The priest knew he must never underplay the concerns of his parishioners. Even if that meant embracing any of their passing fears, it didn’t matter; it was important that his flock felt listened to. A priest is a man who is profoundly aware that he is not God, but who must at all times emphasise His omnipotence.

The continuing strains of piano music felt chillingly inappropriate. The men who were left, that is to say those who were unfit for service and the old, agreed on what should be done. They would have to go up the mountain, immediately.

La Bûche went to the wash house down by the river. Sometimes the kids took it into their heads to go and play there, even though none of them knew how to swim. But he returned without any children in tow. There had been no footprints on the riverbank, so they hadn’t been there that morning. They couldn’t be playing in the fields either, because they would have been visible in the filtered light of the walnut trees, or elsewhere. And in any case they would have heard them. A group of children, excited by Sunday morning games, would make enough noise to be heard wherever they were, even if they were hiding. They would call them; of course they would. But it was terrifying to begin calling the name of your child, especially there, coming out of Mass and walking towards the edge of the village. It would be appalling to be shouting their name whilst looking in ditches. It would be like a horrible roll-call. Joseph, Ange, Marie, Jeanne, Louis, André, Madeleine, Lucienne, Aimée, Reine, Léone … For a mother, calling the name of her son or her daughter, calling it loudly across fields, was as heartbreaking as losing them, but in addition it implied they had done something wrong, that they had not watched over their children. And yet they began to walk, calling out towards the mountain. They left the village and began climbing in the shadow of the mountain, towards the east, still calling but more and more faintly as their throats constricted.

August 2017

August 2017