The Lady's Champion

by M F Sullivan

  The Life of the Governess

  In the end, Dominique d’Martín’s first day as professional governess proved the start of a new and better life. Not to say her life had been that bad until then—not the life lived since waking in a delirium, nine months pregnant, on the shores of the Baltic Sea. She’d had enough time to register a distant swan flying off, far behind the head of the man who’d awakened her in a tone of urgent concern and a cadence of Danish so unfamiliar she’d struggled to comprehend even the specific language before slipping again into unconsciousness.

  When she awoke the second time, it was with a series of flickering visions, like the memories of a half-forgotten dream piling on awakening. The magician bending over her in a surgical mask, the floating and miraculously whole amniotic sac containing the infant within, even a snippet of Gethsemane’s voice as she came to. All this relented again to the face of her Danish savior. Martin was his name: a teakettle-shaped fellow with a mustached face long since discolored by large amounts of alcohol. He held a baby in his arms and asked in Danish how the new mother felt—and what she could remember. There was a lot of struggle between the two of them to reconcile their versions of Danish until they discovered a mutual language in the form of good old immutable Latin. Once Martin got over his astonishment to find a woman who spoke the dead language more fluently than he spoke his native tongue, he repeated his question.

  Oh, she remembered plenty. Everything, just as she’d wished. But it was easier to cause a sensation as the tragic amnesiac mother than it was to explain she was a traveler from another time and space—especially as she looked around the facilities and found, rather than a proper clinic, what should have been a museum’s holographic recreation of a rustic Danish cottage still some centuries before electricity. Complete with candles and a chamber pot discretely tucked under the nearby table.

  “What year is it?” she thought to ask as she accepted the baby (which, in fairness, was an outrageously cute, turquoise-eyed babe who cooed to lay its unfocused gaze upon her blurry form). The kindly man’s brow knit in sympathy.

  “You don’t know? You don’t remember? My poor child!”

  After his sorrowful tutting relented, she learned it was the Year of Our Lord 1642, and that this was the town of Elsinore, and that she had been found on the cusp of labor, passed out by the sea. She didn’t remember anything at all? Not where she was from, not her baby’s father?

  “Basil—Vasilis,” she thought to say—a Greek word whose Latin cognate, “Regulus,” gave her some surreal pause. A life so far away. Had any of that happened? Exhausted though she had just awoken, she looked at the child and stroked with the edge of her knuckle a feather-soft, still slightly mottled cheek. “I know his name. I know my name. But I…I don’t know.”

  “I thought perhaps you were assailed by robbers, but I found no head wound, and could not imagine them leaving such a sum behind.”

  Sum? She tried to look like she knew what he talked about and followed his gaze to the pile of clothes haphazardly strewn upon the corner chair. Atop it all was, yes, something of a purse. She had never seen it before and studied its bulges with relative interest as he probed, “Do you remember? Perhaps it’s your husband’s?”

  “Mine,” she said. Then: “I’m a widow. I know he died. I cannot…I can’t remember. My head is so fuzzy…”

  “Of course,” said the man, who she took by the shelves of rudimentary tools and alembics to be a doctor. For whatever that was worth in this time period, anyway. “Of course, just a moment, now.”

  While he hurried to find her something for her head (booze, she hoped), Dominique looked into the face of her baby and, despite herself, smiled.

  Yes, the pair of them were quite a sensation. Martin generously gave her his last name for doing business, since she had none. The nation of Italy had not and never would be corrupted by the Hierophant here. Nor would anywhere else, praise—well, Christ, she supposed. Or, better yet, herself.

  What a freeing feeling! She pissed in chamber pots and wore uncomfortably scratchy dresses and never felt she could get her teeth satisfyingly clean while living in a silent, electricity-free house without heating or cooling or entertainment alongside the widower doctor and his two young daughters—but the Hierophant would never, could never, hurt anyone again. Every time that notion came upon her, it wound her up so giddy she needed to escape to the nearest pantry to laugh and dance and never, ever cry, for she had no more time for tears when life had become so beautiful. She even began praying for her Father when she started attending the Catholic Church’s Sunday Mass with the Martins. The way she saw it, he needed all the help he could get, and being a parent, herself, well…she was more compassionate, these days.

  Damn the magician, but he was right. She loved her boy, Lazarus, who, to do honor to his otherworldly engenderment and his mother’s friend, was given a variant of his alleged father’s name as surname. Much as Dominique had decided rather arbitrarily on her waking that she was now French, she gradually began to “remember” details about the child’s father as they amused her. He became a swarthy Slavic man, whose loss cast such a shadow over her present life that she could never bear to entertain the men who gradually began to court this mysterious, relatively wealthy amnesiac woman. Not just any woman, but a reading woman; and not just a reading woman, but a writing woman, which would become Dominique’s most notorious quality. Dr. Martin bragged all of this to his friends when she had asked him for as much paper as he could provide—as much ink, as many quills.

  As her body recovered from artificially engineered childbirth and she adapted to the shock of her situation, she made her first conscious act in this new world one of creativity, and of remembering. She spent nine months recording the narrative of her old world that she might never forget it, and another nine months reading it over to fix and stir new memories she’d let slip by the first time through. Though she had expected the project to take a few weeks, it swiftly blossomed out of hand, and began to be her silent companion as she joined village life by learning the ins and outs of being a governess from Dr. Martin’s hired girl. It was work that gave her a better grasp of how to handle her own child—something that, while not a mystery, was still intimidating enough a prospect that she sometimes longed for the simple violence of the battlefield rather than the complex mind game in which a parent needed constantly engage.

  But, she had all of that—that person who she’d once been—each night, when she sat to write. And when memory was purged after those first and hardest nine months of work, little Lazarus was a happy, babbling baby who had begun to use the word “Mama” in a way that was more than a meaningless echo. As the next round found him a dark-haired, dimpled toddler, the time could never have been more perfect to turn her attention fully to her present. She stowed the manuscript away beneath her bed to live her life as a human woman.

  Oh, it was difficult in ways, of course. Lesbianism was something of a nonissue in that it made people uncomfortable to speak of even to condemn (which certainly made it easy for her to breeze through the confession booth—what a sinless woman she was). But she had a feeling “witch” was a code word for that, among other things. Other challenges included aforementioned bathroom and lighting conditions; and pests, of course, were out of control. But all she had to do was haul the box of pages from beneath the bed and remind herself how things had been in the place from which she’d come. She did the same when she got to missing all those people that she’d known. Yes—even her Father.

  Over time, Lazarus grew into a bright and sweet boy. Far sweeter than she would have expected from the stock of a man who was so grizzled and ill-tempered; but, she supposed life had not gotten to him, and she would see to it that it wouldn’t. Not for many years, anyway. A fine kind of retirement, this life she had never thought she would live, working as assistant governess, then tutor and scribe, to the Martin girls.

  But still.

  Dominique could not help but feel, from time
to time, a hollow in her breast. Still, from time to time, she awoke from dreams where she caught a glimpse of the dark-gold curls of warm-smelling hair. Still, but not often, she expected to feel the slight weight of that diamond around her neck. In those moments, she would fetch her boy up early and they would go for a walk along the seaside where she’d awoken. There they’d watch the gulls and ducks quarrel over who-knew-what, and see the tide pools filled with alien life. Existence was too beautiful for regret or unhappiness, and she had to remember that.

  Of course, she had learned already that good things needed come to their ends. Dr. Martin retired when Lazarus was five, and he no longer required Dominique’s services. His girls had matured and now considered husbandry, as Dominique teasingly called it, to be their main occupation. She was let go when he moved to the country; and it was just as well, since she was then in need of change. With the remainder of her mysterious savings, Dominique purchased a small house in another, smaller seaside town and immediately set about looking for work. In this, she found no success, for few wanted to employ a woman, miraculous and literate as the widow was. She was beginning to become discouraged and increasingly took solace in nothing but the spinning of outrageous yarns for her son about the adventures of a one-eyed Lady General and her many strange friends. These stories often felt like that—just stories. Time marched on and reality lowered memory’s resolution, and she questioned, sometimes, as she had in those first moments holding her baby, if it had even happened at all. If she had not awoken on a beach in a delirious fugue state and convinced herself that her life wasn’t as mundane as everyone else’s.

  Then, by happenstance, she heard of a woman, also a wealthy young widow, who was overwhelmed by her new marital status and in sore need of a governess while recovering from the loss. This, Dominique sensed, was an opportunity just for her: a good and steady job with a woman to whom she could likely relate. Now that would be the ticket to security and independence. After forcing indignant Lazarus into a doublet that was everything from “stiff” to an “iron maiden,” Dominique placed the finishing touches on her only ornamented feature—her hair—with a small hat-shaped fascinator: Martin’s good-luck/you’re-fired gift. Pleased with their appearances, she took her son’s miniature hand and marched him across the village, deaf to his litany of stammered complaints.

  It was very funny. All that she’d been through, and she still felt anxiety over a thing like a job interview! But the house at which they found themselves was more a small mansion, replete with a Technicolor garden and the multiple chimneys of wealth. She told herself it was reasonable to have a bit of performance anxiety with an opportunity this important.

  Yet, when her knock upon the door was answered, she knew the job guaranteed. The maid (who, she would later learn, had washed up in a basinet from the ocean, was traded across the Silk Road, landed in the Netherlands, and then came to work in this peaceful place in Denmark) so resembled Miki Soto that Dominique’s mouth fell open. She understood, now, the root of her anxiety. The emotion was not profane, daily anxiety but anxiety of the soul. Not an anxiety at all—the emotion was anticipation. Hope. As Dominique’s pace hastened while the chatty maid led interviewee and son into a sunlit drawing room, all those potential feelings bubbled up into the very palpable, very fixed one of joy.

  “Fru Kassandra,” called the maid, “this governess, Dominique d’Martín, is here about the position.”

  Yes. It was still possible for the world to be imperfect. That was the nature of life, after all. But as honey-colored locks bounced around the soft, quick-to-flush face whose eyes lifted from the bonny daughter yammering at her feet, Dominique glimpsed a future that shone brighter than her true love’s smile.

  Dominia was home.

  [ed.: The following prayer, extracted from a chaplet circa 4882 CE in a later treatise by the controversial martyr scholar René Ichigawa, demonstrates the impact the figure of Dominia di Mephitoli had upon the martyr race after her departure from that reality. It would seem the Holy Martyr Church of times future has expanded to incorporate both Red Market and Lazarene faiths. Its relationship with ‘Abrahamian’ faiths of its day remains unclear. Though information on the future state of the Church, martyrkind, and Earth is limited, it is possible to extrapolate from the prayer the conclusion that the blood of Lavinia (notably still honored in prayers as the blood of Lazarus) remains in circulation. Questions regarding the future fertility of the martyr race, its continued presence on Earth, and the peaceful transfer of power to Lavinia di Firenze—as well as the planet’s fate after Dominia’s departure—remain without clear answer at this time.]

  The Novena For Divine Mercy

  On Behalf of the

  Holy Lady Dominia di Mephitoli,

  Savior of the Planet Earth and

  Redeemer of the Martyr Race

  First Night

  Tonight bring to Me all mankind, especially all

  sinners and martyrs, and immerse them

  in the ocean of My mercy.

  Most Merciful Dominia, whose very nature it is to have compassion on us and to forgive us, do not look upon our sins or martyrdom but upon our trust which we place in your infinite goodness. Receive us all into the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart, and never let us escape from it. We beg this of You by Your love which unites You to Reality and the Sacred Word.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon all mankind and especially upon poor sinners and martyrs, all enfolded in the Most Compassionate Heart of Dominia. For the sake of Her sorrowful Passion show us Your mercy, that we may praise the omnipotence of Your mercy for ever and ever. Amen.

  Second Night

  Tonight bring to Me the souls of priests, priestesses

  and religious, and immerse them in My unfathomable mercy.

  Most Merciful Dominia, from whom comes all repentance, increase Your grace in men and women consecrated to Your service, that they may perform worthy works of mercy; and that all who see them may glorify the Lord of Mercy who rules the Kingdom.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon the company of chosen ones in Your vineyard – upon the souls of priests, priestesses and religious; and endow them with the strength of Your blessing. For the love of the Heart of Your Mother in which they are enfolded, impart to them Your power and light, that they may be able to guide others in the way of salvation and with one voice sing praise to Your boundless mercy for ages without end. Amen.

  Third Night

  Tonight bring to Me all devout and faithful souls,

  and immerse them in the ocean of My mercy.

  Most merciful Dominia, from the treasury of Your mercy, You impart Your graces in great abundance to each and all. Receive us into the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart and never let us escape from It. We beg this grace of You by that most wondrous love for the heavenly Bride with which Your Heart burns so fiercely.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon faithful souls, as upon the inheritance of Your Mother. For the sake of Her sorrowful Passion, grant them Your blessing and surround them with Your constant protection. Thus may they never fail in love or lose the treasure of the holy faith, but rather, with all the hosts of Angels and Saints, may they glorify Your boundless mercy for endless ages. Amen.

  Fourth Night

  Tonight bring to Me those who do not believe

  I Am That I Am, and those who do not

  yet know the True Word.

  Most compassionate Dominia, You are the Light of the whole world. Receive into the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart the souls of those who do not believe I Am That I Am, and those who as yet do not know the True Word. Let the rays of Your grace enlighten them that they, too, together with us, may extol Your wonderful mercy; and do not let them escape from the abode which is Your Most Compassionate Heart.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon the souls of those who do not believe I Am That I Am, and those who as yet do not know you but who are enclosed in the Most Compassiona
te Heart of Dominia. Draw them to the light of the Kingdom. These souls do not know what great happiness it is to love You. Grant that they, too, may extol the generosity of Your mercy for endless ages. Amen.

  Fifth Night

  Tonight bring to Me the souls who have

  refused the Blood of Lazarus.

  Most Merciful Dominia, Redemption Itself, You do not refuse light to those who seek it of You. Receive into the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart the souls who have refused the Blood of Lazarus. Draw them by Your light into the unity of the Church, and do not let them escape from the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart; but bring it about that they, too, come to glorify the generosity of Your mercy.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon the souls of those who have refused the Blood of Lazarus, who have squandered Your blessings and misused Your graces by obstinately persisting in their errors. Do not look upon their errors, but upon the love of Your own Mother and upon Her bitter Passion, which She underwent for their sake, since they, too, are enclosed in Her Most Compassionate Heart. Bring it about that they also may glorify Your great mercy for endless ages. Amen.

  Sixth Night

  Tonight bring to Me the meek and humble souls and the souls of little children, and immerse them in

  My mercy.

  Most Merciful Dominia, Your Passion follows the pattern of the Greatest, who said, “Learn from Me for I am meek and humble of heart.” Receive into the abode of Your Most Compassionate Heart all meek and humble souls and the souls of little children. These souls send all heaven into ecstasy and they are the heavenly Logos’s favorites. They are a sweet-smelling bouquet before the throne of God; God Himself takes delight in their fragrance. These souls have a permanent abode in Your Most Compassionate Heart, O Dominia, and they unceasingly sing out a hymn of love and mercy.

  Eternal Logos, turn Your merciful gaze upon meek souls, upon humble souls, and upon little children who are enfolded in the abode which is the Most Compassionate Heart of Dominia. These souls bear the closest resemblance to Your Mother’s beloved Bride. Their fragrance rises from the earth and reaches Your very throne. Father of mercy and of all goodness, I beg You by the love you bear these souls and by the delight You take in them: Bless the whole world, that all souls together may sing out the praises of Your mercy for endless ages. Amen.