The Brutal Telling by Louise Penny
For the SPCA Monteregie, and all the people
who would “ring the bells of Heaven.”
And, for Maggie,
who finally gave all her heart away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, this book is the result of a whole lot of help from a whole lot of people. I want and need to thank Michael, my husband, for reading and rereading the manuscript, and always telling me it was brilliant. Thank you to Lise Page, my assistant, for her tireless and cheery work and great ideas. To Sherise Hobbs and Hope Dellon for their patience and editorial notes.
I want to thank, as always, the very best literary agent in the world, Teresa Chris. She sent me a silver heart when my last book made the New York Times bestseller list (I also thought I’d just mention that!). Teresa is way more than an agent. She’s also a lovely, thoughtful person.
I’d also like to thank my good friends Susan McKenzie and Lili de Grandpré, for their help and support.
And finally I want to say a word about the poetry I use in this book, and the others. As much as I’d love not to say anything and hope you believe I wrote it, I actually need to thank the wonderful poets who’ve allowed me to use their works and words. I adore poetry, as you can tell. Indeed, it inspires me—with words and emotions. I tell aspiring writers to read poetry, which I think for them is often the literary equivalent of being told to eat Brussels sprouts. They’re none too enthusiastic. But what a shame if a writer doesn’t at least try to find poems that speak to him or her. Poets manage to get into a couplet what I struggle to achieve in an entire book.
I thought it was time I acknowledged that.
In this book I use, as always, works from Margaret Atwood’s slim volume Morning in the Burned House. Not a very cheerful title, but brilliant poems. I’ve also quoted from a lovely old work called The Bells of Heaven by Ralph Hodgson. And a wonderful poem called “Gravity Zero” from an emerging Canadian poet named Mike Freeman, from his book Bones.
I wanted you to know that. And I hope these poems speak to you, as they speak to me.
THE BRUTAL TELLING
ONE
“All of them? Even the children?” The fireplace sputtered and crackled and swallowed his gasp. “Slaughtered?”
“Worse.”
There was silence then. And in that hush lived all the things that could be worse than slaughter.
“Are they close?” His back tingled as he imagined something dreadful creeping through the woods. Toward them. He looked around, almost expecting to see red eyes staring through the dark windows. Or from the corners, or under the bed.
“All around. Have you seen the light in the night sky?”
“I thought those were the Northern Lights.” The pink and green and white shifting, flowing against the stars. Like something alive, glowing, and growing. And approaching.
Olivier Brulé lowered his gaze, no longer able to look into the troubled, lunatic eyes across from him. He’d lived with this story for so long, and kept telling himself it wasn’t real. It was a myth, a story told and repeated and embellished over and over and over. Around fires just like theirs.
It was a story, nothing more. No harm in it.
But in this simple log cabin, buried in the Quebec wilderness, it seemed like more than that. Even Olivier felt himself believing it. Perhaps because the Hermit so clearly did.
The old man sat in his easy chair on one side of the stone hearth with Olivier on the other. Olivier looked into a fire that had been alive for more than a decade. An old flame not allowed to die, it mumbled and popped in the grate, throwing soft light into the log cabin. He gave the embers a shove with the simple iron poker, sending sparks up the chimney. Candlelight twinkled off shiny objects like eyes in the darkness, found by the flame.
“It won’t be long now.”
The Hermit’s eyes were gleaming like metal reaching its melting point. He was leaning forward as he often did when this tale was told.
Olivier scanned the single room. The dark was punctuated by flickering candles throwing fantastic, grotesque shadows. Night seemed to have seeped through the cracks in the logs and settled into the cabin, curled in corners and under the bed. Many native tribes believed evil lived in corners, which was why their traditional homes were rounded. Unlike the square homes the government had given them.
Olivier didn’t believe evil lived in corners. Not really. Not in the daylight, anyway. But he did believe there were things waiting in the dark corners of this cabin that only the Hermit knew about. Things that set Olivier’s heart pounding.
“Go on,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
It was late and Olivier still had the twenty-minute walk through the forest back to Three Pines. It was a trip he made every fortnight and he knew it well, even in the dark.
Only in the dark. Theirs was a relationship that existed only after nightfall.
They sipped Orange Pekoe tea. A treat, Olivier knew, reserved for the Hermit’s honored guest. His only guest.
But now it was story time. They leaned closer to the fire. It was early September and a chill had crept in with the night.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. I remember now.”
Olivier’s hands gripped the warm mug even tighter.
“The terrible force has destroyed everything in its way. The Old World and the New. All gone. Except . . .”
“Except?”
“One tiny village remains. Hidden in a valley, so the grim army hasn’t seen it yet. But it will. And when it does their great leader will stand at the head of his army. He’s immense, bigger than any tree, and clad in armor made from rocks and spiny shells and bone.”
“Chaos.”