return from whence he came (wherever that was) with his treasure intact and his suspicions confirmed.

She tried to find the most comfortable position to sit in, but there wasn't one; she would have to stay put. The fire would keep the wolf at bay, but it would be bound to attract the attention of some passing shepherds. And the two of them would be seen together.

She remembered that it was a Saturday. People would be in their homes full of ugly knickknacks, plaster saints and reproductions of famous paintings, all trying to have a good time--and this weekend, of course, they had the best opportunity to do that since the end of the Second World War.

"Don't talk to me."