“He made me promise never to tell.” Olivier had dropped his head and spoke into his lap.
“And you didn’t. Not while he was alive. But you need to tell now.”
Without another word Olivier reached out and moved the photographs about, hesitating briefly over a couple, switching the order at least once. Until finally, spread in front of them, was the Hermit’s story.
And then Olivier told them, placing his hand over each image as he spoke. And as Olivier’s soft, almost hypnotic voice filled the space between them Gamache could see the dead man, alive again. In his cabin late at night. His one visitor sitting across the flickering fireplace. Listening, to this tale of hubris, of punishment and love. And betrayal.
Gamache watched as the villagers, happy in their ignorance, left their homes. And the young man raced ahead, clutching his small package, encouraging them to hurry. Toward paradise, they thought. But the boy knew differently. He’d stolen the Mountain’s treasure.
And worse.
He’d stolen the Mountain’s trust.
Now each figure the Hermit had carved took on a significance. The men and women waiting by the shore, having run out of land. And the boy, cowering, having run out of hope.
Then the ship arrived, sent by gods jealous of the Mountain.
But behind was the ever-present shadow. And the threat of something unseen but very real. The ghastly army, assembled by the Mountain. Made up of Fury and Vengeance, promising catastrophe. Fueled by Rage. And behind them the Mountain itself. That couldn’t be stopped and wouldn’t be denied.
It would find all the villagers and it would find the young man. And it would find the treasure he’d stolen.
As this army pressed forward it provoked wars and famine, floods and plagues. It laid waste to the world. Chaos led the army and chaos was left behind.
Beauvoir listened to this. His hand in his pocket scrunched Ruth’s latest couplet and he could feel it damp with sweat. He looked down at the photos of the carvings and saw the happy, ignorant villagers slowly transformed as they too first sensed something approaching, then knew it.
And he shared their horror.
Finally the wars and famine arrived on the shores of the New World. For years the wars raged around their new home, not quite touching it. But then . . .
They all looked at the final image. Of the villagers bunched together. Emaciated, their clothing in tatters. Looking up. In terror.
At them.
Olivier’s voice stopped. The story stopped.
“Go on,” whispered Gamache.
“That’s it.”
“What about the boy?” asked Gabri. “He’s not in the carvings anymore. Where’d he go?”
“He buried himself in the forest, knowing the Mountain would find the villagers.”
“He betrayed them too? His own family? His friends?” asked Beauvoir.
Olivier nodded. “But there was something else.”
“What?”
“Something was behind the Mountain. Something driving it on. Something that terrified even the Mountain.”
“Worse than Chaos? Worse than death?” asked Gabri.
“Worse than anything.”
“What was it?” Gamache asked.
“I don’t know. The Hermit died before we got that far. But I think he carved it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.
“There was something in a canvas sack that he never showed me. But he saw me looking at it. I couldn’t help myself. He’d laugh and say one day he’d show it to me.”
“And when you found the Hermit dead?” asked Gamache.
“It was gone.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” snapped Beauvoir.
“Because then I’d have to admit everything. That I knew him, that I’d taken the carvings and sold them. It was his way of ensuring I’d come back, you know. Parceling out bits of his treasure.”
“A pusher to an addict,” said Gabri, with no rancor, but with no surprise either.
“Like Sheherazade.”
Everyone turned to Gamache.
“Who?” Gabri asked.
“It’s an opera, by Rimsky-Korsakov. It tells the story of the Thousand and One Nights.”
