The lodge was located some 150 kilometers north of Montreal, surrounded by the lakes and forests of Nominingue. It was large, more of a small hotel, a cavernous entrance soaring to the massive beams supporting a great domed ceiling to awe and humble visitors. Colossal stone staircases either side led to the bedrooms. In contrast, smaller more modest doorways, overhung with Roman arches led off the entrance to the dining hall, library and smaller conference rooms. This was, after all, a place of business, financed by the many anonymous shareholders of VBI. It was also a spectacle for Milly so that all who enter should tremble at his power and manly virtues. In that very same spirit Milly had a small plaque, but not that small as couldn’t be seen by anyone with normal eyesight, fixed to the stone arch over the doorway, a quote from Shelley warning;
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 2
In view of the man’s overflowing self-importance, there is a good chance he may have misunderstood the meaning of Shelley’s poem.
Abelard was ecstatic. Everything here evoked fond memories, only far better than what he recalled. He had often been to such dwellings, but none so rich and comfortable as this one. The better sort had tapestries to cover the rude stone walls and animal furs strewn across the cold, rough floors. They may have been large enough for horsemen to ride through but they were cold damp places, particularly during autumn. Here, the castle was outstanding. Warm, walls hung with beautiful portraits, most depicting lively hunting scenes and, best of all, decent furniture to sit and lounge upon. No backless benches, shaky stools, only large, overstuffed armchairs and divans. This is where he belonged. He knew this with unshakable confidence.
The long, highly polished Empire style oak table, easily seating 50, was most obviously out of place in its surroundings. A heavier, courser affair, on temporary stands would have been more realistic in a room where the walls were hung with medieval military paraphernalia. But that would have been uncomfortable, not to mention unrefined. It was always difficult packing too many messages into a single room’s décor. There was toughness, wealth, refinement, your-comfort-is-us and many more small hints Milly wanted to pass along, to the decorator’s distraction. Viewed as an impossible task, she had most admirably kept screaming dissonance to a minimum.
The VBI crème de la crème had barely enough time to leave their bags in their rooms when they were summoned to an afternoon boar hunt. The property was very large, stocked with game and fenced to keep it all in. The executives assembled in the vast entrance and were each given a large caliber weapon. Milly simply supposed that anyone working for him would know how to shoot. The hunt master thought otherwise. He had seen this before. He looked each person in the eye and knew immediately whether they were to get clips with blanks or the ones with real ammunition. There were only 14 senior and executive vice presidents at VBI and they were all there, including two women, both of whom received real bullets. They were far from the meekest of the crowd.
Directly below Milly in toughness, since no one would dare be as tough as him, was the SVP of special situations in the investment banking division. He did not receive real bullets, since the hunt master was fairly certain he was not completely sane. It was his job to go into the field when a company in which VBI had invested turned sour. He first assessed the best course. Was it a complete write off, mass firing and save the furniture situation or; a kick ass and revive situation? He would usually take a quick glance at the books which, if truth be known, were now a little beyond him, what with creative accounting that was all the rage today, and then rely on a more personal approach. This usually meant very close interrogation methods. The delinquent company’s executives would be individually grilled, typically in small windowless rooms, sometimes for hours on end. A steady diet of crime dramas had inspired this personal touch. He always came away with denunciations, odious revelations about questionable tactics and, what he liked best, personal admissions that risks had been taken. Not that it mattered to him that these same risks, had they turned out differently, would have been handsomely rewarded. Milly fully condoned such a non-technical approach to these vexatious work-out situations. He knew very well that the human mind worked in very simple ways, regardless of the complex analyses, gigantic spreadsheets and rocket scientist advisors. He needed a curious, disdainful creature to ferret out all the simple little mistakes, deliberate or otherwise, that had been made if special situations were to be effectively dealt with.
When it was Abelard’s turn, he shunned the firearm and pointed instead to a sturdy crossbow decorating the entrance hall wall. This brought the hunt master’s mind to a grinding halt. He had no experience with such a request. He restarted his brain and tried again to give Abelard the fine bolt action .308 hunting rifle with mounted scope, but to no avail. Abelard insisted on the crossbow. Milly would have to intervene. He excused himself to Abelard and went to seek wisdom from the boss. Abelard watched the short exchange, Milly’s quick laugh and glance in his direction and the hunt master’s swift strides to fetch the cross bow and accompanying full quiver, mounted alongside the weapon.
During the ride to the lodge, through the private forest, Abelard had instinctively studied the terrain. He remembers always doing so. Being able to choose the place and position conferred immeasurable advantage in a battle. He would note points that would be good if retreat was a strong possibility and spots from where it would be difficult for the enemy to withdraw if he thought that the most likely outcome. There were several sites from where a cornered boar would be unable to escape; bowls with high steep embankments on three sides. Hunting boar was also something he remembered, not as sport but as the medieval equivalent of going to the supermarket.
Persistent mounds of packed snow still clung to the ground. The air was crisp and the afternoon sun blinding, as it intermittently appeared from behind the large trees along the northwest horizon. The hunt master, the beaters and the dogs would be on foot while the VBI nobility would be riding All-Terrain-Vehicles. They were not yet out a full hour when the alarm was given that a boar had been spotted. Not a great surprise since several had been released for the hunt. The ATV crowd began hooting and cheering as only heavily armed city folk could. Abelard, unlike the others who made a bee-line towards the sighting, headed to the left. He knew there was an embankment up which the boar would not be able to climb and would also have to head left. He considered the ATV and regretted not having a horse, which would easily fly over obstacles the ATV could only circumnavigate. Then he was behind the baying hounds, closing in on the trapped boar. He was always amazed at how well beagles were artificially selected so as not to fear attacking a large dangerous animal, unlike the wolf, that would only do so in desperation. He watched the boar deftly wield its claws and sharp tusks to eviscerate two dogs. The hunt master finally arrived to call them off and prevent any more carnage to his fine animals. Abelard was now alone before the trapped creature. He dismounted and watched the berserk beast, a very large one he estimated to be over 100kg, pawing the ground, preparing to attack. He seemed entirely unconcerned as he calmly, in one fluid motion, pulled a shaft from the quiver and slid it into the crossbow.
Just then, with a great roar of engines and thick petroleum exhaust smoke swirling around the trees, the others arrived. As one they shouldered their weapons, but before they could fire Milly bellowed for them to hold back. He wanted to watch Abelard in action. Abelard was very aware that he and not the boar had suddenly become the main attraction and he was glad. The giant brute stopped pawing, leaned back on its hind legs and like a primed bolt shot towards Abelard, the only obstacle to its escape. Abelard deliberately waited until the creature was only a few meters away before he loosed the shaft. It entered just above the boar’s neck, exposed by its bowed and charging head, and drove through its thick hide to lodge in its brain stem, instantly putting it to death. But that did not stop the beast. The momentum kept its flesh hurtling forward until it finally crumpled almost at Abelar
d’s feet. He had not flinched, even as the already dead animal, propelled by blind inertia, seemed destined to gore and mangle him.
“You must teach me that trick, it was mighty impressive,” Milly drawled. “A cheer and applause for the hunt champion,” he commanded. And Abelard’s place near the top was all but assured.
*