False Dawn (18 page)

As they approached the town, Thea pointed out the crosses that stood at the peaks of the roofs of many of the buildings. “What are they for?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said, casting his mind back, trying to remember if there had ever been a religious community here before.

“Well? There’s sure a lot of them. Even that barn over there has crosses on top of it.” She pointed.

He paused, looking through the snowy brush toward the town. “I don’t like it,” he said slowly.

“Neither do I,” she said, plainly relieved. “Let’s stay away. We can avoid the town, Evan. We’ve got enough food to last us a couple more days. There’s no reason to stop here, is there?”

Evan nodded his agreement, and tried to ignore the persistent flicker of worry that stung his thoughts.

“It’s too special there, like they’re making signs to keep us out,” Thea said, putting words to his fear. “We don’t belong here.”

“No, we don’t.” He glanced up the slope behind them. “We’ll look up there.”

They found a comfortable hollow for the night, between the old cemetery and the bulk of Randolph Hill. A few miles away the town of Sierraville kept to itself, announcing the passing of the night with a mournful bell and strange chantings.

Snug in her blankets, Thea asked what the music was that drifted toward them some time after midnight.

“It’s called
Veni, veni, Emmanuel
. It’s a Gregorian chant, about seven hundred years old, more or less.” He wondered why they would be singing that particular chant, when he remembered that it was near Lent, the season that promised resurrection, the return of Christ and the sun and the green things of the earth.

“It sounds sad,” she said after giving it some thought. “What’s it about?”

“It’s calling Emmanuel, the Savior, to come to them.”

“
Gaude, gaude, Emmanuel captivum solve, Israel
.” The music rose in the night, a celebration lost in the wilderness.

Evan reached up and tightened the flap of their tent; he had heard rustlings in the trees and he wondered if there was any danger of badgers, dogs, or even larger animals troubling them. He hoped that hazard would not arise for a while, until they had something more durable than a tent to protect them.

“Are they going to do that all night?” she asked, irritated by the monotonous patterns of sound.

“They may,” Evan allowed, thinking back to the endless services he had heard in Rome when he was twelve years old. He had been very devout then, and had found inspiration in the singing of hymns. It was three or four years later that he realized it was the music, and not the religion behind it, that had held him transported. “Sometimes, at special holidays, the services go on for hours.”

“Great,” she said, pulling the end of her blanket over her head.

Evan lay back, listening to the chanting, and thought about the men who were singing. Eventually he recalled hearing that there had been a monastic order getting started in these mountains, years ago. Something like the Trappists, or Cameldoleses, he thought; very strict, very severe. He could not remember if they had included a vow of silence in the Rule. When the chants he heard now were new, a monastery had meant sanctuary, but Evan doubted that these singers were very charitable. No one could afford to be now, not even monks.

When the singing stopped at last, he fell asleep to dream of lost Easters and the world that went with them.

They were still at breakfast, listening to the solemn tolling of the bells across the valley, when the five monks arrived; somber, dirty men with unkempt beards. Their robes of dark sacking were so filthy that it was difficult to tell what color they had been before grime had turned them brown-gray, and stiff with grease, the way the Pirates’ leather outfits were.

“In the name of the Father, the Son in His Suffering, and the Penitent Spirit, we give you good day,” said the tallest and gauntest of the five.

Evan had almost crossed himself as he heard the greeting, but saw that Thea had reached covertly for her crossbow; Evan restrained her with a quick gesture, seeing that the monks were stern-featured and carried heavy walking staves. He guessed that a practiced blow from one of those thick sticks could and would break bones. He did not want invite their antagonism, or their fear. “Good day to you, Brothers,” he said, making his tone cordial as he narrowly observed them.

One of the five monks frowned. He pointed his walking stick at Thea. “Is this woman your wife, or are your souls in peril for fornication?”

Evan knew this was not a promising beginning, “She is neither my mistress nor my wife. We travel together, agapate, as the early bishops of the Church did.” He hoped fervently that deliberate ignorance was not part of these monks’ existence, and that they knew of the agapate traditions.

The leader nodded in what looked like approval, although his face was as stern as ever. “You are taming the fires of the flesh, which is good in the sight of God, and works to forgiveness of sin and error. We, Penitent Sons of an Angry God, scourge the imps of desire from our bodies with flail, prayer, and fasting.”

As she tried to catch Evan’s attention, Thea felt the back of her neck grow warm, as if there were other eyes on her, unfriendly eyes that marked them for destruction. She moved away from the cowled men.

“Your woman does not speak,” said one of the monks with curious satisfaction. “It is good for a woman to remain silent. St. Paul praises silent women. St. Anthony wanted to strike out the tongues of women so that they could not indulge in idle, godless chatter.”

Hearing this last, Thea wanted terribly to speak up, but saw the warning in Evan’s face. Rigidly religious these men were, and their faith made them dangerous.

“I see you have broken your fast,” said the leader monk, looking at their tin plates with food scraps in them. “If you are willing to accompany us, you could spend the day in prayer, and share our evening meal, for the good of your souls and the duty you owe to God.”

“We do not wish to impose on your holy retreat,” Evan said, thinking there was something dreadfully wrong with the monks. He saw that their formidable walking staves now formed a barrier around them, and that they had no choice. He turned slowly to Thea, moving as carefully as he would have moved in front of hungry animals. “We have had a long journey, Thea,” he said tentatively, hoping that she would not refuse now, when their vulnerability was at its greatest.

“Thea!” thundered the smallest of the monks. “That name is sacrilege!” He was about to raise his staff when his leader stopped him. “That will do, Brother Roccus. A name does not prove heresy, but ignorance. Her name is the sin of her parents, the sin of pride, for which they surely burn in hell.”

It was all Thea could do to keep from running, her hands covering her face as she saw the ferocity in the monk’s eyes.

“Forgive Brother Roccus’ impetuosity. His zeal is commendable, but it leads him into error. The temptation to error is strong in him, and he has not subdued it.” Was it Thea’s imagination, or did Brother Roccus shrink at his superior’s words? “He knows that he will have to ask pardon of you and of Our Lady and Her Son Who Suffered Martyrdom for him.”

Evan said quickly, “We recognize that all mankind is filled with sin.”

The leader of the monks nodded gravely. “It is well that you do, for your sin is great.”

“But there is no sin between us.” Evan was prepared to explain his chastity, but the old monk interrupted him.

“Yours is the great sin of pride, for you tempt yourselves with the flesh and think that you will not fall. There is much error there.” He turned. “We are returning to the monastery. You are to come with us now.”

“May we bring our packs? And our tents?” Evan did not think they would be refused so reasonable a request.

“No. They are objects of vanity,” the leader pronounced after giving the matter his consideration. “You have chosen to go in the world, but have not trusted to God to feed and shelter you. This you reveal by your packs and tents, which is vanity. We cannot have such objects within our walls, for they might lead us into similar vanities.”

“The packs have our food and supplies, Brothers, that is all.” Evan hoped that the monks’ definition of vanity did not include food.

“Was the food provided to you?”

“We found it by…” Evan realized he could not credit chance for their food. He let his pause lengthen, “…by the Grace of God. We were lost, and our steps were guided to a place where this food was.”

Again the leader fixed Evan with his angry gaze. “And you did not acknowledge your debt then. You should have thanked God for His care, and given all this freely, as it was given to you.” He studied the packs. “Brother Odo will take them. He will examine them and be accountable for them.” The leader indicated a brawny monk with shifty, stupid eyes set in a moon face. Reluctantly Evan handed the packs to him, knowing that it was unlikely he would ever see them again.

Taking a chance, Thea turned to the leader, her eyes on the ground and her voice as soft as she could make it. She understood these men now, knew their severity that grew from hatred and fright, men who had fled the world, certain that they would be devoured if they did not flee. She also knew that they wanted women to be complacent, submissive, and weak. “What is your name, Father?” she asked, hoping she had settled on the right title.

Her gamble paid off. “I am Father Leonidas. I succeeded Father Gervase, the founder of our Order.”

“It must be a grave task, guarding the spiritual good of so many,” she murmured, thinking back to the Shiloh Community where she had worked as a field hand nine years earlier. “Your willingness to open your monastery doors to us is beyond our merit. I fear we will bring too much of the world within your walls.”

She saw a rictus movement of his mouth that could have been a smile and knew that her bluff had failed.

“That is the devil that speaks in you, woman. You are not to turn away from the Glory and the Agony of God for the midden of the flesh.”

She cursed her luck as Father Leonidas stood aside, motioning to them to pass, and all the frail hope she had summoned up for their position with the monks evaporated as she went after Evan; she missed the reassuring weight of her pack.

They were left in the chapel by the Brothers, with the instructions that they should purify their minds for the questions the monks were bound to ask them for the good of their souls. Brother Odo had closed the door on them, slamming it with a satisfied, fatalistic thud.

The chapel was small, made of stone, unheated, bare, forbidding. There were a few rough-hewn benches for the monks, set on the uneven stone floor. Lit by a solitary skylight, the altar showed stark simplicity that was watched over by a crucifix that twisted itself in a grim reminder of the Passion. Two small candles burned by clumsily carved statues that flanked the altar. One statue showed a saint holding his flayed skin in his hands. The other was a young woman wearing a martyr’s crown as she was stretched mercilessly on a rack.

“I don’t like this place,” Thea whispered to Evan as they walked toward the altar.

“They’ve certainly gone in for all the bloodier aspects of Catholicism,” Evan agreed, trying to keep his voice light. The words came out cracked-sounding, showing his fear. He swallowed hard and spoke again. “You’re right about this place. I don’t like it either.”

“What do they want us to do?” she asked as they neared the altar.

“I think we’re supposed to kneel and pray. I’ll show you.” He dropped to his knees and joined his hands together under his chin, remaining that way for some time. “You do it, too.” At that moment he wished he could remember the ritual of the Mass. He had so often heard them sung, the big glorious sounds of Berlioz, Fauré, Verdi, Mozart, and Bach. But he had long since forgotten the ceremony.

“How long do we stay like this?” she asked after they had been kneeling for a quarter of an hour. The cold came from the floor into their bones, and the uneven stones bit cruelly into her flesh, making her legs and back ache.

“Ask them,” he said bitterly. “However long it takes.”

It took three hours. Just as Thea whispered, “My bladder’s going to burst,” Father Leonidas came into the chapel, his robes whispering around his grimy sandals, and his face set in stern lines.

Evan crossed himself in what he hoped was the right form and rose to face the monk. Pain squeezed his legs as his cramped muscles strove to support him. “Good Father,” he said as evenly as he could, “it was kind in you to grant us this time of prayer and solace.”

“So it is when one comes to the Mercy Seat,” intoned the monk, who then crossed himself and knelt before the altar. He murmured in Latin, again made the sign of the cross and rose, saying to them, “Are you now prepared for the ceremony?”

“What ceremony?” Evan asked, schooling his voice to sound respectful.

“Your marriage ceremony, Father Leonidas said, as if surprised that Evan were not aware of it. “We cannot question you until you are man and wife: man and wife are one flesh, so repentance and contrition must be the same for you both, for you have traveled and sinned, by fornication, or lies, or pride, as one. No, do not deny it. For though you have not polluted your flesh with her, or so you claim, yet you are a man, and all men are stirred by the lusts and the senses. Your thoughts have been carnal. In the world there is no way to escape this sweet poison, the lure of this carnal being. What is this thing you seek, hut carrion and the gates of hell and eternal damnation.” He motioned to the other monks who had come into the chapel. “We will witness your vows and hear your confessions. Then, when you are one in the Sight of God, you will answer our questions, and whatever one is condemned of, the other will be so, too.”

Glancing at Thea, Evan saw her face had taken on the frozen look of fear. They had been trapped into co-operating with the monks, hut he knew now they had to have time. He turned to Father Leonidas. “Before we place ourselves in your hands for this sacrament, let us attend to our bodies.” He took a chance, adding, “You have the holy strength of your Order in you, but we are not so. For us, the demands of the flesh will distract the mind from your sacrament.”