One Candle

by Gale Sears

  “I do not.”

  “We will help you,” Jean Cardon said, standing.

  “The lame leading the lame,” Pious said under his breath.

  The three companions had only trudged a few steps when Andrew caught sight of Rene and Father Nathanael at the edge of the garden. “Thank you, thank you, my friends, but we are saved. Sturdier hands are coming.”

  Andrew glanced around to give Father Pious a dismissive look, but the man had disappeared.

  “I’m sorry I had to bring the donkey cart,” Rene said as they bounced along the rutted road, “but it was the easiest to ready.”

  “Never mind,” Andrew grunted, gripping the side of the cart with one hand and bracing himself against his nephew to lessen the jostling. His old bones ached and the sun stabbed at the top of his head. Rene did not speak again, and Andrew was glad of it. He was trying to formulate his thoughts, but they were schoolboys on the final day of school. He tried closing his eyes to organize his thinking, but that only made him nauseated.

  Soon Rene turned the donkey onto the track to the inn and slowed their pace. Andrew shaded his eyes and saw Joseph sitting on the ground under the chestnut tree. When the boy heard the sound of the cart, he jumped up, but did not leave the cooling shade. Rene pulled the cart into it, and Joseph rushed to his great-uncle’s side. His face was streaked with tears and dirt.

  “Oh, Uncle, everyone is yelling and yelling.”

  “Yes, yes, my boy. Be still,” Andrew instructed, trying to calm the spinning of his head.

  “Joseph, get back!” Rene barked. “Let me get Uncle out of the cart.”

  Rene swung his arm around Andrew’s back and took his hand, helping him slowly down. Andrew gritted his teeth as his feet hit the hard earth. His left leg was numb, and he was just gaining his balance when Francesca rushed from the inn.

  “Oh! Thank heavens! Thank heavens you’ve come! We cannot talk sense into her. She will not listen to a thing!”

  “Francesca, give him a chance to breathe.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I will bring him some water.” She ran back into the inn without waiting for comment.

  “I want to sit in the garden,” Andrew said weakly. He did not want the closed heat of the indoors. He needed air and cooling shade.

  “But Uncle—”

  “I will sit in the big wooden chair—the one with arms.”

  “It is not very comfortable.”

  “Tchet. I have slept on the hard ground.”

  “Yes, but that was many years ago.”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then take me to the garden. And ask Albertina to bring my water and a pillow for my back.”

  Rene did as he was told, helping Andrew into the chair, and leaving to give Albertina her instructions. When his father was gone, Joseph timidly approached his great-uncle.

  “Why is everyone so mad?”

  Andrew patted the boy’s hand. “They are not mad, they are frightened.”

  “Frightened? Father is frightened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he does not know what will happen tomorrow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is all right, my dear little fellow. You don’t need to understand.”

  Joseph laid his head on his great-uncle’s shoulder, and Andrew hummed him a simple children’s song. When he saw Albertina come around the corner of the inn, he sat straighter. “Now, Joseph, you must leave me so Albertina and I can have a talk.”

  Joseph looked into his eyes. “Do not scold her. Do not scold my Albi.”

  “No, I won’t. You go and wash your face.”

  “Yes, Uncle.” Joseph started off for the inn, his head down, his shoulders slumped. When he passed by his sister and she placed a gentle hand on the top of his head, he burst into tears and ran.

  Albertina came silently to her great-uncle’s side, handing him the cup of water and taking the pillow from the crook of her arm. “Behind you?”

  “Yes.”

  She placed it and stood back. “You wanted to see me?”

  Andrew shaded his eyes and looked up into her sullen face. “Sit down, please.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Please sit so your old uncle doesn’t get a crick in his neck.” She sat, but did not speak. Andrew sipped his water, waiting for wisdom and for his heart to calm its beating. “It is warm today.”

  “They brought you here to talk to me about the weather?”

  Andrew was shaken by her tone. “No . . . I—” He forced his mind to still. “No. They brought me here because you are breaking their hearts.”

  Albertina sat back, a stunned look on her face.

  He knew the words were harsher than she deserved, but he would not take them back. “You must honor your parents, Albertina. It is one of the commandments.”

  “I have always honored my parents! And you! And God! How can you say that to me? I have always kept my place, especially after Pauline died. I always made sure I made Mother happy.”

  “Calm down. Calm down, my girl.”

  She stood. “I am not doing any of this to make them sad. I am doing this because I am brave.”

  “What?”

  “You told me that I was brave—brave for asking questions and for seeking knowledge. Do you remember when you told me that?”

  “I—”

  “You said that I wasn’t to be afraid of the answers.”

  Andrew’s mind was spinning. “Well, I—”

  She began pacing. “For months now I have been seeking, and learning, and praying.”

  He was losing his grasp of the conversation. He motioned with his hand for her to sit down—the movement was making him sick. “Please, Albertina—”

  “And everything I learn feels right to me.”

  “Albertina Marianella Guy!” he bellowed. “Sit down!”

  She turned abruptly, her eyes wide, her face flushed. “I . . . I’m sorry.” She sat.

  Andrew had spent his strength on the shout, and sat struggling to catch his breath.

  “Uncle?”

  He held up his hand to stop her talking, his fingers moving to rub the pain from his temple. Andrew’s mind drifted away from the shade of the tree and the face of his great-niece. He thought about his first quill pen, his mother catching the white goose. The distraction of memories lessened his pain, and he groaned in relief.

  “Uncle?”

  “What?” Andrew came back to the moment.

  “Are you finished talking to me?”

  Andrew frowned. “No. Not at all.”

  “Then why the silence?”

  “I . . . I was thinking about my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes. I was thinking about her. She was catching the white goose.”

  Albertina sat forward in her chair. “Uncle, are you well?”

  The softer tone in her voice made him sigh. “Yes, I am well.” He gathered his thoughts. “I am just worried about you. We are all worried about you—this decision to join with the Mormons. This is not a wise choice.”

  Albertina’s defensiveness returned. “I am not a child.”

  “No, you are not. So you must take everything into consideration.”

  “I have.”

  “Have you? You will be giving up a faith that has existed for nearly two thousand years—the faith that is the foundation of your life and heritage. And for what? An unproven American church less than thirty years old?”

  “But you said you admired many of their teachings.”

  “Yes. But philosophies come and go.”

  “I do not think this is a philosophy, Uncle. I feel they have truths from Christ’s anc
ient Church.”

  “Their interpretation of the Bible.”

  “No. The Prophet Joseph—”

  “And what will you do if the missionaries and their Waldensian converts leave for America? What will you do then? Will you leave your grieving family to go with them?”

  She faltered. “No. No . . . I won’t leave.”

  “You do not seem sure of your answer.”

  Albertina looked at the ground. “There will be members who stay here. There will be missionaries,” she said slowly.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing, Uncle. Nothing.”

  The ache in his head made him surly and his response brusque. “You must not join with them, Albertina. You must stay true to the church. It is your only hope of salvation. You must confess your sins and pay penance for disobedience to your parents.”

  “Uncle, please. Won’t you listen to me? Won’t you listen to what I’ve been learning at these meetings? I have seen miracles. You have seen miracles! We would not have our little Joseph but for the priesthood blessing of the Mormon missionaries.”

  His hands began to shake. “Enough, Albertina.”

  “You were there! You heard the words of the blessing and you saw life come back into Joseph’s body. Do they not have some truth to tell?”

  A sharp pain shot up the back of his head, and Andrew groaned and slumped forward.

  Albertina jumped out of her seat. “Uncle!” She ran to catch him as he tumbled out of his chair. “Uncle! Uncle!” She held him in her arms. “Help! Help me! Papa! Papa! Help me! Please! Please, old bear, stay. Stay with me!”

  A gray stillness was pulling him away. “Do not leave . . . me,” he slurred.

  She rocked him back and forth. “I won’t. I won’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You have to stay. I’m sorry.” Albertina screamed out again for help, but she could already feel her great-uncle’s body going limp in her arms.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Torre Pellice

  July 13, 1851

  The library storeroom smelled of old parchment and ink. Andrew stood with his eyes closed, breathing in deeply the familiar smell, his mind and fingers imagining the feel of a quill pen and the soft brush of vellum. He sighed.

  “The power of parchment,” spoke a mellow voice.

  Andrew smiled and turned. “Yes, the feeling is still with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I was only a trickster, a copier, a scribbler. Never anything original like your creation. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident’ . . . I was a young boy, but those words went through me like fire.”

  “Ah, but do you imagine that I did not copy the thoughts of others—that I did not read the words of great thinkers? What would I have done without brilliant words printed out from your scribblings—yours and others like you?”

  Andrew bowed his head. “That is kind.”

  “That is truth. Shall we walk?”

  “I would like that.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Up over Mount Cenis? Perhaps I can walk to my home in Lyon.”

  “Whatever suits you.”

  Andrew walked. “Tchet! This is not so difficult. I remember these trails and these cliffs. And that waterfall? I bathed in that waterfall.” He drew in a deep breath and felt the water beating against his young skin. “A great weight has lifted.”

  “Freedom,” his companion said.

  “Yes! Freedom!” Andrew’s mind drifted to their first meeting in the library in Paris. He, his uncle, the tall statesman, and a thousand books. Andrew wanted to talk to him about that day, but the weather had turned cold and the sky spoke of rain. “I need to find my father,” Andrew said anxiously. He looked across the amber field and saw him scything hay. “I need to help him. Why have I been so long from home?”

  The dark sky pressed against his head, blurring his vision and stripping the strength from his arms and legs. A church bell rang far away in the valley, and with each clanging sound, heaviness overwhelmed him. He stumbled and fell. Someone held his hand and squeezed his fingers.

  “Father Andrew.”

  It was a pinprick of sound.

  “Father?”

  Rumbling and heaviness.

  Andrew tried to find the sound, but his body would not move. Where was his father? He wanted to be with him, but he could not see in the dark.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Andrew frowned.

  “Open your eyes, honored one.”

  The dark pressed him to the ground. What is this weight that holds me? Panic tore at the edge of his reason. Someone was squeezing his fingers while a low voice commanded him to open his eyes. He did. Smudges of gray and white swam in front of his vision. He breathed and the panic lessened.

  “His eyes are open.”

  Movement near him. Pressure on his arm. “Uncle?”

  Rene? The name stayed trapped in his head. A thickening in his throat stopped any sound from moving to his lips. He tried to blink to clear his vision, but even his eyelids betrayed him. The panic returned.

  “Look at his eyes. He’s frightened.” Francesca’s voice.

  “Can we sit him up slightly?” Rene’s voice.

  “I think it should be all right.” Father Nathanael’s voice.

  “Be calm, Uncle. We’re going to help you.”

  Hands grasped his upper arms, and he was pulled slightly higher onto pillows. Air rushed into his lungs and the fear receded. He tried to thank them, but all that escaped his body was a muffled groan.

  Weeping. From far away came the sound of a young woman weeping.

  I want to go back to sleep. I must go back to sleep. Andrew closed his eyes and returned to the field and his father.

  “You must let them pray for him.”

  “I will not.”

  “At least let them see him. Elder Woodard has been asking for days, and Elder Toronto has just returned from southern Italy. They both want to see him.”

  “No. Only family.”

  “Father Nathanael is here.”

  “Father Nathanael attends him.”

  “Papa, you know what they did for Joseph.”

  “That . . . that was just . . . he was getting better on his own.”

  “What? How can you say that? He would have died.”

  Andrew groaned.

  Rene’s answer stopped midsentence. “Ah!” He glared at his daughter. “Quiet your voice. You’ve woken him.”

  Albertina rushed from the hallway to her uncle’s side. “Uncle,” she whispered, touching his face. “Uncle?”

  “Leave him be. Get back to your chores.”

  Andrew opened his eyes. “No.”

  Father Nathanael came into the room at that moment. “Did he speak again?”

  “He did,” Rene said stepping to the bedside.

  Father Nathanael joined him. “The doctor said he was getting stronger.”

  “He is! He is getting stronger,” Albertina replied, a desperate hopefulness in her tone.

  “Lower your voice!” Rene snapped.

  “Uph,” Andrew said.

  Father Nathanael looked at Rene. “Did he say up?”

  “He did,” Albertina answered. “He wants to sit up.”

  “Move back,” Rene said, brushing her aside. He and Father Nathanael gently lifted Andrew higher onto the pillows.

  Andrew gritted his teeth as they lifted, feeling the heaviness of his arms and legs. He wanted to talk to his caregivers, but was afraid the attempt would be met with sympathy instead of comprehension. It was frustrating. The words formulated in his brain, but often refused to make the journey to his mouth.

  Albertina edged her way closer, and Rene turned.

  “Get back to your work no
w.”

  “I want to sit with him.”

  “Later. Father Nathanael will look after him. There’s work to be done.”

  “It’s always later.”

  “Do not argue with me.”

  Albertina began to protest, then instead pressed her lips together and reluctantly turned towards the doorway.

  Andrew’s fingers lifted a few inches off the coverlet. “W—waith.”

  The three stared at him, and Father Nathanael moved closer.

  “What is it you want?’

  Andrew’s finger pointed at Albertina, and then tapped several times on the coverlet.

  “You want her to stay?”

  Several more taps.

  Rene’s body stiffened, and there were several moments of tense silence before he turned to her. “Do not upset him.”

  Albertina hung her head. “No. No, I won’t.”

  As Father Nathanael moved the wooden chair closer to the bed, Rene gave him instructions.

  “Do not let her stay long. Send her out to her chores in a few minutes. And if she begins to agitate him, send her out immediately and let me know.”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  Rene moved out of the room, giving his daughter a final stern look. Albertina stood unmoving until Father Nathanael stepped forward and took her by the elbow.

  “He wants you to be near him. That is a good thing.”

  Albertina let him lead her forward to the chair. “Father Nathanael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will he get well?”

  “I believe he will, Mademoiselle Guy. He seems to get stronger every day, don’t you think?” She nodded, and he smiled at her. “Besides, you have surrounded him with so many prayers that I do not think death can find its way to him.” He patted the back of the chair. “Now, sit and keep him company. I will be nearby, reading, if you need me.”

  “I promise not to upset him.”

  “Of course you won’t.”

  Albertina edged her way quietly into the chair. She glanced at her uncle’s face and found that he was looking directly at her. She pressed her lips together to stop the flow of tears, but it did not help. She laid her head on the bed by her uncle’s hand and gave in to her emotion. After a time she felt her uncle’s fingers clumsily stroking her hair. She sat up and took his hand. “I’m sorry, Uncle. Sorry. This is my fault.”