A Fire to Kindle (Spirit Wind Book 1), page 10
A dead rat—or some small creature. Nothing evil or strange. I began searching for it to dispose of it outside the walls.
But then my searching gaze fell on the rasped-out lettering on the shelf, now obscured further by the pots and pans I had cleaned so far. The bizarreness came back; the rats were not as innocent as they had once been. The other cloying, the one that seemed supernatural, was still present. I thought I should get another Sister, just in case.
But even as my feet turned for the stairway, I stopped. I had the fire; it would surely protect me. I resumed my search.
Finally, deep in a far corner, I found it. It was bedraggled, as though it had drowned some time ago and mostly dried. I didn’t know how it would have gotten there, though. I moved an urn out of the way so I could reach it better. What had killed it eluded me; as I said it looked almost drowned, except it couldn’t have gotten to that corner if it had. I couldn’t imagine anything dragging it that far and no further.
I prodded it with my toe. Definitely very stiff. It slid with the sound of dried leaves on the stone. Even the tail remained curled just so, as if the whole carcass were desiccated. So where did the drowned look come from?
As I inspected the corner, I noticed a dark stain. I backed away into better light, then gasped. The toe of my slipper was red with blood—or was it just clay, again? I couldn’t seem to trust my own mind anymore. I prayed again for the fire; this time, no peace or understanding came.
I heard a shuffle upstairs. “Sister Bethenny?” I called.
“Yes, daughter,” came back, slightly muffled.
“Could you come down here, please?”
She did not hurry, but she came, brows raised and only the faintest look of impatience.
“I’m sorry, Sister, but sometimes I don’t know if I can trust my eyes. Is that blood? Or just very red clay?”
She looked where I pointed, cocked her head. “It is the reddest clay I’ve perhaps ever seen, daughter, but it isn’t blood. Where did it come from?”
I gestured. “I found a dead rat, in the corner here, and pushed it with my toe to make sure it was dead. With all the strange things happening lately, I didn’t want to leave. I’m sorry to bother you.”
She waved me off. “I understand, daughter,” she said. “I forgot for a moment, but you were right to take caution.” She turned, going back up the stairs. “You are going to get rid of that rat, yes?”
“Of course, Sister.” I turned back, not fully appeased. Even if it was the reddest clay—and it still looked entirely like blood to me—it still followed that the rat must have been deep in the catacombs where I had last encountered a blood-red clay. And nothing from down there could be trusted.
Apologizing silently, I took a pair of tongs from its rack and grasped the rat by the tail. When I lifted it, I heard a faint pat, pat, pat as the blood clay dripped off of it. That wouldn’t do; I could not drip even clay all through the convent. I glanced around, settling on a small pot. I held it under the rat as it became a ting, ting, ting of dripping into the bottom.
Quickly I mounted the stairs. Sister Bethenny glanced up as she heard the ting, ting, ting; I shrugged apologetically. “It’s still dripping,” I explained. Her bows furrowed, but I could only shrug again; I didn’t know how or why it would be so soaked, either.
I stopped at the door, with no hand free to turn the latch. The ting, ting, ting echoed in the silence as I glanced back for help. Sister Bethenny came forward quickly and let me out.
The wind picked up as I hurried along the cloister, my steps faster than the dripping. A bleak sun cast weary shadows. I glanced aside at the burned bench, which I had still not brought to the attention of any of the Sisters. It had chilled, and no wisp of smoke rose from the heap. My brow furrowed a moment—a fire that hot should not have cooled that quickly—but the ting, ting, ting brought me back and I hurried for the gate.
Another hurdle, as I still had no hand for a latch. I set the pot on the ground, carefully holding the rat aloft. I suppose I could have just put the rat inside the pot, but something in me didn’t want to let go of it with the tongs. I opened the door, turned my back against it, then picked up the pot and hurried on.
Thick clouds were coming, and something in them heralded snow. Perhaps it was just the cold air, and the season. It might have just been idle fancy; the fields stretched out below the convent when they were covered in snow gave me a certain sort of savage beauty. Maybe it was because I had struggled up that slope—weary and starved—several months ago on my way to the convent.
I shook myself back to the present. As I had relaxed in my reverie, I had nearly dipped the rat into the pot. Only the tongs with the tail were still above the rim, the rest of the body hid in the darkness inside.
Ting.
I froze, unconsciously stretching my hands further away from me, waiting for the dripping to resume. I began to lift the rat out, to see if it had just suddenly dried up. I held it in the frozen air, completely stiff, but no longer dripping. I sighed. Jumping at shadows.
It screeched, arching up suddenly and scrabbling at the tongs with its paws. I shrieked, dropping rat, tongs, and pot and stepping quickly away. The stain on my slipper could be nothing other than blood, and it dragged across the ground.
The rat bolted, thankfully away from me, but—terrifyingly—back toward the convent. I scooped up the pot and ran after it, fully intending to bash it over the head if I could. But it had been dead! Completely dead, stiff and everything. I had seen dozens—hundreds—of dead rats in my time. I knew a dead rat when I saw one.
But somehow this one was alive. It reached the convent wall, but blessedly turned alongside it. Curiosity replaced my fear and I followed it. It seemed not to care that I was present—that it wasn’t running away from me but toward something. I saw its whiskers twitching as it sniffed the ground.
We circled around to the far side of the convent, then struck off across a bit of open ground. I began to notice the chill through my dress, now, worried about how far away the rat would take me. I would need to figure out how far was too far, before it became too far.
The forest was near. I should just catch up, bash its head in, and be done. I did not. We wove between the trunks. Ahead of us there were the fallen timbers where the thunderbolts must have struck during that terrible storm nearly two weeks ago—and where, I realized in horror, the ground must have caved in over the catacombs.
This horror slowed me, and the rat scampered with renewed energy. Before I could stop it, it reached the edge of the rended ground and scurried down into the hole. I stopped at the edge, afraid to go on, afraid it would collapse further and draw me in. There was only a broken darkness below; the light did not extend far enough to see if it opened into the actual catacombs.
I turned to go, and saw it: a footprint, not my own, but of a heavy boot, pointing toward the village.
11
I was no tracker. I had known men who could do it, from the village, and knew the principles. But I could not locate another print. Maybe only the ground near the cave-in had been soft enough. Maybe someone else would have been able to see a sign. But the fact it had been there was worrying enough.
Perhaps the strange men Thomas kept telling me about had found the spot. Had finally found a way to access the catacombs without bothering with permission from the Sisters. It seemed a terrible coincidence that the spot right above those evil men had been the spot to collapse. But it also seemed odd to me there was only one print, and it pointed away from the cave-in and toward the village. Surely there should have been at least one pointing toward the hole, from whomever had come upon it to begin with. My footprints littered the ground as I continued to search for some clue, some other sign.
I gave up. I was no tracker. I dared not descend into the catacombs after the rat. I turned back toward the convent. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to report this to Sister Lucy, but she needed to know. I still worried if she would believe me. Maybe I worried she would be angry with me for how I had spoken to her earlier. Spiteful. I felt like I would be, if our places were switched. But she had been my greatest ally until recently. And she was in charge until Mother Superior returned.
I looked up suddenly, just as the bells began to ring. It was not the hour for prayer. Were they ringing…vigorously? Sounding an alarm? It sounded as though they were trying to get someone’s attention but…
Then I was able to see down the road toward the village, saw a small pack train winding its way toward the convent. Third from the front was Mother Superior. She had returned.
“Oh, no,” I said aloud, hitching up my skirts as I began to run. I had forgotten entirely that she was due back today, and I was in no condition to welcome her. She would be given a fair amount of pomp on her return. We did not always do so, but it had been her longest time away since I had arrived. Even when I still lived in the village, we knew she was never gone for more than a day or two. I still had not been told her entire reason for being gone so long this time. Some council, supposedly.
Not that it mattered. She was returned, and my dress and shoes were filthy and my hair unbound. I ran through the chill afternoon air as the bells faded away. As I rounded the corner of the convent I slowed, knowing she would see me anyway. She would know I was the only acolyte here and know that I had probably been somewhere I shouldn’t. She wouldn’t know what had gone on here the past week—unless the villagers told her, but even they knew little. I wondered how she would respond. Not just to me, but to the news. How Sister Lucy might break it to her. When Sister Lucy might break it to her. I half expected Sister Lucy to come running out any moment. But of course, that wasn’t her way.
My heart dropped again when I saw the gate was still open as I had left it. I had meant only to dispose of the rat and come back; now I had been gone the larger part of half an hour. All was quiet and normal when I slipped in and shut the door. As I made my way toward my cell to straighten up, Sister Bethenny rounded a corner and caught sight of me.
“Where have you been? Where is my cookware?”
I gaped like a landed fish. “Oh, um, it’s uh…”
She waved me off. “You’ll answer later. Get ready for the Mother Superior. Hurry.”
I veered off course, went to the washroom first and tried to scrub my face and hands. My face cleaned up okay, but I felt like rat-dander stuck to my hands. I still couldn’t understand how a thing that seemed so dead had come so quickly back to life. I was nearly becoming accustomed to the incomprehensible.
I also wetted my hair to try to make it easier to brush. I could almost feel a headache coming on from the cold, but it was somewhat my fault. I toweled it lightly then went to my cell.
There was little I could do about my dress, and fortunately it didn’t show too much dirt. Still, I took it off and set it aside as I brushed my hair, then beat it lightly with my hands and smoothed it as best I could. I had barely slipped it over my head when I heard the gate bell clanging.
I was supposed to have been there already, opening it instantly on their call. Instead I sprinted through the garden, picturing their quizzical glances as the door remained fast. The only way to make it worse would be to call out that I was coming, so of course I did that.
All the Sisters of the convent were in a line near the door, and every head turned toward me, a spectrum of looks from quizzical to consternation. I can only imagine Mother Superior’s true thoughts as a red-faced and panting acolyte a few months away from possibly taking the vows opened the door to her and her entourage.
Her face was, of course, serene. Maybe a little bit of mirth behind her eyes? Surely not. I looked down, backing away with my hands folded demurely. “Welcome back, Mother,” I said belatedly.
“Thank you, child,” she said, no tinge of condemnation or anger in her voice. She seemed…happy. She had done so before—she was rarely a stern Mother—but even so it felt out of place.
Sister Lucy stepped forward. “Mother,” she said, bending quickly to kiss her outstretched hand. Mother Superior laid a hand on Lucy’s head. “Thank you, daughter,” she said. Now, I could hear a note of concern in her voice. We all did.
“Much has happened while you were away, Mother,” Sister Lucy said as she straightened, knowing Mother Superior noticed Judith’s absence. “We are in the midst of very strange times—deep in the midst. We should speak immediately.”
“I had some sense of it, coming through the village,” she replied. “And yet it still was cloaked mostly in shadows and guesses. Are we under threat?”
“I believe some, Mother, though…” She trailed off and shook her head. “I cannot say how much, or how dire. I’m afraid these times escape any wisdom I thought I had gained.”
“Well,” Mother said with a gusty sigh. “Let’s see what counsel can untangle. I had hoped to shake off some dust from the road but your looks tell me that should wait. Child, please help get these books and things to my quarters.”
“Actually, she should be there as well, Mother,” Sister Lucy said, bowing her head again. “She seems somewhat at the center of what’s been happening.”
Mother Superior appraised me with a lifted eyebrow. “Is she indeed? As the cause?”
I swallowed hard, afraid to hear how Sister Lucy would respond, fearing still her spite. It pained enough to hear from Mother Superior’s own mouth the same prejudice resurfacing that had chased me from the village in the first place.
“That may take further untangling,” Sister Lucy said. I glanced up to see her expression toward me cool. “I would say no, at least not by her will.”
I planted my gaze firmly on the ground. I could tell by her tone she would not want to see my gratitude until Mother Superior had decided for herself.
“Well,” said Mother, “let me hear unfettered talk first. Help take these things to my quarters, child, and then join us in the Chapterhouse.”
“Yes Mother.”
Mother and the Sisters left in a swirl of cloaks as I turned to the mule train. The men had already unloaded many of the smaller boxes, and two of the mules had been for provender and would not be unloaded. There remained only two larger boxes, each of which apparently took all four men to hold in place as they untied it.
“What are those?” I couldn’t help but ask. One man—dark complected with a thick but close-cropped beard—glanced my way.
“We ask not what is the lady’s,” he said in a thick accent I had never heard before. Not that many foreigners ever came through Holden. I found my attention strangely attracted to it.
“Where are you from?” I asked. Part of me knew I should be simply going quietly about Mother Superior’s orders, and yet…
The final strap came loose, and the dark man and the other one stepped quickly away as the other two strained to lower the box to the ground. They all seemed curiously intent on ignoring me, except the dark man.
He again spared me only a glance. “Algiers,” he said quickly. All four again set-to, the mule protesting the unbalanced weight.
I hesitated. “You’re a Moor?” I had heard enough about them that I couldn’t imagine Mother Superior bringing one of those in her train.
Again his dark glance glittered. “Born, yes.” He paused, grunting as they struggled a moment with the heavy box. “I cannot help that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. As if I hadn’t faced the same judgement. Whatever curiosity I had fled, and I turned quickly to pick up some of the smaller boxes.
“I am Mahmoud,” he said. I turned to him. “And you are forgiven.”
We stood silently facing each other as the other three men busied themselves with the other cargo. “Rae-Anna,” I said finally. “And, thank you.”
He bowed slightly before turning to help his compatriots. I turned away and hurried to Mother Superior’s quarters with my armload.
When I finished, I went to the Chapterhouse and entered quietly. Sister Lucy was in the midst of relating the events after I had awoken with the fire inside me, approaching the point of my judgement. Mother Superior glanced at me as I stood to the side, motioning me forward as she returned her attention to Sister Lucy.
“We of course discussed punishment or penance among us, but could come to no consensus. Sister Judith finally prevailed.”
“She was known to do that,” Mother Superior replied heavily. “And the decision?”
As Sister Lucy told it, I could see Mother Superior’s gaze darkening. When she got to the part about the bell, Mother Superior cut her off.
“Faugh! A bell? Truly? And you all allowed it?”
“It seemed…excessive, Mother, and yet…the danger…”
Mother Superior cast me an incredulous glance. “This child?”
“Not her, Mother; the fire,” Sister Lucy said, her tone pleading. I assumed I would be on trial, and it seemed much more like the rest of the Sisters were. I wasn’t sure how to take it, so I sat as demurely as I could while still observing.
“Yes, I will need to see this fire,” she muttered. She glanced at me, and I could tell she somehow knew it might not come on command. Maybe they had already told her that part. She sighed. “Continue.”
Sister Lucy did, the other Sisters chiming in when it was their turn. Mother Superior asked thorough questions, turning out every fault, misstep, and preconceived notion along the way. She did, as well, point out when wise action was taken.
“As to the demise of Sister Judith,” Sister Lucy said, “perhaps Rae-Anna should tell that part.”
I swallowed. Chairs creaked as every eye and every body shifted toward me. I had not prepared in the slightest for this moment.
Take no thought how or what ye shall speak; for it shall be given you in that same hour.
There was a gasp, and Mother Superior’s eyes goggled. I held my hand away from me; the fire this time was not as fierce as it had been the last few times. Just a gentle burning. But I wasn’t sure if it would still ignite anything I touched.
