"Now," said Sister Hyacinthe, "there's nothing to do but wait."
"And pray," pointed out Sister John. "Is he quite comfortable?"
"A little fresh air, perhaps," said Sister Hyacinthe, going to the window and opening it several inches. "A teaspoon of wine every hour. The other wounds are only scratches, they can be treated later. Leave the door open, Sister John, so we can hear him if he calls out."
"We've missed Lauds and now Vespers and we can only hope for Compline," said Sister John as they descended the wide, curving staircase. "I wonder who he can be."
"I wonder who shot him," said Sister Hyacinthe.
"I don't suppose this is a deer-hunting season by any chance?"
"No-no, I'm sure it's not the deer-hunting season"
"Then he was mugged," Sister John said, nodding.
"What exactly is mugging?"
"I've no idea but Mr. Armisbruck said it happens all the time these days, and is quite harmful. Have you noticed the drops of blood we're following? He came up these stairs not too many hours ago. That must have been when you saw him in a window. It will be interesting to see where these stains of blood lead."
It wasn't difficult to follow the man's route once the flashlight was concentrated on the floor. A consistent trail of dark spots led into the dining room past a large oak banquet table to the base of a french window where shards of glass lay on the floor. A small pane had been broken, a hand pushed through and the lock released from the inside. "At least he wasn't shot in the house, he stumbled inside," said Sister John.
The window was still ajar, tendrils of ivy curling around the knob. Sister John pushed the window wide and peered through a jungle of growth. "More bloodstains, Sister Hyacinthe. I think we should follow them and see where they come from. Bring the flashlight."
"What we really need is a machete," grumbled Sister Hyacinthe, following her.
They emerged on the open side porch and followed drops of blood down stairs to an earthen path where they lost the trail but picked it up some steps later on the bricked path in the rear. Passing the well and the birdbath, they left the privet hedge behind and emerged on the opposite side of the house, near the barn. Here stood a short, glass-windowed porch, latticed underneath; the blood led under the porch where the latticework had broken away. "He crept in underneath," said Sister Hyacinthe, dropping to her hands and knees. "The dead leaves are still red." She dug up a handful of dirt and scattered it across the stains, obliterating them.
There was nothing more; from what direction the man had approached the hiding place it was impossible to guess because any other traces had been swallowed up by high grass and, as Sister John pointed out, he might not have begun to bleed until he crawled under the porch. They strolled toward the barn and to their surprise discovered a road behind the barn that entered the property from another point on Fallen Stump Road.
"And much more used, too," added Sister Hyacinthe, pointing to wheel marks baked into the earth by the hot sun. "This must have been the service entrance. Sister John, you're looking funny again."
"I'm thinking of fireworks. Didn't that extraordinary young man with the beard mention noises last night in the woods? We have a man upstairs with three bullet wounds in him, and he must have been shot nearby. He certainly couldn't have walked far." She stood in the middle of the dirt road, frowning. "It's quite possible. From here to that little porch is about two hundred yards. If the person who shot our patient stood about here on this road-and if it was quite dark-it would explain how our patient was able to get away. There's all that tall grass beside the road, and the privet hedge on the right. But it would have had to be dark, and they said it was dark when they heard the fireworks."
Sister Hyacinthe looked at her accusingly. "Sister John, you're enjoying this!"
"I used to adore crossword puzzles," confessed Sister John. "Let's have a look in the barn, it won't take but a moment."
Sister Hyacinthe sighed. "I've driven several hundred miles today, Sister John, I've puled money out of a well and a bleeding man out of a closet and we've still not had our supper."
Sister John absently patted her arm. "Just a glance," she promised, and strode across the lawn, skirts flying. But the barn, once she had encouraged the lock to snap, turned out to be empty of all but the usual barn accessories: a pitchfork, a scythe, several large empty oil drums, and a wall hung with old license plates. Sister John was forced to forego any new pleasures and return to the house.
Across the valley the sun lingered at the horizon, a fuzzy luminous red orb promising more heat tomorrow. They carried cheese and bread and tea to the front steps to watch the sunset-"Just like going to the theater," said Sister John-and to be efficient she brought writing paper and pencil with her because, she pointed out, the sisters of St. Tabitha would all be waiting anxiously to hear from them.
"In fact," she said, nibbling her pencil, "so anxiously that perhaps it might be a little too stimulating to tell them tonight about the man in the closet."
"It could be," conceded Sister Hyacinthe, stirring her tea.
Leaning over the writing tablet Sister John began her letter. Dear Mother Angelique and Sisters, she wrote. Rest in the heart of Christ, we have arrived safely. The Moretti house is large-once very grand-and full of unexpected surprises. We have been unnaturally busy, about which I will write tomorrow. Pray for us. Yours in Christ, Sister John.
"You haven't told them about the money, either," pointed out Sister Hyacinthe.
"No," admitted Sister John, "but I'll tuck a twenty-dollar bill inside and explain tomorrow." Her eyes moved across the valley to the setting sun. "St. Tabitha's tonight seems a most blessed place, Sister Hyacinthe. There feels very little nourishment in this world we've entered. Shall we say a prayer for it now?"
They knelt on the steps and prayed for their sisters at St. Tabitha's, for peace in the world, for the poor and the sick and for the stranger in the room upstairs. They locked up the house and spread their bedrolls in the hall upstairs so that they could give their patient a teaspoonful of dandelion wine every hour and hear him if he called out. After briefly meditating they lay down on their bedrolls.
Sister Hyacinthe suddenly began to giggle.
"What on earth," said Sister John.
"I'm so thirsty, Sister John. I was thinking of the verse of a psalm that begins, 'In a desert and pathless land where no water is . . . Do you think we'll find water tomorrow?"
"Go to sleep," Sister John told her firmly.
3
Sometime during the night it began to thunder and Sister John woke up, marveling at finding herself on the floor of a mansion instead of asleep in her cell at St. Tabitha's. The thunder was low and growling and the wind rising, setting all the vines to work downstairs tapping at the windows. Sister John climbed out of her bedroll and went into the small room where their patient lay. She turned on the flashlight as she entered and glanced at her wrist watch. It was three o'clock in the morning.
"Put out the flashlight!" hissed Sister Hyacinthe from the window.
"Whatever are you doing there?" asked Sister John, flicking off the torch.
"Come and see for yourself."
The man at Sister John's feet was snoring gently; considering Sister Elizabeth's dandelion wine she thought he might be in a state of mild inebriation but at least he was still alive. She moved to the window and stood beside Sister Hyacinthe and thought for a moment that she was witnessing a phenomenon of fireflies invading the rear garden. She counted five small lights.
"There are three men with flashlights down there," whispered Sister Hyacinthe.
"I count five."
"Two of the lights are the parking lights of a car."
She was quite right of course; only three of the lights danced and bobbed across the ground, attached to human hands, no doubt, which placed the scene on a less supernatural level.
"They have no right," murmured Sister John, and then, "That's enough of that!" Before Sister Hyacinthe co
uld stop her she opened the window wider and, leaned out into the rain. "What are you doing here?" she called.
Her voice blended with a particularly loud crack of thunder-the storm was very near-and she was forced to repeat her words. "What," she shouted, "are you doing on this property?" A bolt of lightning accompanied her second attempt and illuminated the garden like noonday. Three men in white belted raincoats stopped and stared up at her in dumbfounded astonishment, the rain pelting their faces, eyes blinking. The nearest and largest man stood just below them: his was a flat round face, made somewhat less attractive by his mouth being open.
He stared at Sister John in the window and said, "What the-" Thunder censored his exclamation and then as he added, "-dames?" the lightning vanished and the darkness turned stygian.
"I can't see them, what are they doing now?" asked Sister John.
Sister Hyacinthe, who could see in the dark like a cat, said, "They're moving to the car, Sister John, you've put them to the run."
"They looked very official but they didn't explain why they were trespassing."
"I don't think we could expect them to."
The men had grouped themselves around the car and appeared to be arguing. The murmur of voices rose, followed by an abrupt slamming of doors, the starting of the engine, and the slip-slap of wheels in mud. The parking lights moved slowly backward, the car turned, two red lights replaced the amber ones and the car vanished.
Sister Hyacinthe said, "They arrived about five minutes ago. They seemed particularly interested in looking under the porch."
Sister John said thoughtfully, "You may be right, Sister Hyacinthe, someone may very well have evil intentions toward this poor man on the floor. I don't want to think you were right-"
"I know that, Sister John."
"-but perhaps, having promised him sanctuary, we should take precautions." She turned on the flashlight and stared at the man on the mattress. "I think if the occasion arises we could say that a third sister has arrived from St. Tabitha's. We'll call him Sister Ursula."
"Call him what?"
"I don't see why not," reasoned Sister John. "It's only a very small rearrangement of the truth for compassionate purposes. He arrived from St. Tabitha's during the storm and he caught cold."
"You mean she caught a cold."
"Yes, of course, and has taken to her bed. His pulse is almost normal," she said, her fingers on his wrist. "How many teaspoons of dandelion wine have you given him, Sister Hyacinthe?"
"Six."
"Good heavens, I've given him seven. That's thirteen-it should be enough for the night."
"Unless we've embalmed him," said Sister Hyacinthe.
"Oh, I don't think the alcohol content is that high. Almost but not quite, although I daresay eggnog would be a pleasant change for him tomorrow. Those two young campers said they had eggs, didn't they? We'll go and see them first thing in the morning."
"Yes," said Sister Hyacinthe, yawning, "Can we go back to bed now?"
"Of course." They groped their way back to the bedrolls in the hall. "I don't like the idea of leaving our patient alone for long, but if we go early enough-one must assume that even evil sleeps sometime."
"Sleep," murmured Sister Hyacinthe longingly.
"In any case all this rain is washing away the blood outside. By the way, I took a closer look at that man's face-our patient's, I mean-and I thought it infinitely superior to the face of the man I saw under the window, even with his eyes closed. His chin is better. That's reassuring, don't you think?"
But there was no reply from Sister Hyacinthe.
In the morning, after Matins and breakfast, they set out for the woods behind the garden, carefully locking both the van and the house before leaving. It was a beautiful day, fresh with scents of wet earth and growing things, the birds tugging at worms in the garden and splashing in puddles of rainwater. Sister Hyacinthe carried a basket into which she hoped to put plants for lunch and dinner, and Sister John carried a loaf of bread. Since the bearded young man named Brill had found them by way of the path through the woods, they hoped that the path would in turn lead them straight to his camp. Sister Hyacinthe, however, was incapable of, following a straight line, and once she discovered borage growing near the edge of the wood Sister John knew there would be no hurrying her. Deeper in the wood the moss was thick and springy under their feet. There were also damp, decaying leaves-"mulch!" cried Sister Hyacinthe ecstatically-and when they encountered fiddlehead ferns and stalks of mullein her gasps grew more pronounced and her steps slower.
Presently she moved from the narrow path into a clump of bushes and only her head could be seen as she bent over. "I've found another puffball," she called back to Sister John. "There's peppermint here, too-Mentha piperita-and more mullein, and I do believe-" She broke off at the sound of twigs snapping under heavy feet nearby. Sister John, waiting patiently on the path, heard the noise too, and looked toward the clearing ahead.
A man emerged from a thicket and without looking to right or left walked very quickly across their line of vision. He was dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt and black tie, but the effect was marred by the soiled plastic sack that he carried over one shoulder. Just as he reached the center of the clearing-Sister John was debating whether she ought to call out "Good Morning"-a child of seven or eight appeared at the edge of the wood behind the man. There were two details about the boy that astonished Sister John: he was carrying a bow and arrow which he proceeded to lift and aim at the man, and he wore no clothes at all. He was completely and unabashedly naked.
The drawstring of the bow twanged faintly and an arrow shot across the clearing, plunged into the man's sack, and hung there, quivering. Sister John, for reasons she later found difficult to understand, ducked her head. When she lifted it the clearing was deserted; both man and boy had disappeared.
"What an incredible thing to see!" gasped Sister John. "If I described what I saw to anyone they'd think me mad. I did see it, didn't I?"
"Of course you did, it was a bull's-eye."
Sister John felt that a bull's-eye was the least extraordinary thing about the child but she ignored this. "Which of them should we make inquiries of? Surely no one was hurt?"
"I think," said Sister Hyacinthe, "that the man only lost his sack but the child had lost his clothes."
Sister John nodded. "He took this path?"
"Yes, next to the alders."
They plunged into the underbrush again and rediscovered the path, a traveled one now of hard beaten earth. They caught a glimpse of the boy at some distance ahead and quickened their steps. He broke into a run, and so did Sister John and Sister Hyacinthe, so that when they reached the next clearing they were in full gallop and their sudden stop was disorderly.
This clearing was occupied by a bright blue Volkswagen bus with flowers painted all over its back, sides, front, roof and hood. Behind it, in a sunny treeless patch of land, lay a neatly tended vegetable garden; a line of rope between two birches bore a row of drying blue jeans; and in the foreground stood a primitive fireplace of rocks. Around this fireplace sat four people cross-legged, their eyes closed and a sound emanating from them like that of bees buzzing in a flower. One of them was Brill, another, Naomi. "Ommmmm," they murmured in unison, and then the naked child flew out of the bushes, three startled hens scuttled across the camp, clucking and scolding noisily, and four pairs of eyes opened and stared at Sisters John and Hyacinthe.
"Good morning," Sister John said breathlessly. "I wonder if you've noticed that your little boy has no clothes on."
This news seemed to have little effect; four pairs of eyes regarded them without expression until Naomi abruptly uncrossed her legs and smiled. "That's Ché,'' she said. "We washed his jeans for him last night, he doesn't have any other clothes. He's not ours, he's with the migrant workers up the road."
"He shot a man with his bow and arrow," Sister Hyacinthe said eagerly. "A man carrying a plastic bag."
"Quigley, of course," said B
rill, rising. "Did Ché hit him?"
"He hit the bag."
Brill nodded. "That was our garbage in the bag, he collects it."
"Then he's the garbage man," said Sister John. "And Ché doesn't like him?"
The girl with long black braids and freckles stood up and brushed off her pants. "We all try to like Quigley," she said. "We don't really have any garbage because we use it for compost, but we collect things for him and pretend not to notice when he takes them. We give him our Rolling Stones and Los Angeles Free Presses, and we put in notes saying we love him. He must hate that," she added.
Neither Sister John nor Sister Hyacinthe knew what she was talking about, but the child was climbing into a pair of ragged shorts and if Mr. Quigley was a garbage collector, however well dressed, he was perhaps accustomed, like postmen, to barking dogs and hostile children. "We brought you a loaf of abbey bread and wondered if we could buy an egg," said Sister John.
"Have we an egg?" asked the long thin young man.
"This is Alfie," said Naomi. "Alfred Comstock Geer, and my friend here in braids is Sunrise."
"What a beautiful name," breathed Sister Hyacinthe.
"Actually she's Gloria Schlaughterbeck," explained Alfie, "but she's changing her identity for the summer."
"Just as we do in orders!" exclaimed Sister John. "In a manner of speaking, of course."
Sunrise said, "The nuns we know wear short skirts and no veils. Aren't you awfully hot in those clothes?"
"They must be the new nuns," Sister Hyacinthe said wistfully. "We've been in cloister, you see, until Mr. Moretti died and left the house to St. Tabitha's."
"Which means we're on their land," Brill told the others.
"We tried," said Alfie. "We asked neighbors who owned the land but nobody seemed to know."
"What's cloister? And what's in your basket?" asked Naomi.
"Cloister means we're a contemplative order living behind walls, and Sister Hyacinthe has herbs in her basket."
Gilman, Dorothy - A Nun in the Closet Page 3
