It was the kind of vaguely patronizing remark Beauvoir expected from a religieux. He was probably on some spiritual quest, so much more worthy than whatever the bumbling human in front of him might be about. The monk was strolling the forest looking for inspiration or salvation, or God. Praying or meditating. While Beauvoir was looking for treasure.
“Ah,” said the monk. “Found some.”
He stooped, then stood back up and offered his palm to Beauvoir. Tiny wild blueberries rolled together in the valley of the man’s hand.
“They’re perfect,” said the monk.
Beauvoir looked at them. They looked like every other wild blueberry he’d ever seen.
“Please.” The monk moved his palm closer and Beauvoir took a single tiny berry. It was like trying to pick up an atom.
He popped it in his mouth and there was an immediate wallop of flavor far out of proportion to the portion. It tasted, not surprisingly, of blueberry. But it also tasted like autumn in Québec. Sweet and musky.
This monk was right. It really was perfect.
He took another, as did the monk.
The two men stood in the shadow of the tall wall of the abbot’s garden, eating berries. Just a few feet away, over the wall, was a manicured garden, beautifully planted and cared for. With lawns and flower beds, clipped bushes and benches.
But here, on this side of the wall, there were tiny perfect blueberries.
There was also a tangle of undergrowth so thick it had scratched Beauvoir’s legs through his slacks as he’d plowed his way through the thickets. He’d been following the line of the monastery, on foot, and on paper. He’d borrowed rubber boots from the monks, and found himself stepping into muck, climbing over downed tree trunks and scrambling over rocks. Trying to figure out if the lines on the page matched the walls of the actual abbey.
“How’d you sneak up on me?”
“Sneak?” the monk laughed. “I’m just doing my rounds. There’s a path over there. Why didn’t you take that?”
“Well, I would have had I known,” said Beauvoir, not altogether sure they were talking about the same thing. He’d worked long enough with Chief Inspector Gamache to smell an allegory.
“My name’s Bernard,” said the monk, sticking out his purple-stained hand.
“Beauvoir.” The handshake surprised Beauvoir. He’d expected a soft, doughy hand, but instead it was firm and assured, the skin far tougher than his own.
“Wow, look at that.” Frère Bernard stooped again and stayed there, kneeling and plucking berries. Beauvoir knelt as well, and peered at the ground. Slowly, instead of seeing just a riot of twigs and moss and dried leaves, he began to see what Frère Bernard had been looking for.
Not salvation, but the tiniest of wild fruit.
“My God,” laughed Bernard. “It’s the mother lode. I’ve been along that path every fall for years and never knew this was here.”
“You can’t be suggesting it’s sometimes good to wander from the path.” Beauvoir was pleased with himself. He could give good allegory too.
The monk laughed again. “Touché.”
They spent the next few minutes crawling around the undergrowth, collecting blueberries.
“Well,” said Frère Bernard at last, standing and stretching and brushing twigs from his cassock. “This must be a record.” He looked at his basket, piled high with berries. “You’re my good-luck charm. Merci.”
Beauvoir felt quite pleased with himself.
“Now,” said Bernard, pointing to a couple of flat rocks. “It’s my turn to help you.”
Beauvoir hesitated. He’d stuck the plan of the monastery in a bush, where it would be safe while they picked the berries. Now he looked over at it. Bernard followed his gaze, but said nothing.
Beauvoir retrieved the plan and the two men sat facing each other on the rocks.
“What’re you looking for?” asked the monk.
Still Beauvoir hesitated. Then made up his mind and unrolled the plan.
Frère Bernard lowered his gaze from Beauvoir’s face to the vellum. His eyes widened slightly. “Dom Clément’s plan of the monastery,” he said. “We’d heard he’d made one. He was a famous architect in his day, you know. Then he joined the Gilbertines and disappeared along with the other twenty-three monks. No one knew where they went. No one much cared, actually. The Gilbertines were never a rich or powerful order. Just the opposite. So when the monastery in France was abandoned everyone just assumed the order had disbanded or died out.”
