‘A little hole?’
‘A little hole made by a little pen,’ Madeleine’s eyes sparkled as she mimicked digging and twisting a pen into the sofa, and Hazel found herself laughing. She could just see the girl tunneling away at her parents’ prized possession. Madeleine was fearless. While Hazel had been the school hall monitor, Madeleine had been the one trying to sneak into class late, after grabbing a smoke in the woods.
Hazel looked down at the tiny white cylinder in her palm, unsullied by exposure to sunlight and life, swallowed by the sofa to be coughed up decades later.
Then she opened it. And she knew she’d had reason to be afraid of the thing. For what it contained changed her life immediately and forever. Written in round, exuberant purple ink was a single simple sentence.
I love you.
Hazel couldn’t meet Madeleine’s eyes. Instead she looked up from the tiny note and noticed that her living room, which that morning had been so drab, was now warm and comfortable, the washed-out colors vibrant. By the time her eyes returned to Madeleine the miracle had happened. One had become two.
Madeleine went back to Montreal to finish her treatments, but as soon as she could she returned to the cottage in the countryside, surrounded by rolling hills and forests and fields of spring flowers. Madeleine had found a home and so had Hazel.
Now Hazel picked up her darning from the old horsehair sofa. She was worried. Worried about what was happening at the bistro.
They’d done the runes, the ancient Nordic symbols of divination. According to the rune stones Clara was an ox, Myrna a pine torch, Gabri a birch, though Clara told him the rune said bitch.
‘Well, it got that right,’ said Gabri, impressed. ‘And God knows you’re an ox.’
Monsieur Béliveau reached into the small wicker basket and withdrew a stone painted with a diamond symbol.
‘Marriage,’ suggested Monsieur Béliveau. Madeleine smiled but said nothing.
‘No,’ said Jeanne, taking the stone and examining it. ‘That’s the God Ing.’
‘Here, let me try.’ Gilles Sandon put his powerful, calloused hand into the delicate basket and withdrew it, his hand a fist. Opening it they saw a stone with the letter R. It looked to Clara a bit like the wooden eggs they’d hidden for the children. They too had been painted with symbols. But eggs were symbolic of life, while stones were symbolic of death.
‘What does it mean?’ Gilles asked.
‘It means riding. Adventure, a journey,’ said Jeanne, looking at Gilles. ‘Often accompanied by toil. Hard work.’
‘What else is new?’
Odile laughed, as did Clara. Gilles was a hard worker and his forty-five-year-old body testified to years as a lumberjack. Strong and strapping and almost always bruised.
‘But,’ Jeanne reached out and placed her hand over the stone still sitting in the soft center of Gilles’s palm, surrounded by callus hills, ‘you picked it up upside down. The R is inverted.’
Now there was silence. Gabri, who’d discovered by reading the small pamphlet on runes that his stone meant ‘birch’ not ‘bitch’, had been arguing with Clara and threatening to cut off her supply of pâté and red wine. Now the two of them joined the others and leaned in, the circle tight and tense.
‘What does that mean?’ Odile asked.
‘It means a difficult road ahead. It warns to be cautious.’
‘And what did his mean?’ Gilles pointed to Monsieur Béliveau.
‘The God Ing? It means fertility, masculinity.’ Jeanne smiled at the quiet, gentle grocer. ‘It’s also a powerful reminder to respect all that’s natural.’
Gilles laughed, a petty, smug, mean little sound.
‘Do Madeleine,’ Myrna suggested, trying to break the tension.
‘Great.’ Mad reached in and withdrew a stone. ‘I’m sure mine will say I’m selfish and heartless. P.’ She smiled as she looked at the symbol. ‘That’s amazing, because I actually have to pee.’
‘The P symbol means joy,’ said Jeanne. ‘But you know what else?’
Madeleine hesitated. As Clara watched the great energy that seemed to surround the woman appeared to dim, to diminish. It was as though she sagged for just an instant.
‘It’s upside down too,’ said Madeleine.
Hazel’s hands darned the worn socks but her mind was elsewhere. She glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. Still early, she told herself.
She wondered what was happening at the bistro over in Three Pines. Madeleine had suggested they go together, but Hazel had declined.
‘Don’t tell me you’re scared,’ Madeleine had teased.
‘Of course not. It’s just nonsense, a waste of time.’
‘Not afraid of ghosts? So, would you move into a house next to a cemetery?’
Hazel thought about it. ‘Probably not, but only because of resale.’
‘Ever practical,’ Madeleine laughed.
‘Do you believe this woman can contact the dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Mad. ‘I honestly haven’t thought about it. It just seems like fun.’
‘Lots of people believe in ghosts, in haunted houses,’ said Hazel. ‘I was reading about one just the other day. It was in Philadelphia. A monk keeps appearing, and visitors see human shadows on the stairs and there was something else, what was it? Gave me the willies. Oh, yes. A cold spot. Right by a big wing chair and apparently everyone who sits in it dies but not before seeing the ghost of an old woman.’
‘I thought you said you don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘I don’t, but lots of people do.’
‘Lots of cultures talk about spirits,’ admitted Madeleine.
‘But we’re not talking about those, are we? I think there’s a difference. A ghost is somehow malevolent, wicked. There’s something vengeful and angry about a ghost. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to play around with that. And the building the bistro’s in has been there for hundreds of years. Heaven knows how many people died there. No. I’ll stay at home, watch a bit of TV, take a dinner next door to poor Madame Bellows. And avoid ghosts.’
Now Hazel sat in the puddle of dim light thrown from a single lamp in the living room. Remembering the conversation had left her chilled, as though a ghost had perched by her seat, creating a cold spot. She rose and turned on all the lights. But the room remained dull. Without Madeleine it seemed to wither.
The disadvantage of putting on all the lights was that she could no longer see out the window. All she saw was her own reflection. At least, she hoped it was her own reflection. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa wearing a sensible tweed skirt and an olive twinset. Around her neck was a modest set of pearls. It could have been her mother. And maybe it was.
Peter Morrow stood at the threshold of Clara’s studio, peering into the darkness. He’d cleaned up the dishes, read in front of the living room fire and then, bored, had decided to go into his own studio to put in an hour or so on his latest painting. He’d walked through their kitchen to the other side of their small home, with every intention of opening his studio door and going inside.
So why was he now standing at the open door to Clara’s studio?
It was dark and very quiet in there. He could feel his heart in his chest. His hands were cold and he realized he was holding his breath.
The act was so simple, mundane even.
He reached out and flicked on the overhead lights. Then he stepped in.
They sat in a circle on wooden chairs. Jeanne counted and seemed disconcerted.
‘Eight is a bad number. We shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘What do you mean, a “bad” number?’ Madeleine could feel her heart start to pound.
‘It comes right after seven,’ said Jeanne, as though that explained it. ‘Eight forms the infinity sign.’ She gestured in the air, her finger making the invisible sign. ‘The energy goes round and round. No outlet. It gets angry and frustrated, and very powerful.’ She’d sighed. ‘This doesn’t feel good at all.’
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The lights were out and the only illumination came from the fireplace as it crackled and threw uncertain light upon them. Some were in darkness, their backs to the fire; the rest looked like a series of disembodied worried faces.
‘I want you all to clear your minds.’ Jeanne’s voice was deep and resonant. They couldn’t see her face. She had her back to the fire. Clara had the impression she’d done it on purpose, but perhaps not.
‘You must breathe deeply and let the anxiety and worry flow out of you. A spirit can sense energy. Any negative energy will only draw the ill-intentioned spirits. We want to fill the bistro with positive, loving kindness to attract the good spirits.’
‘Fuck,’ whispered Gabri. ‘This was a bad idea.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Myrna beside him. ‘Good thoughts, asshole, and be quick about it.’
‘I’m scared,’ he whispered.
‘Well, stop it. Go to your happy place, Gabri, your happy place,’ Myrna rasped.
‘This is my happy place,’ snapped Gabri. ‘Please, take her first, please, she’s big and juicy. Please, don’t take me.’
‘You are a birch,’ said Myrna.
‘Quiet please,’ said Jeanne with more authority than Clara would have guessed possible. ‘If there’s a sudden loud noise I want you to grab each other’s hands, is that understood?’
‘Why?’ Gabri whispered to Odile on his other side. ‘Is she expecting something bad?’
‘Shhh,’ said Jeanne quietly and all whispering stopped. All breathing stopped. ‘They’re coming.’
All hearts stopped.
Peter stepped into Clara’s studio. He’d been in it hundreds of times and knew she kept the door open for a reason. She had nothing to hide. And yet for some reason he felt guilty.
Looking around rapidly he strode directly to the large easel in the center of the room. The studio smelled of oils and varnishes and wood, with a slight undertone of strong coffee. Years and years of creation and coffee had imbued this room with comforting sensations. So why was Peter terrified?
At the easel he stopped. Clara had draped a sheet over the canvas. He stood contemplating it, telling himself to leave, begging himself not to do this thing. Hardly believing what he was doing he saw his right hand reach out. Like a man who’d left his body he knew there was no controlling what was about to happen. It seemed pre-ordained.
His hand clutched the stained old sheet and yanked.
The room was silent. Clara desperately wanted to reach out and take Myrna’s hand, but she dared not move. In case. In case whatever was coming would focus its attention on her.
Then she heard it. They all heard it.
Footsteps.
The turning of a doorknob.
Someone whimpered, like a frightened puppy.
Then suddenly a horrible pounding split the silence. A man yelled, Clara felt hands clutching at hers from both sides. She found them and held on for dear life, repeating over and over, ‘Bless O Lord this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service. Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.’
‘Let me in,’ a voice outside their world wailed.
‘Oh, God, it’s an angry spirit,’ said Myrna. ‘It’s your fault,’ she said to Gabri, who was wide-eyed and terrified.
‘Fuck,’ wailed the disembodied voice. ‘Fuuuuck.’
A window pane rattled and a horrible face appeared at the glass. The circle gasped and recoiled.
‘For Christ’s sake, Dorothy, I know you’re in there,’ screamed the voice. It wasn’t what Clara had imagined would be the last words she’d hear on earth. She’d always thought they’d be, ‘What were you thinking?’
Gabri rose, trembling, to his feet.
‘Dear God,’ he cried, making the sign of the cross with his fingers. ‘It’s the pre-dead.’
At the mullioned window Ruth Zardo’s eyes narrowed and she gave him half a sign of the cross.
Peter stared at the work on the easel. His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. It was worse than he’d expected, worse than he’d feared, and Peter feared big. Before him stood Clara’s latest work, the one she’d soon show Denis Fortin, the influential gallery owner in Montreal. So far Clara had struggled in obscurity creating her nearly unintelligible works of art. At least, they were unintelligible to Peter.
Then suddenly out of nowhere Denis Fortin had knocked on their door. Peter was certain the distinguished dealer, with contacts throughout the art world, had come to see him. After all, he was the famous one. His excruciatingly detailed paintings sold for thousands and sat on the finest walls in Canada. Peter had naturally shown Fortin into his studio only to be politely told that his works were nice but it was actually Clara Morrow the dealer wanted to see.
Had the dealer said he wanted to turn green and fly to the moon Peter wouldn’t have been more astonished. See Clara’s works? What? His mind seized up and he’d stared at Fortin.
‘Why?’ he’d stammered. Then it was Fortin’s turn to stare.
‘She is Clara Morrow? The artist? A friend showed me her portfolio. Is this it?’
Fortin had taken a folio of works from his case and sure enough, there was Clara’s weeping tree. Weeping words. What tree wept words? Peter had wondered when Clara had first shown him the work. And now Denis Fortin, the most prominent gallery owner in Quebec, was saying it was an impressive work of art.
‘That’s mine,’ said Clara, trying to get between the two men.
Amazed, as though in a dream, she’d shown Fortin around her studio. And she’d described her latest work, hidden under its canvas caul. Fortin had stared at the canvas, but hadn’t reached out for it, hadn’t even asked for it to be removed.
‘When will it be finished?’
‘A few days,’ said Clara, wondering where that came from.
‘Shall we say the first week in May?’ He’d smiled and shaken her hand with great warmth. ‘I’ll bring my curators so we can all decide.’
Decide?
The great Denis Fortin was coming in little over a week to see Clara’s latest work. And if he liked it her career would be decided.
Now Peter stood staring at the piece.
He suddenly felt something grab him. From behind. It reached forward and right into him and took hold. Peter gasped at the pain, the searing, scalding pain of it. Tears came to his eyes as he was overcome by this wraith that had threatened all his life. That he’d hidden from as a child, that he’d run from and buried and denied. It had stalked him and finally found him. Here, in his beloved wife’s studio. Standing in front of this creation of hers the terrible monster had found him.
And devoured him.
FIVE
‘So what did Ruth want?’ Olivier asked, as he placed single malt Scotches in front of Myrna and Gabri. Odile and Gilles had gone home but everyone else was in the bistro. Clara waved to Peter, who was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. She’d called him as soon as the séance had ended and invited him to the post-mortem.
‘Well, at first we thought she was yelling “fuck”,’ said Myrna, ‘then we realized she was yelling “duck”.’
‘Duck? Really?’ said Olivier, sitting on the arm of Gabri’s wing chair and sipping cognac. ‘Duck? Do you think she’s been saying that all along?̵
‘And we just misheard?’ asked Myrna. ‘Duck off. Is that what she said to me the other day?’
‘Duck you?’ said Clara. ‘It’s possible. She is often in a fowl mood.’
Monsieur Béliveau laughed and looked over at Madeleine, pale and quiet beside him.
The fine April day had given way to a cold and damp night. It was getting on for midnight and they were the only ones in the bistro now.
‘What did she want?’ Peter asked.
‘Help with some duck eggs. Remember the ones we found by the pond this afternoon?’ said Clara, turning to Mad. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Madeleine smiled. ‘Just a little edgy.’
‘
I’m sorry about that,’ said Jeanne. She sat on a hard chair slightly outside their circle. She’d reverted to her mousy self; all evidence of the strong, calm psychic had evaporated as soon as the lights had come on.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the séance,’ Madeleine assured her. ‘We had coffee after dinner and it must have had caffeine. It affects me that way.’
‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible,’ Monsieur Béliveau said. ‘I’m sure it was decaf.’ Though he was feeling a little edgy himself.
‘What’s the story with the eggs?’ asked Olivier, smoothing the crease on his immaculate corduroys.
‘Seems Ruth went to the pond after we’d left and picked them up,’ Clara explained.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mad.
‘Then the birds came back and wouldn’t sit on the nest,’ said Clara. ‘Just as you predicted. So Ruth took the eggs home.’
‘To eat?’ asked Myrna. ‘To hatch,’ said Gabri, who’d gone with Clara back to Ruth’s tiny house to see if they could help.
‘She didn’t sit on them, did she?’ Myrna asked, not sure if she was amused or repulsed by the image.
‘No, it was actually quite sweet. When we arrived the eggs were sitting on a soft flannel blanket in a basket. She’d put the whole lot in her oven on low.’
‘Good idea,’ said Peter. Like the rest, he’d have expected Ruth to devour, not save, them.
‘I don’t think she’s had that oven on in years. Keeps saying it takes too much energy,’ said Myrna.
‘Well, she has it on now,’ said Clara. ‘Trying to hatch the ducks. Those poor parents.’ She picked up her Scotch and glanced out the window to the darkness of the village green and imagined the parents sitting by the pond, at the spot where their young family had been, where their babies had sat in their little shells, trusting that Mom and Dad would keep them safe and warm. Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.
Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?