The Cruelest Month

They found Gilles Sandon deep in the woods. They’d followed the chopping sound and cresting a small hill and climbing over a dead and decayed log they’d seen the huge man with his axe working on a downed tree. They watched for a moment the powerful and graceful movements as his massive arms raised the ancient tool and brought it down on the wood. Then he stopped, paused and turned round to look directly at them. All three stared at each other, then Sandon waved.



‘You’re back,’ he called to Beauvoir.



‘And brought the boss.’



Sandon strode over to them, his feet crackling twigs underfoot.



‘No bosses out here,’ he said to Beauvoir, then turned to size Gamache up. ‘You’re the one in the papers.’



‘I am,’ said Gamache, with ease.



‘You don’t look like a murderer.’



‘I’m not.’



‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’



‘You’ll believe what you choose. I don’t care.’



Sandon grunted then finally indicated a stump as though it was a silk-upholstered chair.



‘You were a lumberjack once, I believe,’ said Gamache, sitting on the stump.



‘In the dark days, yes. I’m not ashamed of it any more. I didn’t know any better.’



But he looked ashamed.



‘What didn’t you know?’ asked Beauvoir.



‘I told you. That trees are alive. I mean, we all know they’re living, but don’t really think of them as alive, you know? But they are. You can’t kill something that’s alive. It’s not right.’



‘How did you find out?’ Gamache asked.



Sandon reached into his pocket and brought out a dirty hanky. He rubbed the blade of his axe and cleaned it as he spoke.



‘I was working as a logger for one of the mills around here. Went into the forest every day with my team. Cut down trees, hooked them to tractors and dragged them to the logging road to be picked up. Back-breaking work, but I liked it. Outside, fresh air. No bosses.’



He looked suspiciously at Gamache, his weathered face covered by a red and graying beard, his eyes keen but distant.



‘One day I walked into the woods with my axe and I heard a whimpering. Sounded like a baby. It was this time of year. Best time for cutting trees. But it’s also the time when animals have babies. The crew was just arriving and the whimpering grew louder. Then I heard a scream. I shouted to the guys to stop, to be quiet and listen. The whimpering had turned into a cry. It was all around. And I could feel it too. I’d always felt at home in the forest, but suddenly I was afraid.



‘“Don’t hear nothin’,” said one of the guys and hit the tree again. And again there was a scream. You can figure the rest. Something had changed overnight. I’d changed. I could hear the trees. I think I could always hear their happiness. I think that’s why I felt so happy myself in the forest. But now I could hear their terror too.’



‘What did you do?’



‘What could I do? What would you do? I had to stop it. Had to stop the killing. Can you imagine cutting down a forest that was screaming at you?’



Beauvoir could, especially if the screaming went on all day.



‘But mostly trees are quiet. Just want to be left alone,’ Gilles continued. ‘Funny how I learned freedom from creatures that are rooted in place.’



Gamache thought that made perfect sense.



‘I was fired, but I would’ve quit anyway. I’d walked into the forest that day a logger and I walked out something else entirely. The world was never the same. Couldn’t be. My wife tried to understand but couldn’t. She finally left with the kids. Went back to Charlevoix. Don’t blame her. Relief really. She kept trying to tell me trees don’t talk and they don’t sing and they sure as hell don’t scream. But they do. We lived in different worlds.’



‘Does Odile live in your world?’ Beauvoir asked.



‘No,’ Gilles admitted. ‘I actually haven’t met anyone who does. But she accepts it. Doesn’t try to change me or convince me I’m wrong. She takes me as I am.’



‘And Madeleine?’



‘She was like something beautiful and exotic. Like walking through the forest here and coming across a palm tree. It takes your attention.’



‘Did you have an affair with her?’ Beauvoir asked, more bluntly than Gamache would have liked, but it was his style.



‘I did not. It was enough to admire from afar. I might talk to trees, but I’m not crazy. She wasn’t interested in me. And I wasn’t interested in her, not really. Fantasy, maybe, but not in the real world.’