by Ann Benson
“But of course he cared for you….”
“In his own way.”
“I speak from some experience; it is not an easy task to father a spirited daughter. You might forgive him for wanting the best for you.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “He was a good and decent man, and I miss him terribly.”
“He has passed over?”
“Some five years ago there was a terrible storm. A tree was uprooted and fell upon the roof of our house. I was not there at the time; I was attending to a woman in the depths of labor in our town. The hearth coals were thrown everywhere; the thatch caught fire, and he and my mother were burned to death. Every day I regret that we did not entirely make our peace with each other.”
Alejandro reached out and touched her arm for comfort. “You might have perished yourself had you been there.”
“I know,” she said tearfully. “And for that I am grateful to God. But it was so—abrupt. And had I been there, things might have gone differently.”
“You must bring this regret to God. You cannot carry such a burden on your soul. Surely de—I mean, Father Guy has told you this.”
“He has, and I try to remember. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I am neither awake nor asleep, yet I can hear my mother’s screams as the fire engulfs her….”
“As I, in the same hours, hear the cries of those whose plague deaths I could not prevent.”
They looked at each other, two kindred souls, each having passed through a darkness, each with yet another passage to make before the sun shone.
In Nevers, they met again.
“Most of what I did in my practice was with women,” she told him. “I had a few patients who were men, but many would not trust me, even the husbands whose wives I treated. Of course, I understood this somewhat, as it is often a difficult thing for a man to be touched by another woman, knowing that his wife is privy to it. But all went well, at least for a time; it was a small village, and my father did most of his business elsewhere, so I was able to continue without harassment. But one day, six months ago now, it all came to an end.”
“How?”
“A nobleman from Italy was traveling through on his way to the Languedoc. Often we had travelers pass through, but because there was no abbey or tavern in our town, it was rare that anyone stopped. This man’s wife was with child, perhaps six months on. Her pains began early, and she had started to bleed. One of the women in town told them of me, and they brought the noblewoman to my little cottage. It was clear to me that her time had come, however unfinished the child within might be. I told the husband so and that the infant was not likely to survive.”
“Wise counsel,” Alejandro said. “At six months, it is too early….”
“He did not find the counsel wise,” she said. “He begged me to take the child from her womb. He was much older than she and had no sons to follow him. I told him that I would not consider such a thing, that I am no surgeon. But he would not accept that.”
“I do not understand. Refusal of treatment is always the right of the physician.”
“There was a young girl with me when they arrived suddenly; I was teaching her to gather certain herbs that I needed. The man grabbed her and put a knife to her throat, and told me that if I did not put my own knife to his wife’s belly, he would kill the girl.”
“A beast,” Alejandro said quietly.
“You cannot imagine what I wished to do to him. In any event, I gave the woman as much laudanum as she could stand and opened her womb. I had no choice. But I had no experience in such a thing; I cut too deeply, and the woman died. There was more blood than I have ever seen from any wound. The child was a male, and he took breath, though he was pitifully small. The nobleman seemed not to care much about his poor wife, but he was ecstatic about his son. Then the child began to gasp and his skin turned blue; it broke my heart to hear his helpless wheezing, but there was nothing I could do for him. Before he was an hour old, his life was over. It was all horrible enough, until the nobleman cast the dead infant onto the floor. He had no regard at all for his own child’s soul and had not baptized him. And so I did it, in the hope that the child would be taken to God.
“In a while, men from the traveling party came to take away the bodies. The next day, different men came for me and took me to Avignon, where I was to be charged with the crime of practicing medicine as a woman. Of course, de Chauliac was advised of this notable event and came to see the criminal; he told me later that it was as much out of curiosity as official duty, for he considered the prohibition archaic. When he discovered that it was I, he arranged my immediate transfer to his custody, ‘for inquisition,’ he told everyone. He assured the cardinals who protested that he would see to my captivity, but he kept me among the nuns until it was time to leave.”
A few moments of silence passed, during which she seemed to reflect on these painful events. Finally she said, “Now you must speak again.”
“I kept a journal during my travels, at least until my time in England,” Alejandro said, glad for the opportunity to break the discomfort. “It was a gift from my father, a sort of reconciliation over the matter of Montpellier. I met much the same resistance to my decision to go there as you did. ‘Physician!’ he roared when I told him. ‘And what of our business? Who will follow me?’ In the end, that did not matter, as his business perished when he was banished. I kept that journal faithfully for many years.”
“What has become of it?”
“I lost it, in England. We left in such haste, and I was still weak from plague….”
“A pity to have lost it,” she said. “What sort of things did you record?”
“Notes on my observations, of course, and sketches of things that intrigued me—organs, bones, other features of the body. I wrote the route of my journeys, described some of the people I met…I do not pretend that the writings could be of import to anyone but myself. But so many moments of my life are recorded within it, my travels, my triumphs—”
“Your love?”
“Indeed,” he said quietly. He was about to say that he despaired of ever finding such a love again, but it came to him that that might no longer be true.
After three more days of hard travel in cold rain and wind, the party finally reached Paris, in late afternoon. Guillaume stared intently at the marvelous sights of the grand city as they made their way along the banks of the Seine. The river was full of boats and barges; the boy could not take his eyes off them.
When they came to the cathedral, Alejandro stopped the horse, though the others continued.
“Grand-père, we will lose them….”
“I know the route well from here. I would have you look for a moment, and listen.”
They sat in the shadow of Notre Dame and let the haunting music of vespers fill their ears, the same captivating chant that had lived in Alejandro’s head since he first heard it. Raindrops dripped from Alejandro’s hat and the tip of Guillaume’s nose. Nevertheless, the boy sat motionless and awestruck by what lay before him. After a few more moments, Alejandro heeled the horse and turned him around, for he was feeling chilled and he knew the boy would be as well.
They caught up with the others as they were turning onto the street where de Chauliac’s maison was located. The building was just as Alejandro remembered it, a solid brick edifice with an intricately peaked roof and a stout wall surrounding the courtyard. As they rode over the familiar cobblestones, Alejandro had a strange but comforting sense of homecoming. He knew the maison well, understood its secrets, and could find those places where whispers would not be heard. He looked up to the roofline and saw the small dormer where his room of eight years ago had been. The planks and corners of the small space came clear in his mind.
They entered the foyer in a flurry of activity; servants bustled about the arriving party to help with their belongings and to take away the dripping wet cloaks. The servants in the household were all different from his time here before, save one, the s
ame elderly man who had served as his keeper. Alejandro said nothing to him when he came into the foyer but saw the old man’s little wink of recognition.
As they made their way up the narrow stairway, Alejandro began to renew his acquaintance with the elderly man. “I congratulate you, fellow,” he said, “on a remarkably long and vigorous life.”
The old man turned stiffly and smiled. “I was waiting for your return, master, and I have followed carefully all the rules you gave me about proper living. One day soon I’ll die happy!”
“Not on account of my return, I hope.” At the top of the stairs, he gestured toward the boy and said, “Allow me to present my grandson, Guillaume.”
The servant bowed to Guillaume and said, quite formally, “Welcome, young sir, to la Maison de Chauliac.”
Guillaume did not seem to know what to do, so he thanked the servant, then bowed himself, mimicking his motion as closely as possible. This brought a laugh from the old man.
“We’ll get along just fine, you and I. Now, come into your room and get settled.”
He pushed open the door to the same small room Alejandro had occupied during his month of captivity in Paris eight years before. The bed was in the same position, to the side of the window, but the washstand and chair had been moved to accommodate an upholstered pallet that lay on the floor.
The servant placed their satchels in one corner. “If you are in need of anything, sir, you have only to ring the bell.”
Alejandro thanked the man, and he left.
He turned to see Guillaume looking out the window at the activity on the Paris street below.
“So many people, Grand-père.”
“Yes, Guillaume,” he said. He knelt down next to the boy and joined him in his observations. Horses with riders passed, and students scurried by toward the university, the robes of their colleges billowing out behind them. A few of the guards from their retinue could be seen taking some ease outside the maison’s courtyard. It was a day in the life of Paris, nothing more or less. But it was fascinating.
As he stared out the pane of wavy glass, Alejandro let his mind drift back to the day, eight years before, when Kate and Guillaume Karle stood on the street below and tossed up a message tied to a rock. It was the beginning of their plot to free him, and it was also the first time he had noticed their mutual affection.
I should not have been surprised. They were kindred souls, both spirited and determined, handsome and well built. He thought of the kindred spirit he had found on this journey and marveled at how such things often came about by what seemed like sheer luck.
No, I should not have been surprised. Nor should I now.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down at Guillaume.
“Grand-père, are you all right?”
The vision of Kate and her lover slipped away. “Yes, Guillaume.”
The boy’s voice was full of concern. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, child, but why do you ask?”
“It is just that, well…you are weeping.”
Ten
Three men came into the library, two of whom he’d seen before. Instinctively, Michael stood and faced them.
Southern Man—late middle age, plaid flannel shirt with patched elbows, neatly trimmed hair with a touch of gray at the temples—seemed to be the leader. At his side was the youth who’d been outside his window. The young man was tall and well muscled, with rosy cheeks and a haircut so short his head appeared nearly to have been shaved—the classic farm-bred American boy. The third stood back from the other two, with his feet spread slightly apart and his hands crossed over each other. Michael realized when he saw the weapon on his hip, He’s the sentry.
He heard the hinges again; Lany Dunbar entered. Michael noticed a quick exchange of smiles between her and the youth.
Way too young for her, he thought, but then, these are desperate times.
“Sit down,” Southern Man said.
Michael wasn’t about to put himself below their level. “Only if you’ll join me,” he replied.
“All right, if that’s how you want it.”
Everyone but the sentry found a seat.
“Let’s have some light in here,” Southern Man said. “The daylight’s fading.” He reached toward a lamp; Michael, half-consciously, wondered where the igniter was. Then he heard the click and saw the flood of light.
“Bloody hell,” he said. He stared at the lamp in awe.
“Generator,” said Southern Man. “Electricity we’ve got. But lightbulbs,” he said with a small laugh, “now, they’re gonna be a problem one of these days.”
Michael found himself wanting to say, We have a closet full of lightbulbs that we aren’t using at the moment, but he kept the thought to himself.
“Okay, now that all this protocol silliness is out of the way, let me introduce myself. My name is Steven Roy, but everyone just calls me Steve.” He extended his hand to Michael, who looked at it suspiciously.
“I don’t have the plague,” Steve added with a laugh.
Reluctantly, Michael gripped the offered hand.
“You already know Lany Dunbar. That fine-looking boy next to her is Evan.”
“My son,” Lany said.
Michael was instantly ashamed of his earlier thought. He said quietly, “Hello.”
“And that’s George back there.” Steve pointed over his shoulder to the man with the weapon.
Despite his growing sense that he was trapped in a surrealistic dream, Michael nodded politely to the man with the gun, who returned the gesture with equal courtesy. Then he sat back in his chair, trying to absorb everything and failing miserably.
“Now, if you’d be kind enough to tell us who you are and where you come from, we’d be obliged.”
He glanced once more at George, then let his eyes drift down to the gun. Steve smiled and said, “That’s a formality for the moment. Don’t pay it any mind. No one’s going to shoot you unless you make a lot of trouble. I know Lany feels bad about having to be so tough on you this afternoon, but we’ve had a couple of unfortunate experiences with strangers here, and we like to be careful until we get to know our company a little better.” He grinned again. “You seem like a pleasant-enough fellow. And you’ve got a bit of an accent. I know the feeling,” he said, exaggerating his drawl as he spoke. “So, just like we were saying earlier, who are you and where do you come from? We’ll tell you about us, but we want to know about you first, since you’re the company.”
Michael had prepared himself mentally for the new-era version of name, rank, and serial number, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate. They’d disarmed him with civility.
“Michael,” he said. “Last name’s Rosow. I’m originally from England. I came here just—well, before.”
“The first pass or the second?”
“Second.”
“So you were in England the first time around.”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get here, then?”
“It’s a long story. I was on, uh, the crown’s business.”
“Where specifically do you live now?”
He looked from Steve to Lany to Evan, and then back at Steve again.
“Look, we’re the good guys,” Steve said. “There are lots of folks out there you have to worry about a great deal more than us.”
Michael didn’t know what to do; his tribe was alone on the other side of the mountain and therefore vulnerable, but here were potential allies just a few hours away, not to be undervalued.
“On the other side of the peak,” he said finally.
Looks of confirmation passed between the people of Orange.
There were dozens more questions. Michael answered cautiously, trying not to give away too much information, just in case.
Yes, we have a generator, but we use wind for most of our power because there’s lots of wind up there, and we have two cows but no bulls; you have a bull—that’s fantastic….
No, we don’t grow whe
at, we’re too high up, but we’ve got wild rice and barley and lots of oats and plenty of blueberries. My wife cooks them down for jam; you have strawberries; the children will be very happy to hear that….
Two, a boy and a girl, seven and eight, and a young woman about this lad’s age, and among the adults we’re all different ages, but mostly middle-aged…
And a lab with some fairly sophisticated equipment…
And a computer that still works…
And schoolbooks…
“What about weapons?”
Michael hadn’t even noticed that he’d leaned forward in his excitement. On the mention of weapons, he leaned back again with his hands on his knees. “Mostly arrows,” he said. “Everyone has a good knife, even the children, though we only let them carry theirs when they go outside our immediate area, which hasn’t been for a while now.”
Steve Roy nodded. “You have a gun.”
“Had.” He glanced in Lany’s direction. “The lady relieved me of it when we met.”
He waited for someone to say, You’ll get it back, but no one did.
“You were wearing a suit,” Lany said. “I’d be interested in knowing where you found it.”
“I didn’t, exactly,” he told her.
“You stole it?”
“No,” he said. “It was assigned to me.”
“You were a biocop?”
“Here and on the other side of the pond.” He looked her directly in the eye and said, “And I’m guessing someone here was too.”
The silence was conspicuous, until Steve started asking questions again.
“What about the other adults? What do they do?”
“One accountant, a librarian, a few other useless things. But my wife’s a research biologist,” he said, “and we’ve got a chemist too. Our young lady’s quite a whiz in the lab. And of course, we have the obligatory lawyer,” Michael said. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, “And a doctor.”
