The Fall of the Year by Howard Frank Mosher, Paperback | Barnes & Noble
The Fall of the Year

The Fall of the Year

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by Howard Frank Mosher

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Set in the beautiful mountains of Kingdom County, THE FALL OF THE YEAR is Howard Frank Mosher's brilliant autobiographical novel about love in all its forms, from friendship to the most passionate romance, in a place where family, community, vocation, and the natural world still matter profoundly. Here are the lively stories of the eccentric inhabitants of Kingdom


Set in the beautiful mountains of Kingdom County, THE FALL OF THE YEAR is Howard Frank Mosher's brilliant autobiographical novel about love in all its forms, from friendship to the most passionate romance, in a place where family, community, vocation, and the natural world still matter profoundly. Here are the lively stories of the eccentric inhabitants of Kingdom County, including Louvia the Fortuneteller; Foster Boy Dufresne, the local bottle picker; and the daredevil tomboy Molly Murphy, who risks her life to fulfill her dream of running away with the Greatest Little Show on Earth. Mosher's kingdom is "timeless. It existed well before man, has survived his spell upon it, and will do so long after the curtain has fallen" (Washington Post Book World).

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“Superb storytelling, a delightful novel filled with humor and grace.” --Alice Hoffman

"Wields the power to pull the reader like a magnet into its world and will not let go until the story is told." --NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE

"Howard Frank Mosher is, for my money, the most natural storyteller around . . . THE FALL OF THE YEAR, which is impossible to read without recalling the best tales of Washington Irving and Mark Twain, is no exception." --Richard Russo
An Uncommon Kingdom

In his new novel, The Fall of the Year, Harold Frank Mosher returns to Kingdom Common, an isolated and mysterious land on the border of Vermont and Canada. His young narrator, Frank Bennett, is also returning; newly graduated from the state university, he plans to spend the summer of 1999 in his hometown. Frank will prepare for Catholic seminary while staying with Father George, who adopted him when he was a child.

Father George is a man who preaches of the heavens while remaining very much in the world. An "unorthodox priest, the greatest scholar and third baseman in Kingdom Common," he is "always getting mad at God and then apologizing to Him." Aside from settling family quarrels and loaning money (earned in his whiskey-smuggling days, before his conversion) to the needy, the Father also works on his "Short History of Kingdom Common," an ever-expanding manuscript of several thousand pages.

The Fall of the Year can be understood as Frank Bennett's attempt to continue his adoptive father's task. The novel's chapters resemble pieces of history, meditations, eccentric character sketches. They could stand alone, yet serve, as a whole, to populate and characterize the landscape. In many ways, the novel resembles Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio; what's more, it doesn't suffer in the comparison. Here, we're treated to tales ranging from that of Foster Boy Dufresne—the Town Idiot Savant, who wins big at bingo and claims God should provide him "a young widow, all tanned from the Holy Land sunshine"—to that of Sylvie and Marie Bonhomme, sisters who disappeared with "a secret recipe known only to them, and once used to bake bread for the Last Supper."

After the sisters' disappearance, their memorial stones continue to fill the air with the smell of baking bread; this is remarkable, yet not completely surprising, for unusual happenings are familiar to Kingdom Common. This magical quality is best displayed in a chapter involving a traveling circus, and another describing a mind reader. The very nature of the town, it seems, threatens to outdo those who seek to amaze. "Mr. Mentality" is especially drained; he complains of "riprap"—insignificant details of past times that clutter his mind and leave him unable to remember names, or to follow simple directions. He's beset by forgetfulness, which, he admits, "when you're a mentalist by trade, is a crying shame."

Part of what mentalists and mountebanks must contend with is the landscape itself, caught in the richness of the novel's prose:

The roadside ditches...were pink and purple with wild lupines.... The new leaves on the hardwoods were still more yellow than green, and the sunlight fell through the foliage. Drifting down the intervals of about thirty seconds came a progression of brilliant yellow-and-black tiger swallowtail butterflies. The brook trout rose readily to whatever flies I tossed into the stream, splashing right up to my feet to get at them.
The world breathes and shifts; everywhere, in fact, the descriptive language surprises and provokes. A tattered evening gown is "mended by a safety pin as big as a bass plug"; a fire eater makes "a charred noise, like a burning log collapsing into its own coals."

Kingdom Common's citizens are also unpredictable. Chief among them is Louivia DeBanville, the fortune teller, whose cheeks are "rouged like an embalmed corpse's, with a compound she prepared herself from a vein of red hematite high on Little Quebec Mountain." She knows all of the town's secrets, and reveals them with the maximum amount of drama, usually to her own advantage. An avowed enemy of God, Louivia has an adversarial relationship with Father George that is hilarious, and defines them both; at times, it even seems to betray a heat beyond friendly respect.

Father George's manuscript (excerpted in chapter headings) readily admits that outsiders "have found Kingdom Common, at least at first, to be a hostile place." And if The Fall of the Year has a weakness, it may be found in its treatment of minority characters—not so much because they are mistreated by townspeople, but because their characterization veers so close to stereotype. The fascinating Dr. Sam Rong, for instance, is often reduced to delivering fortune-cookie wisdom, and speaking like Charlie Chan. ("Dress all up like funeral, sing sad song, listen fella in black nightgown talk talk talk, not say nothing. Church big fat bore.") Ed Handsome Lake, an Abenaki Indian, is introduced only to question "whether a man or government can own a wild mountain or lake."

Yet it's difficult to conceive of a book where a narrator's love for his fellow characters, and his world, is more palpable. That this sentiment never strays into sentimentality is due to Frank's good-natured humor, strong sense of wonder, and pure storytelling ability. His relationship with Father George is at the heart of his story; they are bound not by blood, but by deep affection and shared sensibility. As the old priest's health fails, Frank's plan to begin at the seminary becomes increasingly tentative. "The days when a priest could play ball, fish, and hunt are drawing to a close," Father George warns him. Furthermore, romances past and present complicate the plot, implicating both men and making the narrative fork and twist in a fashion only possible in Kingdom Common. In the end, Frank Bennett, "a connoisseur of strange people," is left to attempt connecting them all. The joy he passes on to his readers is ample evidence of his great success.

Peter Rock

Peter Rock is the author of the novels Carnival Wolves and This Is the Place. Born in Salt Lake City, Utah, he now lives in Philadelphia. His email address is

About the Author

Howard Frank Mosher is the author of North Country: A Personal Journey Through the Badland and six novels, including A Stranger in the Kingdom (winner of the 1991 New England Book Award for fiction), Northern Borders, and Where the Rivers Flow North. He lives in Vermont.

I have been a fan of Howard Frank Mosher since his astonishing Where the Rivers Flow North. He is a wonderful writer, and in the Fall of the Year he takes the gritty materials of Kingdom County and builds a novel of enchantment. The chapter called "The Daredevil" is one of the grandest set-pieces I have read in years.
Richard Russo
Howard Frank Mosher is, for my money, the most natural storyteller around, and any new book of his is cause for joyous celebration.The Fall of the Year, which is impossible to read without recalling the best tales of Washington Irving and Mark Twain, is no exception."
Robert Allen Papinchak
It's a very busy time for twenty-one-year-old Frank Bennett when he returns to the tiny Vermont village of Kingdom Common before beginning seminary studies. During one summer in the late 1950s, his whole life changes. While staying with his adoptive father, the ailing pastor George Lecoeur, "the greatest scholar and third baseman in the history of the county," Frank takes on various assignments to lessen Lecoeur's burdens. In the process, Frank learns some familiar lessons about life, loss and love.

Among his picaresque adventures, Frank takes the "town bottle picker and unofficial village idiot" trout fishing, travels with the local clairvoyant on a quest for a curative bread recipe, endures the irascible demands of an aspiring trapeze artist when the circus comes to town, and falls in love with a mysterious professional astrologer with "morning glory eyes."

These incidents are narrated in a series of episodic segments, some more successful than others. Mosher's vivid depiction of small-town life is superb. Weaker sections deal with standard family feuds or stereotypical ethnic characters. Mosher is best at slowly revealing Frank's personal dilemma in making choices about future commitments. Overall, this is sometimes a rollicking, boisterous novel, sometimes an incisive study of difficult choices and always an appealing on-target examination of the foibles of rural living.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
His first novel in six years finds Mosher at his agile best, spinning a tale that richly melds vibrant character sketches and a palpable sense of place. Father George LeCoeur, "the unorthodox priest and greatest scholar and third baseman in the history of Kingdom Common," is the driving force of Mosher's novel, which takes place in his remote fictional village near Vermont's Canadian border. Father George is also the author of a 3000-page local history, small excerpts of which appear at the opening of each chapter. It is the priest's adopted son, Frank Bennett (now a prospective seminary student), who serves as narrator, telling stories about the locals whom Father George has asked him to aid in one way or another. As he recounts his experience with Kingdom Common's inhabitants, including feuding families, "outsiders," like Chinese Dr. Sam E. Rong and tailor Abel Feinstein, an idiot savant who's an irreverent biblical scholar, a red-headed teenage daredevil and a traveling magician and mind-reader, we come to know Frank much better than his father and mentor. But that is Mosher's intention. A beautiful young caretaker arrives from Montreal to tend to Father George in his decline and those close to him are mystified that the priest seems to have fallen in love. Indeed, he seems to turn his back on everything he lived for, leaving Frank puzzling--over his father and life in general--until the final revelations. A few early chapters lack the storytelling momentum that comes so easily to Mosher when he writes about conflict, be it family scuffles or the struggles of newcomers who try to make a life in Kingdom Common. But his spare folktale style, a wide spectrum of unforgettable minor characters and rich sense of story sustain this ultimately winning novel. Author tour. (Oct.) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
This new autobiographical novel by Mosher is a must for all public libraries and should be added to school collections where students need to be challenged. It would also be a great book to read for small-town character development. It opens with 21-year-old college graduate Frank Bennett returning to his Northern Vermont home to take a small break before entering the priesthood. Frank soon sees that not much has changed while he was away except maybe his adoptive parent, Father George Lecouer. Although Father George is 68 and still as ornery and hot-headed as ever, Frank thinks he has lost some spark. Soon after arriving Frank finds himself assigned to helping the many people of Kingdom Country, the first of whom is the local bottle picker and savant. In chapters that could stand alone, Moser tells a series of stories about the eccentric people of the county. But just when you think that you are reading an entire book of short stories, this gifted writer and natural storyteller pulls the chapters together for a most satisfying ending. For teens who like humor, or stories about real people, with a bit of mystery and romance, this will be the book to recommend. KLIATT Codes: SA—Recommended for senior high school students, advanced students, and adults. 1999, Houghton Mifflin/Mariner, 278p, 20cm, 99-28502, $13.00. Ages 16 to adult. Reviewer: Jamie Lyn Weaver; YA Libn., Geneva P.L., Geneva, IL, March 2001 (Vol. 35 No. 2)
Library Journal
This warm, kind-hearted novel, set in the late 1950s, continues the series that Mosher has written about Kingdom County, a small rural community in northern Vermont. The real pleasures of this novel are to be found in the cast of colorful, often eccentric, and skillfully realized secondary characters that the young protagonist, Frank Bennett, encounters as he spends the summer at home after graduating from college, rethinking his plan to enter the seminary. Molly Murphy, for example, is a fiery, 17-year-old daredevil who is determined to join the circus and performs impromptu feats of skill and daring that astonish even the most experienced circus veterans. Other notable characters include Dr. Sam Rong, a wise and charmingly enigmatic Chinese immigrant, and Mr. Mentality, part flimflam man, part mysterious stranger, who reveals to the townspeople, in an episode reminiscent of Mark Twain's work, some of their darkest secrets. Recommended for libraries with large fiction collections.--Patrick Sullivan, Manchester Community-Technical Coll., CT Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Boston Globe
What feels at first like a relaxed and rambling series of stories turns out to be a neatly plotted novel. [The] stories, told with naive charm, feature endearing and eccentric characters.
Washington Post Howard Frank Mosher we have a novelist who not only knows every acre of his terrain -- the hills, streams and woods of northern Vermont -- he also has his eyes set on something loftier: the very mysteries of human existence. Mosher's novel is filled with placid and elegant descriptions of nature, at times reminding me of a prose pastoral symphony. But people, not maple trees and trout streams alone, make a novel breathe, and this -- his talent for creating lively, living characters -- is Mosher's greatest gift.
Kirkus Reviews
A usual cast of rural eccentrics peoples the latest from Vermont writer Mosher (Northern Borders, 1994, etc.), as he highlights a crucial summer for an orphan boy who's come home from college in the 1950s to prepare himself for the seminary. In little Kingdom Common, the heart of Kingdom County, young Frank Bennett sees that not much has changed while he was away, except that foul-mouthed, ballplaying Father George, the hotheaded priest who raised him, has lost much of his fire. A series of tasks the ailing priest has set out for Frank charts the course of the summer, starting with attempts to rein in the free-spirited "village idiot," who talks to his shadow, tries to kiss a moose on a bet, and finally vanishes from town in a blizzard. Frank's efforts meet with similar success when he's charged with overseeing a blithe young daredevil, a redheaded Irish girl excited to new heights by the arrival of a traveling circus—she upstages the acrobats on the flying trapeze and then runs off with the show. A darker side of life is reflected in Frank's trip to Staten Island to visit the former owner of the Land of the Free Emporium, a Chinese man run out of town by those feeling the pinch of his entrepreneurial prosperity. And when an absent-minded Mr. Mentality comes to Kingdom Common to do a mind-reading show, his rage at not receiving his full fee translates into a terrifying public display of all the town's secrets. But the real story of the summer involves the local fortuneteller and a girl with laughing eyes who becomes Father George's housekeeper, and whose face Frank cannot put out of his mind. Capraesque storytelling bursting with juice and flavor, a novel as charming as it iscolorful, even if it is at times a bit too predictable.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The Savant of
Kingdom Common

Like most small towns in those years, the village of Kingdom Common could be a remarkably tolerant place to live and work and raise a family. Or it could be as cruel as any place on the face of the earth.

—Father George Lecoeur,
"A Short History of Kingdom Common"

FOR STARTERS, FRANK," Father George was saying to me, "I'd like you to see what you can do to help Foster Boy Dufresne. Lately he's been getting out of the traces pretty frequently—looking into people's windows after dark, lying down in the road to get people to stop and give him a ride, that kind of thing. I think he needs a big brother to look out for him for a while."

    Father G got up and put another stick of wood in the kitchen stove. On the way back to the table he got two more beers out of the refrigerator and opened one for each of us, though at sixty-eight, with chronic angina, he was under strict doctor's orders not to touch a drop of alcohol.

    "So I've arranged for you to take him trout fishing in the morning," he said as he handed me my beer.

    Take Foster Boy Dufresne trout fishing! It was the evening of my second day back in the Common, and we'd finished supper an hour before. We had been engrossed in our two favorite topics, baseball and trout fishing, when Father G had abruptly brought up his proposal, leaving me totally astounded. But when I finally found my tongue and said something to the effect that if I didn't watch him every second,Foster would no doubt fall in the brook and drown, Father George just laughed.

    "The falling in the brook part's true enough, son. But if you're serious about entering St. Paul's in the fall, helping people like Foster is a big part of a priest's job. And much as I hate to admit it, at this point I can't do it all myself."

    "There aren't any other people like Foster," I groaned. "He's unique."

    Father G's eyes snapped, and I could see him beginning to lose patience. "Damn it all, Frank, what difference does that make? I told him you'd be at his place at eight tomorrow morning."

    Then he looked at me seriously with his shrewd blue eyes and said, "Everyone needs a friend, son. Maybe that's all you can be to Foster. But at least that would be something. What do you say?"

    In fact, when it came to Foster Boy Dufresne and his antics, no one in Kingdom Common knew what to say. Not Father George or Doc Harrison or Judge Allen or Editor Charles Kinneson, not even Foster Boy's parents, Ti Donat and Silent Jeannine Dufresne, who lived across the river in a row house in Little Quebec and did piecework at the furniture factory.

    But Foster Boy was no idiot. Before he was three he could recite the alphabet forward and backward, as well as the capitals of all the states in the union. At four, he'd astonished Father George by reading aloud, with perfect inflection, stories from the Book of Genesis. By the time he started first grade at the Academy he could multiply three-digit numbers in his head at the speed of lightning.

    A reporter for the Boston Globe caught wind of the child wonder and made the long trek north to see for himself if the rumors were true. His article, "The Savant of Kingdom Common," was the talk of the town for weeks afterward. An authentic prodigy in the wilds of northern Vermont—astonishing!

    But for all his precocity, Foster Boy never made the least headway in school. If John had two apples and Will traded him two more, John didn't necessarily wind up with four pieces of fruit. Not in Foster's scheme of reckoning, anyway. Maybe, the savant would suggest with a wild laugh, maybe old Johnny-boy gobbled his apples all down on the spot and had nothing to show for his pains but a bellyache. Foster's yellow eyes gleamed like a billy goat's. "Hoo hoo hoo"—you could hear him roaring all the way down the Academy corridor to Prof Chadburn's office.

    About the time Foster turned twelve, Bumper Stevens, our local cattle auctioneer, conferred another title on him, that of village idiot. You might think that the savant would be offended, but Foster was proud of his new role and played it to the hilt. Yet as Foster Boy himself often remarked, being the official town fool wasn't always a bed of roses, even if you happened to be a savant.

    Looking back later on, I was ashamed of myself for the tricks I played on him when I was a kid.

    "Foster Boy! I'll give you a quarter to lick all the frost off the iron hitching rail in front of the hotel."

    "Foster, my friend. Here's a brand-new dollar bill, goes to the first fella to pee on the electric fence behind the auction barn."

    The worst was when I told Foster to stick his hand into Old Man Quimby's thatch-roofed beehive, and the bees would give him all the honey he could eat. Out they came in a great furious swarm and stung Foster so badly he had to be rushed to Doc Harrison's for a shot to save his life. When word of my prank got back to Father George, he told me that the next time he'd give me an "old-fashioned public horsewhipping I'd remember for weeks afterwards."

You'd think even Foster Boy would learn better, but he didn't. All he ever seemed to learn was how to grow, and this he accomplished at a truly amazing rate. At fourteen, when he left the Academy for good, he was pushing two hundred and fifty pounds and stood well over six feet tall, with a head as big around as a schoolhouse jack-o'-lantern. That was the year he began walking the roads with a Blue Seal feed sack slung over his shoulder, scavenging the countryside for empty bottles and other discards for the local junk dealer, always with a saying on the tip of his tongue.

    "What goes around comes around," he liked to shout out. "And Foster Boy Dufresne goes around."

    As everyone in the Common knew, Foster had at least one strike against him from the start. For several years after getting married, Ti Donat and Silent Jeannine had no children. At last, however, with the assistance of Father George and, it was rumored, Louvia DeBanville, the local fortuneteller, who had all kinds of unlikely connections on both sides of the border, they managed to adopt a baby boy from Quebec. But for reasons known only to themselves, the Dufresnes took it into their heads to bless their new son with a name that, of all those they might have selected, seemed the least propitious. A name that could only remind the child forever that he was not his parents' true flesh and blood and was therefore different from other children: Foster. Foster Boy Dufresne.

* * *

"Frank!" Foster shouted at the top of his lungs as he came barreling down the dirt path from his parents' house the next morning, waving his homemade fishing pole over his gigantic head. "Frank Bennett. Father G said you'd be coming by to take me fishing this morning. Like a big brother. What's it like being big brother to the village idiot, Frank?"

    Foster's laughter pealed out over Little Quebec like loon laughter on a still Canadian lake. What a great hulking fellow he was at eighteen, in a filthy T-shirt, bib overalls fastened over his shoulders with baling twine, and a pair of castoff shoes from the town dump on his feet, his bare ankles riddled with black-fly bites. It was easy to see why the town made fun of him, shameful though it was.

    With Foster Boy running his mouth a mile a minute, we started up the trail beside Little Quebec Brook, on the ridge above Louvia DeBanville's shanty. Did I know that he had been studying the Bible again recently? To learn why God had created village idiots and bottle pickers in the first place? Hoo hoo! Nearby, a nesting Cooper's hawk shrieked at us with displeasure. Foster shrieked back and laughed louder than ever.

    Higher on the ridge the hardwoods were just budding out. Crimson flowerlets from tall sugar maples lay strewn over the logging trace near the brook. Painted trillium with raspberrystained throats were in bloom. Warblers—green, blue, black, yellow—flashed through the treetops. The woods rang with their mating calls. I tried to call Foster's attention to the songbirds and wildflowers, but he was preoccupied with weightier considerations. He confided to me that he expected to find the answers to his questions in the Book of Job, which he was currently reexamining.

    Soon we were fishing our way down the brook. Foster Boy plunged through the pools and riffles, his wake spreading out twenty feet behind him. The elegant dark shapes of panicked trout darted away for cover. Catching any of them was out of the question. Foster wondered, Did a trout have a soul? Did a village idiot?

    Louvia the Fortuneteller was out behind her shack, knee-deep in the brook, netting the big flopping suckers that she smoked over a smoldering fire of green ash sticks and hawked from door to door in Little Quebec as delicacies. "Aiee!" she cried out in her harsh voice as the monstrous Foster Boy crashed through her sucker pool. She held her crossed index fingers high over her head and shook them first at Foster, then at me. I knew very well that the old gypsy's hexes were nothing but foolishness, but a chill went up my back even so.

    Foster whirled around in the water, made the hex sign back at Louvia, and went laughing down the brook to Little Quebec, leaving me to face the fortuneteller's wrath alone.

* * *

Town-team baseball was still a going concern in Kingdom Common in those days. The Kingdom Common Outlaws played their home games on the village green, where on a sunny Saturday afternoon during the season it wasn't unusual for two or three hundred fans to turn out for a contest with a crosscounty rival like Memphremagog or Pond in the Sky. I'd played shortstop for the Academy and my college team; and a few days after my fishing excursion with Foster, Father George, who still managed the Outlaws, recruited me for the team's opening game.

    In the bottom of the first inning we jumped out to a 2-0 lead. Then who should show up but Foster Boy, apparently with the express intention of rooting for me, his new friend and fishing partner. What a spectacle he made of himself, hollering, "Yay, Bennett!" like a madman, clanking a great tin cowbell, throwing his extra-large baseball cap, made for him by our town tailor, Abel Feinstein, high into the air whenever I made a routine play, and exchanging taunts with Sal the Berry Picker, who for decades had led the cheering by parading up and down in front of the bleachers waving her long apple-gathering crook and chanting "Go Outlaws!"

    "Dummy!" Sal yelled at Foster Boy when he chimed in with his cowbell. "Turd head!"

    "Jezebel! Hag of Endor!" Foster shouted back, clanging his bell in Sal's wizened brown face.

    In their contention for ascendancy in the cheerleading department, it was a wonder they didn't tear each other to pieces. "Hey, college boy!" Sal shouted when I allowed myself to be distracted by Foster's antics and booted a grounder. "Take your dogface friend and go home. We might as well have him out there as you."

    "You're right about that, Sal," shouted Father George, who brooked no nonsense and tolerated no mental lapses on the part of his ballplayers. "What the hell is the matter with you, Bennett?"

    This unpriestly outburst broke up the hometown crowd; but at twenty-one I found no fun in being shouted at by my father in front of half the village. Finally Father George called me over to the bench and advised me to bribe Foster Boy into toning down by inviting him to the weekly bingo game in the basement social hall of the church the following Tuesday. After that Foster contented himself with bellowing a play-by-play account of the game from the top row of the bleachers while the Outlaws rolled to a lopsided 18-2 victory.

* * *

What an eye opener the bingo game turned out to be! For starters, Foster Boy insisted on playing eighteen cards simultaneously. Although he deposited his colored wooden markers on the faded cardboard squares at a furious pace, eventually he fell behind the caller, Father George. Then Foster kept track of his boards in his head—an astonishing feat, even for an ex-savant.

    The scowls in his direction each time he thundered out "Bingo!" were something to see. Worse yet, he exulted in his victories by hooting like a great horned owl, croaking like a raven, producing an uncanny imitation of a swamp bittern's gulping cry.

    "Under the N, forty-five!" Foster boomed out after Father G. "Under the B, twelve."

    Louvia the Fortuneteller, herself a fanatical bingo addict with her own counters and good luck charms, stalked up to our table and threatened to put a twelve-month hoodoo on both of us if we didn't leave immediately. Foster reared back in his chair and bayed like a Canada lynx. When he strolled off with the fifty-dollar jackpot at the end of the evening, an outraged moan went up from the entire hall.

    On our way back to the rectory together, I asked Father George why God had created village idiots, and he flew off the handle. "Well, Jesus Christ, Frank," he shouted, "how the hell would I know? You'll just have to ask God. I'm not God, you know."

    "Maybe not, but the older you get, the more you act like Him around here," I said. "I thought that, being a priest, you might ask Him for me."

    "He'd probably tell me to mind my own business," Father George said. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and laughed. "You're asking an age-old question, son. No one but God knows the answer. As for Foster, you know what I think he really needs?"

    "No," I said. "But I'm afraid you're going to tell me."

    "I am. I think Foster needs a regular paying job to keep himself out of trouble. Why don't you see if you can get him a job sweeping up over at the mill? He ought to be able to handle that."

* * *

Despite my great faith in Father George's judgment, I had all kinds of misgivings about trying to wangle a job for Foster Boy at the mill. If the village of Kingdom Common was a world unto itself, containing the several smaller worlds of the railroad yard, commission-sales barn, courthouse, Academy, and furniture mill, the mill contained several distinct realms of its own. One of these was the exceedingly dangerous machine floor, where Foster was assigned a sweeping job on the graveyard shift. The floor was two hundred feet long and nearly a hundred feet wide, a tintinnabulation of shrieking saws, planers, lathes, sanders, and drills, badly lighted and poorly ventilated, with a choking mist of sawdust suspended in the air at all times. Over the previous sixty years it had claimed the lives of half a dozen French Canadians from Little Quebec, and the fingers, hands, or eyes of a hundred more.

    Foster's job was to collect the discarded end pieces of lumber from around the saws and wheel them down to the waste disposal pit known as the Hog. At the bottom of the Hog, ten long, whirling knives reduced the wood scraps to chips, which were then fed through a blower pipe to the furnace that fired the steam boiler powering the woodworking machines. Some years ago a sweeper had tumbled into the Hog and helped fire the boiler himself, but this accident had not inspired the mill management to put any safety guards around the pit. So I was actually relieved when, on the second night of his new job, Foster Boy was summarily fired for a prank that could easily have resulted in a calamity.

    Father George and I heard about the episode from Doc Harrison, over coffee at the Common Hotel the next morning. At the instigation of a few of the graveyard-shift bullies, Foster Boy had smeared his face and hands red with ketchup from the ketchup sandwiches Silent Jeannine had put up for him to eat during his break, then pretended to have fallen into the Hog. He was still playing dead when Doc arrived in his bathrobe and slippers; then just as Doc rushed onto the machine floor, Foster Boy leaped up, all bloody-faced, and trumpeted out in a demonic voice that he'd been resurrected.

    Father George shook his head. "I guess my idea to put Foster to work at the mill wasn't such a good one after all, Frank. But if the boy's really serious about studying scripture, our ecumenical Bible study group meets tonight. I'll wager dollars to doughnuts that Foster would be tickled pink if you went by his place after supper and invited him to attend."

* * *

Tricked out in his overalls, gunboat brogans, and beloved baseball cap, fresh from his triumphal performance on the machine floor, Foster Boy not only monopolized the Bible discussion that evening, he insisted on raising racy scriptural issues. Precisely what, he demanded to know in the middle of a solemn paper on the Sermon on the Mount being delivered by Miss Lily Broom, the young Sunday School superintendent of the United Church, did Delilah do to Samson in bed to get him under her thumb? what did she know that the Hebrew girls didn't?

    Miss Lily gasped. But Foster Boy, whose impulsiveness knew no bounds, shouted out, "Here's an easier one. What, if anything besides her birthday suit, was Bathsheba wearing when King David gawked over at her sunbathing on her rooftop?"

    Father George suppressed a snicker. But the dozen or so other ecumenical scholars stared at Foster in consternation.

    Deacon Roy Quinn, head of the United Church board of trustees, grabbed the savant's shoulders and shook him. "For heaven's sake, Foster!"

    "Exactly," Foster Boy shot back. "What, for heaven's sake, were the pleasures of the flesh Satan used to tempt Our Lord in the wilderness? Did the old red devil conjure up a troupe of hootchy-kootchy girls? Like the tent-show strippers at Kingdom Fair?"

    Reverend Miles Johnstone sprang to his feet. He pointed a finger at Foster and then at the door.

    "Be seated, Lot! Back to your daughters," Foster commanded Rev. Johnstone, and he laughed like a hyena as I hustled him out of the room.

    "That sanctimonious outfit of hypocrites could all benefit from an old-fashioned horsewhipping," Father George told me on our way for coffee at the hotel the next morning. "Even so, I'm concerned that Foster may—my God, Frank! Look at that, will you."

    Reeling blindly around the statue of Ethan Allen on the north end of the green was a full-grown moose. The animal, which seemed to be in the final stages of brain distemper, had evidently staggered into town in the night. A dozen or so Commoners had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the hotel to watch it, and not a minute later, who should heave into sight, feed sack and all, but Foster Boy Dufresne.

    "Foster, my man," Bumper Stevens called out. "Here's a bill of the realm with Honest Abe Lincoln's picture on her, belongs to the first fella to march up to that Christly overgrown deer and plant a big kiss on its snout."

    Bumper waved the five-dollar bill over his head. "Hey, hey, hey," he chanted in his raspy auctioneer's voice. "Going once, going twice, going three times to the one, the only, Savant of Kingdom Common."

    This was all the encouragement Foster needed. Emitting his crazy laugh, he struck off straight toward the sick moose, which lowered its head and began to paw up great divots of grass around the base of the statue. Whereupon Foster promptly lowered his own head and scuffed at the grass with his broken old shoes.

    "Jesus Christ!" shouted our unorthodox priest, to the great delight of the crowd, and started across the street to rescue Foster.

    By then I'd seen enough myself. I raced past Father G, grabbed Foster by the back of his overalls, and dragged him, still whooping and laughing, off the green. The moose, in the meantime, gave an anguished bellow, broke into a wobbling charge, crashed head-on into the statue and, mercifully, collapsed dead at its base.

    Later that morning Judge Allen signed papers authorizing the local sheriff to pick Foster Boy up and cart him off to be evaluated at the state mental hospital. Not that the judge, as he confided to Father George and me over beers at the hotel that evening, expected the hospital doctors to be of the slightest help to Foster. But if nothing else, the savant's "sabbatical" would give him a much-needed breather from the village and the village a much-needed breather from him.


What People are saying about this

Cathie Pelletier
Howard Frank Mosher continues to bring alive Kingdom County, Vermont, not just with a cast of endearing and entertaining people, but with such an eye fornature that the reader can hear maple leaves shiver in the wind, brook trout splash in a forest pool. But this time, he's thrown together the most wonderful mixture of ingredients: love, magic, mystery, humor and sadness, all simmering in the same book. Imagine what would happen if Grandma Moses and William Faulkner got together and invented a town.
—(Cathie Pelletier, author of Beaming Sonny Home, The Funeral Makers, and Once Upon a Time on the Banks)
Ron Carlson
I read The Fall of the Year by lantern light in a tent thirty miles from Cody, Wyoming, but I expect the effect would have been as magical as if I'd been home. As young Frank Bennett peels the layers from the history of Kingdom Common, a place where the rivers flow north and the evening skyglow is either an illusion or the distant reflection of Montreal, we see the secrets of the human heart in his lost village, the ugly and beautiful truths which vex and redeem us. The interplay of village characters in the light and dark times of Frank's awakening make this a special book. Let me just say it: I love Howard Mosher's writing.
—(Ron Carlson, author of The Hotel Eden and Betrayed by F. Scott Fitzgerald)
Jay Parini
I have always enjoyed reading the novels of Howard Frank Mosher, and I was especially taken by The Fall of the Year, which brings together in one book all of his considerable strengths. His principal character, Father George Lecoeur, is easily among his most durable creations. Mosher's language--always a pleasure to read--attains a level of astonishing grace and beauty here as he brings Kingdom County to life once again. Mosher writes with a narrative power and moral intensity that recall John Steinbeck at his best, and it is high time he were ranked among the finest writers of our time.
—(Jay Parini, author of Robert Frost: A Life)
Chris Bohjalian
Few writers create characters as wondrous and idiosyncratic as Howard Frank Mosher--and fewer still offer us stories with as much grace and humor and heart. He is, pure and simple, one of the very best we have.
—(Chris Bohjalian, author of Midwives and The Law of Similars)
Ward Just
I have been a fan of Howard Frank Mosher since his astonishing Where the Rivers Flow North. He is a wonderful writer, and in The Fall of the Year he takes the gritty materials of Kingdom County and builds a novel of enchantment. The chapter called "The Daredevil" is one of the grandest set-pieces I have read in years.
—(Ward Just, author of A Dangerous Friend)
Alice Hoffman
The Fall of the Year is a lyrical celebration of the natural world and the mysteries of human nature. As intelligent as it is generous, this is superb storytelling, a delightful novel filled with humor and grace, real people and miracles, love and loss.
—(Alice Hoffman)
Richard Russo
Howard Frank Mosher is, for my money, the most natural storyteller around, and any new book of his is cause for joyous celebration. The Fall of the Year, which is impossible to read without recalling the best tales of Washington Irving and Mark Twain, is no exception.
—(Richard Russo)

Meet the Author

HOWARD FRANK MOSHER is the author of ten books, including Waiting for Teddy Williams, The True Account, and A Stranger in the Kingdom, which, along with Disappearances, was corecipient of the New England Book Award for fiction. He lives in Vermont.

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