“Too bad about Marc the horse.”
“Still, he’s probably happier.”
This surprised Gamache and he turned to look at Myrna. “Dead?”
“Dead? Vincent Gilbert had him sent to LaPorte.”
Gamache snorted and shook his head. The asshole saint indeed.
As they passed the bistro he thought about the canvas bag. The thing that had, more than anything else, condemned Olivier when found hidden behind the fireplace.
Ruth’s door opened and the old poet, wrapped in her worn cloth coat, hobbled out, followed by Rosa. But today the duck was without clothing. Just feathers.
Gamache had grown so used to seeing Rosa in her outfits it seemed almost unnatural that she should be without one now. The two walked across the road to the green where Ruth opened a small paper bag and tossed bread for Rosa, who waddled after the crumbs, flapping her wings. A quacking could be heard overhead, getting closer. Gamache and Myrna turned to the sound. But Ruth’s eyes remained fixed, on Rosa. Overhead, ducks approached in V formation flying south for the winter.
And then, with a cry that sounded almost human Rosa rose up and flew into the air. She circled and for an instant everyone thought she would return. Ruth raised her hand, offering bread crumbs from her palm. Or a wave. Good-bye.
And Rosa was gone.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Myrna.
Ruth stared, her back to them, her face and hand to the sky. Bread crumbs tumbling to the grass.
Myrna took out the crumpled paper from her pocket and gave it to Gamache.
“Rosa,” whispered Myrna. “Ruth.”
Gamache watched the old poet. He knew what was looming behind the Mountain. What crushed all before it. The thing the Hermit most feared. The Mountain most feared.
Conscience.
Gamache remembered opening the coarse sack, his hand sliding over the smooth wood inside. It was a simple carving. A young man in a chair, listening.
Olivier. He’d turned it over and found three letters etched into the wood. GYY.
He’d decoded them in the cabin just minutes before and had stared at the word.
Woo.
Hidden in the rude rough sack it was far finer, even, than the more detailed carvings. This was simplicity itself. Its message was elegant and horrific. The carving was beautiful and yet the young man seemed utterly empty. His imperfections worn away. The wood hard and smooth so that the world slid right off it. There would be no touch and therefore no feeling.
It was the Mountain King, as a man. Unassailable, but unapproachable. Gamache felt like throwing it deep into the forest. To lie where the Hermit had put himself. Hiding from a monster of his own making.
But there was no hiding from Conscience.
Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin.
It would find you. The past always did.
Which was why, Gamache knew, it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.
And found you. As it had the Hermit. As it had Olivier. Gamache stared at the cold, hard, lifeless treasure in his hand.
Who wouldn’t be afraid of this?
Ruth limped across the green to the bench and sat. With a veined hand she clutched her blue cloth coat to her throat while Gabri reached out and taking her other hand in his and rubbing it softly and murmured, “there, there.”
THE END
