Rise

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  * * *

  Andrew took Julie along to pick up Miranda. He didn’t think seeing her would come as a shock; Miranda had been told early on that her mother was alive and had accepted that as true without question.

  Julie got out of the car first, advancing tentatively and then breaking into a run to embrace her daughter, who raced down the sidewalk from the house to her. Miranda’s school friend stood in the door, waving, and then gave up on getting Miranda’s attention back and went inside.

  Andrew’s mouth was dry as he watched his wife and daughter embrace. The wife he’d lost. The daughter he had never known. It was impossible to quantify this moment, even to himself. Life from the dead, Julie had called it. That was what it was.

  “But what kind of life?” he asked himself, muttering the words out loud.

  He remembered the fire in the cemetery.

  And the story of Julie’s resurrection, which she had not yet fully told him.

  And Chris’s stories about the Oneness.

  And about Jacob, and demons.

  This would not be his old life back. Not for a moment.

  “They’re worth it,” he said, again speaking out loud, like doing so would make the words more true. Or more convincing. He fixed his eyes on them, blonde head bent over blonde head, Miranda’s arms around her mother’s waist, Julie’s shoulders bent as though she wanted to envelop her child entirely.

  They were worth it.

  Miranda pulled her mother the rest of the way to Andrew, her eyes shining. Those eyes melted his heart and strengthened his resolve. Yes, she was worth it. Even if the day came when their lives normalized so much that she turned into a normal teenager and didn’t look at him with so much adoration. Even if someday she decided that she hated having a father. Even if he was bad at this. Which he very well might be.

  He’d never had a chance to find out.

  She was worth it. And he would do his best.

  Julie’s eyes were shining too, but not for him. She was happy, her eyes were glistening with tears, because of their daughter, with whom she had an actual relationship.

  Suddenly the loss of the last fifteen years felt totally disorienting.

  “And you are here, and Daddy is here, and we never have to be apart again!” Miranda was gushing, in that way she had that made her sound four years old. “We won’t be, will we? We will never be separated again. Never ever.”

  Andrew reached out, resting his hand on her shoulder in a way that didn’t yet feel natural. “If I can help it,” he said, “that’s how it will be.”

  He met Julie’s eyes when he said it, and she nodded, but he saw the trouble there and knew this wasn’t agreement. It was more like a truce. Because something was still unsettled between them, and while that thing remained, promises could not be made.

  That thing was resurrection.

  Julie’s resurrection.

  And the change—to everything in the universe—that it represented.

  Chapter 4

  Niccolo did little in his first week at the abbey other than sleep and eat. He ate heartily and well, and every time seemed to collapse from the effort. He remained in Teresa’s room—she slept on the floor—to which Franz Bertoller was not again admitted, though he continued to visit the abbey almost daily and asked faithfully after the boy. His earnest enquiries softened Teresa’s heart toward him somewhat. He did not have to take an interest in the child, who had been thrust upon him by parents too negligent or too hopeless to love him properly. It spoke well of the nobleman that he continued to care.

  Teresa spent her days alternating between her quarters and the great hall, where the sick and dying continued to come, to be sick and to die. Niccolo showed no sign of healing, but she had not forgotten the dream, and he was to her a symbol of hope—for himself and for the others. They would defeat this evil of disease. They would outlast it, and from its ashes would rise great good. She spent her nights sleeping fitfully and then rising to pray, spending hours on her knees at the boy’s bedside.

  Assurance that she would win the battle was no reason not to fight it.

  Late one night, while she was on her knees, riding the river that was prayer, a painting came to her.

  It had never happened like that before—that she simply saw the finished painting before she had even begun it. And it was not like anything she had painted before. It was colour, but without shape; a winding, twisting ribbon of light. Like water infused with fire.

  And though she had never tried to paint in the dark, and had never interrupted prayer to do it, this night she felt sure that the picture in her mind was prayer. That she had no choice but to paint it. So she rose, as quietly as she could, and lit a candle—watching the boy intently to make sure he did not stir. He did not; his sleep was frighteningly like the sleep of the dead. But then, she reminded herself, could not many ten-year-old boys sleep like the dead? In the candlelight she prepared the panel and the paints, mixing pigment with water and egg yolk, and went to work. In time that she couldn’t track it was finished.

  Mother Isabel came in the morning, without announcing herself. Teresa looked up from sleep to see her standing there scrutinizing the work of art that was still drying before the window.

  “I think,” she said in her old, cracked voice, aware through who-knew-what clue that Teresa was awake and listening, “that in the royal courts they would tell you that you cannot just paint colours moving like that, you must paint things.” She was silent a moment while Teresa waited in a state of unusual suspense. She had not known Mother’s opinion would matter so much.

  “But I think,” Mother announced, “that they would be crackpots and fools, as usual. I don’t know what you have painted, my dear, but it is beautiful, and I am glad to see that you are pursuing your vocation, even in the dark.”

  “I must confess, Mother, that I interrupted prayer to paint it.”

  “Nonsense. You prayed in painting it. Anyone can see that.”

  “That is what I thought. But I didn’t know anyone else would agree.”

  “I agree. That will have to be enough. Now, how is the patient?”

  Teresa cast a glance across the room to the boy, who, still pale, thin, and gaunt, was unmoved from sleep. “He sleeps and eats and I see no change.”

  “Still, the eating is a good sign.”

  “He will recover, Mother. I knew it when I took him in. The Spirit has shown me this. And more besides.”

  Perhaps the painting had made her bold. She did not know why else she spoke up about this now.

  Mother seemed unfazed. “I would that the Spirit would show me more of his plan,” she said. “This house of death is not the home I desired to make for the Oneness in the Way of the Sun. But Spirit willing, life will reign here again.”

  She turned from the painting and smiled at Teresa. “That is what I see in your midnight artwork. Life.”

  Teresa smiled back, tentatively at first but then broadly, accepting the praise and then basking in it. She was grinning like a child but could not bring herself to stop. She had not known it would feel so good to hear these words from someone she respected so deeply.

  Perhaps she had not known how much a part of her these paintings really were.

  “I think you should leave this one to sit here,” said Mother, “where the boy can see it when he is awake. A feast for the eyes while he is feasting those threadbare bones. It will be healing to him. And to you too, I think.”

  “Am I need of healing, Mother?”

  “If we are human, we are in need of healing.”

  She spoke the words in a way that carried deep conviction, and Teresa wondered something she had never wondered before—who Mother Isabel had been, before the abbey and before she had taken up mothering so many. Before she was Oneness.

  Did that matter? Wasn’t Oneness all of life, and everything before it to be discarded and counted as nothing, like Sister Carmela’s wealthy family?

  Until this morning she would have s
aid yes.

  But now . . .

  “I am confused, Mother,” she said.

  “That is often a sign that the Spirit is speaking to you.”

  “But I thought the Spirit was not a source of confusion?”

  “He is not. Our own hearts and minds are sources of confusion, and apt to be stirred up when the Spirit begins to speak truth. If we listen, the truth will clear up our mud puddles again. But it is not very comfortable or clear in the meantime.”

  The old woman turned to go. “The Spirit is working in you, Teresa. My advice is that you continue to let him. Paint in the dark. Entertain new thoughts. Above all things, do not try to control him. He is not to be controlled.”

  “He?” Teresa asked.

  “Eh?”

  “You called the Spirit ‘he.’”

  “Of course.”

  “But the Spirit is a force. A being that creates unity . . .”

  “The Spirit is a person,” Mother Isabel said, with more force than Teresa had ever heard her use before. “Do not let anyone tell you any differently.”

  The words spun in Teresa’s mind. “But that is not how we speak of it . . . him.”

  “That is a tragedy,” Mother Isabel said. “Do not let habitual foolishness blind you to the truth, when that truth begins to reveal himself to you.”

  And with that, she exited the room.

  * * *

  Miranda’s childlike prattle did not stop the entire length of the drive home. For Andrew, the drive was surreal. As though the loss of fifteen years ago had never happened, and they were just an average suburban family on their way home. Except that the other children he had hoped for had never been born, his wife was a stranger, and his daughter—fifteen years old—sounded disconcertingly like she was four.

  He chided himself for being annoyed. As Miranda started to talk about her friend from school, and the pretty way she decorated her room, and things the other kids had said that she didn’t like, part of him wanted to tell her to grow up. He hated that response. This was his girl. His long-lost child. Shouldn’t he just embrace her—embrace everything she was?

  But something was wrong with what she was.

  That conviction grew the longer the drive went on, until, when they reached home, he excused himself with a few words about needing to work on the truck and disappeared into the garage while Julie went to make dinner.

  Just an average suburban father, he told himself, his head under the hood of his truck, a ’79 Ford that he’d been meaning to help along for a while. Just an average father in full escape mode.

  When Julie cleared her throat—loudly—from the door to the house, he didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. He almost banged his head on the open hood.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Aren’t you making dinner?”

  “You’re hiding. Why are you hiding?”

  He turned and spread his greasy hands out, beseechingly. “Why are we fighting? We haven’t even been back together a whole day.”

  She looked down, and he saw that her hands were wrung together. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” His voice softened, and he wiped his hands on a rag and flicked the garage light off to go inside. But he didn’t move. Julie just stood there, framed in the light of the house, and he stayed in the dark and avoided her gaze.

  “What is it?” she asked again, but this time her voice wasn’t demanding or accusing. She was asking sincerely.

  He struggled for words. “Is Miranda . . . is she okay?”

  Julie frowned. “She’s been through a lot, but she seems fine.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant. It’s . . . it’s like she’s not her age. Like she’s years younger. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “We wanted our children to take their time to grow up,” Julie answered. He winced at that “we.” We, the community. We, Jacob’s followers. We, not Andrew, not the Hunter family.

  “I guess I didn’t expect much of her,” Julie said, “or engage her as an adult . . . but all the children were like that. Innocent.”

  “Naive.”

  “You didn’t want our children exposed to all the evils in the world either.”

  He sighed. “If it comes down to that, I still don’t. There are a lot of evils in the world. But she has seen so much now. You said so yourself . . . she’s been through so much. Why hasn’t that . . . sobered her?”

  “I don’t know,” Julie said slowly. “I thought . . . well, I guess I thought she just couldn’t understand the gravity of it all. Because of her innocence.”

  “Do you honestly think that’s a good thing?”

  She thought over the question, and he was glad that she didn’t react defensively. “I don’t know,” she said, finally.

  He reached for her hand, and almost to his surprise, she took it. It was the closest they had come, physically, in fifteen years—holding hands. Earlier in the living room and now here, in the meeting of the shadows of the garage and the light pouring out from the kitchen and the living room and the hallways and . . .

  It struck Andrew suddenly, and hard, despite the way Julie’s nearness was messing with him.

  “Why are all the lights on?” he asked.

  She let go of his hand and stepped back. “Are you worried about the electric bills?”

  “No, I just want to know . . . who turned all the lights on? You didn’t, did you?”

  “No . . .” Julie turned and surveyed the house, flooded with light. Andrew was right. Every light within sight was on, not just the overhead lights in each room, but lamps too, and in the kitchen, someone had lit a row of candles on the counter.

  “Oh,” Julie said.

  “I think,” Andrew said slowly, “Miranda may not understand the gravity of everything that has happened, but it hasn’t exactly all gone over her head.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have seen that more clearly.”

  “You were just relieved to be back with her,” Andrew said. “It’s okay. You’re a good mother, Julie.”

  He spoke those words with conviction, even though he had never watched her parent. Had never even seen her and Miranda together except on the sidewalk outside the school friend’s house, embracing, blonde head to blonde head. Even though he knew he disagreed with Julie’s most fundamental parenting choice: to remove her daughter to a cultish community in the middle of nowhere. Even though he could see that something was wrong with Miranda’s development, and Julie didn’t seem to have really realized it until now, and even though it had taken his pointing it out for her to acknowledge that Miranda might be suffering a little bit of trauma.

  He still believed it. So he said it again for good measure. “You’re a good mother, Julie.”

  “You do not have any reason to say that,” Julie said with the smallest of smiles. “But thank you. I’m glad you believe in me.”

  She turned to go inside, then hesitated and turned back. “And you’re a good father. Anyone with two eyes could see that. Miranda adores you already.” Her smile grew broader, and deeply genuine. “And I’m glad she does.”

  * * *

  “Franz is so persistent,” Carmela told Teresa as they drew water at the well in the abbey gardens one afternoon. “I have given up trying to drive him away; it is a lost cause.” Her smile grew almost sly. “Besides, I think I have nothing to fear. It is you he wants to see, though you do not often appease him. I am more an annoyance than an object in his coming.”

  Teresa batted her friend. “Fie on you for implying that I should care whether he wishes to see me or not.”

  “He is handsome.”

  “And he is not One.”

  “No,” Carmela said thoughtfully. “In truth, Teresa, I do not understand his coming here. He looks for glimpses of you, and evidences his satisfaction when you give him time, but he does not come for you only. He comes for the sick.”

  “To be of service to them? Then he is a rare noble.”


  “I wish I could say that were true,” Carmela said. “He does help us in tending them. More and more lately.”

  “Then why do you doubt his intentions?” Teresa asked. She dipped into the bucket and used the water to wash her arms and face, its coolness a welcome balm. There was plenty of water after they made ablutions to take back for the sick. For these few moments of calm, she would enjoy the sun and the water and the quiet green shadows.

  “I cannot say. Will you come and join us this afternoon? He is coming. Come and make the rounds with us.”

  “I don’t want to encourage his intentions.”

  “Nor do I! But I have had little choice, and I think that your simply tending the sick alongside us cannot be seen as encouraging his suit. Will you do it?”

  Carmela’s eyes, large and blue as they were, always made her seem younger than she was, and the combined effect made it impossible to say no to her when she pleaded. Teresa chuckled and wondered how Franz Bertoller’s attentions had managed to shift to her when someone as radiant and winsome as her friend was set before him—and all Carmela’s family’s wealth besides. But who could tell with men? Or with nobles.

  “Very well,” Teresa said. “Since you insist so insistently.”

  Carmela smiled broadly. “Thank you, dear friend. It would ease my mind to know your thoughts—once you have observed his way with the sick, and with us.”

  But the event itself did nothing to ease Teresa’s. Franz Bertoller came as always, dressed in workaday finery and oozing gentlemanly charm. He greeted them all and paid Teresa special attention, but he fell into the rounds with practiced ease, helping to carry water, to prop up those who needed to drink, and to light incense where the smell was especially bad. The sisters chafed hands and feet, emptied pans of waste, and sang and spoke to the suffering, even to some whose eyes showed no comprehension. Carmela closed the eyes of one who had died and slipped away to alert Mother Isabel. She would see to it that some of the stronger sisters carried the dead out. Franz’s help might have been well appreciated there, but he did not offer it, and no one would ask.

  But for all his surprising helpfulness, and the condescension he showed in working alongside them in the first place, Teresa soon saw what it was that made Carmela so uneasy—and so unwilling to say that Franz’s reason for coming was to tend to the sick.