“Hi there, Kristin,” he said shyly. Howie was a year younger than she. He had had a crush on her since grade school. “You were sure great last night,” he said. “Everybody said so, even my mom and my dad.”
“Thanks, Howie,” the girl in the dream said.
The school bus stopped and Beatrice climbed up the steps. St. Michael, wearing his blue robe, was driving. He smiled warmly at her with his calm, magnificent blue eyes. “Good morning,” he said. “Are you ready for another busy day?”
She was confused. Beatrice turned around, but Howie was no longer behind her. The bus was full of young people, both men and women, all in blue robes. ‘Ky-ri-e Elei-son,” they were singing. “Take a seat,” Michael said gently. “We have much to accomplish.”
Beatrice sat next to a window in the front. The glass was frosted over, but after she rubbed it she could see the snow falling outside. It was not dark anymore. At the next stop, Ms. Shields boarded the bus, wearing her blue robe.
Michael was touching her forearm. “I must go now,” he said. He moved away from her, down the first step toward the door, and put on a jacket.
“No, don’t,” Beatrice said, feeling an unknown terror.
He smiled. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “Just remember everything we have discussed.” The bus door opened and he walked out into the snow.
The driver’s seat was empty, but the motor was still running. Beatrice moved over to the aisle and looked back into the bus. Her father and mother, now wearing blue robes also, were sitting directly behind her. Most of the rest of the passengers were children.
The steering wheel was huge. Her arms could not fit all the way around it. Beatrice took a deep breath and put the bus in a driving gear. The singing began again behind her. “Ky-ri-e Elei-son, Ky-ri-e Elei-son.” She relaxed somewhat, and joined in the singing.
Ice began to form on the windshield. Each time she cleaned it with the wipers, the ice returned. Beatrice leaned over so that she could see through a clear spot in the glass. The spot was becoming smaller and smaller. Suddenly she saw, through the thick snow, two cars completely stopped in the middle of the road in front of her. She panicked, hitting the brakes hard. The bus yanked sideways and began to skid. It was rolling over.
“No,” Sister Beatrice shouted vehemently. “No.” She shook her head and opened her eyes. In the twilight zone between waking and sleeping she was momentarily disoriented.
Where am I? she thought, glancing around the almost empty coach. A businessman in his forties, across the aisle, was looking at her curiously. Beatrice managed a pleasant smile, took a deep breath, and gazed out at the English countryside.
“We think that what you are doing is wonderful,” Ms. Washburn said. She moved her husband’s golf bag and shoes around so that Vivien could place the charts in the trunk without bending them. “I was just saying to Brad this morning that what you have accomplished in Hyde Park is truly extraordinary.”
The car was large and comfortable. Beatrice sat beside Ms. Washburn in the front seat. Vivien sat alone in the back. “Well,” the woman said as she pulled out of Esher station, “how was the train ride?”
“All right,” Beatrice said pleasantly. “It was not crowded at all.”
“It hardly ever is anymore,” Ms. Washburn said. “Brad is worried that service is going to be cut back again, what with the deficits and all. We’ll be practically marooned out here then.”
Sister Vivien stared out the car window as Beatrice and Ms. Washburn discussed the agenda for the meeting. The tony suburb of Esher looked mostly unaffected by the worst depression in modern history. Only a discerning eye could tell that the gardens were not perfect anymore, that the trees were no longer properly trimmed, and that the cars were now, on average, several years older than they had been a decade earlier. Here and there a foreclosure sign had been posted on one of the sprawling estates beneath the tall trees, but the lettering on the signs was small and unobtrusive.
They pulled into a driveway and approached a three-car garage. “Another topic that is on everyone’s mind—because we see so much about it on television—” Ms. Washburn was saying, “is security. The pictures from the American cities are really frightening. I know it’s a little out of your bailiwick, but it would help if somewhere in your talk today you would remind the ladies that in England we don’t have heavily armed youth gangs who might band with the homeless to take over whole suburbs…”
The sun had come out. By two-thirty the temperature was a comparatively pleasant twelve degrees Celsius. Beatrice and Ms. Washburn decided that the group of thirty or so women, mostly in their fifties and sixties, would be less crowded if Beatrice gave her presentation out on the back lawn.
Vivien set the charts up on the easel. After Sister Beatrice explained both the current status of the Hyde Park community and the prospects for expansion, she raised the financial issues. “We are requesting two different kinds of funds from our loyal supporters,” she said. “In the first category are what we call sustaining revenues. These are the monies required to administer and operate the Hyde Park complex and our five other smaller homeless sites scattered around the greater London area. Since we have been fortunate in the last six months, both in obtaining new sources of revenue and in achieving greater operating efficiency, our request for sustaining revenues from each group is twenty-three percent less than it was six months ago.”
Beatrice nodded to Vivien to flip to the next chart. “To achieve the Kensington Gardens expansion, however, assuming the city grants us permission to use the space, we need just under one million pounds of new money. We have set a goal of raising half that money from totally new sources. That is a very tough target, but we believe we can accomplish it by offering inducements—we might name the children’s school after a benefactor, for example. The other half of this new money we hope to raise from our faithful friends from the past. Scaling strictly on the basis of past contributions, the total we are requesting from your group is shown here.”
Beatrice paused, her eyes searching out the eyes of every member of the audience. “I can see you doing the arithmetic,” she continued, her voice rising slightly in pitch. “Yes, we are asking for thirty-one percent more than you contributed six months ago… That’s a lot of money, I agree. But please spend a moment thinking about what will be achieved with that money. Together we will be creating a special haven for poor, downtrodden children, most of whom have never known what it is like to be free from want. They will have a home where they will be fed, clothed, sheltered, and loved. They will have a place where they can grow and learn, where their dreams can soar, where their imaginations can create…”
When Beatrice was finished, she smiled briefly at the Esher ladies, and then knelt on the grass with her hands clasped together in prayer.
“Dear God,” she said, “help us all to understand how interconnected we are, one to another. Help us also to remember what it was like to be an innocent child, and to rejoice that we have an opportunity to free some of today’s children from the desperation of abject poverty. Bless the charity and love in the hearts of all those gathered here. Bless our work in Thy name as we recall the words of Thy son Jesus: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ In St. Michael’s name. Amen.”
“Have you known her long?” the white-haired woman standing next to Vivien asked.
“I’ve been her assistant for a little over four months,” Vivien replied after she finished chewing the cake in her mouth. It was delicious.
“She seems so young,” a woman on the other side said. “I bet she’s not even thirty yet.”
Vivien sipped her tea and made no comment. “What made you decide to become a nun?” the first lady asked. “Or should I refer to you as a priestess?”
“We are priestesses,” Vivien said. “Actually I am still a novice. I have not yet been ordained… And I joined because I wanted to do something for others.”
“You don’t sound like an American,” the second lady said. “Where are you from?”
“From Essex,” Vivien replied with a smile. “My father is an English country gentleman. My mother is Jamaican.”
“Hmm,” the lady remarked. “That’s an interesting combination.”
Across the room, Beatrice was surrounded and being peppered with questions. Vivien decided to go to her rescue. She stopped by the table, prepared a cup of tea for Beatrice, and picked up a pair of scones.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Vivien said, moving through the crowd. “Sister Beatrice also needs some refreshment.”
“Thanks,” Beatrice said gratefully, immediately taking a long sip from the teacup Vivien had brought her.
“I’m sorry, Sister Beatrice,” Ms. Washburn apologized from beside her guest, “I hadn’t realized…”
“It’s all right, Ms. Washburn,” Beatrice said.
“But our problem is altogether different from America’s,” a stern-looking lady said, continuing the conversation that Vivien’s arrival had interrupted. “Everyone there is either rich or poor. Because they have such a small middle class and very few government-provided services, the disparities are more obvious. Plus, even with their new laws, it’s still absurdly easy for any idiot to obtain a gun.”
“Did you see Reginald Townsend on the telly last night?” a Ms. Blake said excitedly. “He did an interview with that black gang leader in Ohio, the fellow who calls himself Six-Six-Six. The man kept waving his machine gun around during the whole interview. It was terrifying.”
“And how about that house he’s living in with his girlfriend,” another woman said. “It’s bigger than mine.”
“Reginald asked him about that,” Ms. Blake said. “The man said that he and his gang moved into the houses in the area after the previous residents ‘vacated their premises.’ Mr. Six-Six-Six became very angry when Reginald showed those videos taken the night Shaker Heights was overrun last month.”
“What bothered me was that he showed no concern at all for the people thrown out of their homes,” a woman offered.
Ms. Blake’s tone was scornful. “‘Why should I worry about them?’ he said to Reginald. ‘They’re rich white folks. They’ll go live with other rich white folks.’”
She glanced around at the other women. “Maybe the Germans have the right idea,” Ms. Blake continued. “They’re not even trying to provide for the foreign workers who can’t or won’t find jobs. They’re just loading them up and shipping them home to Turkey or Egypt or wherever they came from… We would never do that here, of course. We English are too civilized.”
“Ladies,” Beatrice said, taking advantage of the brief lull in the conversation, “as we were discussing earlier, human beings are an extraordinarily complex species, capable of all kinds of behavior. Aggression and hostility are always present wherever there are individuals who have been regularly denied basic sustenance. In his Easter sermon at Lake Bolsena, St. Michael said that the final evolution could not take place until food, love, shelter, clothing, health care, and education were available to everyone. That’s what we are trying to do.”
“Sister,” Ms. Blake said sharply, “I admire your work very much. But I must admit that I find you and your associates ridiculously naive at times. Thugs like that Six-Six-Six would not listen to your gibberish for even a second… My husband and I contribute to your effort not because we believe that we are part of God’s grand plan, or the final evolution, or whatever it is you call it, but because we don’t want our neighborhoods invaded by armies of desperate people led by armed hoodlums.”
All eyes were fixed on Sister Beatrice to see how she would respond to Ms. Blake’s outburst. Even Ms. Washburn was momentarily speechless.
Beatrice moved over closer to Ms. Blake. “Thank you for sharing your feelings,” she said, her clear blue eyes unblinkingly staring at the older woman. “I understand how easy it is, especially in these distressing times, to temporarily lose faith, both in God and in humanity.”
She reached out and touched Ms. Blake lightly on the forearm. “My faith cannot restore yours,” Beatrice said. “Only you can do that… I would, however, like to extend to you, and to your husband as well, a personal invitation to spend part of a day with me in Hyde Park. You could see firsthand not only what we do, but how we do it… I believe that your opinions about our naïveté might be altered by the experience. And there is a chance, I believe, that some of your faith in God and humanity might be restored.”
“I bet that Esher group will come through with the money,” Vivien said to Beatrice during the train ride to Wimbledon. “And do you know why? Not because of your slick presentation and prayer, both of which were carefully designed to loosen their purse strings—”
“I was expressing my true feelings,” Beatrice interrupted, placing her Coca-Cola container on the table in front of her. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I deliberately…”
“Of course not, B,” Vivien replied. “I know, perhaps better than anybody, that what the Esher ladies heard and saw was the genuine article… That’s what is so amazing to me. I couldn’t imagine doing such a gig. I would laugh out loud at my own hypocrisy. But you really believe all that shit.”
“And you don’t?” Beatrice said. “And you have less than ten days before you must make your final commitment?”
“Oh, I believe too,” Vivien said lightly. “But in my own way… I guess I’m basically a cynic at heart.” She paused briefly. “Let me put it this way,” Sister Vivien continued. “I believe in what the Order of St. Michael is doing more than I have ever believed in anything in my life.”
“I’ll accept that for the moment,” Beatrice said. “Anyway, you were saying…”
“Yes,” said Vivien, “about the Esher ladies… What really impressed them was your response to that Blake woman. You could see it in their eyes. You were loving, and fair, but tough at the same time.”
“I hope she does spend some time at the community,” Beatrice said. “I feel sorry for her. It must be awful to live in such fear.”
“No way,” Vivien said. “She won’t come… And she only said what a lot of the others were thinking.”
The two women were silent for a while. Then Sister Beatrice leaned over and touched Vivien’s hand. “Now’s probably as good a time as any,” Beatrice said, “to talk about your ordination.”
Vivien looked at her sponsor with a frown. “Is this a scheduled activity?” she asked. “I don’t recall seeing ‘1630 to 1700, talk to Vivien about ordination on Wimbledon train’ on your personal calendar this morning.”
Beatrice smiled. “No,” she said. “Actually I just thought about it. But do you have any questions I could help with?”
“A few hundred,” Vivien said with a shrug, “but I’m not sure talking about them will help.”
“By the way,” Beatrice said, “you might like to know that last week I turned in a positive recommendation for you. Your only remaining requirement for ordination is your personal testimony. Once that is fulfilled, the choice will be completely yours.”
Vivien’s face showed both pleasure and surprise. “So you do think I’d be a decent priestess? Even though I’m ornery, and opinionated, and not exactly what anyone would call a religious character?”
“We need independent thinkers in the order. We are still growing fast and want people who are willing to ask tough questions.” Beatrice’s smile expanded. “Of course, I would be less than honest if I did not admit that your devotion and humility, to name a couple of attributes, could be significantly improved.”
Vivien laughed. “Hey, even I would agree with that.”
They were distracted by the automatic announcement that the train was nearing Wimbledon Station. “Thanks, B,” Vivien said as she was gathering up their things. “For your confidence in me as well as your friendship.”
Beatrice gave her a brief hug.
6
So remind me again what we’re doing h
ere,” Vivien said, struggling as usual to keep up with Beatrice’s pace. They were approaching the large Michaelite compound in Wimbledon. The sun had set and the February air was becoming cold again.
‘ One of my best friends in the order, Brother Terry, is now in charge of this training program. We were both with St. Michael in Italy… although I think that Terry didn’t join until after the pope had sent Michael to the monastery… Anyway, Terry asked me if I would come down and talk to the trainees.”
The Wimbledon training complex was located where the All-England Tennis Club had once stood. To many in Great Britain, and the entire tennis world for that matter, one of the most devastating consequences of the Great Chaos had been the disappearance of the annual fortnight of world championship tennis at Wimbledon. Economics simply precluded its continuation. Spectators could not even afford to buy the tickets, let alone fly from America or Australia to watch the matches. The last championship at Wimbledon was played in late June and early July of 2137, one year before the nuclear bomb in Rome killed St. Michael and many of his followers. The All-England Club itself folded at Christmas in 2137 and the grounds stood empty until the late summer of 2139, when a major funding campaign by the Michaelites raised the money for the purchase of the property.
The Order of St. Michael had made a lot of changes. The enclosed center court, however, an architectural masterpiece dating to the early years of the twenty-first century, had been left intact. It was there that Sister Beatrice was going to address all four thousand of the trainees, recruits from throughout the British Isles.
“We will have dinner with the recruits,” Beatrice told Vivien as they passed through the gates, “just after my speech. I want to visit briefly with Brother Terry now, in case he has any last-minute requests.”
Over a hundred men and women, about half in their early twenties, were lined up in ranks on a large field to their left. They were doing calisthenics, as if they were a huge sports team.
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