The Unknown Huntsman

by Jean-Michel Fortier

  His sleeve, stained red.

  But perhaps he ate a jelly doughnut, perhaps he got some on his shirt? Perhaps it’s something else?

  The baker motions to Dr. Harmer, who examines the stain—what can he possibly tell with those eyes that have seen pharaohs, the fall of two empires, and three revolutions, but since the baker still appears to have faith in him, we keep quiet—and confirms out loud what all are thinking.

  “Do you think…?”

  Angelina White is certainly getting bolder:

  “Do you think something has happened to Blanche?”

  Angelina White looks at Mrs. Latvia, who looks at Baker Leaven, who looks at Doctor Harmer, who looks at Father Wavery, who scratches his knee. You could hear a pin drop if it weren’t for the doctor wheezing from his asthma and all those brains whirring a mile a minute, including ours, but what should we do, what should we do, if we’re going to do something it will mean interrupting the meeting, but that’s never been done before, at least not as far back as we can remember.

  The baker snaps us out of our reverie by jumping up and charging, yes, charging, to the sacristy staircase! And everyone in the room, including us, runs after him. There’s jostling and shoving on the stairs, but we manage to get to the front of the pack. Leaven, it must be said, is not the swiftest of bakers. Once we’re in the church, we tear down the aisle at high speed and careen to a halt in front of the main door.

  There’s a cold wind blowing outside and it whistles through the cracks and into the house of God. The others soon crowd around behind us. The baker calls out:

  “Well, are you going to open that door or not?”

  We turn to look at him. We don’t say a word; we just block the doorway. The baker is clearly losing patience:

  “Open the door or move aside! A woman’s life could depend on it!”

  Always the loud mouth, always his booming voice, the baker almost has us convinced, but we stand our ground, our feet firmly planted.

  “I said ‘Move aside.’”

  And he tries to shove us out of the way, what a boor, that Leaven, but nothing is going to make us move aside, nothing can stop us from being there, just being there, in front of this church door, and the baker finally realizes it:

  “What’s going on? Are you refusing to let us go to Blanche’s aid? Are you refusing to let us leave the church?”

  We don’t speak, we just stand there. Anyway, even if we tried, we’re quite sure we would stay right there, in this church, in front of this heavy door. That’s just the way things have to be, and it’s here they have to happen. Mrs. Latvia and Father Wavery cross themselves, the baker narrows his eyes, grits his teeth, curses us, and returns to the basement with the others.

  When we’re sure they’ve all gone downstairs, we go back up the aisle and head down beneath the sacristy once again.

  12

  On friday, we wait, we wait, we wait in the church basement. But the Professor doesn’t come to us. We fret, we brood, we sweat a lot, and we finally go home, empty-handed, lost.

  13

  We really don’t know where to begin. This has been the most extraordinary week the village has ever known.

  First, Monday’s meeting ended on a morose note: Leaven sulked and shot baleful glances at us for the rest of the evening, while Mrs. Latvia tried without success to get Samuel Campbell to talk. Angelina White eventually found a broom in the closet and proceeded to sweep up the clumps of hair from the floor while whistling an inappropriately chirpy melody.

  In the end, since it was getting late and we were all exhausted, we drifted home. As it turns out, Blanche Bedford had disappeared. It was Mrs. Latvia who made the discovery that same evening, then told Angelina White, who repeated it to everyone else: the Campbell kids had found their own way to Mrs. Latvia’s house, where she greeted them with a twinge of bitterness and a plate of jelly doughnuts before going to knock on Blanche’s door.

  But there was no Blanche, no Albert, no anyone, no explanation, and they’d taken nothing with them. All of their belongings were still there, intact. As Mrs. Latvia would say: there’s trouble in Tulipland.

  And then there’s Amelia. The poor child succumbed to her suffering, she did, and now the whole village is grieving. Even Sybille came to pay her last respects, apparently she was crying. Sybille with tears running down her chapped cheeks, now there’s a sight we’ve never seen. It takes a lot to hurt her feelings, otherwise she would surely melt into a puddle every time the baker spits at her feet. Mrs. Latvia heard it from Angelina White that Sybille kept talking about a prophecy—her and her sorceress ways… In another age she would have been burned at the stake.

  Mayor Gross is absent, as is Morosity, and in their absence, Father Wavery decides to address the gathering before the baker jumps in, a rare occurrence indeed:

  “My dear flock, Roger and Morosity Gross have asked me to pass on a message to you.”

  Not surprising, given the circumstances, they probably want to enlighten us a bit, after all we’ve been in the dark all week long, what with Mrs. Latvia who’s taken back the Campbell children, Blanche and Albert who’ve skedaddled, and Amelia, ahhh, poor Amelia…

  “As you know, their dear Amelia joined her Creator on high this week—Amen.”

  Dr. Harmer’s shoulders tremble. His nerves seem to have gotten the better of him; at his age he should be reading the paper and smoking a pipe, not working and running the risk of having his medical licence revoked for causing a teenage girl to bleed to death. The priest continues:

  “Roger and Morosity found an envelope in their daughter’s things dated the day of her death and addressed to the entire village. What a blessing that she should be so lucid at the end to send us one last prayer! The Lord must have left her enough strength to accomplish this final task—Amen.”

  He’s going a bit overboard with his blessing this and Lord that, but we’re not going to contradict him. The baker might have, were he not so busy glaring at us: he still hasn’t digested the unexplained disappearance of Blanche and Albert, and he clearly blames us. The fact remains, the blood on Samuel’s sleeve still hasn’t been identified. Enigmas come and enigmas go.

  The priest raises his arm, as solemn as if he were serving mass, opens the envelope, and takes out a little notebook covered in brown spots. He opens it and reads out loud:

  Amelia’s Diary

  April 20

  I turned fourteen yesterday, but I won’t live to see my fifteenth birthday. And I’ve resigned myself to it. I’m ready. My arms are open and I’m waiting for death to take me.

  It’s not that I’m morbid.

  But I must accept the prophecy.

  (What a way to start a diary! That’s exactly what we meant when we said that Amelia always spoke like she was preparing to eat her last meal. You have to wonder whether the girl was spending time with Sybille, to wax agnostic like that. The child was always a bit unusual, that is, before Samuel Campbell stole the limelight with his trauma. The priest continues.)

  April 23

  I spoke to Sybille last night. As soon as Mom and Dad were asleep, I slipped out my window and followed the light into the forest. I’m not scared in the woods, despite the wild animals and all the stories about evil spirits. That’s just nonsense made up to keep the Campbell kids from straying too far. Mom always says if only their mother would keep those kids under control, she wouldn’t have to come up with such sordid legends.

  I followed the light into the forest and found Sybille. She was sitting by the fire waiting for me, and she smiled. I don’t know if she does it every evening, but she had grilled a big fish that she ate with her fingers.

  She sang me some strange songs. It made a change from Mom’s piano playing.

  (We stir anxiously. So Sybille is mixed up in this prophecy business, and all she had to do was plant the idea in poor Amelia’s head
for the girl to take it as the gospel truth. All these revelations are sending our head spinning! The baker looks perturbed too, and Mrs. Latvia, as always, is teary-eyed and sniffly. Even Father Wavery, apparently still touched by the blessing, pulls out a handkerchief to blot his holy tears before reading on.)

  May 2

  It’s Friday, and Dad and Mom have gone off to one of their meetings again. Sometimes this village is so boring. But I have a feeling something is going to happen. Perhaps I’m going to die. If I had the choice, I don’t know who I would rather have for a mother—Mom or Mrs. Latvia.

  (The poor child must have been terribly confused to imagine that our meetings took place on Fridays instead of Mondays. Mrs. Latvia points it out to the priest, who nods gravely and lowers his gaze to the notebook.)

  May 10

  Father Wavery picks a peck of pickled pepper. Actually, he picks his nose when he thinks no one is watching.

  (Hah, we don’t need anyone’s diary to tell us that, you only have to attend Sunday mass, but still, the girl had gall, and a touch of literary flair too, and now the priest blushes, we’re willing to bet he’ll be keeping his fingers well away from his nostrils for the next few weeks.)

  May 11

  Dear Diary,

  Dad told me that, last night, the baker accused Sybille of stealing his bread. I doubt it’s true: Sybille only eats what the forest offers up.

  Mom is playing her sad tune on the piano again. I sometimes feel like slamming the lid on her fingers.

  They say Blanche Bedford is going to marry Albert Miller. Anyway, those two are going straight to hell—I saw them fornicating in the cemetery one night. She’s already fat as it is.

  (How mortifying for Blanche and Albert. If only they had been here, Leaven might have left us alone for a moment to turn his inquisitorial gaze on them instead, and what about Morosity Gross, aside from the fact it’s true she always plays the same melody on the piano, to the point we suspect it’s the only one she knows, and in fact it has occurred to us that perhaps it’s a pianola with a little mechanism that repeats the same tune over and over.)

  May 13

  Dear Diary,

  Aunt Albania came to see me this morning. It’s awful what she’s going through. You know her thyroid is like an old lady’s? I don’t know exactly what a thyroid is, but hers is in worse shape than Mrs. Latvia’s.

  She showed me her potions and pick-me-ups and tonics. She even told me some of them would probably help perk me up.

  She talked for a long time about the baker, who she suspects of something, I’m not quite sure what.

  Dad has always said that Aunt Albania loves me so much she’d go to hell and back for me. Personally, I’m not sure Aunt Albania loves anyone aside from herself.

  (Clearly, young Amelia was the most lucid member of the family. We glance around the room, there’s no sign of Albania, who must be utterly devastated by the death of her niece, or at least pretending to be. We imagine her sprawled across her huge bed, a photo of Amelia in her hand, her face all puffy, her thyroid causing her more trouble than ever…)

  May 18

  Dear Diary,

  Dad has asked Dr. Harmer to remove my wisdom teeth. I don’t care one way or another, to tell you the truth, but they seem to think it’s important.

  And while we’re on the subject of the doctor, I have to tell you something: once, while I was waiting in his waiting room, I opened the door of his office a sliver—I was alone—and saw him in there. You’ll never guess, dear Diary, what he was doing! He was plucking licorice candies out of a little metal box, unwrapping them and stuffing them into his mouth while staring off into space. Then, he would smooth out the wrappers and put them back in the box. And he would keep on doing the same thing. While I had been waiting for a whole hour! I swear, dear Diary, I saw him polish off one candy after another for a good ten minutes, then he put away the box, straightened his tie, stood up—that’s when I closed the door—and called me into his office.

  I think Dr. Harmer eats way too many candies for a man his age, but I think he does it because he has nothing else to look forward to in life.

  Hmm, maybe I should try licorice candies too.

  (We turn to Harmer, but he’s looking elsewhere. Mrs. Latvia says:

  “How strange, this story about licorice candies. Lisa Campbell used to do the same thing—that box full of carefully folded candy wrappers I found in her desk…”

  We don’t think anything of it, after all, there are surely many of us in the village who enjoy licorice drops and their pretty wrappers, so colourful that it’s perfectly normal to want to hang onto them to admire them at our leisure.)

  May 20

  Dear Diary,

  Yesterday the doctor took out my wisdom teeth. But he’s so clumsy he hurt me with his pliers. He told me it was nothing serious and that my recovery would just be a bit longer. Now I have a terrible headache, and everything I try to swallow tastes like metal.

  Sybille came to visit me while Mom was out running errands. Judging by how she reacted when she saw me, I suspect I’ve looked better.

  I’ve been resting a lot and staying in bed.

  May 25

  I don’t know how truthful they’re being. My teeth hurt worse than ever. The doctor has been giving me one injection after another, but they don’t seem to make any difference. I spit up red and white into my basin several times a day.

  Mom plays her sad song on the piano all the time. Dad is stuttering more than usual.

  Last night the doctor sat by my bedside until the early morning. I swear it was like I was on my deathbed. And the worst thing is he sat there eating his licorice candies all night long without offering me a single one.

  (That was rather selfish of our doctor, while poor Amelia could have enjoyed one last opportunity to savour one of those delicious sweets—just the thought of it makes us salivate. The doctor protests:

  “I was sure she was sleeping! I wasn’t going to wake her up to offer her a candy.”

  He has a point, but still, it seems a bit cruel, especially for a doctor—and an old man, at that.)

  June 1

  What if the prophecy were being fulfilled? Is this how I’m going to die? What a stupid way to die! Mind you, Sybille never told me how I was going to die. Still, I would have preferred to die like Lisa Campbell, shot dead by a hunter’s bullet. It’s much more romantic. And prophetic too, it seems to me.

  I can’t write for much longer. I get tired so fast.

  (What has Sybille gone and made up again to manipulate Amelia with her prophecy nonsense? The priest looks skeptical too, then continues reading.)

  June 7

  Dear Diary,

  No one says anything about it to me, but I can see the way Mom winces every time she comes in the room. Doctor Harmer doesn’t even bother coming by anymore. Or maybe he’s just dropped dead of old age or guilt, and they’ve decided to spare me the news.

  It hurts so much it’s almost like it doesn’t hurt at all.

  Earlier today Samuel Campbell snuck in through my window. I hadn’t seen him for ages. He’s getting to be quite handsome, but he seems to have a few screws loose. He didn’t say a word, even when I said hello, but he came over to my bed. The idiot wasn’t paying attention and stained his sleeve in my basin.

  I asked him what he was up to outside on his own. I don’t know how Blanche Bedford is raising him, but she doesn’t appear to be any better at it than Mrs. Latvia.

  He handed me a little scrap of paper. This is what was written on it:

  “Dear little Amelia,

  Forgive me for not coming to see you during your convalescence. You’ve probably heard that Albert and I are now looking after Lisa Campbell’s children. It’s a lot of work, and I don’t have much time for anything else. (Does she really think I’m going to believe that
? Mom always says that Blanche spends her days dilly-dallying at the mill with Albert while Mrs. Latvia frets about the children being left on their own.) The reason I’m writing to you this evening is to let you know that Albert and I are moving to the city. The baker can go mill his own flour.

  I trust this note finds its way to you.

  Get well soon,

  Blanche”

  Father Wavery looks up at the ceiling, either to be closer to God, or to watch the spider rappelling down toward his nose.

  “And it appears there’s a brief epilogue, at the end of the diary. It’s very short:

  Someone has certainly killed me.

  Then slipped away.

  On tiptoe.

  That’s it. The diary stops there.”

  The baker bristles and shouts:

  “That takes the cake! Really. That evil child—God rest her soul—daring to say I wrongly accused Sybille. The old witch obviously had her wrapped around her little finger. And now Albert’s gone and disappeared, leaving me all alone to manage the mill, I tell you. What a generation: ungrateful little sods!”

  We don’t dare point out to Leaven that, in fact, the passage in the diary is the least of our problems, sure enough, he glares straight at us when he says “ungrateful little sods!” as if we had anything to do with it, really, our baker is sinking further into ridicule with every passing day, and we can tell you, if he runs for election, we won’t be voting for him, we’d rather elect Angelina White, even if her platform would likely revolve around the knitting bee. The priest clasps his hands together:

  “My children, I would like to bring your attention to the epilogue I just read to you. It seems to me I’ve seen these same words somewhere before. In another book. And yet it’s not a passage from the Bible; the scriptures make no mention of wisdom teeth. Does anyone have any idea?”

  Cantarini jumps up and shouts:

  “Dante! Dante!”