Rise

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “I thank you for your hospitality, but I did not come here to sleep,” Teresa said. “Though the journey was tiring, I am not accustomed to sleeping the night through. The sisters and I have a custom of rising to pray in the night watches.”

  “Indeed,” Bertoller said, looking her over curiously. His eyes rested on her skirts, where persistently clinging dust showed that she had been kneeling. “Pardon my rudeness in pointing it out, but surely you did not acquire so much decoration in your quarters? I ordered them thoroughly cleaned.”

  “I felt it was time your old chapel be put back to use,” Teresa said. “It is to your credit that you didn’t convert it to some other purpose in all of this time.”

  “I thought to honour my father’s memory,” Bertoller said, but she was aware as he spoke that some other truth lay behind the chapel’s continued existence. She could not imagine what it was and did not care to ask.

  “But come,” he said, placing a hand to the small of her back. “You must eat. Breakfast awaits.”

  “Thank you, again, for your hospitality,” Teresa said. “But your message indicated your needs were great here. If it is the same to you, I would rather be taken to the sick. I want to see the needs for myself and begin to seek out ways to help them.”

  Bertoller frowned. “It is not the same to me. You have come a long way; I must insist that your needs be met. You will be little use to any of us if you faint of hunger.”

  A small smile played on her lips. “We are not so delicate as all that, my lord Bertoller. The sisters often fast, and just as often work hard. The journey has not overwearied me.”

  “Nevertheless, I insist.”

  To her displeasure, his insistence won out. A long table in the eating hall had been laid, and she sat at one end and picked at breakfast while he sat at the other and devoured his. The fare was richer than she was used to and heavy in her mouth. This was not why she had come.

  At long last, he agreed to lead her to the place where the sick lay. The castle had thus far seemed so close to deserted—haunted only by a few servants of whom she caught the occasional glimpse, and the lord himself—that she had almost begun to think he had lied about the using of it as a hospital. Or about the scope of the plague. Surely there were only a handful of people here.

  But now he took up a torch and led her down a flight of stone steps, and as they began their descent, the familiar stench reached her almost immediately, nearly knocking her off her feet—and with it, the sounds of moaning and rustling, the heavy smell of incense, and the voices and movements of workers.

  He seemed to notice her astonishment. “The castle is an unusual one,” he said. “Much of it was built underground—more than is above ground, in fact. My father had it chiseled out of the stone of the hill where it stands. It is here, you see, that my people bring their ill and their dying.”

  The stairway they descended was long and narrow, only wide enough to walk one behind the other, but a door at the bottom stood open to an enormous, cavernous room. Torches set on poles burned everywhere, filling the room with eerie light. As at the abbey a decade before, the sick lay on pallets and blankets on the floor, so close together that there was barely room to walk between them. Servants—far too few—moved along the aisles, some bearing water or food. No one was sitting with any of the sick, nor speaking comfortably to them, though Teresa heard harsh tones from a few of the servants. She saw, too, the way they carried themselves—with their faces and noses wrapped in scarves and their arms drawn in, shoulders up and heads back, as though they were trying to avoid the air the dying breathed. She understood instinctively that these had been pressed into service through no choice of their own; their fear of the plague—and their loathing of those who carried it—was palpable.

  “Do you have no one else to help you?” she asked in a low voice.

  “The townspeople want nothing to do with the sick,” Bertoller said. “And we lack any of your kind here.”

  “My kind,” Teresa said, repeating his words almost idly. Her kind. Her kind would come, drawn by compassion and the need to do something about this darkness—about the fracturing that death brought, the reign of corruption that severed all that should hold together. The Oneness held the universe from falling apart. They would be drawn to a place like this with undeniable attraction.

  So why were there none here?

  Especially when there once had been—when someone had etched visions of the Spirit into the walls of the chapel and lit candles to pray?

  “You can see that our needs are great,” Bertoller said. “There is a second hall. I believe there are more than six hundred dying here.”

  “Dying,” Teresa said. “And living? Do any recover and go out from here?”

  He shook his head. “Not in the three months since I opened my doors.”

  “Why did you do it?” she asked. “Why not leave them to rot and die in their own homes?”

  “The people might have revolted,” Bertoller said. “They are afraid and do not want the plague in their midst. By bringing their dead here, I give them a sense of protection and entice them to stay and not flee my land. Besides, I have never forgotten the abbey and what you did there.”

  The word you was emphasized too much—she recoiled from it. “What we did there,” she answered.

  He smiled. “Perhaps. But I remember a special power in you. Working through you. I hoped you might bring that power to effect again in my land.”

  She realized she was staring at him, and she forced her eyes away, down. “I will do what I can. But I will need a few things.”

  “Whatever I have is at your disposal.”

  She nodded. “You have clean water?”

  “There are wells in the castle courtyard.”

  “I will need a great deal of water drawn and boiled. And paints—I have brought jars of pigment, but I will need water and binding.”

  “I have that, and panels and easels. Quite ready for you.”

  She smiled and nodded again, curt thanks. “Most importantly, I need more of my own brethren. You need the Oneness to fight such a fracturing.”

  At this, he looked troubled. “As I have already told you, we have none of your kind here.”

  “There are Oneness everywhere,” she said. “There must be some in the countryside who you can call to my aid. Simply put out the word, and they will answer—I am confident of that.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I will send out messengers in search of them.”

  Once again she felt that his smile and eyes hid something—but once again, she had no wish to pry it out. That his own history with the Oneness went further than his involvement at the abbey was clear, but she would leave that story for him to tell.

  “If you will give the order for hot water, then,” Teresa said, “and if you would ensure that your servants know to take orders from me, I will see what I can do for your people.”

  Something in his face twitched, but he did not change expression. “I had hoped you would put your efforts into painting. You need not come down here much at all; it is most unpleasant, and my servants can handle the need.”

  “No,” she said, heat rising in her, “they cannot—they are not. They treat the dying with fear and hatred, as I can see from standing here for only these few minutes; and the day fear and hatred bring healing is the day the world turns inside out. I beg your pardon, but you need great changes here.” A little embarrassed at her own outburst, she continued, “I will paint, for that has a part in the healing. But I will not do that first; there are more pressing needs.”

  He stared at her for a moment before nodding brusquely, turning, and clapping his hands. The servants who walked among the sick stopped and looked up, eyes peering over the scarves wrapped around their noses and mouths.

  “Your attention,” he said. “I have brought in this lady to direct you. You will obey her orders and serve her every need. Is that clear?”

  Teresa raised her own voice on the heels of
his. “There will be no need to serve me; I only ask that you serve alongside me. But there is much to be done. We need water drawn and boiled; the filth of this place must be cleansed.”

  She heard murmurs as several of the servants glanced at each other and muttered responses to her words. She could imagine what they said, but saw no purpose in challenging them here and now.

  Niccolo, she thought, why aren’t you here with me? I could use your help now.

  But she was not alone, she reminded herself. The Spirit was with her—in a strange, intense way she was beginning to realize was new to her. There was something exciting about that.

  And, she thought as she surveyed the shuttered eyes of the men and women who would soon begin to work alongside her, the Oneness would join her—if not because she called on those who were already One with her, then perhaps because the Spirit was always drawing others into the unity.

  These, too, were encompassed in his plan.

  * * *

  April got back to the cell house just after Andrew and Julie pulled in; she could see them unloading and knocking on the door while she was still a little ways up the street. She didn’t bother to hurry her footsteps; the meeting could wait a few more minutes.

  Miranda was with them, and even from this distance her body language made it clear she had no desire to be here.

  April’s heart went out to her. She’d been in that place enough times—forced to be where she didn’t want to be. Informed by circumstances and adults and authorities that she had no real say in her own life. Powerless was a terrible feeling; she understood the drive so many teens had to rebel, fight, assert themselves somehow—pretend desperately that they mattered more than they did.

  Except that last part wasn’t right. Because they did matter. More than they knew. And no human being with a will and a mind was without power.

  If only more people realized that.

  She couldn’t blame most people, though, she realized as she turned up the walk. She hadn’t known anything about the power within herself until she’d been freed from that life, brought into a place of rest and quiet and safety, made One.

  Shoot, she was still learning about it.

  Snow had lightly dusted the streets, and she stamped it off her boots when she entered the house. Andrew and Julie turned at her entrance; Mary had greeted them, and Miranda was standing with her arms folded in the living room doorway.

  “Go on in,” April said. “I’ll be right there.”

  She didn’t realize until their exchanged glances that no one had actually told her they were there to see her—she only knew that because of the Spirit’s word. But she didn’t see any reason to explain. Miranda stared at her for a minute and then turned and stalked into the living room, her parents behind her and Mary bringing up the rear with the usual offers of something to eat and drink.

  April finished pulling off her boots and straightened up, aware that the heat was tingling again, growing stronger.

  And for a crushing, sobering moment, she was aware of death in the house.

  She had momentarily forgotten about Melissa.

  She could feel the cancer, feel its threat to Melissa and in a way to them all. Mortality like a weight or a stranglehold.

  She shook it off. She needed to concentrate on Miranda and her parents.

  And to let the fire be—to choose to act on the peace she was making with the Spirit and let the fire be whatever it wanted to be inside her.

  She swallowed back a knot of terror and entered the living room. Nick appeared suddenly, out of nowhere like he often did, lingering by her side. She didn’t chase him out. No reason to do that yet.

  Andrew and Julie had seated themselves awkwardly on the long couch, and Miranda was still standing—at the window, staring out of the living room and completely ignoring everyone else. April could smell cigarette smoke—marijuana, actually—in her clothes and hair. The scared little girl was gone, replaced by someone much older, much harder, and bent on going in a wrong direction.

  April had a weird sense that she was looking at herself—the teenager she would have been if the Oneness hadn’t happened to her.

  Well.

  The Oneness could happen to Miranda too.

  April bowed her head for a tiny moment to center in on the heat, then raised it again and smiled. “Thanks for coming to see me,” she said.

  Andrew burst out, “How did you . . .”

  “We didn’t finish our conversation last time,” she assured Andrew, deciding not to explain what the Spirit had just been saying to her. “Anyway, I think it’s about time Miranda and I talked about what happened in the cemetery.”

  She fixed her eyes on the girl’s back. “Don’t you?”

  Miranda answered with silence for a full minute, then slowly and stiffly turned. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Miranda . . .” Andrew started to say, but she glared at him.

  “Who gave you a say? You were never even around in my life until a few weeks ago.”

  This time it was Julie who said her daughter’s name, a bit sharply. But Miranda had little grace for her either—though her voice softened when she regarded her.

  “Sorry, Mom,” she said. “I don’t so much trust you either right now.”

  “I understand,” April announced. “I really do. I’d like to talk to you, if you’re willing to give me a chance.” She looked down at Nick, who was hanging out by her side like a puppy. “Nick, you should go.”

  He made a half-disappointed, half-annoyed sound, but he exited the scene. Mary was already gone. April rubbed her hands together and met Julie’s eye. “Maybe you should go too? Let me talk to her alone for a few minutes?”

  Andrew frowned. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

  He seemed to know the question was strange, and he stuttered, trying to recall it. “I mean . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m not going to burn anything down,” April said. “And I don’t think Miranda’s going to run. So yes, we should be safe.”

  But she wondered if she’d spoken too soon. Andrew and Julie had one of those quiet husband-to-wife conferences in front of her, and Julie was already standing to go, and Miranda looked resigned to staying put—

  But the heat was intensifying.

  She took a deep breath and forced another smile. “Thanks. I appreciate you trusting me. Everything is going to be fine.”

  She tried hard to hide the trembling of her hands as they left her alone with Miranda.

  She’d meant to try to sit and chat and maybe find some common ground.

  Instead, the fire was going to break out again.

  And she was going to let it.

  Chapter 12

  Andrew cast a nervous glance back over his shoulder as he and Julie moved into the kitchen.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Julie said.

  “I wish I believed that.”

  She took his arm and headed him toward the door. “Let’s just go get a drink or something . . . give them some time together. They don’t need us lurking in here.”

  Andrew peered through his glasses at the open, arched doorway to the living room.

  A roar of heat nearly knocked him off his feet.

  * * *

  Teresa rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a broom, and started work even before the servants arrived bearing cauldrons of steaming water. In weeks of “tending” to the ill, no one had bothered to clean anything. The hall was past filthy, so bad the smell threatened to knock her unconscious. But she steeled herself and got to it.

  At the same time, she got down—lower than any servant had gone in all the time they had been appointed to this terrible place. Down at eye level with the sick. Down where she could take their hands, hear their whispered requests, ask their names, cover them with blankets that had slidden off or remove articles that were sodden and filthy from the effects of disease. The hardest thing was moving on once she had made a connection with any individual—they clung to her han
ds and skirts and sleeves, begged her to stay with them.

  “You are an angel,” whispered one old woman.

  “No,” Teresa said, “I am Oneness. But I am a servant of God all the same. And I am here that you might feel the presence of the Spirit and know that you are not forgotten.”

  After an hour of moving from one desperate bedside to the next, cleaning as she could, wondering how long exactly it would take until hot water arrived and they could all begin to clean in earnest, she heard a gasping whisper from several rows over and turned to see that one of the aged dying was speaking to someone else—

  A servant girl who was leaning over her bedside.

  The girl looked up and caught Teresa’s eye for a split second, though she quickly ducked her face down again. Long, scraggly red hair framed a face that was all high cheekbones and thin lips.

  Teresa smiled. She paused in her ministrations, holding a boy’s hand as she watched the servant girl clumsily imitating her own movements, slowly going from patient to patient with an offered hand, a forced smile—a smile that seemed to come easier each time—and a word of kindness.

  “Good girl,” Teresa said quietly. “You are almost home.”

  When the water did arrive, it was born by sour-faced servants who gathered in a dutiful huddle to wait for Teresa’s orders, but they stood ten feet back, and she could hear their whispers and grumbles—and in some cases saw stiffened backs and a general hardening of skulls—when she announced what she intended for them to do.

  “The filth in this place is not fit for animals to live in,” she told them. On her orders, several of the women had brought loads of rags, tied with twine, and others held mops and brooms. “Every human being in this room deserves to be treated as a human being until the end, if the end should come—and our hope is that the end will not. Not now.”

  “Little hope of preventing that,” one man said. “They all die.”

  “This is not the first time I’ve seen this plague,” Teresa said. “That is why your lord called me here to help. In my hometown we faced this ten years ago, and they did not all die. Many did. But many others lived. I charge you to do more than simply contain these people. Serve them. Fight the plague. Quit yourselves like men and women of honour and of war, and let death see that we will not simply let it conquer us without a fight.”