Sweet Salvation

by Lily Miles

  Grace eyes us both, but I'm grateful she hasn’t turned anyone in. That’s probably because it’s only she who’s stuck perfectly to the fast the entire week.

  “Have you decided what your mission is going to be, Gracie?” Catherine asks, trying to change the subject. Talking about food just reminded her that even she hadn't been able to conjure a decent meal all week.

  The young woman gets a contemplative look on her face, her head tilting one way and then the other. “I think I’ll do something with stained glass in the main church. Maybe I’ll help clean it. Or perhaps there are some other studies I can do with it on its history and its meaning pertaining to the Lord.”

  “That sounds just like you,” Catherine murmurs before turning to look at me with questioning, lifted eyebrows. “And you, Mags?”

  I nod my head towards the books on the library shelves. “I'm probably going to transcribe some old manuscripts. I like looking at all the pictures that have been drawn in the margins, so it’ll be something to keep me occupied until we’re allowed to eat again.”

  Catherine’s nose wrinkles and she gives her head a small shake. “Really? You’re going to lock yourself up in a dusty room to stare at books all day? You do that already too much.”

  When I just shrug, Catherine wraps an arm around my shoulder, that sly gleam lighting her face once more. She gives me a squeeze, one hand on the small of my back. Grace looks away, cheeks pink.

  “I think we can come up with something more interesting than that, Maggie,” Catherine promises me before slipping away towards the library doors.

  5

  Trevor

  With a faint grunt, I lift my arms and sharply twist my body back and forth. I’m resting on a simple wooden chair under the shade of the convent, hoping my muscles will ease. I still have a few more hours of work to do, but my back is stiff and my thighs are sore. I’d always worked out, but garden work around the convent had pushed my body to the limit.

  On the one hand, I loved how toned and tan I was getting. On the other, who am I going to impress here?

  The middle-aged man sitting next to me, Henry, the head gardener, leans back in his chair, his legs propped up on the overturned barrel in front of us. Handsome and weathered, and almost never without his dusty, beat up cowboy hat, he looks like the cowboy in the Marlboro cigarette ads I’ve seen in old Life magazines. I nibble at my ham sandwich, keeping one eye on him. He reminds me of somebody but for the life of me, I can’t remember whom. He’d more or less ignored me since I arrived, only occasionally giving me even the simplest of instructions, and so it was odd that he’d plopped himself right down beside me today when I stopped to have a late lunch.

  After he’d offered a cool greeting, we were quiet now. While I eat the sandwich, he digs a steel fork into a bowl of microwaved beans.

  The convent kitchen serves both the nuns residing within the nunnery as well as the staff from the dorm, but it had been shut down today for spring cleaning. All I could get for lunch was a ham sandwich, but that was fine with me—I’m a simple guy when it comes to food. Plus, I no longer trust the kitchen like I had when I first arrived. It was there that I’d run into Sister Monica, who I now recalled had auburn bangs falling into pretty green eyes. It was she who asked me to cut the leaves of the butterfly flower for her prayer tea. I felt foolish now for taking her word, but who would’ve expected a nun of all people to lie? It’d seemed innocent enough at the time, especially since I have no idea what weirdo rituals go on inside the mysterious building. For all I know, it’s cult sacrifice. Hell, that may be why I was even brought here to begin with. Lol.

  Henry takes a drag from his cigarette, seeming to blow the smoke purposefully towards the convent in giant, practiced circles. He looks pleased when they drift in the right direction, watching the smoke rings float on, with a smirk. I take another bite of my ham sandwich and wonder what the hell is up with this guy.

  Everyone here is strange, I decide. You have to be if you’re willing to hole yourself up in a place like this.

  “I saw you talking to one of the sisters,” Henry says abruptly, swinging forward so that his feet plant firmly on the soft earth. For a gardener, he has no qualms about crushing the sprightly green blades. He even digs his heel down a bit as if to prove to the lawn who’s in charge.

  “Is that not allowed?” I ask honestly, frowning. “Sister Ruth approached me.”

  “I’m not talking about the old lady,” Henry chuckles. He runs his fingers over the brim of his cowboy hat, letting dust fall free. He gazes at me, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. He speaks so slowly, I find myself tapping my foot in an attempt to hurry him on. “I'm talking about one of the young ones.”

  “Is that not allowed?” I repeat, still frowning.

  He blinks eyes the same shade as faded copper pennies. There’s something unsettling about the way he looks at me, like he can see right through me, like every thought I have flying through my head is bared for him to read like the pages of an open book.

  “It’s not … not allowed,” he settles on saying eventually, almost smiling.

  I can’t tell if he’s trying to make a joke or if he’s messing with me. It’s probably a little of both. Either way, it’s irritating. I’d been hoping that I could have a moment of peace and quiet with my sandwich and think about Margaret. I want to hear her voice again. I want to hear her say my name. I want to let my mind wonder about what she’s got going on under all that black fabric.

  My eyes narrow, scrutinizing his expression. “Okay.”

  “You just have to be careful with those young ones,” he continues, after flinging his still- burning cigarette onto the grass. He doesn’t bother to put it out, watching the way one of the blades slowly begins to burn, embers floating up off the green blade. I reach over with my own foot to stomp the small flame out before it can get too high. We worked way too hard maintaining the grounds here to ruin them ourselves.

  “How so?” I ask, wishing the conversation was over and regretting urging the man on. I should’ve just agreed and stuffed my face with the rest of my ham sandwich.

  I don’t know much about Henry, but I know he’s been part of the convent’s staff since he was young himself. I’d seen an old black and white photo of him in the dorm’s kitchen. He’s the only one of us that has a nice, large room, tucked away on the bottom floor of the dorm building, with its own private bath and shower. When he’s not working on the grounds, he’s always locked away in his quarters—he’s a loner. Henry doesn’t even eat with the rest of us during the usual dining hours when everyone is in the kitchen. But he sure can be annoying: among other rude habits, he always takes the last cup of coffee from the pot, without remaking some. That’s even more infuriating than his sloth-like drawl.

  Henry grins. All of a sudden, I realize it’s the movie star Clint Eastwood he looks like. Craggy and sculpted, they could have been separated at birth. “They’re just dangerous. Take my word on that.”

  “Will do,” I reply, relieved when he climbs to his feet as slowly and deliberately as he talks.

  He tips his hat towards me, taking a few steps and then pausing. He digs his hands into his pockets, his lithe body illuminated by the warm golden glow of the fading afternoon light. Even though he’s older, he’s pretty muscled, I realize. I guess he’s been using the weights in the dorm workout room—though I never see him in there when I do my daily lifting—because I’d never even seen him pick up a hose or a tray of seedlings.

  Spring is beginning to bloom, quite literally, but the nights still get chilly and in late afternoon, you can feel a trace of coolness in the air. It wraps around me, making me shiver, but Henry still looks warm and comfortable. Without turning around to look at me, he continues speaking.

  “The reason they wear that ridiculous outfit is because it hides things that are better off hidden, my boy. Because once you pull that veil away, there’s no going back.”

  My eyebrows lift slowly towards my hairli
ne, but Henry just gives a faint cackle of a laugh and roots in his pockets for more cigarettes.

  “What?” I mutter slowly, brow furrowing over my nose, but Henry has lost all interest in the conversation and doesn’t say a thing in response. I shouldn’t put much stock in what he’s saying anyway—they’re just the ramblings of a crazy old coot.

  Whistling, he saunters away with his back to me. It takes ten or so minutes to walk back to the staff living quarters, but going at his pace it may take him the better part of an hour.

  I watch him leave, suddenly finding my appetite replaced by pure bewilderment; I toss the rest of the ham sandwich into the small backpack I tote around with me while I'm working. There’s nothing remarkable in my bag except a bottle of water and a bound notebook that I keep private. I lean down, brushing my fingers over the faded leather of the cover and considering taking it out, but then change my mind and zip up the bag instead. Even though now would be a perfect time, I’ll save that for later.

  “Hey, kid,” Henry abruptly yells, cupping his tanned and weathered hands around his mouth to shout over at me from the dusty road leading towards the door. I'm glad I left my notebook concealed now; I hadn't realized he was watching me again. “Before you head home for the night, go in through those big double doors there and then make an immediate right. I left some seeds in the pantry there that I’ll need later.”

  I just give him a thumbs up, not willing to raise my voice to shout back at him. Only once I'm sure that he’s finally leaving for good do I climb to my feet, stretching out a bit more before walking towards the doors of the convent.

  I brush a hand over the wall as I pass, letting my palm drag over the rough stone wall. The place is so big that sometimes it feels like if I step inside, it’ll swallow me whole. I’d rather be swallowed up by the massive building than face Henry’s aggravation, however, and so I push open the doors and step hesitantly inside.

  Inside the building it’s surprisingly cool, which I chalk up to the stone exterior. I inhale, tasting the dank coolness of the air, and then obediently turn down the hall and move towards the nearby door. It’s so quiet inside the nunnery that each of my tentative, careful steps echoes loudly. I come to a small, nondescript door, one with a small cross chiseled into the mahogany wood. I pull it open and step inside, almost reeling back out the door when my eyes lock with the eyes of Jesus on a large wooden crucifix.

  He hangs on the opposite wall, his body so masterfully constructed that his bleeding flesh could be real. Even his mouth is open in a twisted cry of agony I can almost hear. Every hair on my body stands on edge, and my jaw clenches abruptly.

  What the hell was this place?

  I turn around, taking in the desk and another wooden cross resting on its corner. Goosebumps drift slowly over my arms, leaving my entire body prickling. This creepy place definitely isn’t a random side room pantry, and I definitely don’t see any seeds.

  Had I heard Henry wrong? Or was this some kind of hazing prank? With Henry, I couldn’t be too sure.

  With a grunt and a final shudder, I hurriedly whip back towards the door, only to come face to face with someone even more terrifying than the dead Jesus pinned to the wall.

  “What in the name of our Heavenly Father are you doing in my office?” barks Mother Superior Antonia Humilitas. She scowls at me, hands on her hips. “Are you snooping around, young man?”

  “Hell no,” I exclaim before I can help it, still completely freaked out by the crucifix on the wall behind me. I can feel him watching me even when I’ve turned away.

  “Excuse me?” the mother superior gasps, cheeks going red. In her shock, spit flies from her mouth, peppering my cheek.

  I wipe it away roughly and clear my throat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mother. Ma’am Mother. I just got … lost.”

  Though I considered explaining that it was Henry who’d sent me here, it made more sense to just brush it all under the rug. Hopefully she’d accept the excuse and move on. But I should’ve known I wasn’t going to be that lucky.

  “Lost?” Mother Antonia says, moving so that she’s blocking my way out of the room.

  I glance desperately at the door, contemplating how to escape. But she’d just chase me, probably waving that crucifix on her desk all the way. But if I get fired from this job, I’ll have to go to jail. Suppressing a groan, I focus back on the mother superior.

  Though she’s shorter than me, she’s squat and rotund; if I wanted, I could probably roll her right down the hall. I try to edge around her, but she moves in front of me so that escape is no longer an option. It doesn’t help that this room has no windows and the only light is a fading candle. I have to squint to see the woman clearly.

  “If you were so lost, then why were you trying random doors?” she asks. “And who are you? I haven’t seen you around here.”

  “My name is Trevor. I only just started here under Henry a few weeks ago. I was told to collect seeds from a pantry and I thought this door was the one he was speaking of. I apologize for stumbling into your office.”

  I hope I at least sound sincere, because all I really want is to get the hell out of this room. The mother superior here has gray eyes that are colder than ice and breath that smells faintly of dead flowers—a sickeningly sweet fragrance that makes me want to retch. If I don’t escape her presence soon, her polished black shoes are going to be in need of cleaning.

  She huffs and puffs up like an irritated bird, then gives me the once-over with those frightening, lifeless eyes. But after what seems like an eternity, she nods and waves me away. “So be it, Trevor. But I never forget a name or a face. If I see you poking around in official Catholic business like what goes on within these doors of my office, you’re going to be in deep trouble. The kind of trouble you won’t find so easy to escape.”

  Even as someone who has seen their fair share of trouble, I got the feeling that Mother Antonia meant business.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, finally edging around her. But before I can get far, she catches me, her icy cold claws curling around my wrist. Another long shudder crawls up my spine.

  “Call me Mother,” she hisses softly, eyes narrowing on my own. Her tone has changed, going from self-righteous to almost … territorial? Whatever the inflection may be, it’s odd.

  I give a curt nod, eager to be free of her hold, but she refuses to let me go. She just leans in closer, her nauseating, stale breath on my cheek.

  “Yes … Mother,” I finally whisper back, skin crawling by the time she releases me.

  I pinwheel backward, rubbing the reddened skin where she was grasping me tight.

  Without looking back, I shoot through the halls to find my way to the large double doors leading outside, but now that I’ve been so distracted, I can’t remember which way is which. All the halls seem to be the same as I race around them, desperate to get outside before the mother superior discovers me still inside the building, and assumes I’ve been trying to cause more trouble.

  I take one sharp corner before my body collides with something supple and soft that gives a faint yelp before we both collapse on the hard, stony floor of the convent.

  “God, I'm so sorry,” I grumble, pushing myself up to my feet only to realize that I'm staring at long, white legs protruding from under a twisted black skirt.

  My eyes widen and my mouth goes dry as I take in the lacy white underwear revealed.

  The nun gives a squeal before grabbing her robe, covering up and forcefully righting herself, pushing herself up onto her knees in front of me. It’s none other than the beautiful, dark-eyed Sister Margaret.

  “It’s you,” I whisper, sucking in a breath.

  Even in that brief second, my eyes had mapped the shapely contours of the woman’s milky thighs, and the tantalizing triangle of white lace above them. I’d always assumed nuns wore straitjackets or chastity belts or grannie underwear under their cloaks, but not Margaret. She’d been wearing simple white lace panties, a look so perfectly feminine and virg
inal, it made a feral growl almost creep up in my throat.

  I’d seen plenty of women before; I was no stranger to feminine charm. But there was something so pure about those white lacy panties, I felt my stomach knotting in on itself. All I could think about was what hid behind the thin cotton lace—it would be so easy to rip aside.

  “What are you doing here?” she cries, still collecting herself as she tries to stumble to her feet. I climb instantly to my own and grab her, lifting her up with ease.

  “Have you been eating?” I ask, before I can help it. She seemed so light and even more pale than normal.

  She pulls away from me, glancing up and down the hall desperately as though looking for someone. “I'm fine. But I asked what you’re doing all the way in here. No man is allowed this far into the convent.”

  Margaret gazes at me from under thick, black lashes that dust the tops of her cheeks. She’s so pretty, like a painting. Her embarrassed flush from me seeing her panties has only made her more gorgeous. Rosy and ripe, like a tempting piece of fruit.

  “I got lost,” I answer, my heart thumping so, I could barely concentrate.

  She frowns at me, lips pursed hard. Now her cheeks have begun to go even redder, the crimson flush creeping down her long neck. Her eyes dart over my jaw to where my shirt meets my collarbone and then firmly back to my eyes again.

  “Just go back the way you came and you’ll find yourself at the main doors,” she offers in a strained tone.

  “But that’s what I was trying to do. I’m really bad with directions, Margaret. Won’t you show me?” I ask, digging my hands into my pockets to show I'm not a threat.

  “It’s Sister Margaret,” she scolds, eagerly putting another step of distance between us. “And I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve lost track of one of my sisters and I have more I need to discuss with her. Just go back exactly as you came.”