Cruelest Month

‘More people go to Sarah’s Boulangerie than ever show up at church,’ snapped Ruth. ‘They buy pastry with an instrument of torture on it. I know you think I’m crazy, but maybe I’m the only sane one here.’

And on that disconcerting note she limped to the door, then turned back.

‘Don’t put those chocolate eggs out for the children. Something bad will happen.’

And like Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, she was right. Something bad did happen.

Next morning the eggs had vanished. All that could be found were wrappers. At first the villagers suspected older children, or perhaps even Ruth, had sabotaged the event.

‘Look at this,’ said Peter, holding up the shredded remains of a chocolate bunny box. ‘Teeth marks. And claws.’

‘So it was Ruth,’ said Gabri, taking the box and examining it.

‘See here.’ Clara raced after a candy wrapper blowing across the village green. ‘Look, it’s all ripped apart as well.’

After spending the morning hunting Easter egg wrappers and cleaning up the mess, most villagers trudged back to Olivier’s to warm themselves by the fire.

‘Now, really,’ said Ruth to Clara and Peter over lunch at the bistro. ‘Couldn’t you see that coming?’

‘I admit it seems obvious,’ Peter laughed, cutting into his golden croque-monsieur, the melted Camembert barely holding the maple-smoked ham and flaky croissant together. Around him anxious parents buzzed, trying to bribe crying children.

‘Every wild animal within miles must have been in the village last night,’ said Ruth, slowly swirling the ice cubes in her Scotch. ‘Eating Easter eggs. Foxes, raccoons, squirrels.’

‘Bears,’ said Myrna, joining their table. ‘Jesus, that’s pretty scary. All those starving bears, rising from their dens, ravenous after hibernating all winter.’

‘Imagine their surprise to find chocolate eggs and bunnies,’ said Clara, between mouthfuls of creamy seafood chowder with chunks of salmon and scallops and shrimp. She took a crusty baguette and twisted off a piece, spreading it with Olivier’s special sweet butter. ‘The bears must have wondered what miracle had happened while they slept.’

‘Not everything that rises up is a miracle,’ said Ruth, lifting her eyes from the amber liquid, her lunch, and looking out the mullioned windows. ‘Not everything that comes back to life is meant to. This is a strange time of year. Rain one day, snow the next. Nothing’s certain. It’s unpredictable.’

‘Every season’s unpredictable,’ said Peter. ‘Hurricanes in fall, snowstorms in winter.’

‘But you’ve just proved my point,’ said Ruth. ‘You can name the threat. We all know what to expect in other seasons. But not spring. The worst flooding happens in spring. Forest fires, killing frosts, snowstorms and mud slides. Nature’s in turmoil. Anything can happen.’

‘The most achingly beautiful days happen in spring too,’ said Clara.

‘True, the miracle of rebirth. I hear whole religions are based on the concept. But some things are better off buried.’ The old poet got up and downed her Scotch. ‘It’s not over yet. The bears will be back.’

‘I would be too,’ said Myrna, ‘if I’d suddenly found a village made of chocolate.’

Clara smiled, but her eyes were on Ruth, who for once didn’t radiate anger or annoyance. Instead Clara caught something far more disconcerting.

Fear.

   TWO

Ruth had been right. The bears did come back each Easter in search of chocolate eggs. Of course, they found none and after a couple of years gave up and instead stayed in the woods surrounding Three Pines. Villagers quickly learned not to go for long walks in the woods at Easter, and to never, ever get between a newborn bear cub and its mother.

It’s all part of nature, Clara told herself. But a niggling worry remained. Somehow they’d brought this on themselves.

Once again Clara found herself on her hands and knees, this time with the beautiful wooden eggs they’d substituted for the real thing. That had been Hanna and Roar Parra’s idea. Coming from the Czech Republic they had no mean knack with painted eggs.

Over the winter Roar whittled the wooden eggs and Hanna handed them out to anyone interested in painting them. Soon people from all over the Cantons de l’Est were taking eggs. School kids did them as art projects, parents rediscovered latent talents, grandparents painted scenes from their youth. Over the long Quebec winter they painted and on Good Friday they started hiding them. Once found the children exchanged the wooden bounty for the real thing. Or at least, the chocolate thing.

‘Hey, look at this,’ Clara called from beside the pond on the green. Monsieur Béliveau and Madeleine Favreau went over. Monsieur Béliveau stooped down, his long slender body almost bending double. There in the long grass was a nest of eggs.

‘They’re real,’ he laughed, spreading the grass to show Madeleine.

‘How beautiful,’ said Mad, reaching out.

‘Mais, non,’ he said. ‘Their mother will reject them if you touch.’