Outside, Picard found Sister Leatrice tending to the herb garden. Immediately he was struck by the realization she was the woman he had chased through the woods, but he didn’t care to reveal his knowledge just yet as she didn’t appear to recognize him. The young woman’s blonde eyebrows sparkled in the sunlight. Woman? Perhaps he was getting old, but it seemed she ought to be among the orphanage teens studying for tests and such, not performing the duties of the Church.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Father Picard. I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience, but I’m in need of your assistance.”
“Sister Leatrice. How may I help you, Father?” she asked, setting aside her gardening tools.
“I’m looking for two boys. Perhaps you’ve seen them?” As Sister Leatrice rose to speak with him properly her heel sunk into the loose Earth, twisting her ankle. Reflexively Picard caught her elbow, preventing the young woman from toppling to the ground. With his aid she made it over to a hunched gargoyle and rested on its spread wings. Picard apprised the garden ornament with disdain. “Such a thing hardly seems appropriate for the Lord’s domain.”
Sister Leatrice explained that the Sisters who had established the facility after the passing of Opal Lorber decided to make use of various implements and decorations already on the estate. Besides, the squat statue weighed hundreds of pounds and none of the women could budge it. Picard noted to himself that he ought to do some heavy lifting to assist—impress?—the women and children. He examined her ankle and it seemed that she was gaining more range of motion with the injured joint as they rested, so they began to talk. Through their conversation it was revealed that Sister Leatrice had only been on at Perpetual Mercy for ten months. Before he realized he was doing it, Picard was pursuing frivolous topics, joking and “pouring on the charm” as it were. Sister Leatrice was riveted by his talk of the Church’s workings and his recent excursion to Guam.
Gardening tools shocked the duo out of their reverie as they impacted the ground at Father Picard’s side. He looked to discover two boys standing in silence.
“Oh, Father, these are the two young men you wanted to see. Boys, say hello to Father Picard.”
He stood to shake hands with the eldest; the boys neither greeted nor acknowledged him.
“What’s he doing here?”
Not one to be ignored, Father Picard interjected himself into the conversation. “I simply need to ask you a thing or two about Perpetual Mercy. Won’t take long.”
The boys went to their knees, but not in supplication. They examined Sister Leatrice’s foot, before she anxiously retracted it beneath her habit. They looked at each other and the younger one said, “There weren’t any answers to those questions on her skin yet he looked anyway.”
“Yes, yes, why don’t we leave the Sister alone and talk over here.” Father Picard ushered the boys over to an alcove, clenching and unclenching his fists. The warmth of Sister Leatrice’s skin still haunted his hands. “Okay, you must be Normal.” The taller one nodded, grim-faced. Furry little bugger, Picard thought as he smiled benevolently. He started in on questions about the orphanage, and the boys danced around the answers with the practiced grace of ballerinas. “Tell me, what are you hiding? What’s in that little head of yours?” When it became evident that no reply was forthcoming he added, “I promise you won’t get in trouble.”
“We hide nothing…Father.”
The smaller of the two nodded. “Nothing…Father.”
Attempting not to be perturbed by the response, Picard pushed forward. “I’ll forgive your poor manners today. Children don’t understand the gravity of what I do. Do you understand what I mean when I say gravity?”
They nodded. “Every child knows that: the irresistible force that dragged Newton’s soul down to the flaming throne of Mephistopheles.”
“What did you just say to me, boy?”
Normal replied, “We do a lot of reading.” He paused to clear his throat in a manner most foul. “Do you, by chance, make a habit of reading Celestial Intelligencer on a regular basis…Father?”
His companion stepped up so that their shoulders were as one, a lurid smirk twisting his features. “Yes, please tell us…Father.”
Picard himself felt compelled to clear the accumulating discharge and, more to the point, the tension from his throat. “No. I am not familiar with this publication.”
The two boys solemnly turned to each other, grim once more. “Perhaps you should be,” Normal stated. That said, the duo turned on their heels and marched away.
He thought to assert his will over the boys and force them to stay, but in the end decided the interview was a fruitless endeavor.
The atmosphere back at the library was frosty, but at least it was intelligible. Sister Anne preferred fingering dusty tomes to interacting with other humans, whereas those brothers were, well, “special” as Sister Elizabeth had called them. Despite the distance between them, however, Father Picard couldn’t help but feel that Sister Anne was prying into his affairs. Her intrusive glare was diverted elsewhere every time he looked up, but those fiery red eyebrows of hers spoke you are an intruder here. On the unforgiving battlefield of wills, however, he would not be bested, and redoubled his resolve.
He did let his focus wander though. The origins of the estate became an obsession. While studying the Lorber family history, he happened upon several mesmerizing texts. As it turned out, two of the family’s sons fought alongside Wolfe at Quebec, dying while helping ensure British dominion over Canada. Other members of the family were revenants only, existing as names in registries, or simply birth certificates. There were very few obituaries or death certificates to be found.
The research lasted well past the fall of darkness. Perhaps it was due to his dogged dedication to his job, or perhaps it was the battle of wills. Sister Anne, curse her bullheadedness, seemed determined to be the last to leave. The contest caused him to miss out on dinner, an event that always turned his mood south. Eventually he had his fill of the game. Storming up to her desk he proclaimed, “I supposed I should retire for the night!”
Sister Anne placidly rolled her eyes up to meet his and smiled like the Buddha. “If you want to do more reading in the morning I’ll be waiting.”
“Of course you will Sister, of course you will.” She didn’t have to lord it over him. He’d stay up all night if it meant reaching the library doors before she did. “Have a wonderful night.”
“I will.” She went back to her reading as if he’d already left.
Never one to be dismissed, Father Picard went back to he table of materials and organized them, then reorganized them. When it was readily apparent that he was leaving of his own volition and in accordance with his own schedule he exited, making sure to use heavy footfalls so that Sister Anne would notice.
The walk back to the caretaker’s cabin was a cold one. The weather had taken a turn for the worse while he was lost in the books, promising for a starless night. Gusts of wind rushed over the land without regard for late night travelers, causing him to shiver. Abernathy was nowhere to be found in the dark cabin, likely running errands or fixing some broken light or appliance at Perpetual Mercy. With the master of the house away Father Picard helped himself to what food and drink were available, then showered and groomed himself. The throat in the mirror possessed a sharp, uneven line a shade lighter than the skin surrounding it. The type of line drawn by razor-sharp blades. He cursed his memories, then retired to bed.
The night held nothing but discomfort and paranoia. The unfamiliar bed seemed to grow nails that scratched every itch lurking in his subconscious. What were those sounds in the night? The wind, animals, perhaps the comings and going of Abernathy? He was reminded of his strange walk through the woods. The sounds of children, of animals, and the thrilling “chase” Leatrice led him on. Yes, Leatrice. She had to be at least twen
ty-five years his junior, likely more. That look in her eye was so unfamiliar…what was it? A sultry brand of innocence. He wondered if her ankle was okay after the incident in the garden. That train of thought derailed at the memory of his conversation with the boys. What terrible, terrible children they were—then again, weren’t they all.
The troubled sleep of the previous night left Father Picard groggy and late. Sister Anne waited patiently, as promised, behind her desk with steepled fingers. Her face was an emotionless mask, but he thought there were hints of amusement around her eyes. Then again, maybe not. She made a grand ceremony of welcoming him to Perpetual Mercy library, venom to his ears. On situating himself at his work station he made sure to sit facing away from her, even though it meant spending unnecessary time rearranging his fastidiously organized books, records, and papers. It took an hour to settle in and finally attain his rhythm, at which time he was promptly interrupted.
“Any good reading lately, Dad?”
Father Picard found the brothers Normal and Sane standing behind him. He grimaced. “Please, just ‘Father’ will do.”
The boys shared a knowing glance. Sane spoke first. “How about the Opera Omnia? I hear it makes for rather thrilling reading…Father.”
He assured them he hadn’t read any of these obscure books they kept referencing, nor did he have the desire to seek them out. An awkward conversation followed, during which he continually tried to dismiss them politely, then with less and less tact as they grew more bothersome. What was worse, if he wasn’t mistaken, was that Sister Anne had her feet up on the desk and was smoking a cigar, although he couldn’t be sure because those accursed boys blocked his view. Obviously these were not conditions under which sound study could be performed, so he excused himself and went for a walk. After all, there was still one person he had yet to interview.
The search for the elusive Sister Mary led him all over, ending at the only contemporary building on site, the last place he expected to uncover a nun—the garage. At first he saw only a pair of legs protruding from under the hulk of a dilapidated truck, slender and beige, likely those of a child getting up to no good. Raucous heavy metal was blasting from a malfunctioning boom box, exactly the kind of music he had always disliked. Without hesitation he turned it off. The person under the vehicle slid out, agitated and apparently of Native or Asian descent.
“What’s the big idea,” she said. Her voice was rough and it was clear this was a woman, not some teenager who snuck out of the orphanage.
Picard looked down without replying, examining her loose black tank top, the hand-rolled cigarette smoldering in the corner of her mouth. A joint? “I’m trying to find Sister Mary.”
“Well, pat yourself on the back. Mission accomplished.” She slid back under the rust bucket, the bare legs sticking out of her cutoff jeans again becoming all that was visible of her.
Picard reeled from the psychological blow. Certain orders of nuns had modernized, yes, but thus far everything he’d witnessed had been aesthetically archaic. He wouldn’t think twice about seeing a normal woman’s legs displayed in such a manner, but for nuns with such a traditional habit…it filled him with great shame. Shame on her behalf for having fallen so, and shame for himself bearing witness to her shame. On instinct he turned to leave.
“Hey,” she called. “Turn that back on.”
“No. It gives me a headache.”
“Right.” It sounded as though she might be chuckling, although maybe it was wheezing induced by her cigarette. “You must be that hard-ass who’s been bugging everybody. I was hoping you wouldn’t find me in here.”
And how, pray tell, was he supposed to react to such effrontery? He laughed. Seating himself on the concrete, he took in the multitudinous tools and dirt housed in the garage, and the torn-apart vehicles. Talking to her greasy boots, he said, “Let me guess: you saw a commercial for at-home vocational training and it was either this or gun smithing.”
Her retort was, “Who said I didn’t take up gun smithing?” Her hand came into view, formed a gun, pointed at him, then bucked when she said “bang!”
“It’ll take more than that to get rid of me.” He reclined on a glorified skateboard and slid under the truck with her. She gave him an unsure glance, the smudges of gritty oil on her beige skin distracting him. Perhaps she could feel his uneasiness sharing close proximity to what practically felt like a denuded woman, although under regular circumstances she would be considered dressed appropriately for the situation. After assuring her that his intrusion would only be momentary he launched into a protracted series of questions. Despite her ornery demeanor and uncouth manner of dress, this Sister Mary seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, even though she was incapable of shedding light on anything.
When he pressed her on certain points, she said, “Look, I spend all my time in here fixing up cars for charity, fifteen hours a day. If that’s a crime, book me. Otherwise just ask the other Sisters. They’re the ones who run the show. Me, I’m the black sheep.” He nodded. There was an awkward moment after she finished her ratcheting, a stretch of time that involved determined staring at the undercarriage. Then they turned to each other and she shrugged. “Want a hit?” She proffered the smoldering nub.
He looked at her, unsettled. “I’m a man of the cloth! What is that?”
“PCP-laced marijuana, what else?” She had a good laugh, and it dawned on him that she was messing about once more.
“Aren’t you at least worried about blowing this place up?”
“No oil, no gas…what’s there to worry about?” Then, with the hand holding her cigarette, she slowly reached for the oil filter turning it once. “Or is there oil…” She looked to him and giggled mischievously.
Despite himself he laughed and shook his head in disbelief. He’d lost some of the tension he had felt since first arriving. “You know, under different circumstances we’d probably be good for drinks and laughs down at the pub.”
“Yup,” she agreed. “You are good for some laughs, anyway.”
They giggled, although he was unsure why he should do so. Suddenly there were footsteps, and a shadow from the other side of the truck. “Father?” It was Sister Leatrice, the novice. He slid out to speak with her, instead thrusting his head directly under her habit. Overcompensating for this blunder he rocketed back under the truck, jamming his foot against one of the tires. His face was flushed with embarrassment.
Sister Mary looked at him once more, grinning. “Smooth.”
Explaining what he was doing laying with Sister Mary in the secluded garage, and how harmless it all was, was no easy matter for Father Picard. Not for Leatrice’s unbelieving ears, as she asked nothing of him. “The Father doth protest too much, methinks,” she quoted with a wry smile. It turned out that there was no summons, nor an official need for him to fill. It just so happened that she had some down time and hoped to speak with him.
“About what?” He was puzzled, and a bit irritated as there was work to do be done. This Perpetual Mercy excursion was dragging on entirely too long.
“Well, things. You seem so worldly, Father. I’ve never left the area around Great Slave Lake.”
“Not even to Calgary?” She hadn’t been there. Perhaps there was a little time for diversion after all. “Let me tell you about the grand city of Tokyo, the customs of the Japanese, and their culinary expertise…” And so the daylight hours were whittled away by walks through the countryside, he relating his more entertaining anecdotes, and she collecting wildflowers. Of particular note were his stories of witch hunting in the Australian Outback, his life-and-death struggle when beset by Moroccan bandits, his rescue of an infirm man from a burning church in Ghana. There was more he could share, of course: the smells and sounds of opium dens, seducing parishioners’ wives, tales of debauchery that would soil her spirit now and forever, but those days were behind
him and best not discussed.
It was only too late that Leatrice remembered she was supposed to help with the supper, and the duo rushed back. Along the way she opened up to him a bit about her own past. Her father was a champion hunter, killed by an errant shot from one of his companions. Her mother was a champion drunkard, and died of kidney failure at the age of twenty-nine. Before passing, her mother placed her in the care of the orphanage.
This piqued Picard’s interest. Just as they approached the building he quizzed her on what life had been like growing up in Perpetual Mercy, and if she’d ever noted any strange or unexplained occurrences.
Her reply was, “I’d really better get inside and help out—thanks for the beautiful afternoon, though.” With that she raced inside.
Her evasion didn’t settle well with Father Picard, not one bit.
Picard stepped into Sister Madeleine’s chambers, bracing himself for a second encounter with the Abbess. They had managed to avoid each other during his stay, like magnets repelling each other, and secretly he was thankful as it permitted him to concentrate on the work at hand. However, she’d seen fit to summon him on short notice, and he hoped it would lead to something other than unnecessary quarreling. She didn’t seem to be there, so he’d wasted his time after all.
“That figures…”
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