by Louise Penny
‘I’ve hidden bottles all over the house and if you’re nice to me, Madame Zardo,’ said Gamache, bowing slightly, ‘I might tell you where some are.’
Ruth considered then seemed to conclude it was too much trouble. She grabbed what was a tumbler for water and handed it to Peter.
‘Scotch.’
‘How can you be a poet?’ Peter asked.
‘I’ll tell you how, I don’t waste good words on the likes of you.’ She took the tumbler and swallowed a gulp.
‘So why do you drink?’ she asked Gamache.
‘Voyons,’ said Beauvoir. ‘That newspaper article was a lie. He doesn’t drink.’
‘What newspaper article?’ asked Ruth. ‘And what’s that?’ She pointed to the Scotch in Gamache’s hand.
‘I drink to relax,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you?’
Ruth stared at him but what she saw were the two baby birds, tucked into their little beds in her oven, snug in warmed towels and water bottles she’d bought at Canadian Tire. She’d fed Rosa and tried to feed Lilium, but she hadn’t taken very much.
Ruth had kissed them softly on their little fluffy heads, getting a slight film of dander on her thin, old lips. It’d been a while since she’d kissed anything. They smelled fresh and felt warm. Lilium had bent down and pecked at her hand slightly, as though kissing back. Ruth had meant to leave for Peter and Clara’s earlier, but had waited until Rosa and Lilium were asleep. She grabbed her kitchen timer and put two and a half hours on it, then slipped it into her moth-eaten cardigan.
She took a deep sip of her Scotch, and thought about it. Why did she drink?
‘I drink so I don’t get mad,’ she said finally.
‘Get mad or go mad?’ mumbled Myrna. ‘Either way, it isn’t working.’
Over at the sofa Gabri had corralled Jeanne again. ‘So what do witches do?’
‘Gabri, shouldn’t you be passing this round?’ Olivier tried to hand him the pâté again, but Gabri just took a scoop himself and left Olivier holding it.
‘We heal people.’
‘I thought you did, well, the opposite. Aren’t there wicked witches?’
‘Please dear Lord don’t let him welcome us to munchkin land,’ Olivier murmured to Peter. Both men moved away.
‘Some, but not as many as you might think,’ Jeanne smiled. ‘Witches are simply people with heightened intuition.’
‘So it’s not magic,’ said Beauvoir, listening despite himself.
‘We’re not conjuring anything that isn’t already there. We just see things others don’t.’
‘Like dead people?’ asked Gabri.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Ruth, shoving Myrna aside as she squeezed onto the sofa, bony elbows out. ‘I see them all the time.’
‘You do?’ asked Myrna.
‘I see them now,’ said Ruth and the room grew silent. Even Peter and Olivier drifted back.
‘Here?’ asked Clara. ‘In our house?’
‘Especially here,’ said Ruth.
‘Now?’
‘Right there,’ said Ruth and she raised one certain finger and pointed. At Gamache.
There was an intake of breath and Gamache looked over at Beauvoir.
‘Dead? He’s dead?’ whispered Clara.
‘Dead? I thought you said dull. Never mind,’ said Ruth.
‘How can she be a poet?’ Peter asked Olivier and the two walked away again to examine Peter’s latest jigsaw puzzle.
‘So who did it? Do you know yet who killed Madeleine?’ asked Ruth. ‘Or have you been too busy paying people off and drinking to actually do any work?’
Beauvoir opened his mouth and Gamache held up his hand, reassuring him it was a joke.
‘We don’t know, but we’re getting close.’
This was a surprise to Beauvoir, who tried not to show it.
‘Did you all know she’d had cancer?’ Gamache asked. Everyone looked at each other and nodded.
‘But that was a while ago,’ said Myrna.
Gamache waited for more then decided he had to ask his question clearly.
‘Was she still in remission, as far as you know?’
They looked perplexed and again searched out each other, passing glances in the sort of telepathy good friends have.
‘Never heard otherwise,’ said Peter. No one disagreed. Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged looks. Conversation started up again and Peter ducked into the kitchen to check on dinner.
Gamache followed him and found Peter stirring the lamb stew. Gamache picked up a baguette and a bread knife and gestured to Peter, who smiled his thanks.
The two worked quietly together, listening to the conversation in the next room.
‘Hear tomorrow’s supposed to be nice, finally,’ said Peter. ‘Sunny and warm.’
‘April’s like that, isn’t it?’ said Gamache, cutting the bread and putting it onto a tea towel nestled in a wooden bowl. Gamache lifted the towel and saw the signature burling of the wood. One of Sandon’s bowls.
‘Unpredictable, you mean?’ said Peter. ‘Difficult month.’
‘Sunny and warm one day then snow the next,’ agreed Gamache. ‘Shakespeare called it the uncertain glory of an April day.’
‘I prefer T. S. Eliot. The cruellest month.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘All those spring flowers slaughtered. Happens almost every year. They’re tricked into blooming, into coming out. Opening up. And not just the spring bulbs, but the buds on the trees. The rose bushes, everything. All out and happy. And then boom, a freak snowstorm kills them all.’
Gamache had the feeling they weren’t talking about flowers any more.
‘But what would you have happen?’ he asked Peter. ‘They have to bloom, even if it’s for a short time. And they’ll be back next year.’
‘But not all.’ Peter turned to look at Gamache, the wooden spoon in the air dripping thick gravy. ‘Some never recover. We had the most beautiful rose bush just budding and a hard frost killed it a few years back.’
‘A killing frost,’ quoted Gamache. ‘It nips his root. And then he falls, as I do.’
Peter was trembling.
‘Who’s falling, Peter? Is it Clara?’
‘No one’s falling. I won’t allow it.’
‘Strange in Canada, we talk all the time about the one thing we can’t control. The weather. We can’t stop a killing frost and we can’t stop the flowers from doing what they’re meant to do. Better to bloom even for an instant, if that’s your nature, than live forever in hiding.’
‘I don’t agree.’ Peter turned his back on his guest and practically puréed the stew.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Peter to the wall.
Gamache took the bread to the long pine table, set for dinner, then returned to the living room. He reflected on T. S. Eliot and thought the poet had called April the cruellest month not because it killed flowers and buds on the trees, but because sometimes it didn’t. How difficult it was for those who didn’t bloom when all about was new life and hope.
‘So let me get this straight,’ said Olivier.
‘He almost never says that,’ Gabri assured Clara then turned back to the platter of shrimp Olivier was trying to get him to pass round. Gabri took one.
‘Easter isn’t a Christian holiday?’ said Olivier.
‘Well, it is,’ said Jeanne. The little, nondescript woman had somehow managed to dominate the room full of strong personalities. She sat bunched into a corner of the sofa, squeezed between the arm and Myrna, and all eyes were on her. ‘But the early church didn’t know for sure when Christ was crucified so it chose a date, one that would fit into the pagan calendar of rituals as well.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’ asked Clara.
‘The early church needed converts to survive. It was a dangerous and fragile time. In order to win over the pagans it adopted some of their feasts and rituals.’
‘Church ince
nse is like the smudging we do,’ agreed Myrna. ‘When we light dried herbs to cleanse a place.’ She turned to Clara, who nodded. But it was a comforting ritual full of joy, not the somber swinging of the church censer, glum and vaguely threatening. She’d never seen the two as similar and wondered how the priests would feel about the comparison. Or the witches.
‘That’s right,’ said Jeanne. ‘Same with the festivals. We sometimes call Christmas Yuletide.’
‘In some of the carols anyway,’ said Gabri.
‘And we have the Yule log,’ Olivier pointed out.
‘Yule is the ancient word for the winter solstice. The longest night of the year. Around December twenty-first. It’s a pagan festival. So that’s where the early Christian church decided to put Christmas.’
‘So that a bunch of witches would celebrate? Come on,’ said Ruth with a snort. ‘Aren’t you making yourselves out to be more important than you are?’
‘Now, absolutely. The church hasn’t been interested in us for hundreds of years, except maybe as firewood, as you know.’
‘What do you mean? As I know?’
‘You’ve written about the old beliefs. Many times. It runs through your poems.’
‘You’re reading too much into them, Joan of Arc,’ said Ruth.
‘I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
and breasts.
Whenever there’s talk of demons
these come in handy.’
Jeanne quoted the poem, searching Ruth’s face.
‘Are you saying Ruth’s a witch?’ asked Gabri.
Jeanne tore her attention from the wizened old woman sitting bolt upright.
‘In the Wiccan beliefs most old women are the keepers of wisdom, of the medicines, of the stories. They’re the crones.’
‘Well, she does practice bitchcraft. Does that count?’ Gabri asked to roars of laughter and even Jeanne smiled.
‘There was a time when most people were pagans and celebrated the old ways. Yule and Eostar. The spring equinox. Easter. You do rituals?’ Jeanne asked Myrna.
‘Some. We celebrate the solstice and do some smudging. It’s a kind of hodgepodge of native and pagan beliefs.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Ruth. ‘I went to a couple. Ended up stinking of sage smoke for two days. People in the pharmacy thought I’d smoked up.’
‘Sometimes the magic works,’ said Myrna to Clara with a laugh.
‘Dinner,’ Peter called from the kitchen. When they arrived he’d put the casseroles and stews and vegetables on the island along with plates. Clara and Beauvoir went around lighting the candles scattered throughout the kitchen so that by the time they’d taken their places it was like sitting in a darkened planetarium, filled with points of light.
Their plates piled high with lamb stew and shepherd’s pie and fresh bread and smooth, fluffy mashed potatoes and baby beans, they tucked in, talking about gardens and the storm, about the Anglican Church Women and the condition of the roads.
‘I called Hazel to see if they could come tonight, but she said no,’ said Clara.
‘She almost always says no,’ said Myrna.
‘Is that true?’ asked Olivier. ‘I never noticed that.’
‘Neither had I,’ said Clara, helping herself to another spoonful of potatoes. ‘But now that I think of it, we wanted to take over dinners after Madeleine died but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Some people are like that,’ said Myrna. ‘Always happy to help others, but they have difficulty accepting it. Too bad really. She must be having a horrible time. Can’t imagine the pain she’s in.’
‘What excuse did she give for not coming tonight?’ Olivier asked.
‘Said Sophie’d sprained her ankle,’ said Clara with a scowl. There were guffaws around the table. She turned to Gamache to explain. ‘Sophie’s always sick or injured in some way, at least as long as I’ve known her.’
Gamache turned to Myrna. ‘What’s your thinking about that?’
‘Sophie? Easy. Attention-seeking. Jealous of Mom and Madeleine—’ She stopped, realizing what she was saying.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gamache. ‘We’d already figured that one out. Sophie’s also lost weight recently.’
‘Tons,’ said Gabri. ‘But she bobs up and down. Lost weight a few years ago too but put it all back.’
‘Does it run in the family?’ asked Gamache. ‘Does Hazel’s weight change?’
Again they looked at each other, except Ruth who stole a piece of bread from Olivier’s plate.
‘Hazel’s been the same as long as I remember,’ said Clara.
Gamache nodded and sipped his wine. ‘Marvelous dinner, Peter. Thank you.’ He raised his glass to Peter, who acknowledged the compliment.
‘I thought for sure we’d be having game hens,’ said Olivier to Peter. ‘Isn’t that your party dish this year?’
‘But you aren’t guests,’ said Peter. ‘We only do that for real people.’
‘I think you’ve been hanging around Ruth,’ said Olivier.
‘Actually, we were going to make Rock Cornish game hens but we thought with your babies, you might not want to eat them,’ Peter said to Ruth.
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth seemed genuinely perplexed and Gamache wondered whether she’d forgotten her ducklings weren’t human, weren’t her actual babies.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if we ate poultry?’ Peter asked. ‘Or even Brume Lake duck? We were going to barbecue some confit du canard.’
‘Rosa and Lilium aren’t chickens and they aren’t ducks,’ said Ruth.
‘They aren’t?’ said Clara. ‘What are they?’
‘I think they’re flying monkeys,’ said Gabri to Olivier, who snorted.
‘They’re Canada geese.’
‘Are you sure? They look pretty small, especially that Lilium,’ said Peter.
Everyone was hushed and if Clara had been closer she would have kicked him. Instead she kicked Beauvoir. Another example, he thought, of suppressed anglo rage. Can’t trust them, can’t kick them out, or back.
‘So? She’s always been small,’ said Ruth. ‘When they hatched she almost didn’t make it out of her shell. Rosa was already out and squawking, but I could see Lilium thrashing back and forth, her wings trying to crack the shell.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Jeanne.
Her face, like all of theirs, was lit by candlelight, but while it made the others more attractive, it gave her a demonic expression, her eyes sunken and dark, the shadows strong.
‘What do you think I did? I cracked the egg for her. Opened it up enough for her to get out.’
‘You saved her life,’ said Peter.
‘Perhaps,’ said Jeanne, sitting back and almost disappearing into the shadows.
‘What’d you mean, perhaps?’ demanded Ruth.
‘The emperor moth.’
It wasn’t Jeanne who spoke, but Gabri.
‘Tell me you didn’t just say “the emperor moth”,’ said Clara.
‘I did, and for a reason.’ He paused, to make sure his audience was with him. He needn’t have worried.
‘It takes years for the moth to evolve from an egg into an adult,’ he said. ‘In its final stage the caterpillar spins a cocoon and then it dissolves completely until it’s just liquid, then it transforms. It becomes something else entirely. A huge emperor moth. But it’s not that easy. Before it can live as a moth it has to fight its way out of the cocoon. Not all make it.’
‘They would if I was there,’ said Ruth, taking another gulp.
Gabri was uncharacteristically silent.
‘What? What is it?’ demanded Ruth.
‘They need to fight their way out of the cocoon. It builds their wings and muscles. It’s the struggle that saves them. Without it they’re crippled. If you help an emperor moth, you kill it.’
Ruth’s glass stopped at her lips. For the first time since any of them had known her, she didn’t drink. Then she thumped th
e glass so hard on the table it shot a plume of Scotch into the air.
‘Bullshit. What do you know about the natural world?’
There was silence then.
After a long minute Armand Gamache turned to Myrna.
‘This is a beautiful flower arrangement, and I think you said there was something in it for me.’
‘There is,’ she said, relieved. ‘But you have to dig for it.’
Gamache got up and delicately moved the branches aside. There, in the forest, was a book. He brought it out and sat back down.
‘The Dictionary of Magical Places,’ he read from the cover.
‘Latest edition.’
‘They found more magical places?’ asked Olivier.
‘Guess so. I saw what you were reading in the bistro yesterday and thought you might be interested in this too,’ Myrna said to Gamache.
‘What were you reading?’ asked Clara.
Gamache went into the mudroom and returning with the books he’d been carrying he placed them one on top of the other on the table. Staring up at them was a small hand outlined in red on the black leather cover. No one moved to touch it.
‘Where’d you find that?’ Jeanne asked. She looked upset.
‘The old Hadley house. Do you know the book?’
Did she hesitate? he wondered. She reached out and he handed it to her. After examining it for a moment she put it down.
‘It’s a Hamsa hand. An ancient symbol to ward off the envious and the evil eye. It’s also called the Hand of Miriam. Or Mary.’
‘Mary?’ said Clara, sitting slowly back in her chair. ‘As in the Madonna?’
Jeanne nodded.
‘It’s all bullshit,’ said Ruth, who’d wiped up the droplets of spilled Scotch with her finger and was sucking it.
‘You don’t believe in magic?’ Jeanne asked.
‘I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe in God. There’s no such thing as angels and there’re no fairies at the end of the garden. Nothing. The only magic is this.’ She raised her glass and took a gulp.
‘Is it working?’ asked Gamache.
‘Fuck off,’ said Ruth.
‘Eloquent as ever,’ said Gabri. ‘I used to believe in God, but I gave it up for Lent.’
