At the campsite that night, the fire at the center blazed merrily in a hastily constructed fire pit and warmed them all.
Just after Max and the rest had gotten back to camp, the three women who had carried their postpartum friend into Dree’s clinic arrived, bringing food.
One pressed a tiny idol with a womanly figure into Dree’s hand, and they all touched Dree’s feet before they left.
Dree thanked them but still seemed subdued.
Batsa identified the various dishes they’d brought and seemed excited. The steel plates that they’d carried contained a lentil stew, a different chicken one, rice, a pickle made of greens, various side dishes, the usual flatbreads, and some steamed dumplings that were fantastic.
Dree stayed quiet as she ate, no matter how much Alfonso tried to cheer her up with quips and banter.
Maxence knew better. He’d worked on this type of mission for nearly a decade. Sometimes, you just had to sit with the disquiet it causes. He made sure she had plenty to eat and that her tent had been pitched on the flattest spot of ground, though he wasn’t sure whether he was sleeping there tonight or not.
Isaak sat beside Dree at dinner that night, and he offered her a silver flask from his saddlebags. “My family’s finest. It looks like you could use some.”
Dree took a long gulp, her throat working as she swallowed. She passed it back to him. “Thanks.”
Father Booker passed around some candied nuts he had brought along as dessert, and in the flickering light of the campfire, Maxence watched as Dree ate exactly one and then passed the pouch to Isaak.
She stared into the fire during most of the conversation and finally stood. “I need to turn in, guys. Max, I need a few minutes. Did you guys put his sleeping bag in my tent?”
Isaak pointed to a bedroll over by one of the other tents. “We didn’t want to presume. We figured we would ask where his sleeping bag should go.”
Her voice was flat. “These pup tents aren’t big enough for three grown men to sleep in, especially you three. Max, you can sleep in my tent, but I just need a few minutes to change clothes and have a sponge bath.”
Alfonso leaped to his feet when she said that. “I will warm some water over the fire for you. Give me five minutes. I will do this for you.”
Dree sat down while Alfonso warmed her water and wrapped a towel around the pot for her to carry it.
He said, “Just put the pot outside the tent when you are done. I will clean it. You should go to sleep immediately afterward, so you don’t get chilled.”
Maxence considered that Alfonso might be cockblocking him by suggesting Dree go immediately to sleep before Maxence got there, but then Max remembered that he could not be cockblocked because he was a harmless deacon who had already taken vows and wanted to be a priest.
He should wait until she was asleep before he crawled into the tent.
Dree said, “It’ll take just ten or fifteen minutes, and then you can come in.”
“Take your time,” Max said. “I’ll be there after a bit.”
He waited by the campfire, talking quietly with the other guys about the technical requirements for solar panels and catchment cisterns.
Isaak looked up from the fire. “Oh, wow.”
Maxence glanced at Dree’s tent.
In the dark night, she’d left a flashlight on so she could see while she washed herself with the pot of warm water. A perfect silhouette of her curvy form graced the side of the tent as she lifted her arm like a ballet dancer and pressed a small cloth to her shoulder and smoothed it down and over the round, generous peak of her—
Maxence turned back around and stared at the campfire. “Isaak and Alfonso, quit looking at the tent.”
Isaak and Alfonso slowly turned back and trained their eyes on the campfire.
Batsa frowned at them until he looked over and saw her shadow. His gaze instantly zoomed back to the fire, and his eyes were wide as he purposefully stared directly into the flames.
Father Booker was leaning back against a rock with his eyes closed, half-dozing, his face turned up to the stars.
Maxence focused his eyes on the coals and dancing flames of the campfire, watching the glowing embers and the gases burning brightly in the darkness. A drop of sap popped, and sparks rocketed upward into the night.
Batsa removed a small book and a tiny clip-on light from his backpack and began to read. His focus sharpened on the book almost instantly.
Father Booker remained reclined with his head tipped back.
That left Isaak, Alfonso, and Maxence, himself.
The three guys occasionally made eye contact over the fire, maybe in solidarity for their restraint, maybe just making sure no one was cheating because then they could all enjoy the show.
Except then Max would have to kill them or gouge their eyes out or something.
He chastised himself for those violent thoughts.
No, if they turned to watch, he would merely remind them that Dree was a human being who was not on Earth for their titillation and deserved their respect.
And if that didn’t work, he would shake them until they took their filthy eyes off her tent.
He had to stop this. This was not his way. Respect and restraint were his obligations, but retribution was not.
Max waited, practically counting minutes as the stars drifted overhead.
His mind returned again and again to memories of the curves of her body, the swells and dips of her breasts and waist and hips, and images of his hand stroking her satiny skin, her fragrance lifting from her body as he breathed, and the shivers that ran through her when he ran his tongue over her breasts and sucked on her clit.
Maxence focused on the fire, trying to listen only to the crackles and pops of exploding sap because he could swear that he heard the fabric of her clothes stroking her flesh.
Eventually, Father Booker lifted his head and squinted across the campground. “Her light is out.”
The three guys sighed, and their shoulders fell in relief.
Batsa glanced up from his book and went back to reading.
Maxence slapped his knees. “It has been a strenuous few days. I think I’ll turn in.”
He collected his bedroll from beside the guys’ gear and followed his flashlight beam through the night, careful of the stones and dried bushes on his way.
Unzipping the tent flap sounded like ripping a tarp in half in the dark countryside, and he turned his flashlight down until it glowed like a dim votive candle to sneak into Dree’s dark tent.
The rear area was heaped with her boxes of medical supplies again, and the lumpy sleeping bag that was Dree lay on the right side of the triangle-shaped tent.
Her face was turned to the side of the tent, so Maxence crawled inside as quietly as he could, closed the tent flap, and unfurled his sleeping bag on the other side. He took off his black leather jacket and riding pants and slipped into his sleeping bag, zipping it all the way up to his neck before reaching out and clicking off his flashlight.
Dark.
The tent fabric overhead shut out even the meager light of the stars, crescent moon, and campfire that his eyes were used to.
Outside, pebbles and sand grated under boots as the guys stood and kicked small stones as they walked around. The campfire hissed when they doused it.
On the other side of the tent, Dree was not breathing the deep, even exhalations of sleep.
Her breath sounded like little hiccups and mews, and his heart was breaking. “Dree—”
“Don’t be nice to me. It makes it worse.”
He considered touching her shoulder, and he considered gathering her into his arms and holding her until the pain all went away, but neither of those was his place in her life. Instead, he asked, “What can I do?”
“—Tell me more stories about Monagasquay.”
“That was all a fairy tale. I made it up.”
“Tell me anyway,” she said.
“I can tell you the story about how my
ancestors became the sovereign princes of Monagasquay.”
“Okay. All my ancestors have been New Mexican sheep ranchers as long as there have been sheep ranchers in New Mexico.”
“Sounds like centuries,” Max said.
“More like eighty years. My great-great-grandparents moved there from Oklahoma in a covered wagon pulled by oxen.”
“Really?” He tried not to sound like he was laughing at her. “A covered wagon.”
“Yeah. How did your people get to Monagasquay?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose they didn’t drive Maseratis. Horses, I would think, and ships for the sea.”
“Ooo, horses. Fancy.”
He laughed. “They moved from Genoa to the coast of France a few centuries ago or so.”
“So, were they French?”
“Italian.”
“Are your people farmers, too?”
“More like pirates.”
“Huh. Exciting. My other great-grandfather was a cattle rustler who went straight and became the sheriff of a little town in Southern Arizona because he knew where all the cattle thieves kept their stolen herds. So, he cleaned them out and gave everybody their cattle back, and they kept electing him sheriff after that.”
Maxence summoned information and stories he’d heard all his life. “A thousand years ago, my indirect ancestor was a lord of the Italian city-state of Genoa. At the time, there was a civil war raging across Italy between factions who supported the Pope and other people who supported the Holy Roman Emperor, because those two men were fighting for control of all of Europe. This wasn’t politics like we think of it today. Politics back then meant that noble lords raised armies by paying peasants and mercenaries and fought each other for control of the cities of Italy, which meant the right to tax citizens and the trade that went through those cities. Controlling a city meant you and your family and your descendants would be extremely wealthy for generations, especially if that city was a seaport on the Mediterranean Sea.”
There was a sound of shuffling, of fabric on fabric. Maxence thought Dree had turned to face him but couldn’t tell in the absolute blackness.
He said, “Genoa is on the coast of Italy, south of France. Today, the airport there is directly on the coast. The airstrips are right beside the harbor where yachts and other ships dock. Back then, of course, it was more important that it had a natural harbor for the trading ships of the Mediterranean.”
“But that’s not Monagasquay,” she said, her voice still husky from crying.
“Monagasquay is north of Genoa and south of Nice, France. It was much less prosperous than Genoa and had many fewer people and rich people, so it wasn’t a prize unto itself. Monagasquay has an amazing natural harbor, though, and a stone headland that was ideal for building a fortress to guard that harbor. We call it ‘The Rock of Monagasquay.’ By holding that fortress and harbor, one could use the small city-state to launch attacks at Genoa.”
“Ah, it was tactically important,” Dree said.
Maxence nodded in the dark. “Exactly. Whoever controlled the fortress and harbor of Monagasquay could attack Genoa until they controlled it, too. So, if you controlled Genoa, it was important that you also controlled Monagasquay, or you would eventually lose Genoa.”
Another small rustle issued from the other side of the tent.
Maxence went on, “On January eighth in the year 1279, Francisco Grimaldi was the leader of the political factions who supported the Pope and wanted to control Genoa. However, their enemies controlled Monagasquay and continued to launch attacks which would have eventually succeeded in taking over Genoa. So, they knew they needed to capture the fortress and the harbor of Monagasquay.”
“Is this where the action movie happens?” she asked, and her voice sounded a little stronger and cheerier.
Maxence smiled. “Not so much of an action movie. More like a thriller and maybe a horror movie. My indirect ancestor, Francesco Grimaldi, the Lord of Genoa and leader of the Guelph forces, led the assault on Monagasquay personally, which was as stupid as the captain of a spaceship going with the away team to a dangerous planet, or a king riding a white stallion at the front of his troops and leading the charge. It was honorable and noble, but we lost a lot of relatives that way. It does sound more like a movie plot than history, full of plot holes.”
“But you’re making this up, right?” she asked him, sounding puzzled.
“Of course. That’s why I keep stopping and having to think about what happened, because I’m making it up, not because I can’t remember what year or names of the cities and stuff. Anyway, the Guelph Army commanded by my ancestor Francesco Grimaldi and his cousin, Rainier the First, the Lord of Cagnes—”
“Wait, Rainier? Where have I heard of him?”
“The current sovereign prince of Monagasquay, Prince Rainier IV, is named after him. I might have mentioned him earlier.”
“Oh, right. Okay.”
“Anyway, Francesco Grimaldi and Rainier I, Lord of Cagnes, assaulted the fortress on the headland above the harbor for weeks, but it was a really strong fortress. They couldn’t fight their way in, and they just kept losing soldiers. So Francesco Grimaldi came up with a plan.”
“Ooooo, a plan.” Dree’s voice sounded perkier still.
“His plan was treachery. Francesco Grimaldi’s nickname was il Malizia, which means ‘The Malicious.’”
She chuckled. “So, like Catherine the Great or Richard the Lion-Hearted, your ancestor’s name was Francesco the Malicious?”
A smile lightened her voice, and his heart thrilled to hear it. He imagined her sunny, beautiful smile like he’d seen so often in Paris. “Just so. All Grimaldi have a streak of evil running through their souls.”
“I should have suspected that.”
More smile in her voice. Maxence felt an answering smile lift his mouth. “Anyway, Francesco Grimaldi disguised himself as a Franciscan friar. He wore the coarse brown robe and a crucifix, no shoes, the whole deal. He went to the gate and told them that he was a simple monk and needed someplace to shelter for the night. The guards tried to turn him away because they knew that there was an army out there trying to take the castle. Finally, he convinced them that if they opened the gate just a little bit, he could slip in sideways really quick, and the invading army wouldn’t even know the gates had ever been opened at all.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yes, cue the ominous music. As soon as Francesco Grimaldi was inside the gates, he pulled out a long knife that he had hidden in his monk’s robes and slaughtered the guards with it.”
She gasped, “Oh my God.”
“Once he had killed the guards, he opened the gates, and his army poured in and took the fortress.”
“Holy cow!”
“The way they tell the story, he fought and killed four guards who were wearing armor and held swords with just his one knife, but the victors do write the history books. There’s even a statue of him in the courtyard of our castle, which is still the fortress above the harbor of Monagasquay, and he’s dressed as a Franciscan friar holding a long knife.”
“Wow,” Dree said, her voice happier. “That is quite a story.”
Maxence felt himself smile, captivated by the lightness in her voice. “I have lots of them. Maybe next time, I’ll tell you about my evil Uncle Jules and what an asshole he is. We should start calling him Prince Jules the Malicious.”
A few days later, one of the towns that they were assessing for a NICU micro-clinic was large enough to support a three-room inn with a tiny restaurant run out of the owning family’s kitchen in the apartment where they lived behind the tiny hotel.
Again, the innkeepers were thrilled to have guests during the off-season and rapidly kitted up the rooms for guests. The wife of the family asked, through Batsa, what they would want for dinner because she would make anything they had supplies for.
When the six of them asked for whatever was convenient for her, she assured them she would make a superb
supper for them and they would love her dessert.
Maxence had no doubt they would. They were hungry and tired from the road, and the inn had showers in the adjoining bathrooms. Maxence had lived in third-world countries for much of the last several years, but he still appreciated a warm shower wherever he found one.
Supper was indeed a magnificent feast, and Alfonso seemed thrilled to be eating food he hadn’t cooked. Through Batsa’s translation, he praised the woman’s cooking to the point where she was blushing and giggling.
Because this small town was nearer to a major city, medical care was more accessible for the villagers. Dree got a day off, and Maxence made sure that she rested and had some time to look around during it. She was still tired after supper, and she excused herself to turn in early while the rest of the guys sat around the table and enjoyed a Nepali beer.
Maxence watched as Dree walked up the stairs, her hourglass figure swaying as she ascended. He could watch the way she moved forever, feeling something between the aesthetic appreciation for a dancer’s grace and a deep male desire to touch and caress every inch of her skin.
After she disappeared up the staircase, Maxence looked back at his beer and noticed that Alfonso was also just looking down at his drink.
Maxence was not jealous. His plans to be a priest would not be derailed by mere carnal lust nor inappropriate jealousy.
Alfonso caught Maxence’s eye and grinned ruefully. “Andrea Catherine is an extraordinary woman, yes?”
Maxence felt safe agreeing with that.
Alfonso said, “She is very beautiful, and her dedication to helping other people is commendable.”
Maxence also agreed with that, though discomfort rose in him at the effusiveness of Alfonso’s praise.
Alfonso said, “I have great admiration for her. I think perhaps that you admire her, too, Deacon Father Maxence.”
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