Silence of Stone by Annamarie Beckel

not slept at all.
    They became skeletal, and Marguerite could not comprehend how her belly could swell even as her arms and legs wasted away, how the child could kick and be so alive when she was dying. In half thoughts that drifted and meandered with the smoke from the fire, Marguerite came to believe that God was punishing them all for her sin, not for the sin of loving Michel, but for the sin of not wanting her baby.
    O Lord, rebuke me not in thy indignation, nor chastise me in thy wrath. Have mercy on me…Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever.
    â€œFoolish, foolish girl,” I say.
    â€œWe must never–” The Franciscan stops mid-sentence. “What? What did you say?” He waves a quill as if the words he seeks are hanging in the air between us and the feather might gather them in. “What did you say?” he repeats.
    â€œFoolish.”
    â€œ
Oui
, your young man was foolish. Tell me, how did he really die?”
    â€œHe died because God did not hear her prayers. Or because he chose not to answer.”
    Now the quill points. “Blasphemy,” he shouts. “Take care what you say.”
    â€œOr what?” I feel a smile pull at the corners of my mouth. “Would you have me executed here – in the stronghold of the Huguenots? Or would you take meback to Paris?”
    â€œImpertinent wench,” he spits. “Tell me, how did he die?”
    â€œHopelessness,
Père
. I told you, he died of hopelessness.”
    Marguerite came to fear the man whom only seven months earlier she had loved with every part of her being. Michel’s dark curls had dulled and thinned, and his beard was matted and filthy. His gums bled and his front teeth had fallen out. Michel’s face looked like a skull, grinning hideously, even though he never smiled. Marguerite could no longer bear to look at him. His countenance repulsed her, and his glinting eyes frightened her. He had begun grumbling incoherently about Roberval, about demons and the Devil, about dying like mongrels, eyes picked by ravens. His words, rarely intelligible, descended to a growling monotone.
    Marguerite took Michel’s dagger and kept it close at hand. She began to sleep only when he slept and always left Damienne armed with the sabre.
    One day when Marguerite returned from hunting with only a few frozen berries to show for her efforts, she knew that something had changed. As soon as she entered the cave she could smell it. Death, the dusty scent entwined with grey smoke. When her eyes adjusted to the cave’s perpetual darkness, she saw Damienne huddled against the wall, staring at Michel, who lay sprawled on his back, toothless mouth grinning.
    Marguerite knelt in front of Damienne. Whathappened? she said.
    Damienne looked over Marguerite’s shoulder, to Michel. They have come, she said.
    Who has come?
    The demons. They came for him.
    Non
, that cannot be! Marguerite pushed herself away from the old woman.
    He began talking to them, Damienne said.
    Talking to them?
    Oui
, he talked and laughed with them. But it was not a good laughter. His eyes glowed just like a wolf’s. He reached out to them and they took him.
    It must have been angels, said Marguerite. Michel is at peace now. He’s in heaven.
    Non
. I saw them. Uncountable. Like black smoke.
    Marguerite grabbed for her New Testament and held it to her chest. Angels, she insisted, they must have been angels.
    Non
, whispered Damienne. They were not.
    A sliver of icy doubt slipped into Marguerite’s heart. She did not really believe that angels had come for Michel, but she could not, would not, believe that demons had been in the cave. Michel and Damienne had conjured them from their own fear.
    Marguerite knelt and gathered Michel into her arms. She tried to feel grief but could manage only a profound weariness. And anger. Why had he given up? Why would he not fight to live long enough to see his