EIGHTEEN
The young man, not much more than a boy, heard the wind. Heard the moan, and heeded it. He stayed. After a day his family, afraid of what they might find, came looking and found him on the side of the terrible mountain. Alive. Alone. They pleaded with him to leave, but, unbelievably, he refused.
“He’s been drugged,” said his mother.
“He’s been cursed,” said his sister.
“He’s been mesmerized,” said his father, backing away.
But they were wrong. He had, in fact, been seduced. By the desolate mountain. And his loneliness. And by the tiny green shoots under his feet.
He’d done this. He’d brought the great mountain alive again. He was needed.
And so the boy stayed, and slowly warmth returned to the mountain. Grass and trees and fragrant flowers returned. Foxes and rabbits and bees came back. Where the boy walked fresh springs appeared and where he sat ponds were created.
The boy was life for the mountain. And the mountain loved him for it. And the boy loved the mountain for it too.
Over the years the terrible mountain became beautiful and word spread. That something dreadful had become something peaceful. And kind. And safe. Slowly the people returned, including the boy’s family.
A village sprang up and the Mountain King, so lonely for so long, protected them all. And every night, while the others rested, the boy, now a young man, walked to the very top of the mountain, and lying down on the soft green moss he listened to the voice deep inside.
Then one night while he lay there the young man heard something unexpected. The Mountain King told him a secret.
Olivier watched the wild horse and the fallen rider along with the rest of the bistro crowd. His skin crawled and he longed to break out, to scream and push his way out of the crowd. And to run away. Run, run, run. Until he dropped.
Because, unlike them, he knew what it meant.
Instead he stood and watched as though he was still one of them. But Olivier knew now he never would be again.
Armand Gamache walked into the bistro and scanned the faces.
“Is Roar Parra still here?”
“I am,” said a voice at the back of the bistro. The bodies parted and the stocky man appeared.
“Madame Gilbert’s found a cabin deep in the forest. Does that sound familiar?”
Parra, along with everyone else, thought. Then he, and everyone else, shook their heads. “Never knew there was one there.”
Gamache thought for a moment then looked outside where Dominique was just catching her breath. “A glass of water, please,” he said, and Gabri appeared with one. “Come with me,” the Chief Inspector said to Parra.
“How far was the cabin?” he asked Dominique after she’d swallowed the water. “Can we get there on ATVs?”
Dominique shook her head. “No, the forest’s too thick.”
“How’d you get there?” asked Beauvoir.
“Macaroni took me.” She stroked the sweating horse’s neck. “After what happened this morning I needed time alone, so I saddled up and decided to try to find the old bridle paths.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” said Parra. “You could’ve been lost.”
“I did get lost. That’s how I found the cabin. I was on one of the trails you cut, then it ended, but I could just make out the old path so I kept on. And that’s when I saw it.”
Dominique’s mind was filled with images. Of the dark cabin, of the dark stains on the floor. Of jumping on the horse and trying to find the path back, and holding down the panic. The warnings every Canadian hears since childhood. Never, ever go into the woods alone.
“Can you find your way back there?” asked Gamache.
Could she? She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Would you like to rest?”
“I’d like to get this over with.”
Gamache nodded, then turned to Roar Parra. “Come with us, please.”
As they walked up the hill, Dominique leading Macaroni with Parra beside her and the S?reté officers behind, Beauvoir whispered to the Chief.
“If we can’t get in with ATVs, how’re we going to go?”
“Can you say giddyup?”
“I can say whoa.” Beauvoir looked as though Gamache had suggested something obscene.
“Well, I suggest you practice.”