Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,79

anger and fear that hung around her, like black funeral crepe. This ritual was designed to end that, to turn the dark into light, to banish the hate and fear and invite the trust and warmth back.

‘This is a ritual of celebration and cleansing,’ Myrna was explaining to the gathering. ‘Its roots go back many thousands of years, but its branches reach out and touch us today, and embrace anyone who wants to be included. If you have any questions, just ask.’ Myrna paused but no one spoke up. She had a few things in a bag and now she fished into it and brought out a stick. Actually, it looked more like a thick, straight branch, stripped of its bark and whittled to a sharp point at one end.

‘This is a prayer stick. It might look familiar to some of you,’ she waited and heard a small laugh.

‘Isn’t that a beaver stick?’ Hanna Parra asked.

‘That’s exactly what it is,’ laughed Myrna. She passed it around and the ice was broken. The women who’d been apprehensive, even a little frightened at what they thought might be witchcraft, thawed, and realised there was nothing to be afraid of here. ‘I found it by the mill pond last year. You can see where the beaver gnawed it.’

Eager hands reached out to touch the stick and see the teeth marks and see where the beaver had eaten away the end until it was sharp.

Clara had gone home briefly to get Lucy, now standing quietly on her leash. When the prayer stick got back to Myrna she offered it to the Golden Retriever. For the first time in a week, since Jane had died, Clara saw Lucy’s tail wag. Once. She gently took the stick in her teeth. And held it there. Her tail gave another tentative wag.

Gamache sat on the bench on the green. He’d come to think of it as ‘his’ bench, since that morning when they’d greeted the dawn together. Now he and the bench were in the sunshine, which was a few precious degrees warmer than the shade. Still, his breath was coming out in puffs. As he sat quietly he watched the women gather, form a line, and with Myrna in front and Clara behind with Lucy they walked around the green.

“Bout time for Indian Summer,’ said Ben, sitting down in a way that made it look like all his bones had dissolved. ‘The sun’s getting lower in the sky.’

‘Humm,’ Gamache agreed. ‘Do they do this often?’ he nodded to the procession of women.

‘About twice a year. I was at the last ritual. Didn’t get it.’ Ben shook his head.

‘Perhaps if they tackled each other now and then we’d understand,’ suggested Gamache, who actually understood perfectly well. The two men sat in companionable silence watching the women.

‘How long have you loved her?’ Gamache asked quietly, not looking at Ben. Ben turned in his seat and stared at Gamache’s profile, flabbergasted.

‘Who?’

‘Clara. How long have you loved her?’

Ben gave a long sigh, like a man waiting all his life to exhale. ‘We were all at art school together, though Peter and I were a couple of years ahead of Clara. He fell for her right away.’

‘And you?’

‘Took me a little longer. I think I’m more guarded than Peter. I find it harder to open up to people. But Clara’s different, isn’t she?’ Ben was watching her, smiling.

Myrna lit the knot of Jane’s sage, and it started to smoke. As they walked around the green the procession of women stopped at the four directions, North, South, East and West. And at each stop Myrna handed the smoking knot to another woman, who softly wafted her hand in front of the sage, encouraging the sweet-smelling smoke to drift toward the homes.

Myrna explained this was called ‘smudging’. It was cleansing away the bad spirits and making room for the good. Gamache breathed deeply and inhaled the fragrant mix of woodsmoke and sage. Both venerable, both comforting.

‘Is it obvious?’ Ben asked anxiously. ‘I mean, I used to dream about us getting together, but that was long ago. I could never, ever do anything like that. Not to Peter.’

‘No, it isn’t obvious.’ Ben and Gamache watched as the line of women walked up rue du Moulin and into the woods.

It was cold and dark, dead leaves underfoot and overhead and swirling in the air in between. The women’s high spirits had been replaced by restlessness. A shadow crept over the jovial gathering. Even Myrna became subdued,