Louise Penny: Brutal Telling

They both saw then the thing looming behind the terrible army. The thing even Chaos feared. That drove Despair, Disease, Famine before it. With one goal. To find what was taken from their Master.

“It’s worse than slaughter.”

Their voices were low, barely scraping the ground. Like conspirators in a cause already lost.

“When the army finally finds what it’s searching for it will stop. And step aside. And then the worst thing imaginable will arrive.”

There was silence again. And in that silence lived the worst thing imaginable.

Outside a pack of coyotes set up a howl. They had something cornered.

Myth, that’s all this is, Olivier reassured himself. Just a story. Once more he looked into the embers, so he wouldn’t see the terror in the Hermit’s face. Then he checked his watch, tilting the crystal toward the fireplace until its face glowed orange and told him the time. Two thirty in the morning.

“Chaos is coming, old son, and there’s no stopping it. It’s taken a long time, but it’s finally here.”

The Hermit nodded, his eyes rheumy and runny, perhaps from the wood smoke, perhaps from something else. Olivier leaned back, surprised to feel his thirty-eight-year-old body suddenly aching, and realized he’d sat tense through the whole awful telling.

“I’m sorry. It’s getting late and Gabri will be worried. I have to go.”

“Already?”

Olivier got up and pumping cold, fresh water into the enamel sink he cleaned his cup. Then he turned back to the room.

“I’ll be back soon,” he smiled.

“Let me give you something,” said the Hermit, looking around the log cabin. Olivier’s gaze darted to the corner where the small canvas sack sat. Unopened. A bit of twine keeping it closed.

A chuckle came from the Hermit. “One day, perhaps, Olivier. But not today.”

He went over to the hand-hewn mantelpiece, picked up a tiny item and held it out to the attractive blond man.

“For the groceries.” He pointed to the tins and cheese and milk, tea and coffee and bread on the counter.

“No, I couldn’t. It’s my pleasure,” said Olivier, but they both knew the pantomime and knew he’d take the small offering. “ Merci ,” Olivier said at the door.

In the woods there was a furious scrambling, as a doomed creature raced to escape its fate, and coyotes raced to seal it.

“Be careful,” said the old man, quickly scanning the night sky. Then, before closing the door, he whispered the single word that was quickly devoured by the woods. Olivier wondered if the Hermit crossed himself and mumbled prayers, leaning against the door, which was thick but perhaps not quite thick enough.

And he wondered if the old man believed the stories of the great and grim army with Chaos looming and leading the Furies. Inexorable, unstoppable. Close.

And behind them something else. Something unspeakable.

And he wondered if the Hermit believed the prayers.

Olivier flicked on his flashlight, scanning the darkness. Gray tree trunks crowded round. He shone the light here and there, trying to find the narrow path through the late summer forest. Once on the trail he hurried. And the more he hurried the more frightened he became, and the more fearful he grew the faster he ran until he was stumbling, chased by dark words through the dark woods.

He finally broke through the trees and staggered to a stop, hands on his bent knees, heaving for breath. Then, slowly straightening, he looked down on the village in the valley.

Three Pines was asleep, as it always seemed to be. At peace with itself and the world. Oblivious of what happened around it. Or perhaps aware of everything, but choosing peace anyway. Soft light glowed at some of the windows. Curtains were drawn in bashful old homes. The sweet scent of the first autumn fires wafted to him.

And in the very center of the little Quebec village there stood three great pines, like watchmen.

Olivier was safe. Then he felt his pocket.

The gift. The tiny payment. He’d left it behind.

Cursing, Olivier turned to look into the forest that had closed behind him. And he thought again of the small canvas bag in the corner of the cabin. The thing the Hermit had teased him with, promised him, dangled before him. The thing a hiding man hid.

Olivier was tired, and fed up and angry at himself for forgetting the trinket. And angry at the Hermit for not giving him the other thing. The thing he’d earned by now.

He hesitated, then turning he plunged back into the forest, feeling his fear growing and feeding the rage. And as he walked, then ran, a voice followed, beating behind him. Driving him on.

“Chaos is here, old son.”

TWO

“You get it.”

Gabri pulled up the covers and lay still. But the phone continued to ring and beside him Olivier was dead to the world. Out the window Gabri could see drizzle against the pane and he could feel the damp Sunday morning settling into their bedroom. But beneath the duvet it was snug and warm, and he had no intention of moving.

He poked Olivier. “Wake up.”

Nothing, just a snort.

“Fire!”

Still nothing.

“Ethel Merman!”

Nothing. Dear Lord, was he dead?

He leaned in to his partner, seeing the precious thinning hair lying across the pillow and across the face. The eyes closed, peaceful. Gabri smelled Olivier, musky, slightly sweaty. Soon they’d have a shower and they’d both smell like Ivory soap.

The phone rang again.

“It’s your mother,” Gabri whispered in Olivier’s ear.

“What?”

“Get the phone. It’s your mother.”

Olivier sat up, fighting to get his eyes open and looking bleary, as though emerging from a long tunnel. “My mother? But she’s been dead for years.”

“If anyone could come back from the dead to screw you up, it’d be her.”

“You’re the one screwing me up.”

“You wish. Now get the phone.”

Olivier reached across the mountain that was his partner and took the call.

“ Oui, allô ?”

Gabri snuggled back into the warm bed, then registered the time on the glowing clock. Six forty-three. On Sunday morning. Of the Labor Day long weekend.

Who in the world would be calling at this hour?

He sat up and looked at his partner’s face, studying it as a passenger might study the face of a flight attendant during takeoff. Were they worried? Frightened?

He saw Olivier’s expression change from mildly concerned to puzzled, and then, in an instant, Olivier’s blond brows dropped and the blood rushed from his face.

Dear God, thought Gabri. We’re going down.

“What is it?” he mouthed.

Olivier was silent, listening. But his handsome face was eloquent. Something was terribly wrong.

“What’s happened?” Gabri hissed.

They rushed across the village green, their raincoats flapping in the wind. Myrna Landers, fighting with her huge umbrella, came across to meet them and together they hurried to the bistro. It was dawn and the world was gray and wet. In the few paces it took to get to the bistro their hair was plastered to their heads and their clothes were sodden. But for once neither Olivier nor Gabri cared. They skidded to a stop beside Myrna outside the brick building.

“I called the police. They should be here soon,” she said.

“Are you sure about this?” Olivier stared at his friend and neighbor. She was big and round and wet and wearing bright yellow rubber boots under a lime green raincoat and gripping her red umbrella. She looked as though a beachball had exploded. But she also had never looked more serious. Of course she was sure.