Brutal Telling

It was impossible to miss the lights in the dark sky now. And the sky was almost perpetually dark. There was no longer a distinction between night and day. And yet, such was the villagers’ joy and anticipation, they didn’t seem to notice, or care.

The light sliced like a saber through the darkness, through the shadow thrown toward them. Almost upon them.

The Mountain King had arisen. Had assembled an army made of Bile and Rage and led by Chaos. Their wrath carved the sky ahead of them, searching for one man, one young man. Barely more than a boy. And the package he held.

They marched on, closer and closer. And the villagers waited on shore, to be taken to the world they’d been promised. Where nothing bad happened, and no one sickened or grew old.

The young man ran here and there, trying to find a hiding place. A cave perhaps, somewhere he could curl up and hide, and be very, very small. And quiet.

“Oh,” said Olivier.

“What can you tell me about this?” asked Gamache.

One small hill separated the dreadful army from the villagers. An hour, maybe less.

Olivier heard the voice again, the story filling the cabin, even the dark corners.

“Look,” one of the villagers shouted, pointing to the water. The young man turned, wondering what horror was coming from the sea. But instead he saw a ship. In full sail. Hurrying toward them.

“Sent by the gods,” said his old aunt as she stepped on board. And he knew that was true. One of the gods had taken pity on them and sent a strong ship and a stronger wind. They hurried aboard and the ship left immediately. Out at sea the young man looked back in time to see, rising behind the final hill, a dark shape. It rose higher and higher and around its peak flew the Furies, and on its now naked flank there marched Sorrow and Grief and Madness. And at the head of the army was Chaos.

As the Mountain spied the tiny vessel on the ocean it shrieked, and the howl filled the sails of the vessel so that it streaked across the ocean. In the bow the happy villagers searched for land, for their new world. But the young man, huddling among them, looked back. At the Mountain of Bitterness he’d created. And the rage that filled their sails.

“Where did you find that?” Olivier asked.

“In the cabin.” Gamache was watching him closely. Olivier seemed stunned by the carving. Almost frightened. “Have you seen it before?”

“Never.”

“Or others like it?”

“No.”

Gamache handed it to Olivier. “It’s a strange subject matter, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

“Well, everyone’s so happy, joyful even. Except him.” Gamache placed his forefinger on the head of the crouching figure. Olivier looked closer and frowned.

“I know nothing about art. You’ll have to ask someone else.”

“What did the Hermit whittle?”

“Nothing much. Just pieces of wood. Tried to teach me once but I kept cutting myself. Not good with my hands.”

“That’s not what Gabri says. He tells me you used to make your own clothes.”

“As a kid.” Olivier reddened. “And they were crap.”

Gamache took the carving from Olivier. “We found whittling tools in the cabin. The lab’s working on them and we’ll know soon enough if they were used to make this. But we both know the answer to that, don’t we?”

The two men stared at each other.

“You’re right,” said Olivier with a laugh. “I’d forgotten. He used to whittle these strange carvings, but he never showed me that one.”

“What did he show you?”

“I can’t remember.”

Gamache rarely showed impatience, but Inspector Beauvoir did. He slammed his notebook shut. It made a not very satisfactory sound. Certainly not nearly enough to convey his frustration at a witness who was behaving like his six-year-old nephew accused of stealing cookies. Denying everything. Lying about everything however trivial, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“Try,” said Gamache.

Olivier sighed. “I feel badly about this. He loved carving, and he asked me to get him the wood. He was very specific. Red cedar, from British Columbia. I got it from Old Mundin. But when the Hermit started handing me these I was pretty disappointed. Especially since he wasn’t giving me as many antiques from his cabin. Just those.” He flicked his hand at the carving.

“What did you do with them?”

“I threw them away.”

“Where?”

“Into the woods. When I walked home I tossed them into the forest. Didn’t want them.”

“But he didn’t give you this one, or even show it to you?”

Olivier shook his head.

Gamache paused. Why did the Hermit hide this one, and the other? What was different about them? Maybe he