A Gift Upon the Shore (21 page)

Mary ran her hand through her damp hair. “Well, Luke was asleep, so I thought I might as well take a bath and wash my hair. Maybe I can get it dry before bedtime for a change.”

“And this early-morning urge for cleanliness had nothing to do with our young guest.”

Mary felt her face go hot. “I just thought as long as I had to be awake anyway . . .”

“I know. But don't kid yourself. Or me. After all, he's a man in the prime of life, and you're a woman in the prime of life. I wish you well.”

But she forgot to revive her smile, and that was a signal Mary had long ago learned to recognize. When Rachel was angry or anxious, she seldom expressed it in words. Her words were those to be expected under normal circumstances. But she forgot the smiles that should go with the words.

Mary took a swallow of tea, found it cool and flat. “I guess I'd better go see if Luke's awake.”

“I looked in on him a few minutes ago. He was sleeping like a baby—if babies snore. Did he wake up during your shift?”

“Yes, and he stayed awake for quite a while.” She told Rachel what had happened last night, surprised at the detail she demanded, equally surprised that she could remember with such clarity exactly what Luke had said.

Finally Rachel asked, “What do you think of him?”

“I . . . don't know. Except he is definitely a good Christian.”

Rachel sighed as she looked out at the misted ocean. “Damn. After all these years, we finally encounter another survivor, and he turns out to be a rockbound, good Christian—and a literalist, undoubtedly.”

“Did you expect a Buddhist? Or an atheist?”

Rachel looked sharply at her, then nodded. “Good point. The odds are against any survivor in this country being anything but a Christian.”

“Why does that bother you? What difference does it make?”

Rachel took time for a sip of tea. “The only reason I'm bothered is that historically Christians have had a penchant for burning books.”

That silenced Mary, sent a chill through her. The books—their justification for survival, their hope for the future of humankind. And it hadn't occurred to her that humankind, as embodied in a good Christian named Luke Jason, might not revere the legacy of the books.

I have a book
. Those were Luke's words. A book.

Rachel said, “Just remember the example set by Paul at Ephesus, and the good Christians who burned the Library of Alexandria and flayed Hypatia alive. And book burning by good Christians has continued ever since, right down to that insidious ass, the
Reverend
Fallon and his Moral Purification campaign. Remember the pyres of burning books in front of the Washington Monument? That was only a year before the End.” She paused, studying Mary intently. “Face it, not many of our books would be included on a literalist's list of acceptable reading matter. But when it comes to books, I'm as much a zealot as any literalist. I'll protect ours with my life if I have to, and I think I might be capable of killing for them.”

The mist was dissipating, and at the horizon waves glinted with the first sunlight. Mary said nothing, engrossed in flickering visions of burning books; visions of the fleshy, unctuous face of Reverend Fallon as she had seen it years ago on a television screen, Fallon in his nasal, rural accent urging his faithful to
purify
themselves and the world; visions of Rachel as a fated Hypatia, battling hordes of fleshy-faced zealots.

“Rachel, I can't believe it would come to that. I mean, I can't believe we'd have to die or . . . kill to protect the books from Luke.”

Rachel gave a short laugh. “I hope not. The trouble is, we're not just dealing with Luke. There's that
we
he inadvertently mentioned.”

“But we don't really know much about Luke—or his
we
.”

“No. And with Luke I think we have an opportunity to make him an ally, even a convert. He's given us an advantage: he thinks he was sent to me by his god. He saw me as—what was it? Full of wisdom. If he was searching for enlightenment when he embarked on his journey, he'll find it here. At least, enough to give him some respect for books. Mary, I'll play any role I must—even the role of god-sent ministering angel full of wisdom.” She laughed ruefully. “Just don't blow my cover.”

Mary mustered a smile. “Don't worry. I'll leave the enlightenment entirely in your hands.”

“Well, I'd better check our supply of candles and oil. I'll be doing a lot of reading at night. And we
do
have a Bible or two and a couple of books on biblical history.”

“Maybe he won't stay here long enough to get enlightened.”

Rachel eyed Mary curiously. “I think he'll stay awhile. Unless he's taken a vow of celibacy.”

Again, Mary felt the heat in her cheeks. She could think of no response, and after a moment Rachel said gently, “I meant it when I said I wish you well.” But there was in her eyes an equivocal melancholy.

Mary looked up at the spruce trees where the sun lighted their green crowns. “We have livestock to feed and eggs to gather and goats to milk—and I'd damned sure like some breakfast before we start.”

Rachel finished her tea. “And we have a patient to look after.”

Luke Jason's temperature dropped to normal by the third day, and by the fourth Mary and Rachel found it impossible to keep him in bed. They could only manage to keep him in the house, which he explored thoroughly. He pored over the titles of the books that filled every shelf and stood in piles on the floor, but he didn't comment on them. He studied Rachel's drawings and paintings, awed by the representational ones, but oddly bewildered and suspicious of all of them. He made friends with the household menagerie. Except for Shadow. She declined his every overture. He asked many questions about Amarna and their history here, and they patiently answered him. They didn't question him about his history, and he volunteered nothing.

On the fourth evening he sat down with them to a supper of rabbit stew thickened with cattail-root flour, steamed asparagus—the first of the season—cheese, and a salad of oakleaf and miner's lettuce. Before they began eating, Luke folded his hands and bowed his head, then glanced up at Rachel. “Don't you say grace here?”

Rachel answered, “I always thought the god that could create this universe should be omniscient as well as omnipotent. That god would
know
I'm grateful for every mouthful of food. I wouldn't have to say so in words.”

Mary tried not to smile. So the enlightenment had begun. Luke's eyebrows went up as he considered what was undoubtedly an entirely new concept to him. “Yes, God knows every man's thoughts. Still . . .”

“If you like to put it in words,” Rachel said, “by all means, do so.”

He did, while Rachel and Mary waited politely, then, his thanks said, he turned to the meal with an appetite that precluded all conversation except his enthusiastic comments on the cuisine. Rachel laughed, called up the old saw that hunger is the best sauce, adding, “Sickness seems to work as well, once you're over the worst of it.”

He did consider himself over the worst, and after they concluded the meal with Gravenstein applesauce, canned last summer, he helped clear the table and declared that he would wash the dishes. “I'm still weak, but I'm good for woman's work.”

The silence that followed sent a flush into his face, and he added with a sheepish smile, “But everything is woman's work here, isn't it?”

Mary gave him the laugh he was no doubt hoping for. “Yes, it is, but you're probably not as strong as you think you are. Go sit by the fire. Rachel and I will take care of this woman's work for now.”

It was dark by the time the woman's work was finished and Rachel had replenished the living-room fire. Luke sat on the couch facing the fire with Pip snuggled against his thigh, while Aggie lay at his feet providing a pillow for Tony and Cleo. Rachel lifted Shadow onto the couch, then sat down beside her, and Mary sat cross-legged on the floor by Aggie, welcoming Trouchka into her lap.

Luke smiled at her. “They're like a family to you.”

“Yes. They
are
our family. All good and true friends.”

For a while the fire hissed and crackled in a comfortable silence. Rachel finally broke it. “Luke, do you have a family?”

Mary saw him tense defensively. It was the first time since the night of his arrival that either of them had asked him such a personal question.

He took a deep breath. “Yes, I have an uncle. My parents and all the rest died in the Long Winter.”

Rachel said, “I'm sorry,” then waited patiently. But he said nothing more. Rachel turned to Mary. “Maybe this is a good time to open a bottle of our mead to celebrate Luke's return to health.”

Mary put Trouchka on the floor and rose, but stopped when Luke asked her, “What's mead?”

“Well, it's a kind of wine made with honey.” She took one of the candles in their glass holders from the mantel and lighted it in the fire. “Actually, ours is more a fruit wine than a true mead.”

“Wine? You mean spirits?”

Rachel gave that a gentle laugh. “Not spirits in the sense that it's distilled. We do have a small still out in the garage, though. Alcohol is such a good solvent and disinfectant. Do you object to drinking wine?”

He paused before he replied. “The Bible says we shouldn't drink spirits.”

Rachel seemed surprised. “But wasn't it Saint Paul who said, ‘Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake'?”

“I . . . I don't remember that.” But he seemed reassured by it. He said to Mary, “I'd be pleased to have some . . . mead with you.”

Mary took the candle with her into the kitchen, got a bottle of mead out of the cooler and three wineglasses from the cupboard, and put them on a tray. When she returned to the living room, she put the tray on the side table by the couch and filled the glasses. The mead had a pale pink hue and the tart scent of wild berries that always reminded her of summer. She handed a glass to Rachel, another to Luke, then resumed her place on the floor, watching Luke with a faint smile. He held the glass as if it would break if he moved too suddenly. It was cut crystal, its prismatic facets making rainbows of the firelight. He whispered, “How could such things be made by the hand of man?”

Rachel said, “With skill and art, Luke. They belonged to my great-great-grandmother. She brought them with her to Oregon.”

“Where did she come from?”

“Ireland, originally. She was a child when her family left Ireland. They went to Tasmania first, and after she married, she and her husband sailed for Oregon.”

“How far is it to . . . Tasmania?”

“Well, I don't know exactly. It must be over eight thousand miles. You know where it is, don't you?”

Luke averted his eyes and shrugged. “I'm not sure.”

“I'll show it to you tomorrow on the globe.” She took a moment to taste her mead. “I'm surprised you don't know geography, Luke. Someone taught you to read. Didn't they also teach you geography?”

“A little. But things of this world aren't important, you know. Not after Armageddon.”

Mary saw the tightening of Rachel's mouth, but when she spoke, it was with consummate casualness. “But the world is still here, isn't it, Armageddon or not?”

Luke's attention was on his glass as he gingerly tasted the mead. He waited after the first swallow, as if he expected something to happen. A bolt of lightning, perhaps, Mary thought.

He said cautiously, “This tastes . . . good.” Then he turned to Rachel. “Yes, the world is still here, but it's not like it was before Armageddon.”

“No. At least, parts of it have been devastated. Still, that doesn't explain why you relegate an entire planet to a state of unimportance.”

“Because nothing in
this
world is important. Saint Paul said, ‘Set your affections on things above, not on things of the earth.' ”

“But what did he mean by
things of the earth
? Was he talking about geography—which no one knew much about in his day, by the way—or was he talking about the mundane, selfish concerns that always commanded the affections of most people?”

Luke eyed Rachel speculatively while he took another sip of mead. “I think you must be right. He
was
talking about selfish concerns.”

“But this planet Earth—shouldn't we admire the creator of such a beautiful world, the creator of the whole magnificent universe?”

“We
do
admire the Creator.”

“Then we should also admire the creation.”

Luke wasn't entirely convinced. “But the creation isn't as important as the Creator.”

“Luke, I was an artist and in a lesser sense a creator. I can assure you, I consider my creations more important than I. Besides, isn't understanding the creation one way to understand the creator?” She paused, then with an easy laugh, added, “But I didn't intend to launch into a theological debate. Aren't you tired?”

He shook his head. “No, and I enjoy a . . . a theological debate.”

“Then maybe we'll continue another time.” She stroked Shadow's head while she sipped her mead. “Poor lady, I wish I could give you some of this. It might help your aches and pains.”

Luke started to pet Shadow, but withdrew his hand when she stiffened and growled. Rachel said, “Don't mind her, Luke. She's just getting a little crotchety.”

“She must be very old.”

“Yes, she's at least thirteen. I'm afraid this is one member of our family who won't be with us much longer.”

Luke seemed stricken by that, or perhaps it was the sorrow he read in Rachel's eyes. “I'm sorry, Sister.”

Rachel glanced up at him. “Sister? Is that how you address women where you come from?”