us pray for those who fell in battle,” said the host, “and in particular for the village men whose names are carved on the monument across from the church, so that no one will ever forget them because, though now the fighting’s still recent, tomorrow they’ll all be gone from people’s minds.”
“Amen,” said the others.
They lowered their heads and stood for a moment in contemplative silence. So they have fought a major war, thought Petrus. Then there was a faint murmur as conversation started up again, and he felt that something was trying to make its way inside him—was it the beneficial effect of the wine, or the dignity of the moment; he could hear faint voices, intermittently.
“Unfortunately, I have heard say that prayers are not enough to knock sense into a man’s brain,” said Jean-René, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder.
After a pause, he added:
“That is why I go to the cemetery every day to hear what my dead have to say to me.”
The simmering echo suddenly exploded in Petrus’s head.
“There was a great earthquake, and the moon became as blood,” he said, then stopped, stunned.
What am I on about? he wondered.
But the other man was gently nodding his head.
“That’s it, precisely,” he said, “that is exactly what we went through, the lot of us.”
Finally, the guests withdrew and Petrus was shown to his room, a little lean-to that smelled fragrantly of hay, where they had prepared a woolen mattress, a soft pillow, and a warm blanket. The visions from the long-ago dream at the teahouse were swirling through his brain, and the horror rumbling inside him made his heart sink, once again. Did I see images of some bygone war or of a war yet to come? he wondered, and then, surrendering his last weapons to the excellent local wine, he collapsed on his bed and instantly fell asleep.
It was a sleep with neither tremors nor visions, a night of existential void that left no memories. On waking, however, he was painfully called back to life, and he more dragged himself than walked to the common room. There was an enticing smell, and a young woman was busy clearing a table where three cloves of garlic lay next to a glass of water and a large earthenware jug.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked him.
Although he couldn’t open his left eye, the first sip did Petrus a world of good.
“The men told me to tell you they send their regards and that you are welcome to stay at The Hollows for as long as you like,” she said. “It’s the first major hunt of the year, and they couldn’t wait for you this morning, but if you’re hungry, I can make something for you.”
“Is The Hollows the name of the farm?” asked Petrus, politely declining her offer of food.
“It is that,” she said, “and has been for longer than anyone can remember.”
“Where are the other ladies?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Ladies, indeed . . . ” she said before stopping herself, then adding: “They’re with the priest at the Marcelot farm, where we heard the old woman won’t make it through the day.”
And she made the sign of the cross.
An hour later, Petrus took his leave, instructing his hostess to thank Jean-René Faure and to assure him that he had business to see to, but would not fail to come back again soon. Then, stumbling inelegantly in his clogs, he went out into the courtyard. There was not a breath of wind; a vast blue sky was set upon a pure white land; on the branches, pearls of ice twinkled like stars. Not sure what he was doing, Petrus set off down the main road until he came to a large wrought-iron gate. There were stone walls, and pathways in neat rows, and a large rectangle of tombstones and crosses: it was the cemetery. He stood before the graves, ignoring the cruel chill and the searing pain in his head. After a moment, he raised his head and said out loud: I want to go back to Nanzen.
A second later, the Head of the Council and the Guardian of the Pavilion, arms crossed, were gazing at him with an expression devoid of all indulgence.
“I hope you have a headache,” said the Head of the Council.
Petrus turned into a squirrel, and he felt how greatly he had missed his animal essences.
“I have a headache,” he said, wretchedly.
“There was a great earthquake, and the moon became as blood. Where did you