Message in a Bottle
Janet Harwood fondly remembered beachcombing in the backyard of her family's Atlantic Avenue home when she was a little girl. There were days when all she found were fragments of snail, clam, oyster and mussel shells, but every once in a while, a real treasure would appear. Seashells and driftwood lost their appeal, however, once the adolescent entered the perplexing world of puberty.
It was only after she returned to Puritan Falls many years later that she rediscovered the simple pleasure of walking along a beach and listening to the call of the gulls and the sound of the waves breaking on the sand. She had been going through a divorce at the same time her parents retired to Florida, so she moved into her parents' home and quit her high-pressure job at The Boston Globe to work for Ezra Graves as a freelance reporter for The Puritan Falls Gazette. She supplemented this part-time income by writing magazine articles and teaching a creative writing class at the UMass Essex Green campus.
While Janet no longer examined the remains of mollusks that washed up on shore, she did stop to pick up the garbage that littered her valuable beachfront property even though there seemed to be no end to the number of aluminum cans, plastic water bottles and Styrofoam cups that were deposited by the tides.
If nothing else, she thought optimistically, the walking and stooping are good exercise.
One Saturday morning after a severe downpour, Janet was walking along the beach with a Hefty bag, collecting refuse from the storm, when the sun reflected off a piece of glass ahead. She bent over, picked it up and saw that it was an old bottle with a rolled sheet of paper inside. It reminded her of a time in her childhood when she and her friend Rebecca Coffin wrote letters, sealed them in old ketchup bottles and tossed them into the sea, only to have them reappear with the next tide.
Without even examining the writing on the paper inside, her journalist's mind conjured up all sorts of romantic scenarios. She pulled on the cork stopper, which at first refused to yield. But by twisting it from side to side, she eventually worked it free. The resounding pop was similar to the sound of a champagne bottle being opened.
Removing the paper from inside the bottle through the narrow opening proved more difficult.
"I need something to grab hold of the edge," she said and headed back toward the house.
With the aid of a pair of tweezers, Janet was able to extract the rolled sheet of paper. It was addressed, in French, to "the person who finds this bottle." The unknown author went on to instruct the finder to deliver the bottle to a woman named Gabrielle Desmarais. The letter was signed simply Philippe and dated September 1680.
On the reverse side of the paper was a short letter to Gabrielle herself. As best as Janet could understand with her limited knowledge of the French language, Philippe promised Gabrielle that even though she had left him, he would never forget her and would spend his life searching for her.
"Can this be an authentic letter?" Janet wondered aloud. "If so, were Philippe and Gabrielle ever reunited?"
The grandfather's clock in the living room chimed the hour, and Janet was reminded that she had a long list of chores to perform. Reluctantly, she put the letter aside, got her shopping list and coupons off of her desk and left the house to go to Shop 'N Save.
Twenty minutes later, while she was in the produce aisle putting broccoli crowns in a plastic bag, Janet saw a familiar face. It was her mother's elderly friend, Ruth Lundy, who owned the Days Gone By antique store on Gloucester Street. After telling Janet that she planned on closing the shop and retiring, Ruth asked how she liked working for the Gazette.
"I enjoy it. It's a lot different from The Boston Globe."
Ruth laughingly agreed, "I would imagine so."
"You know, I found something this morning I'd like you to have a look at," Janet said. "I think it's old, but I'm not sure. It might just look old from being in the ocean."
"What is it?"
"A bottle with a message inside."
"You're kidding me, right?" Ruth laughed.
"No. Why don't you stop by my house for dinner tonight? We can order a pizza, and I'll show you the bottle."
"Sure. I haven't got anything else planned."
* * *
After the two women dined on pepperoni pizza, tossed salad and wine, Janet showed Ruth the bottle she had found on the beach.
"So what do you think?" the reporter asked after Ruth examined both the bottle and the paper that had been inside it.
"It's hard to estimate the age of the bottle since the glass has been eroded by the sea. As for the letter, this paper appears to be old as does the ink. I'm no expert, but in my opinion, this letter is authentic. Do you mind if I read it?"
"Be my guest," Janet replied, pouring them both another glass of wine.
Ruth read the letter while the younger woman cleared the kitchen table and put the salad bowls and tableware in the dishwasher.
"Gabrielle Desmarais," Ruth said reflectively, "I've heard that name before."
"Was she famous?"
"No, at least not history book famous. But I remember reading something about her not that long ago. Can I borrow your computer a minute?"
Janet got her laptop out of the den and set it on the kitchen table. Ruth googled Gabrielle Desmarais and searched through several results before finding what she was looking for.
"It says here Gabrielle was a wealthy French noblewoman. When her brother, Henri Desmarais, was appointed Lieutenant General of New France, he and Gabrielle, who was unmarried, embarked for the New World; but during the voyage, Gabrielle fell in love with a young man aboard the ship. Henri was incensed by her immodest behavior and had his irrepressible sister, her lover and her maidservant put off the boat on the Île des Démons."
"Île des Démons," Janet repeated, "the Isle of Demons."
"The article goes on to say that Gabrielle gave birth to a child while on the island, but the baby, the child's father and the maid all died, leaving only Gabrielle alive."
"What happened to her?"
"She was eventually rescued by fishermen and returned to France. Her tale reached the Queen of Navarre, who wrote a story about the unfortunate young woman, which was later published in a book of short stories."
"Would you do me a favor," Janet asked, "and bookmark that site?"
"Why? Are you planning on writing a story about Gabrielle yourself?"
"I will if I can find out who Philippe was and connect him and Gabrielle with the bottle I found on the beach."
"Well, if I can be of any help, just give me a call."
After Ruth left, Janet placed the bottle and Philippe's letter in the desk drawer in her den.
* * *
The following morning Janet slept late. She woke up after nine, turned the coffeemaker on and picked up the Sunday paper off the front stoop. When she went back into the kitchen, she was surprised to see the bottle, with Philippe's letter once again inside, sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.
While she put the creamer in her coffee, she went over the events of the previous night in her mind. Not only did she not remember putting the letter back into the bottle, but she also thought she put the bottle into her desk drawer when she returned her laptop to the den. Of course, she had consumed half a bottle of wine, and her memories were somewhat hazy.
After finishing her first cup of coffee, Janet went to the den to get her laptop. This time there was no doubt that she put the bottle into her top desk drawer for safekeeping. Then she went to the living room and curled up on the couch with her computer.
Most of the Internet sources for Gabrielle Desmarais gave the same scant details, with only minor variations. No articles named the young man who was marooned with her on the island, and the exact location of the Île des Démons was unknown. The best guess was that it was an island located somewhere off the coast of Quebec.
As a former reporter for a major newspaper, however, Janet Harwood had access to a wider range of sources. After contacting several Canadian and French news agencies, she was able to learn that the Queen of Navarre's account of the marooned French noblewoman was highly romanticized. Gabrielle, it seems, was not the innocent damsel in distress that the royal author painted her.
According to Henri Desmarais's diary, rumors were circulating throughout France that his sister was une sorcière (a witch). That was the reason he wanted her to accompany him to the New World: he hoped she could avoid prosecution in their homeland. However, Gabrielle had no desire to live in an untamed colony, so she tried to incite—her brother used the word bewitch—the crew to mutiny and set sail for England. When Henri discovered her plans, he put her and her maid ashore with one of his most trusted men to keep watch over her.
"So the story about her being punished because she took a lover is a lie," Janet concluded. "At least according to her brother's diary, it is."
Unfortunately, neither the diary nor any of Janet's other sources could provide information about the man who was marooned on the island with Gabrielle, not even so much as his name.
"So there's no way of knowing if Philippe was the man put ashore with Gabrielle," Janet told Ruth when they met for lunch at the Green Man Pub a week later.
"Are you still going to write your article?" her friend asked.
"There's no point. I don't have enough facts."
"Oh, well," Ruth sighed. "At least you can keep the bottle as a conversation piece."
Janet did not mention the bizarre things that were going on in her home since she found the bottle on the beach. For one thing, no matter where she put the bottle at night, the next morning she always found it on the kitchen island. Not even the lock on her desk drawer could prevent the mysterious relocation.
For another, Janet's cat, Midnight, suddenly refused to go in the kitchen and had to be fed in the dining room. Previously, the animal had taken his meals near the island every morning and evening. Once the bottle came into the house, though, he would no longer cross the kitchen threshold. His ears would lie flat, his back would arch and he would hiss as though at an unseen presence.
Perplexed as Janet was by the inexplicable events, she was not frightened because they seemed to pose no imminent danger to her. Since apparently someone or something wanted the bottle in the kitchen, Janet obliged and left it on the island, next to the salt and pepper shakers.
Eventually, the bottle and its letter would most likely have been forgotten had Janet not received a visit from an exquisitely beautiful young woman who offered to buy it from her.
"You want to buy the bottle I found on the beach?" Janet asked with disbelief.
"Yes."
"How did you even hear about it?"
"You have been asking questions about Gabrielle Desmarais, no?" the visitor replied with a heavy French accent.
"And one of my sources told you about the bottle," Janet assumed.
"Oui."
"What's your interest in obtaining it, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Gabrielle Desmarais was my ancêtre—how do you say?—ancestor. I have spent many years studying her life. She has become my obsession, in fact."
"Then maybe you can share some of your information with me. I was hoping to write a story about finding the bottle and about Philippe and Gabrielle's experiences on the island."
The young woman's smile temporarily froze on her face.
Then her features softened as she answered, "Certainly. Give me the bottle, and I will tell you whatever you want to know."
"That sounds fair," Janet said and invited the Frenchwoman into her kitchen. "Here it is."
"Let me have it," the visitor commanded, reaching out her hand to take it.
"Wait just a second."
Janet tried to evade the woman's grasp, and in the process, the bottle slipped from her hands.
"Be careful!"
The stranger's warning was too late. The bottle shattered on the hardwood floor.
"MEOOWWW!"
Midnight, who had been sleeping on the sofa in the living room, screeched and raced for the bedroom, his nails making a clatter on the hardwood floor.
"You clumsy fool!" the visitor growled and advanced menacingly toward Janet.
"No, Gabrielle," a disembodied voice reverberated through the rooms of the house on Atlantic Avenue.
"Philippe!"
"Yes, it is I, freed at last from the curse you put on me."
"Look what you've done!" Gabrielle cried at Janet with rage.
When Philippe's body finally materialized into a semitransparent form, the beautiful Frenchwoman turned on him.
"Why won't you stay dead?"
"Because I swore to your brother that I would stop your evil sorcery."
Gabrielle's malevolent laughter chilled Janet's blood.
"You didn't do such a good job, Philippe. I took care of you and that silly maid easily enough."
"And how many other innocent souls have you sent to their maker since then?"
"More than I can count," Gabrielle proudly admitted.
When Philippe's mouth widened in a smile, the witch's smirk vanished.
"You can't harm me," she said. "My power is too strong."
"I'm afraid, your arrogance has grown larger than your skill."
Like a cat with its claws unsheathed, Gabrielle pounced on Philippe. Janet stepped back and watched in awe as the witch and ghost fought a battle that began on an island off the coast of Quebec more than three hundred years earlier.
"Say goodbye, Philippe. I'm about to vanquish your spirit once and for all," Gabrielle threatened.
"I think not, you devil's whore!"
Philippe suddenly grabbed Janet's salt shaker from off the island and quickly unscrewed the top.
"In the name of God, I command your evil soul to depart your body and go into this receptacle."
Gabrielle laughed defiantly, but her laughter soon became a wail of terror and pain as her beautiful face and body evaporated into a vile-scented mist that floated toward the opening of the small glass bottle.
Only after the witch's essence was imprisoned in the salt shaker and its holes were securely sealed did Philippe's ghost vanish, leaving behind only the broken shards of the bottle Janet had found on the beach. There was no sign of either Gabrielle or the salt shaker.
* * *
It was not long before Janet's cat realized the mysterious receptacle was no longer in the house and he began taking his meals in the kitchen again.
When Ruth and Janet met for lattes at The Quill and Dagger's coffee bar the following day, the former Boston Globe reporter admitted only to no longer having the bottle.
"What happened to it?" Ruth asked.
"Klutz that I am, I dropped it," Janet replied, sticking as close to the truth as she dared.
"Have you had any luck discovering Philippe's identity?"
"No. To tell you the truth, I'd just as soon put the whole incident behind me."
Unbeknownst to Janet Harwood, as she and Ruth Lundy were drinking coffee in Rebecca Coffin's bookstore, not far away in Salem, Massachusetts, a common glass salt shaker—one that could be found in any of the more than eight thousand Walmart stores across the world—smashed on the rocks by Pickering Light, releasing a foul-smelling mist.
Ironically, the municipality that flaunted its Puritan past by adopting the nickname "Witch City" was about to become the place of rebirth for an evil that was older than Salem itself.
This story was inspired by events in the life of Marguerite de La Rocque de Roberval, a young French noblewoman who was marooned on the Island of Demons with her lover and maidservant by a close relative. The queen of Navarre later wrote a romantic tale of her experience.
Salem doesn't like finding messages in bottles; he thinks the paper spoils the taste of the witch's brew.
