The Open Channel

by Jill Morrow

  Alys crossed to Isobel’s side and gathered her into a hug. Surprised, Isobel rested against her for an unguarded moment.

  “He doesn’t love you, my poppet,” Alys said gently. “He could never fulfill your romantic dreams. There is no good in him. Can you not see this?”

  They stood frozen for a moment, Alys’s fingers playing through her niece’s hair. A portion of Isobel’s heart longed for this tenderness to last forever. How foreign it was, yet how very nice. But the dreadful words would not leave her mind: He doesn’t love you.

  As if Madame Alys knew anything of love.

  Isobel mustered her strength and shoved her aunt away.

  Alys staggered backward a few feet. To Isobel’s dismay, she did not fall. Neither did she stumble, although a slight tremor betrayed her body as weaker than her resolve.

  The prioress drew herself up to her full height. “I am sending him away,” she said, as if the past few minutes had never happened. “I came to tell you this. I will speak with him this afternoon.”

  She might as well have punched her niece in the midsection. Isobel’s face twisted in anguish as her hands began to shake.

  “As you lack a voice, I will speak for you,” Alys continued in a dull, flat tone. “You hate me. You wish I were dead. You will, in fact, kill me.”

  Isobel’s nostrils flared. She drew back her right hand. Alys’s eyes followed the fist as it flew toward her in a hard, jerking arc. With a sigh, she caught her niece’s wrist inches before the fist could smash into her nose.

  A chilling scream from the courtyard interrupted them.

  “Mercy on my soul! Mercy on my soul!” a woman shrieked over and over again.

  Alys dropped Isobel’s wrist and rushed toward the corridor. Isobel flew after her, down the narrow stone staircase and into the priory courtyard.

  Outside, Dame Margaret and her novices stood like statues on the hard dirt ground. Chickens squawked across the courtyard, stirring up little puffs of dust as they flapped their wings. The women paid them no mind. Their stares were riveted instead just outside the closed priory gate.

  The peddler, Kate, had sunk to her knees in the dust. Each hand gripped an iron bar. Her large body trembled as she tugged at the bars with all her might.

  “Save me!” She swung her head toward the prioress. Wispy white hair flew from its bindings to form a thin halo about her skull. “Madame Alys! Please let me in! Save me!”

  “But of course.” If Alys was startled by this odd turn of events, she did not show it. Her expression remained placid as she reached for her key and hurried toward the gate.

  Isobel’s brow furrowed. Save the woman from what? Dame Margaret was impossible, but only to those forced under her tutelage. Elinor and Anne clutched each other, ready to topple over from the excitement of this unusual day. Clearly, neither ninny posed a threat.

  What, then?

  Her eyes scanned the dirt road beyond the gate and came to rest on Hugh. He stood rigid in the middle of the road, yards away from the entrance of the guesthouse. His dark eyes narrowed into slits as his gaze met hers.

  “Merciful Mother of God.” Kate collapsed onto the earth as the gate swung open. Then, with speed that belied her size, she lifted herself and plunged into Alys’s arms. “Close the gate, madame. Lock it tight!”

  Alys ignored her. “Elinor, fetch a stool for Mistress Kate. Anne, a tankard of ale. Dame Margaret…” She hesitated only briefly. “You will find Father Gregory in the chapel. Kindly bid him come at once.”

  The women scattered.

  Isobel cocked her head. She grudgingly admired her aunt’s calm in the face of such turmoil. Despite refuge within the priory walls, Kate’s shudders remained so violent that Isobel wondered how anyone could continue to hold her with such a tight, steady grip.

  Hugh remained planted in the road, his very presence a silent dare to anyone who might reproach him.

  Alys watched as the stool appeared. She eased Kate’s bulk onto it, then rescued the tankard of ale from Anne’s shaking hand. She dismissed both novices with a nod of her head, and they gratefully scampered away. Only Isobel remained, her skirts billowing in a brisk wind that seemed born of nothing.

  “Drink.” Alys handed Kate the ale, then waited while she rapidly swallowed.

  “Now, then,” Alys said as Kate’s trembling subsided. “Whatever is wrong?”

  The woman glanced toward Hugh. Another tremor raced through her as she quickly turned away.

  “It’s him,” she said in a strained voice. “Have I gone daft? It’s him!”

  Alys’s left eyebrow rose slightly. Then she caught sight of Father Gregory hurrying toward her and once again pulled her face into an emotionless mask.

  “Father Gregory,” she called, “Mistress Kate is in need of our aid.”

  Isobel’s sharp eye had long ago noted that the priest did not easily conceal his thoughts. She saw at once that he’d arrived with the fear that Alys might be in danger. She watched the cloud of concern lift from his shoulders. He seemed suddenly able.

  “What ails you?” he asked Kate kindly.

  Kate pointed a shaky finger toward Hugh, who stiffened.

  “It’s him,” she repeated, although the ale seemed to have calmed her earlier fear. “Do not think me mad, Father, but…I know him.”

  Dame Margaret moved close enough to hear every word. The prioress and the priest exchanged a look. Then Father Gregory turned toward the mistress of novices.

  “Thank you, Dame Margaret.” His soothing voice left no space for refusal. Disappointment washed across Margaret’s sharp features. She glared at Isobel, awaiting her dismissal as well. It never came.

  “Thank you,” Father Gregory repeated. Dame Margaret sniffed loudly and left.

  Isobel noted the tableau before her. Kate sat on the stool, eagerly gulping the last dregs of ale from the large tankard. Alys stood behind her, a steadying hand resting on her shoulder. Father Gregory stood before her, awaiting more information.

  Isobel might have wanted to hear the information too, but something more intriguing crossed her thoughts: to her right, the priory gate gaped open. Hugh still stood on the other side.

  “You know him,” Father Gregory reminded the peddler. “Who is he?”

  Kate placed the empty tankard on the ground. Her blue eyes grew wide. “He is Robin the Thatcher.”

  The priest looked puzzled. “He does not go by this name, here. Are you quite sure?”

  Her head bobbed vigorously. “Helped bring him into this world, I did. I was a midwife’s apprentice in those days, and I remember my babies.”

  Isobel doubted seriously that this fool could remember anything, especially with more than a pint of ale sent quickly down her gullet. As far as she was concerned, Kate had nothing of interest to say. The girl edged toward the gate until she could no longer hear the old hen’s mindless prattle.

  Alys made a brief note of her niece’s whereabouts, then absently patted the peddler’s shoulder. “Why does he frighten you so?” she asked.

  Kate dissolved into tears. “I helped bury him, too, just days before the feast of Corpus Christi!”

  The prioress’s fingers dug into the peddler’s shoulders so hard that Kate jumped. “You…buried…him?”

  “Are you sure of this?” Father Gregory swayed slightly.

  “I never forget my babies,” Kate repeated. “The plague took him, he who was to wed the miller’s daughter but a fortnight from now. The village still speaks of the loss.”

  “You are perhaps mistaken.” Alys sounded hollow.

  Kate lowered her voice. “Forgive me, madame, but look closely at him. That lovely hair, bright as the sun. Those strong arms. The length of his leg. There was no mistaking him in life, just as there is no mistaking him in death.”

  Father Gregory helped the peddler to her feet. “Here is what I think,” he said gently. “I think, my dear Mistress Kate, that you have walked long and far today in the bright sun. The young man’s loss
weighs heavy on your heart, for you are a woman of great compassion. Your eyes play games with your sorrow.”

  “Do you think so?” She brightened, eager to believe anything. “I am not bewitched, then?”

  “No,” Gregory said. “You are simply tired. I will take you to our Dame Catherine, who will see to it that you rest before walking again in the heat. Will you come with me?”

  “I will! Oh, I will!” Relief flooded her every word.

  “And you, Madame Alys, you must await me here. We have priory matters to discuss.”

  Alys gave a prim nod.

  “Of course,” she said.

  She watched them walk across the courtyard, Kate’s unsteady bulk occasionally bumping against Gregory. His walk was measured, so steady that she knew he had to focus very hard to keep it that way. Surely the thoughts swirling in his head must mirror her own.

  There was truth here, a truth that she might not have seen had she refused to believe the events of the past few days. Perhaps Francesca would know what this meant.

  Unfortunately, that meeting would have to wait. There were other matters that also required attention. Alys caught her breath and turned to face her niece.

  “What say you of this, Isobel?” she asked.

  But Isobel was not there. Hugh, too, had vanished. All that remained was the gaping priory gate.

  20

  FRANCESCA PACED THE CHAPEL AISLE, TOO AGITATED TO SETTLE into a pew or even to stop walking. Fear twisted her stomach. Strange. Fear was an emotion more related to the physical than the spiritual. She had relished her invisibility, assumed that she’d shaken herself free of all physical ties that could weigh her down. But even in this odd, unexplainable existence, she could not escape the fear that Asteroth ignited within her. Why couldn’t her emotions have altered along with her physical form?

  She had no answers: only a pile of questions that grew larger by the minute.

  She felt safer inside the chapel than she did outside. She liked it here, as she’d liked the inside of every church she’d entered since earliest childhood. Gothic or modern, big or small, she always felt comfortably warm inside a church.

  It occurred to her that churches had been used as sanctuary during the Middle Ages. Anyone could escape pursuit simply by crossing the threshold of a church and slamming the door firmly behind. Nobody could harm you once you’d placed yourself under the Church’s protection. To challenge that protection would be to challenge God.

  A sense of relief engulfed her. Surely, what applied in physical form applied even more now that she was further immersed in spirit. She could stay safe here. Asteroth could never penetrate sacred ground. She could remain within this cocoon, praising God’s light throughout eternity, untouchable.

  The idea soothed her enough that she could stop pacing. Unfortunately, respite was brief. A nagging thought instantly intruded, barely allowing time to catch a breath.

  Even as a child, Francesca had had no trouble pinpointing the major drawback of sanctuary. Nobody could come in and hurt you, but neither could you come out. Medieval sanctuary had seldom provided a gateway to contemplation and prayer. It had served mostly as an escape, a place to wait it out until danger cooled outside the church door.

  The thought felt sticky and unpleasant. She unconsciously flexed her fingers. It wasn’t in her nature to run away.

  Or was it? Her memory flickered back to that September dinner with Katerina and Stephen. Katerina’s voice had remained level, but sparks had fairly shot from her eyes. What was it she’d said? What accusation had she hurled?

  As if she even had to ask herself. The words were branded on her heart. She could still feel Katerina’s veiled anger as she said them: “Not all of us can afford to check out of physical reality. Some of us have to stay behind in the trenches and muddle through daily life as best we can!”

  Francesca winced. Her niece had always been a good shot.

  Living in the spirit should have afforded more serenity than this. She’d always believed that at home, too. Each meditation session, each prayerful retreat abroad, had brought about a measure of calm, even a sense of relief. And yet there’d always been an undercurrent of discontent lurking beneath the placid surface of peace. Her sense of oneness with God and the light, so simple, clean, and well constructed, still came attached to the feeling that something more was expected of her. Now the truth hit in a painful starburst of color. Her understanding of peace had always been flawed, tilted slightly off center. Peace had never promised isolation from conflict. Despite her introspection and her studies, despite her many retreats, she had somehow missed a crucial piece to the puzzle of daily life. She’d been invited to a fine banquet and had done little more than observe it, allowing herself only an occasional whiff of its tantalizing aroma.

  Frustrated, she raised her eyes to the stained-glass rose window. The vibrant colors leaned into each other, melting until their pattern shifted into a new configuration. It took only a second to remember where she’d seen this configuration before. This was the pattern of the cathedral window she’d last noticed before closing her eyes in Baltimore and breaking the binds of time.

  The chapel no longer felt as cozy and comforting as it had only moments ago. Francesca’s gaze strayed from the window to the stone walls, and then on to the hard wooden pews. But instead of pews, she saw an image of Katerina and Stephen. They sat on the overstuffed loveseat in the family room of their house. A fire blazed in the fireplace. Francesca could hear the crackle of burning bark, could even smell the curling tendrils of smoke as they snaked up the chimney. Outside, freezing rain pelted against the windowpane. She raised an open palm to her cheek to ward off the pounding needles of ice.

  Katerina rested snug in the crook of Stephen’s arm, her head against his chest. Her long hair spilled over her shoulder and down to her waist. Although she was covered by an afghan, Francesca noticed that her feet were tucked beneath her. Her toes were probably curled as well, the way they always were when she fought a headache. Francesca saw the circles under her niece’s eyes and the transparent whiteness of her skin.

  Stephen’s fingers played absently through his wife’s hair. He seemed distracted as he stared into the leaping flames of the fireplace. Francesca sank into a pew, trying to decipher what she saw. She knew Stephen well, sometimes even better than he knew himself. Like her, he was trying to decode a puzzle. She suspected that she knew all too well which puzzle that was.

  Julia and Claire sat on the rug near their parents’ feet, intent on a game of Tri-Ominos. How familiar they looked, yet how different at the same time. Julia was nearly a young woman now. Her face held none of the baby roundness it had once possessed. Claire, an impossible cherub, looked more like child Katerina than Francesca had ever noticed before.

  Her heart began to beat against her chest, a steady, rhythmic call that spread quickly to her temples. She longed to plunge into the vision, to take the chaos that roiled through her loved ones’ minds and set their world right. She wanted to join in the fray of their daily battles, to plow her way through chaos instead of analyzing it from a distance. Her arms ached to gather Katerina close and guide her to a place of serenity amidst the children, the career, the monolithic busyness that engulfed every second of her day.

  “I should be with them,” she whispered to no one, and the revelation so startled her that she half rose from her pew. How had she ever thought that the only way to live a spirit-filled life was to isolate herself from physical conflict? And to think that she’d chastised Kat and Stephen for avoiding spiritual responsibility! Why, her avoidance skills were every bit as honed as those of her niece and nephew. She’d seen the face of evil, had even battled it, and still did her best to ignore its subtle impact on daily routine.

  She heard her own sharp intake of breath as she straightened. She reached toward the vision, for Katerina on the couch.

  The image vanished, leaving only the cold wooden pews behind.

  “No!” Francesca’s voic
e trailed off in the shadows.

  She was so mired in dismay that she didn’t hear the chapel door swing open. She started as Alys appeared before her, Gregory by her side. The priest’s focus rested somewhere to the left of where Francesca actually sat, but the prioress’s direct gaze made it obvious that she saw Francesca even more clearly than before.

  Words spilled from Alys’s mouth. “When last we spoke, you said you had news of Hugh. Tell me.”

  Francesca quieted her breathing. Alys’s eyes glittered; each cheek burned red, as if she had a high fever.

  “Are you well enough for this discussion?” Francesca asked. Anything she said could only plunge the prioress more deeply into illness.

  “I have no choice,” Alys replied in clipped tones. “I must hear what you know.”

  “There may not be much time,” Gregory said. “Something has happened.”

  Francesca remembered that he couldn’t hear her. In fragile health or not, Alys would need to serve as their go-between.

  But there was nothing fragile about the Alys who stood before her, mouth pursed and hands on hips.

  “Who is he?” the prioress asked through clenched teeth.

  Francesca raised a hand to her forehead. “He is Asteroth of the Crescent Horn,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice.

  “Asteroth of the Crescent Horn,” Alys repeated slowly, and Francesca recognized that the repetition was for Gregory’s benefit.

  “A demon of darkness,” Francesca added. “He is evil, madame, more evil than you can fathom.”

  All color drained from Alys’s face as she stepped toward Francesca. She reached out to grasp the other woman by the shoulders, then changed her mind. Her arms dropped to her sides.

  “How comes he here?” she asked.

  Francesca sighed. “I have encountered him before, I’m afraid, so much of what I say is born of experience. He cannot enter our world without the aid of another. He requires a human body to inhabit.”

  “He requires a human body to inhabit.” Alys’s voice sounded as if drawn from the depths of a well.