The Unknown Huntsman

by Jean-Michel Fortier

  But as we were saying, human nature never ceases to amaze, especially in this village, where meetings blend one into the next, although never in quite the same way.

  This week Mayor Gross has dragged along his wife Morosity, who in turn has brought her sister, Albania, Amelia’s aunt, who we rarely see at meetings, at least not since the time her niece was entangled in the saga of the stolen pens. During that time, Albania never missed a meeting, because if there’s one thing you should know about her, aside from her serious thyroid problem, it’s that she’s as loyal as a dog and she’d throw herself into the well at the end of St. Andrew’s Street for her dear Amelia. Her husband, Meaney the apothecary, well, he’s another story: he’d sell his mother and father for a pot roast, and rumour has it the reason the two never had children is that Albania used to have night terrors in which her husband would trade their future offspring for three strands of pearls, and even though Doctor Harmer has explained a thousand times that Mrs. Meaney’s thyroid causes her terrible suffering, and that a woman needs a healthy thyroid gland to procreate, we’re not fooled for a minute. And anyway, Agnes Letterly, the librarian, is well read on the subject and assures us her thyroid is not to blame, that it’s actually Mr. Meaney’s manic greed that prevents Albania from giving wholly and selflessly of herself, why, he would rob her of everything—even her thyroid—if he thought it would turn him a profit.

  But, back to the matter at hand. If you had told us that Morosity Gross would foist her sister Albania on us at the meeting this evening, we would have laughed in your face and spit in your direction, because that’s the treatment we reserve for liars in this village. And yet there she is in her enormous flowery dress and curlers—what was she thinking?—it takes an apothecary’s wife to go out in public looking like that, and now Morosity is inviting her to sit in a place of choice, the one usually occupied by Mrs. Latvia who, visibly struck to the core, opts to play the martyr and takes the worst seat in the hall, just behind Angelina White, next to a window with a missing pane; now that’s odd, we could have sworn it wasn’t broken last week.

  Father Wavery nods to indicate the meeting is now called to order. As usual, some woman or other is the first to address the gathering to gripe about something or other, and this week, to no one’s surprise, because she hates to go unnoticed, it’s Albania Meaney who leaps out of her chair to take centre stage in front of the priest:

  “Good evening, everyone. I know I haven’t been much in attendance at our little meetings recently, but believe me when I say it’s not that I don’t have the interests of this village at heart; it’s my thyroid, you see, that’s causing me no end of grief. Oh dear, my poor thyroid…”

  She continues on in her annoyingly reedy voice, we can sense Leaven, the baker, shifting impatiently on his chair behind us, he won’t stand for this thyroid nonsense much longer, he’s never had much time for Albania, and he’s happily occupied the spotlight in recent months while she’s been convalescing at home, but now he’s got some competition in the headstrong department, and if Mrs. Latvia took one of her little pick-me-ups beforehand, we can guarantee there’s going to be nearly as much action here tonight as there is on a Saturday night at Old Man George’s tavern, but let’s get back to Albania, whose soliloquy, with any luck, is drawing to a close:

  “… some relief from my poor thyroid, but I’m not here to talk about that.”

  “I’ll give her something to moan about, her and her thyroid.”

  The baker is losing patience, it’s a good thing he muttered under his breath, otherwise things could turn ugly, especially since Lisa Campbell, the hairdresser, hasn’t exactly held Albania in her heart either since she started setting her own curlers, but what do you expect when Meaney the apothecary holds the purse strings, it’s a lost cause: his wife could have a nest grafted to her scalp and he still wouldn’t give a damn, so long as it saved him a penny or two.

  “The reason I’m here tonight—just this once, you understand, because I’m barely able to stand—is out of a sense of duty.”

  Morosity Gross offers her a chair, but Albania ignores it, clutching her throat with one hand while she plumps her curlers with the other like a real drama queen. Rumour has it she was once part of a theatre troupe, that she was an accomplished actress and that the only reason she’s languishing in this village is out of love for Meaney, but who knows, that’s likely just gossip spread by a bored old woman by the name of Latvia.

  “I accuse.”

  A shiver of excitement runs through us, even timid Angelina White sits up straight; we haven’t often heard such words down here, of course last week the baker may have reignited a flame that had been extinguished since the Morton affair with the pens, but since Albania Meaney was still bedridden at our last meeting, we trust she realizes that to accuse another in this village is to play Russian roulette with the odds fully stacked against you.

  “I accuse.”

  What a sense of drama that woman has, and there go Leaven and Lisa Campbell rolling their eyes, and she’d better spit it out and accuse someone pronto, or she’s going to be given a thrashing, we’re sure of it.

  “Is that so, Mrs. Meaney? And who, exactly, are you accusing? Because some of us have bread to bake.”

  Albania stands erect, taut as a crossbow, her eyes gleaming, and looks straight at the baker:

  “I accuse you, my dear man.”

  If we’d been drinking a cup of tea, we would have gagged and spluttered it all over the back of Morosity Gross’s head, well we’ll be damned—to accuse someone at the Monday meeting, okay, we’ve seen it before, but to accuse the baker, now there’s a first, and perhaps not the last, in our opinion. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into, that Albania—or does she?

  Leaven scoffs loudly, no surprise there, his already considerable contempt for Mrs. Meaney has just reached an all-time high:

  “You’re accusing me. Me? Of what, my dear lady?”

  We warned you, a Greek tragedy is about to unfold right before our eyes, poor Angelina White, her chaste ears are sure to transform into cauliflowers and she’ll turn as red as a beet, and what about Father Wavery, a man of the cloth, and all the others, and we, who abhor dissension, well, we’ve seen it all tonight, we would have been better off staying at home and enjoying a nice cup of chamomile tea by the fire, oh the nerve of that Albania Meaney, spoiling our meeting, and she’s off again:

  “I accuse you of damaging this church that my husband and I fund at our great expense!”

  At great expense, that’s laying it on a bit thick, Meaney the apothecary never does anything at great expense, least of all charity, even for a church, really, if she thinks she’s going to convince us with that argument, she’s barking up the wrong tree, we glance around and everyone else seems to be thinking the same thing, what a waste of time, why is it that our meetings must always start this way, Albania clearly hasn’t changed, she bangs on the table like a judge and shouts:

  “Silence!”

  We calm down, Mrs. Latvia knits her brow, and Angelina White fishes a mint out of her handbag.

  “I haven’t finished.”

  Albania finally deigns to take the seat her poor sister has been proffering her for the past two centuries, crosses her legs, and launches into what’s sure to be a never-ending story.

  “In the beginning, I was young and beautiful. I was the envy of all the Mrs. Latvias of this world, this was before I was married.”

  Mrs. Latvia, who does not take kindly to any references to her advanced age, shifts in her seat and clears her throat. Albania Meaney, in appallingly bad taste, gives her a wink and carries on.

  “Then I met Jack (Meaney, her tightwad of a husband), fell madly in love, and settled here, where you all welcomed me so warmly.”

  Her eyes glaze over and she lifts her index finger and traces a heart in the air, then continues her tale, this time a lit
tle hesitantly:

  “Anyway, I won’t bore you with all the details, but last Friday as I was going out to pick up my thyroid potion at my husband’s shop, I bumped into Mr. Leaven, baker by trade, near the church. You know, just in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary and Child who looks so much like me… Then on my way back home, I passed by the church square again and I noticed a pane in that (she points to it) window was broken.”

  She clutches her throat with both hands in her oh-so-precious, oh-so-Albania pose and the baker stands up and says in a surprisingly calm voice:

  “I didn’t see you near the church on Friday.”

  “That’s beside the point, Mr. Leaven. Were you at the church square on Friday evening?”

  “Yes I was, but I didn’t see anyone.”

  Albania Meaney raises her hand as if to interrupt him and we sense Leaven’s hackles rise at the arrogance of this woman in curlers as she leans forward, squints, her hand still raised, and replies:

  “But you were there.”

  Then she addresses us all, arms wide open, palms up in a Christ-like gesture:

  “He was there.”

  “You don’t have a shred of proof against him. And in any case, no one saw you leaving your home. This is utter nonsense. It’s worse than the baker accusing Sybille of stealing his bread last week.”

  It’s Mrs. Latvia speaking now. For her to side with the baker, she must be terribly annoyed, bored, or perhaps under the influence of her medication; our eyes widen, now it’s two against one, we could take a stance too, but that’s not really our style, is it, so what with the mayor and Morosity who’ve clammed up, Albania is alone in her corner, but she still manages to retort:

  “Mr. Leaven was seen in the church square. Ten minutes later he was no longer there and the window pane was shattered. I’m simply doing the math. And by the way, what were you doing there, Mr. Leaven?”

  “I was out for a walk! Goodness, if I can’t set a foot outside without being accused of vandalism, I’d rather close up shop!”

  “Well said!”

  Old Latvia has the bit between her teeth tonight, and from what we can tell, Albania Meaney doesn’t appear to have convinced anyone, in any case certainly not us, what a ridiculous idea, even Father Wavery seems to understand it’s beyond a joke, and says in an impassive tone:

  “Now, now. We won’t get to the bottom of this with insults, my dear brethren. Let’s leave it at that for tonight, shall we? Our poor church has enough on its plate at the moment…”

  Father Wavery could surely confirm that if the church is still standing today, it’s no thanks to the generosity of the Meaneys, as Albania purported, but just as we stand to go up to the sacristy, she jumps in with the last word:

  “He’s awfully angry, Mr. Leaven, for someone who only last week accused Sybille of stealing…”

  Her sister Morosity must have told her the whole saga. What a couple of gossipmongers, those two are! We go upstairs while Giorgio Cantarini waits with an air of despair for his e basta, but no one is in the mood for Italianisms tonight.

  4

  As always, we wait impatiently, with bated breath, for the Professor to arrive. He’s late, our gift from the heavens! He knows how to play hard to get, and we know how to bide our time. The woman beside us, visibly even more anxious than us, plumps her hair and sniffs loudly.

  Ah, at last! There he is, glorious, his scalp glowing beneath the single lightbulb in our lair.

  “Good evening, my children.”

  The woman beside us claps wildly; she’s a real devotee, that one! It’s the same woman the Professor took aside at the end of last week’s meeting. With her woollen clothes and ample girth, she reminds us of a well-fed goose.

  “Thank you all, and good evening. And a special thanks to this member, yes, to this valiant warrior who, despite her ailing health, stood up to that dreadful baker on Monday. She symbolizes a true ideal, and each and every one of you would do well to follow her lead.”

  He points to the portly woman sitting beside us, who blushes, hides her face in her hands, and generally makes a big ado about nothing. We cheer half-heartedly, one eyebrow raised. Jealous, who us? Never!

  “But enough of this sweetness, my little bees. The attempt failed, and the baker still reigns supreme over those imbeciles. We must undermine his authority without delay. Without delay!”

  We take comfort in the plump goose’s newly disheartened demeanour. Dear lady, it’s not enough to fall into the Professor’s good graces; you have to stay there. But there we go getting sidetracked again, ah, our master has more words of wisdom to share with us:

  “Damned baker—accusing people right, left, and centre—and the florist who seems to be siding with him, indeed, my little lambs, we have our work cut out for us.”

  He pats the pocket of his jacket, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate, he gets so worked up sometimes!

  Suddenly there’s a noise. From upstairs. Someone just slammed the door to the church. Someone is now inside the church. Someone is walking in the church!

  The Professor’s eyes widen, his hands skitter nervously across his skull, his eyes quickly scan the hall and he arrives at the sad conclusion: there’s no one missing. Catastrophe. He motions us to be silent. We don’t say a word.

  And we listen, shoulders hunched, to the slow footsteps making their way across the nave, the sound of heels striking the wooden floor and echoing down the sacristy stairwell.

  How terrifying, we haven’t been this afraid since the Professor choked on his saliva in the middle of a meeting last year.

  The intruder approaches the altar and stops. Then turns back towards the central aisle and reconsiders. We tremble like leaves. The Professor too seems to be gripped by a panic we wouldn’t have thought possible of him. He takes his gun out of his jacket pocket. The poor fat lady beside us can’t contain herself any longer and whispers:

  “Didn’t anyone lock the door?”

  The Professor glowers at her. What poor judgment; this is not the moment to be asking stupid questions. The intruder now seems to be walking up and down each row of pews looking for something. An eternity goes by as we hear the steps zigzag from one side to the other; it’s torture for the woman beside us, who’s clapped both hands across her mouth, no doubt terrified she’ll let out one of her legendary squeals of anguish.

  The intruder heads back across the nave toward the main door and we let out a sigh of relief. The Professor even lowers his gun and pockets it.

  Exactly at this crucial moment, one of our members—oblivious, stupid, or perhaps simply feeling the effects of a cold—coughs. A dry, prickly cough that ricochets off the stone walls of the basement and echoes straight up the stairs, we’re quite sure! Enraged, the Professor takes his gun out of his pocket again and levels it at the guilty member, down whose cheek rolls a single, silent tear of despair. And, of course, the footsteps in the church start up again, heading back to the altar, approaching the sacristy, and coming down the stairs!

  It feels exactly like one of those movies where the sinister shadow of the predator creeps along a castle’s bleak stone walls; the click-clack of heels on the wooden steps is unbearable, and the lady in the next chair looks like she’s about to faint any second.

  His breathing rapid, his face crimson, the Professor turns his gun away and points it toward the staircase.

  After an interminable moment, there appears a pair of garish heels, bare legs, then a polka dot dress and an impeccable hairdo. The woman’s eyebrows shoot up when she sees us, and she scans the room.

  “Good evening, I… I’m looking for my eldest son, I thought I saw him go into the church… My Samuel, he likes to hide in here sometimes. But, what are you all doing here? And you, up there in the front, I know you, what are you doing here, Mr.—”

  Alas, she doesn’t have time to say our Prof
essor’s name; just as she points a finger at him, he pulls the trigger.

  We see our life flash before our eyes. Our most cherished moments with our dear Professor. The time he allowed us to hold his coat. The years of happiness and innocence, when our only care in the world was what we would wear to the next meeting.

  We open our eyes again. The Professor really did shoot her. Right between the eyes.

  The intruder collapses and the fat lady beside us shatters the silence with the squeal of a stuck pig.

  “Look what she made me do! Did you see what she made me do, that nosy woman! She had no business coming here to bother us… Now look what she made me do! Go home now, everyone leave and go on home. By the back door if you will, let’s try… She had no business coming here tonight, that woman…”

  And we file out of the hall, stepping gingerly over the woman’s body as we go.

  5

  This week’s monday meeting has a different feel about it, probably because yesterday was the funeral of Lisa Campbell, the hairdresser, who was killed by a huntsman’s stray bullet deep in the woods, where one of her sons stumbled upon her body by accident—how dreadful!—now the child, who was already a little off his rocker, constantly clutches his head and screams. The mayor said a few words at the funeral ceremony, mind you in his case, since one word can stretch into six, a few was more than enough. We’re all still in shock. No one has come forward to claim responsibility for the stray bullet, which raises the possibility of murder, but really, who would kill a hairdresser, aside perhaps from a neighbour annoyed with her for letting her children run wild until the wee hours, or a customer whose haircut she botched, but that could be just about anyone, and in any case, a murderer in our midst, what a ridiculous idea, and here goes the baker addressing the gathering: