The Secret Language of Stones Read Online Free PDF Page B

to accept his death, but I find I’m in limbo. I have a sense Jean Luc left something undone he wants me to know about. My husband thinks . . . Well, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. Do I sound crazy to you?”
    If she did, I shared her craziness. Of course, if you think you can commune with the dead, then you must be a little crazy. We all knew it was impossible. Except was it? Did I imagine it, or did I actually hear their voices? Did the souls of the dead soldiers whose lives had been stolen by the vagaries of the war really speak to me? Did they hover somewhere in the dark sparkling ether that we call eternity and communicate their last thoughts through the talismans I made from their belongings? Did those little bits of their lives—a lock of hair, a photograph, a baby tooth, a handkerchief with a shadow of scent clinging to it—function as tunnels through time and space, enabling one last message to reach their loved ones? Did they operate as doorways through which I gained access to another plane, where I received messages? Or was I, as Madame Alouette implicitly suggested, crazy?
    After making a talisman, I would decorate it with jet and gold, lock it, and hang it from a cord. A small gold key, attached to the knot on the chord, dangled at the back of the wearer’s neck.
    Once completed, I would present the charm to my client. After putting it on, I would instruct her to clasp the talisman, and then I would cover her hands with my own. Shutting my eyes, I focused. Typically, I would hear a cacophony of all manner of noise at first. Human voices, wind, rain, the ocean’s waves, train whistles, automobile horns, ambulance sirens. Withstanding the onslaught, fighting the discomfort, I would concentrate, and in a matter of minutes, as clearly as if he were in the room with us, one soldier’s voice would rise above the rest. Inside my head.
    Sons to mothers, husbands to wives, fathers to daughters, brothers to sisters, lovers to lovers, the communiqués were deeply personal, and often I blushed with embarrassment at having to speak their words aloud. But my discomfort only lasted a few minutes; it was clear to me that the solace I gave would probably last forever. From what I could gather from their messages, the soldiers seemed trapped in a kind of purgatory like the one Dante wrote about in his great poem. They were souls awaiting entry to heaven, unable to completely leave this realm until they found some kind of release I didn’t yet understand.
    In all the time I’d been doing this, none of the soldiers had ever spoken to me . Their spirits seemed unaware of a conduit.
    â€œWhat you said to Madame Maboussine, you weren’t making it up, were you?”
    â€œWhat kind of monster would I be to lie? We don’t make profit on the charms. I have nothing to gain,” I said.
    â€œYou might be looking for fame.”
    â€œAs you yourself said, what I do is now illegal. Fame is the last thing I’d want.” This interview wasn’t getting off to a good start. I didn’t blame Madame for being suspicious, but her questions bordered on rudeness. There was more I could have said. I could have told her how frightening it was to dwell in the land of the dead and that I would never willingly journey there. I could have told her it was like entering what one might imagine hell to be like. If I could, I would have boarded up the gateway that connected me to these souls.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve never believed that what you do is possible.”
    â€œNeither do I, actually.” I smiled at her.
    Madame Alouette returned her son’s hair to the envelope, which she handed to me with a reluctance that tore at my heart. As I reached for it, the scent of apples materialized, and a combination of nausea and dizziness descended over me.
    Pulling out one of the boxes we use to encase our jewels, I quickly