The Brutal Telling
Woo.
Hidden in the rude rough sack it was far finer, even, than the more detailed carvings. This was simplicity itself. Its message was elegant and horrific. The carving was beautiful and yet the young man seemed utterly empty. His imperfections worn away. The wood hard and smooth so that the world slid right off it. There would be no touch and therefore no feeling.
It was the Mountain King, as a man. Unassailable, but unapproachable. Gamache felt like throwing it deep into the forest. To lie where the Hermit had put himself. Hiding from a monster of his own making.
Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin.
And found you. As it had the Hermit. As it had Olivier. Gamache stared at the cold, hard, lifeless treasure in his hand.
Who wouldn’t be afraid of this?
She rose up but remembered to politely wave good-bye . . .
THE END