Black Apple

by Joan Crate

  “William, you’re becoming more of an evangelist by the day.”

  “Not unlike St. Mark, Mother Grace. It all began with a note of enquiry from the Reverend Josepha Paul of Edmonton, which you answered for me. Then a letter of congratulation signed by Father Josepha and several other proponents of residential schools, all who found my news uplifting.” Father William waved the papers in his hand at her. “And here is a letter of satisfaction from the Right Reverend Jacques Morin of the Oblates! My message is being heard.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “The message, um, of the Sisters of Brotherly Love.”

  PART THREE

  32

  A Wolf Paw

  SIIIIN—OOOO—PAAAAAAAA—

  Ears pricked, Rose Marie lay unmoving in her bed. It was as if the wind and trees from her long-ago home were calling her name, an old chorus she knew, she used to know so well, many, many years ago when she was a child and not the most senior-senior of St. Mark’s, a young woman just-turned nineteen, the only student to complete her high school matriculation, Miracle Girl, as she had heard some of the younger ones call her, their voices a mixture of reverence and disdain. She opened her eyes.

  Two pinpoints of light, two distant stars moving closer, their rays pricking her skin. She could just make out a shape.

  “Mama?”

  No, the eyes of some kind of animal. A wolf, its coat luminous. And behind the wolf, something else. No, someone else. A man, his every step a dance, his right foot graceful as a spruce bough sweeping the ground, his left foot, uneven rain. He came towards her, his long black hair swinging through the night.

  “Papa?”

  He wore the shirt Naasa Tallow, Grandmother, had made for him, the one he always put on when he did his medicine—his power shirt. It was sewn from a wolf hide with a fur collar, but new now, not chafed and stained as it had been when she was a little girl. Beads rippled across the chest in bright patterns, shooting small moons against the wall. In his hand, an eagle feather.

  “Papa!” she cried.

  His spirit, too big for his body, flared from his skin, and a smoky updraft carried her high. Below was her bed, and beyond that, all the other beds with all the other students collapsed in sleep. In just three days, they would be gone for the summer.

  Heavens, there at the edge of the room hovered the shadow people, that nun and that priest who still slunk through St. Mark’s, but since she had told on them—her confession that became the Visitation—just ghosts, like the students who had died—shapes at the edge of her sight, sometimes milky, sometimes simply smoke in the process of dissipating.

  “Take them, Papa. Those shadow people.”

  Papa stretched out his eagle feather, and from the side of the dorm the shape of Sister Mary of Bethany straightened. She took the form of flesh in a black habit, a bunched-up white apron, almost real again. As the priest raised his dark head, the wound on his cheek, a ragged red crevice, caught the light and burned to a thin white scar. Sister Mary of Bethany and Father Damien crept to the pool of starlight around Papa—Blessed Wolf—and the blessed white wolf beside him.

  Right through her, Rose Marie felt light shoot, flooding all the dark twists, nests, and tunnels the fire worms had burrowed over the years. It incinerated their small corpses.

  Now the wolf grew through the dormitory, and Papa did too. They took over the large dark room, the dissolving shapes of the shadow sister and priest, shimmering through the walls and ceiling, falling upwards.

  Warm, euphoric, and sleepy, Rose Marie closed her eyes and drifted down to her bed. Good night, Papa.

  The next morning she wondered what, exactly, had taken place. The dorm felt different, as if a warm wind had blown through it, sweeping dust, tears, sickness, and death away. The shadow nun and the shadow priest were gone. Banished. Her restlessness and blue were gone as well. Dear Lord, let this last forever.

  * * *

  At the start of class, when Sister Joan instructed her to lead the senior girls in the Lord’s Prayer, she made a choking sound and pointed at her throat. In fact, she felt a pressure on her larynx just the size of a wolf paw—a sign, she decided, to remain silent. Besides, she wasn’t sure what her dream, or whatever it was, meant.

  If it was bad, if Papa had died and come to her as Mama had done so many years before when she died, then Mother Grace would be notified by the priest on Papa’s Reserve. And Mother Grace would tell her. God Almighty, let it not be that. But then, if it were possible that Papa had died and Mother Grace hadn’t yet been contacted, would she feel this reassured and loved, so whole?

  She did not attend confession that Saturday. The practice had become unsettling rather than comforting ever since a young man with a rope at his neck had started to trail Father William, sometimes appearing next to him in the confessional. That had begun when she confessed to seeing Sister Mary of Bethany and Father Damien—the Visitation—what, four and a half years ago now? Oh dear, on occasion the young man appeared as a boy, small-boned with enormous eyes. Brown eyes bleeding blue. For the past few years, during confession, she had simply gone through her list of venial sins as quickly as possible and left. Father William didn’t seem to expect anything more.

  But to do that now, right after Papa’s visit, seemed dishonest, and she didn’t want to disturb the sense of calm that enveloped her ever since that night. It came to her that if seeing Papa was just a dream, then it was a healing dream. In removing the shadow sister and priest, he had restored her. Thank you, Papa.

  * * *

  As usual, she took advanced catechism with Mother Grace, whose mind seemed to be elsewhere. If Papa had died, Mother Grace would look at her differently, and, of course, tell her. Instead, she was preoccupied, forever glancing at the pile of growing and shifting correspondence on her desk. Rose Marie could see from the letterhead that most of it was from the Mother House.

  The students went home for the summer, but she wasn’t envious of them. In fact, she felt light and strangely worry-free, the debris of the past—fire worms and shadow people—swept away. Soon Papa would visit. Soon Mother Grace would tell her what was in store.

  Content and confident, she went about her duties and did her chores without being reminded. Instead of sleeping in, she rose at first light and the second clang of Sister Joan’s bell, going downstairs with Sister Simon the Silent, as she had begun to think of her, for Matins.

  33

  The Assignment

  GOOD, YOU’RE HERE, Rose Marie,” Mother Grace remarked as she entered the office. The reverend mother’s face was damp, and her sharp blue eyes darted nervously from her hands to the clock to Rose Marie, to the cross over the door, and back again.

  “Please sit down. I have just sent Sister Simon off to borrow Sister Lucy’s suitcase for you. Father William is offering confession this evening. Then pack your things. Tomorrow you will be catching the Greyhound bus to a small parish west of Two Raven Pass, where you will serve.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Oui, chérie, it’s all arranged. Sit down. Sister Simon also has some gumboots for you, Sister Bernadette a raincoat. They’re closest in size to you, though I don’t doubt their things will still be large.”

  “I don’t understand, Mother Grace.”

  “I’ll explain, chérie.” Finally Mother Grace looked right at her, sighing deeply. “There’s a procedure you must follow—a formality, really—in order to realize your destiny as a Sister of Brotherly Love.”

  “Procedure?” She could feel her newfound calm crack.

  “Before going to the Mother House as a novitiate, it is required that you work in a parish for three months.” Again Mother Grace sighed deeply, her eyes clouding. “You will be under the guidance of Father Patrick, a dear friend of mine and a true man of God. You’ll be helping out. He has a housekeeper, I understand, but you will, no doubt, be called upon to assist—”

  Oh dear. Something was wrong. Mother Grace’s words had started to balloon from
her mouth like wreaths of smoke. “Mother Grace?” Her eyes burning, Rose Marie blinked rapidly, overcome by a wave of panic.

  “After the three-month period, you will return to us. Then you will travel to the Mother House—”

  The sound was breaking up. Grey letters spilled from between Mother Grace’s lips.

  “I can’t hear—”

  A stream of letters. Oh, and Rose Marie tried to read those letters, but she couldn’t keep up, her heart pounding, the shapes blackening like burning matchsticks, colliding and breaking apart. “What did—”

  More burnt matchsticks.

  “—you say?”

  Mother Grace closed her mouth, a look of alarm on her face.

  “Something’s wrong, Mother Grace. I can’t hear!” Oh, not even her own voice! She clamped her teeth down on her lip to stop the tears.

  Mother Grace touched her hand. The rustle of her habit was soundless black splinters, but she felt the old fingers. Like paper, thin and crinkly as always, with that whisper of warmth. Yes, comforting. She choked down a mouthful of air.

  “Rose Marie, are you all right?”

  “Oh. Thank goodness, I can hear again!”

  “I’m sorry, chérie. This is a shock, I can see. I should have said something before, but I was hoping you could go straight to the Mother House. Most orders don’t have such a long waiting period. I’m afraid this is one I suggested myself years ago, after Sister Mary of Bethany—” Her eyes glittered. “It was a mistake! At the time, I thought such a practice would stop young women not suited for the religious life—Mon Dieu, the Mother House adopted it as policy.” Mother Grace’s eyes fluttered closed.

  “For the past six months,” she continued, patting Rose Marie’s hand, “I’ve been seeking an indulgence for you. I didn’t want to upset you, so I didn’t mention the matter, but truly, I thought our Mother Superior would grant one, given your special circumstances.” She opened her eyes. “Non, she made it very clear it was not to be. You must think of your separation from St. Mark’s as your assignment. When it is done, God will return you, and you will follow your destiny. Have faith, Rose Marie. This is, as I’ve said, just a formality. The Lord provides. Not always in the manner we expect, but the Lord provides.”

  “Y-yes, Mother Grace,” she stammered, no longer the self-assured young woman who had, minutes before, walked into the office.

  “You’re all right?”

  She nodded uncertainly.

  “Now listen. Tomorrow, once you are on your own”—Mother Grace’s voice wavered—“on that Greyhound bus, you must sit near the front where you can see the driver and he can see you.” She looked directly at Rose Marie, studying the pillowcase she had cut, bleached, hemmed, ironed, and tied behind her ears. “A white headdress. Mais oui, the sign of commitment I’ve been waiting to see. Now, chérie, there isn’t much time, so pay attention. There are often ‘undesirables’ at the back of the bus. If you must share your seat, sit next to a woman, preferably an older woman.”

  “But why do I have to leave St. Mark’s? Do you want me to go?” Her lip was bleeding, the taste like an old penny.

  “Non.” Mother Grace pulled a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her nose. “I’m afraid there’s no getting around it. Now, there’s something else I must tell you.”

  “Mother Grace?” She hated the childish whine of her voice, the tears burning her eyes.

  Promptly Mother Grace closed her mouth and struggled to her feet. As she made her way around the desk, Rose Marie rose too. For the first time in her life, Mother Grace wrapped her wiry arms around her. How thin and bent the old woman felt, so much smaller than she really was.

  “Dieu, aidez-moi,” Mother Grace whispered, squeezing. “You must be careful while you’re away, child. Be good. Don’t let any man”—she swallowed—“get close to you.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” Rose Marie sobbed like a first-year girl. It took all her will to withdraw her arms from Mother Grace’s brittle waist, her familiar scent of soap and age.

  * * *

  Sister Lucy, looking bewildered, wobbled out of the confessional, and Rose Marie stepped in. It was good practice, she knew, to take confession before any trip, any change, any danger. Just in case. Come Light of the World and enlighten the darkness of my mind, she prayed as she knelt. She had no idea what might be lurking past the prairie, over the rolling foothills and in the crevices of the mountains hovering at the edge of the western horizon so very far beyond St. Mark’s Residential School for Girls, her home for twelve years.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she muttered. “This is my first confession since school ended. I’m sorry about that, Father William, but right now I am fearful of what lies ahead. It’s me, Rose Marie, and Mother Grace has told me that I must leave St. Mark’s for three months.” She tried to steady her voice. “I’m having trouble trusting in God Almighty.”

  “As you know, my child, the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest,” Father William said. “Even to the parish of Black Apple.”

  “Yes, Father,” she began, but he was moving. Through the screen, she could see him turn his back to her until she could spot every nub running down the back of his black cassock.

  On the other side of Father William stood a boy, his hands on a small priest’s bed in a small priest’s bedroom. The boy’s back was also turned to her, striped and bloody, just as hers must have looked when Sister Joan beat her with the electrical cord, so many years before.

  “This may hurt,” Father William murmured to the boy as he poured liquid onto a cloth. “I’m afraid, son, it’s necessary to avoid infection.” The boy jerked as Father William applied the cloth. “There, there,” he said, his voice as tender to the boy as it had been to her on the day she had revealed the truth about Sister Mary of Bethany and Father Damien.

  Lower down the boy’s back, Father William dabbed with the cloth. The boy was subdued now, moving just slightly at the sting of the liquid, sniffing faintly.

  “Loosen your pants. Now, now, settle down,” Father William crooned as his fingers slid under the waistband. “I’ll take care of you.” His hand reached farther down, and his other hand dropped the cloth and tugged. “Let’s get you out of those.”

  Everything had gone dark. She could see only Father William’s black cassock moving, and rising from it, the smell of something left too long in a warm, airless room, something off. The boy was crying, and Father William stretched his neck, his face lifted to the ceiling, eyes closed, skin glistening. “Let my weakness be penetrated with your strength this very day,” he grunted.

  Rose Marie scrambled to her feet and fled the confessional.

  “Child, where are you going?” Father William’s voice trailed after her. “Make an act of contrition. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son—”

  Dear God.

  * * *

  She slept terribly that night, her dreams strung with rope and electrical cords, jammed with yelling, thumping, sobs, and the gurgles of strangulation.

  In the room she was sharing with Sister Simon for the summer, she rose in the darkness to scribble a prayer that was running around in her mind, then dressed as soon as Sister Simon flailed awake in her bed by the window.

  At Matins she couldn’t sit still in the pew, and at breakfast she was able to eat only a bite of toast. No one spoke, and though she had the feeling the sisters were stealing glances at her, she wasn’t able to catch any of them at it.

  For the past month—ever since she had been visited by Papa, or Papa’s spirit, or Papa had sent her a healing dream, whatever it was—she had been calm. Not only was she loved, but with the shadow sister and priest gone, she felt a degree of control over her life. And if she knew some things the sisters hadn’t told her about, like animal spirits, seeing backwards, and dreams . . . well, she wasn’t worried. She had learned from Mother Grace that revealed truths that surpass reason were mysteries to be accepted on faith. Over t
he years, she had accepted them all.

  But now Mother Grace had spoiled everything. She was sending her away for doing nothing wrong! The small amount of control she had felt once the shadow people left was nothing but an illusion, a lie. Anything could befall her. At any time. No matter what she did.

  As soon as breakfast was finished, Mother Grace steered her to the office to give her money she had “secured from the sisters’ personal fund,” and more warnings about buses and strangers, but Rose Marie was only half listening.

  “Write to that priest on Papa’s Reserve, please, Mother Grace,” she interjected. “He has to tell Papa not to come here and visit. He can visit me in Black Apple instead.”

  From the frown on Mother Grace’s face, Rose Marie knew she wasn’t about to tell the priest to deliver her message to Papa, at least the part about coming to Black Apple. Oh, Mother Grace had never liked Papa, had always tried to keep him from her. Anger bubbled through her, and she turned away. If only she knew the name of the Reserve and the priest, she could write him herself. But Mother Grace wasn’t about to tell her.

  “Rose Marie?”

  “What?” she snapped, feeling the power of her anger surge and then drain away. She was helpless again, had always been, would always be helpless at St. Mark’s.

  “Don’t worry, Father Patrick will take care of you.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, she thought.

  Upstairs, she packed her spare school dress, a worn sweater, a slip, three pairs of underwear, a bundle of cotton pads, one pair of stockings, two nightdresses, and a pair of shoes, then rummaged through the desk for paper and books. At twenty-five minutes to ten, she folded Sister Bernadette’s raincoat under her arm, picked up her borrowed suitcase, and was about to lug it downstairs, when Sister Cilla stepped into her room.

  “I need to say something to you about men,” Sister blurted, her face flushing.