Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  Summer and winter alike, moments after every midnight of the year, after they had slept for three hours, the abbess of the Poor Clare Colettines of Québec woke her daughters and led them to prayer. They reached the door of the chapel, wheree Mère Marie Rose paused and dipped her right forefinger in the holy water stoup and made the sign of the cross. In winter when the holy water froze and not a drop adhered to her finger she made the gesture anyway, and each of the four nuns behind her did the same.

  The nuns entered the chapel in single file, each pausing to bow deeply from the waist in front of the tabernacle before taking her place in the facing rows of wooden boxes called choir stalls. Since they were five altogether, there were two nuns on one side, three on the other. The asymmetry disturbed Mère Marie Rose.

  Le bon Dieu had promised her a postulant. He had spoken to her as plainly as anyone could wish. I am sending you another daughter to be consumed in the flames of my love. She had even shared the joyous news with the community and with Père Antoine. Where was she, this sixth offering of prayer and penance?

  “O Lord, open my lips and my mouth shall declare Your praise.” Soeur Marie Joseph, the cantor, had a lovely voice. She intoned the great antiphon of Matins, the First Hour of the new day, and the assembled nuns answered with the opening psalm, “Confitebor tibi quia terribiliter magnificatus es …” I will praise You for You are terrible and magnificent …

  Their chant was tremulous in the candlelit dark Only Joseph could truly sing, and Mère Rose and her nuns did not spend hours in practice, like the proud Benedictines for whom the perfection of each note was a sacred duty. But all of them knew their chant rose from their hearts to heaven on a direct course. “Nonne qui oderunt te Domine oderam?” Have I not hated them that hated You?

  Midway through the third psalm of the Matins office a red haze obscured the words on the page of Mère Rose’s Psalter. The abbess closed her eyes and continued to chant from memory. She plunged into the haze, offering herself to appease God’s wrath. Flames. A river of blood. What did they signify? Tell me, my good God. Tell me what I must know. There was no answer, only the chants of Matins: Taste and see that the Lord is sweet. Magnify His name with me.

  The visions had begun when she was a little girl. She had only to dose her eyes to see twisting, writhing souls in torment surrounded by slavering demons. And holding back the demons, a circle of women wearing black veils that fell in soft folds to their shoulders, and rough gray robes tied with knotted white cords, and nothing on their feet. But the women could not join hands to close the circle and release the souls from their agony. They stretched as far toward each other as they could, but one person was missing. The little girl who would grow up to be Mère Rose had always known the brown-clad nuns were waiting for her.

  These days she saw other things. Red men, savages who did not know Jesus Christ and His Church and who were therefore unable to enter heaven, who must remain in emptiness and nothingness for all eternity. Their sadness and loss overwhelmed her. Their ignorance appeared to her as a great boulder blocking the mouth of a cave, preventing the light from entering. Oh my God … only one more. One more. To roll back the great stone of unbelief, just one more woman was needed. Preferably young and beautiful and pure, and willing to offer herself in total sacrifice.

  Half an hour later the prayers of Matins ended. The nuns knelt in their stalls, waiting for the abbess to give the signal for them to rise. It did not come. Soeur Marie Celeste was vicaress, Mère Rose’s second in command. She glanced at the abbess and saw that her eyes were still tightly shut, as they had been for much of the Office. Celeste waited a few moments more. It was the abbess who should lead them from the chapel back to their cells, to the three hours’ sleep that comprised the second part of the night’s rest for Poor Clares of the strict observance. The abbess did not move. Eh bien, such things were common with la bonne Mère. She was a chosen soul. Celeste stepped out of her choir stall and Marie Angelique, Marie Françoise, and Marie Joseph followed her. The four processed from the chapel and, as happened so often, left the abbess motionless and entranced.

  The front door of the monastery was made of brawny planks of oak bound with hammered iron. It was locked and barred, and however many times Quent beat his fist against it there was no response. “Here,” Nicole said. “We must try here. It is called the turn.”

  He did not answer her—they had barely spoken for days—but he looked at what appeared to be a small barrel set into the wall next to the door. A heavy brass bell hung beside the barrel’s rounded bulge. Nicole took hold of the leather pull and shook it vigorously. A few moments later, though they could see no one, they heard a voice. “Laudate Jesum Christum.” Praised be Jesus Christ.

  “Per omnia saecula saeculorum,” Nicole said. World without end.

  “Qu’ est-ce que vous voudrais, madame?” Angelique’s heart was thudding against her chest. The accent of this visitor was not that of the locals. And she was young. Mère Rose had been saying for months that a postulant would come to join them. Perhaps today—

  “I wish to be one of you,” Nicole said. “To become a Poor Clare.”

  Angelique clasped her hands in excitement, then pressed them to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Praised be Jesus Christ indeed! “Un moment, ma petite. Ne quittez pas.” The words tumbled out of Marie Angelique in an urgent rush. “One moment only. Do not go. Un moment!”

  The little nun hurried from the turn and ran toward the chapel. It was early dawn and the high windows of the small choir let in a few beams of pink-tinged light. One seemed to be resting directly on the abbess, kneeling exactly as she had been when Matins and then the first Office of the day, Lauds, had finished. Angelique was not surprised. When ma mère was taken in this manner she could not control the length of what she called the wound of love. But for this … she would wish to be told this at once.

  Angelique paused just long enough for a deep bow before the tabernacle, then turned and walked quickly to Mère Rose’s stall. Her bare feet made no sound on the uneven stones. “Ma Mère,” she whispered. “I humbly beg you to forgive this interruption, ma Mère, but—”

  “So she has come at last,” Marie Rose said, opening her eyes. “Thanks be to God.”

  Quent lingered in the shadows at the rear of the chapel.

  “Magnificat anima mea Dominum.” My soul doth magnify the Lord. The chant rose from behind the closely placed and heavily curtained iron bars that backed the altar. “He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name.”

  The disembodied voice behind the turn had given Nicole a worn old prayer book. All her responses were written there, the nun said. Nicole held the prayer book now, but as fer as Quent could tell she wasn’t looking at it.

  “Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae,” the voices behind the bars chanted. He has looked on the lowliness of his handmaiden.

  “Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omens generationes,” Nicole replied. She spoke the words clearly, without hesitation. All generations will call me blessed.

  Sweet God Almighty, what kind of religion was this that locked women up behind iron bars and called it virtue? He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her in this place. It was dim. Nicole was meant for sunlight and laughter. For Shadowbrook. Not to be locked up forever a virgin. Was their world filled only with women? Perhaps not. A tall gaunt man dressed in a brown robe was kneeling in the tiny chapel. He seemed unaware of Quent’s presence, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off Nicole.

  She was wearing the gray Quaker dress that Esther Snowberry had given her and she’d entirely hidden her hair under the plain white mobcap. She was nonetheless so beautiful she took his breath away. Maybe more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, glowing with happiness. She knelt in front of the small altar, gazing intently at a golden box.

  Quent clenched his fists to stop himself from striding forward and carrying her away from this superstition and Catholic deviltry. There was no point. She was doing what she wanted
to do. Damn you, Nicole. The devil take you. I’ll not beg you to change your mind.

  Still, he couldn’t leave while he could yet look at her, kneeling with her head bowed in prayer so he could see the tender place at the back of her neck. A bird or birds, a hawk, a bear, a river of blood. Two almost identical dreams told to him by two entirely different men. What did it all mean? In spite of his distaste for popery, Quent found himself gazing at the altar and praying for an answer.

  Père Antoine was conscious of the man behind him, but he did not need to look again to know the man was Uko Nyakwai, the legendary Red Bear. So Quentin Hale had come here, to Québec, to the place of the French enemy. In itself perhaps not so extraordinary. The trappers and scouts, all the coureurs de bois, moved freely over the land; like the red men, they had little use for legal borders. But that it should be Quentin Hale who brought the Franciscans the treasure they had all been waiting for was extraordinary. Père Antoine signed himself with the cross. The ways of God were truly remarkable … Lantak had sent word that the raid had been successful. He was claiming the two hundred livres he was owed.

  The chanting of the Magnificat was finished. The voice of Mère Marie Rose came from behind the grille. “What do you wish, my child?”

  “To follow Christ and live the life of the gospel,” Nicole replied.

  “Are you prepared to give your heart to Lady Poverty and follow Francis and Clare, to be hidden with God in the cloister?”

  Oh yes, she burned to do exactly that. Accept me, mon Dieu. She did not look at the formal words of response. Her reply came from deep within her. “I am truly prepared, ma Mère. With all my heart and soul.”

  Mère Marie Rose smiled. Enthusiasm was natural in the young. And this one had spirit, she could tell simply from the sound of her voice. The black woolen curtains on their side of the grille made it impossible to see into the public chapel, and the turn permitted no glimpse of a visitor, but Angelique had been beside herself with delight when she announced the girl’s arrival. “Her voice, ma Mère, it is lovely. I am sure she is a beautiful bride of Christ.”

  “We are concerned with a beautiful soul, ma Soeur, only that.” It was her sacred duty as abbess to curb the remains of worldly attitudes in her daughters, but from the first day she had herself stepped inside the cloister, wearing the exquisite frock her darling maman had ordered made specially for the occasion (“Each stitch sewn with one of my tears, ma chère petite, my tears …”), Marie Rose had known how eagerly the nuns devoured the sight of a new postulant. A young woman coming to join them was, for the few moments before she was absorbed into the community, a glimpse of the world they had left behind. The latest fashions, the way women outside were dressing their hair … Oh yes, a tinge of it, the tiniest remnant, continued even in the heart of the holy abbess of the Monastery of Poor Clares of Québec. She would deny herself the evening collation in penance.

  The abbess rose from her knees and bowed low before the tabernacle. As soon as she straightened she flicked forward the part of her veil that covered her face, which was to be used in any circumstance where a nun in solemn vows might be seen by one who was not a member of her community. The daughters of Marie Rose covered their faces as well. Then, hidden from the world they had left behind, the five nuns processed to the tiny door in the corner of the grille.

  The keys at Marie Rose’s waist were one of the marks of her authority, and her hand trembled slightly when she detached them from the cord that secured her gray habit and chose the one that unlocked the door. It swung wide on silent, well-oiled hinges. Grâce àDieu! The girl was truly lovely. A fitting sacrifice of praise. Marie Rose’s glance roamed beyond the new entrant, sweeping quickly over the poor little chapel. Père Antoine was there. Another man as well. She spent only seconds examining the world beyond her cloister, but with more interest than necessary, Mère Rose decided. She would discipline herself with greater than usual fervor this night. And skip the evening collation all week. Meanwhile, the postulant was waiting. “We welcome you, my child. Enter into the joy the world cannot understand.”

  Nicole drew a deep breath. She knew the black-veiled nuns must be intently curious about her, but mostly she was conscious of the eyes watching her from behind. Oh, yes. She had almost drowned in those extraordinary blue eyes. Forgive me, my good God, if loving him is a sin, I will do penance for it all the days of my life, but I will never forget.

  The nun stretched out both her hands. “Entre, ma petite. Je tu invite.”

  Nicole knew if she waited only a few seconds more, if she turned even her head, Quent would come for her. He would close the distance between them in two or three of his long strides and claim her and they would be together for whatever life God granted them.

  “Qu’ est-ce que tu désir, ma petite?” This time the question—what do you wish?—carried a hint of doubt.

  Half a moment more, the space of one drawn breath. Quent behind her, and in front of her, a call that few heard and to which even fewer responded. Nicole’s heart surged with unexpected joy. She had been chosen. “I wish to give myself to le bon Dieu as a Poor Clare.” Her voice was firm and clear. She put her hands in the hands of the abbess and stepped into the cloister.

  Quent glimpsed robust women with black veils over their faces. The creatures drew Nicole into their midst and the door closed. He heard a few muffled titters. It sounded like—good Christ, it was hard to believe—like a group of young girls giggling.

  His fists were clenched and his jaws clamped together to keep him from howling with outrage. Those iron bars are the only substantial thing in the place, he told himself. The rest is little more than a few stones piled atop each other. I could knock the whole thing down with my bare hands. But it might as well be a fortress. I’m never going to get her out of here.

  Quent’s huge body sagged with the weight of what he knew to be true. He didn’t notice that now that Nicole was out of sight, the priest had turned and was staring at him.

  Père Antoine could not get over his wonder. Uko Nyakwai had brought them a blessing from Almighty God. Holy Virgin, You have sent me a sign. I am unworthy but I am truly your humble and loving son and son of the blessed Francis, and you have sent me a sign that I’ve done the right thing. Sending Lantak to attack Shadowbrook. It will save many souls and lead to the glory of the Order.

  And see how this Protestant heretic who is also many parts heathen gazes at the tabernacle as if he were truly praying. Perhaps he too can be saved. Oui, but that is in your gentle hands, Mother of God.

  He could hear the voice of the Holy Virgin warning him: Be cautious, my son, be jealous of my honor and the honor of the Church and your Order. Antoine signed himself with the cross once more and slipped out of the chapel, leaving the Red Bear staring at the place he had last seen the young woman.

  There was only one lookout lying on his belly at the crest of a hillock thick with pine trees. Quent crept up behind him and slit the brave’s throat with one stroke of the dirk. The only sound was the gurgling of escaping blood.

  That’s for Lilac and Sugar Willie you murdering bastard. I hope the devil’s waiting for you in hell. He wiped the dagger on the Huron’s own breechclout and slipped it into the holster at the small of his back, then took the Indian’s musket. Still making no sound, he moved closer to the camp.

  The sun was directly overhead and the heat was brutal. The renegades hadn’t made a fire. Two were sprawled underneath a tree, passing a jug of rum back and forth. One stood a few feet away, bending over Solomon the Barrel Maker.

  He’d been stripped to his breeches. Even at a distance of ten strides, Quent could see that Solomon’s bare back and shoulders were covered with the old scars of John’s whipping, and fresh wounds that looked like burns. His boots were gone and his feet were bloody, the flesh torn and lacerated. He lay on his belly, his big body twisted into a deep, unnatural arch. They had tied a leather thong around his neck and his ankles and pulled it tight enough to raise both his head and h
is feet. The Indian standing over Solomon was pouring water over the lashing. As it dried, the leather would shrink and the ties grow tighter, contorting him into an ever more torturous curve, slowly but constantly tearing muscles and snapping bones. Quent had seen it before. It took most men three or four days and repeated soakings before they died. Judging from his position Solomon had been tied up for only a few hours. With luck, no permanent damage was yet done.

  Quent held the long gun in firing position; the musket was also loaded and lying beside him. He could finish off two of the three renegades in as long as it would take to draw three breaths. The one remaining would be too busy looking for the source of the gunfire and a way to save his own skin to bother with the captive. His confusion would probably last the twenty or so seconds it would take Quent to reload, then he too would be dead. That left Lantak unaccounted for. He was by far the most dangerous. Not smart to move until he knew where Lantak was.

  His gaze ranged over the campsite, always coming back to the thick stand of trees on the far side.

  What had driven Lantak and his demented band to travel hundreds of leagues, much of it through the country of their enemies, to burn and murder and pillage the land of people they had never met and with whom they could have no conceivable quarrel? He’d seen Lantak once or twice, but they’d never tangled. The Huron could have no possible personal grudge against Uko Nyakwai. And as far as he knew, John had nothing to do with Québec, much less Hurons; it was the same for Ephraim and Lorene. Their world and that of Lantak were as far apart as America and the Japans.

  None of it made any sense, but he had to find a way to make sense of it Otherwise how could he be sure that the Patent and everyone on it would be safe from future attacks? Damn! He needed more time to think. He needed to talk to Corm.