Still Life (Page 78)
‘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 The women’s high spirits had been replaced by restlessness.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, her smiling, friendly face growing watchful.
The forest creaked. And shivered. The poplar leaves trembled in the wind.
Lucy began to growl, a long, low song of warning. Her hackles rose and she slowly sunk to the ground, her muscles bunched as though ready to spring.
‘We must form a circle,’ said Myrna, trying to sound casual while actually looking around the gathering trying to figure out who she could outrun if it came to that. Or would she be the straggler? Damn that grounding casserole.
The circle, the tiniest, tightest known to math, was made, the women grasping hands. Myrna picked up the prayer stick from where Lucy had dropped it and thrust it into the ground, deep. Clara half expected the earth to howl.
‘I’ve brought these ribbons.’ Myrna opened her bag. Piled there were brightly colored ribbons, all intertwined. ‘We asked you all to bring something that was symbolic of Jane.’
From her pocket Myrna brought out a tiny book. She rummaged around in the bag until she found a crimson ribbon. First she tied the book to the ribbon, then she went to the prayer stick and spoke as she tied the ribbon on to it.
‘This is for you, Jane, to thank you for sharing your love of the written word with me. Bless you.’
Myrna stood at the prayer stick for a moment, huge head bowed, and then she stepped away, smiling for the first time since coming to this place.
One by one the women took a ribbon, tied an item to it, tied the ribbon to the stick and spoke a few words. Some were audible, some weren’t. Some were prayers, some were simple explanations. Hanna tied an old 78 record to the prayer stick, Ruth a faded photograph. Sarah tied a spoon and Nellie, a shoe. Clara reached into her head and pulled out a duck barrette. She tied that to a bright yellow ribbon and the ribbon to the now festooned prayer stick.
‘This is for helping me see more clearly,’ said Clara. ‘I love you, Jane.’ She looked up and spotted the blind, hovering above them in the near distance. Blind. How strange, thought Clara, blind, but now I see.
And Clara had an idea. An inspiration. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ she whispered, and felt the elderly arms around her for the first time in a week. Before moving off Clara pulled a banana out of her pocket, and tied it to the stick, for Lucy. But she had one more item to add. From her other pocket she drew a playing card. The Queen of Hearts. Tying it to the prayer stick Clara thought of Yolande, and the wonderful gift she’d been offered as a child, and either rejected or forgot. Clara stared at the pattern on the Queen of Hearts, memorising it. She knew the magic wasn’t in it staying the same, but in the changes.
By the end the prayer stick was brilliant with waving and weaving colored ribbons, dangling their gifts. The wind caught the objects and sent them dancing into the air around the prayer stick, clinking and clanging into each other, like a symphony.