Rise

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Rise

  Book 5 of the Oneness Cycle

  by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Rise

  Copyright 2014 by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Published 2014 by Little Dozen Press

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Mercy Hope

  Ebook formatting by Carolyn Currey, www.yourbookonline.wordpress.com

  Visit www.rachelstarrthomson.com

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  Chapter 1

  VIA DEL SOL, AD 1392

  All morning the dream lay heavily on Teresa’s mind, with her through all of the terrible tasks that were quickly becoming mundane. It was the stench that finally pulled her out of her reverie and fully back into the real world. As much as they burned incense and filled the air with perfume, there was no negating the stink of the disease.

  It was the smell of death encroaching.

  Teresa could not help but wonder if it was the smell of her own death and those of her sisters in the abbey. Perhaps it was. But they recognized in the plague the work of darkness, of chaos, and as Oneness, they knew their duty to stand against it. They had begun by going out and ministering to the sick in their own homes; then, as more and more families began to abandon their sick, they brought them to the abbey to care for them there. Almost overnight, the limestone edifice was transformed into a hospice, as the people of the outlying towns and villages brought their dying on carts and stretchers and left them to the care of the Oneness.

  With her thick, dark hair knotted behind her and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Teresa sat beside one of the innumerable beds on the floor and wiped the brow of a dying girl with a wet cloth.

  The girl was young—only perhaps sixteen summers. But any beauty or youth in her appearance had been ravished away by the plague. She burned with fever now, her eyes bright but unseeing, her skin white as parchment.

  Teresa spoke to her of the Oneness as she tried to make her more comfortable, but what passed into the girl’s mind she did not know. The stench in the hall was such that Teresa fought to keep herself open, focused, and calm. She wanted to run. But could not allow herself to do so.

  The morning had passed when she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see the bent form of Mother Isabel standing behind her.

  “It is time for you to go back to your room now,” Mother said, “and paint for us.”

  “Paint? But Mother . . . thirty new ones came just last night. Surely the Spirit cannot mean for me to . . .”

  “Others can nurse. Only you can paint. There is a deep purpose in your gift, child. I sense it.”

  “But surely it would be selfish to leave the dying and pursue my own ends.”

  “Surely, if they were your own ends. But they are not. They are the Spirit’s ends. No gift is given for the bearer alone. It is given that it may be given again. A seed grows a plant that bears more seed. If the seed refused to sprout, how would we eat the harvest?”

  The hand on her shoulder lifted. “Go now. I will sit with this one.”

  Teresa looked down again at the girl. “I fear she is not long with us. I would bring her into the Oneness, but she cannot understand me.”

  “That too is in the Spirit’s dominion. Do not take on yourself responsibilities you cannot fulfill. Go and fulfill the ones you can.”

  Teresa whispered a prayer of thanks to the Spirit as she passed out of the hall and into the east wing of the abbey, where the sisters had their chambers. The smell was not so bad here. The corridor was open to the outdoors, arches allowing in the warm breeze of the countryside and with it scents other than death. Flowering trees. Warm earth. The sky was brilliant blue, faintly streaked with white cloud. A canopy touched by a Master Painter.

  Not one person in the abbey could have moved Teresa away from the sick beds or prevailed on her to paint at a time like this, except for Mother Isabel. Teresa was bound to her by a vow of obedience and so had no choice in the matter. A good thing, she admitted to herself, because although she could not sense the purpose that Mother swore to, there was some wisdom in her words. Death could not be allowed to cause all good things to cease. If one of those good things was her paintings, then she would paint in defiance of chaos and in celebration of life.

  Her quarters were at the very end of the wing, expansive compared to those of all the other sisters. Prepared wood panels and easels, gifts from a local woodworker, leaned haphazardly against one wall. Wide windows opened to the gently rolling hills, terraced to the south with vineyards, wooded to the north, and fading into blue before her. In the winter they would cover the windows with skins to keep out the cold, but for now, her room was open to the sky. A pale road looped up and over the hills to the east, leading to one of the larger towns. For the moment the road was devoid of travellers.

  The sight, so peaceful, took her breath away. Yes, she had seen it a thousand times before. But now its goodness revealed itself to her anew. She had not known what to paint today, but she decided in an instant that these hills, this sky, that road would be her subject.

  She wanted others to see their beauty with open eyes.

  She wanted the dying, especially, to see it.

  Carmela, a dear sister, had convinced her yesterday to allow her to take some of her best work and set it up in the hall where the dying could see them. Teresa had found the thought mortifying and forbidden it at first, but Carmela was so sure it would do them good. Teresa acquiesced at last.

  And last evening, as she passed through the hall with a bucket of water and a dipper to cool their feverish tongues, she had seen some of the more coherent among the victims lying on their cots and basking in the sight of the paintings. Even smiling.

  So Carmela had been right, and Teresa would bear whatever mortification came with the idea that her work should be displayed and treated as . . . well, as anything at all.

  That memory was a strength now as she laid out brushes and jars of pigment and went to mixing her paints while she gazed at the blank panel before her. Strength to focus, when other voices in her head were telling her she ought to be with the sick.

  Sometime in the first twenty minutes her attention fixed itself on the panel, and then, lulled by the even rhythm of putting of a preliminary wash of colour over it, she thought again of the dream.

  Her hand stopped, the motion of painting stilled.

  She came back to herself suddenly, and jumped to realize someone was standing in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry to startle you,” Sister Carmela said.

  Carmela was one of the younger sisters at the abbey, three years Teresa’s junior. Long, thick golden hair, braided and looped behind her head, framed a childlike face with large blue eyes and a straight nose. She looked like an aristocrat, which in fact she was—but like the others, she had cut ties with the family of her birth when she became One.

  They had not, however, entirely cut ties with her.

  “Did you need something?” Teresa asked, hoping her tone wasn’t terse.

  “He is coming again,” Carmela said. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

  “Here? Now?” Teresa wrinkled her nose. “It defies reason. Most people run from death.”

  “We
don’t,” Carmela pointed out.

  “But he is not one of us.”

  “Assuredly he is not. Teresa, I do not wish to see him. Would you . . .”

  “Deal with him for you?” She sighed. “Very well.”

  The young man in question was a choice of Carmela’s parents. Handsome, foreign, and both wealthy and titled, it was no secret that he was their best hope for enticing her to leave the life she had chosen and return to privilege. Likewise, it was no secret that Carmela had no interest. But he kept coming—why, no one was sure. The sisters tolerated his presence and hoped he was coming because the Spirit was drawing him into the Oneness. Teresa had taken to managing his presence for Carmela, showing him around the abbey, conversing with him, and occasionally attempting to put him to work.

  The Oneness in general didn’t care much about money, titles, or looks, and the sisters of the abbey at Via del Sol were no exception to the rule. Especially not now, with so many lives in the balance and more work to be done than the sisters could do on their own.

  “His note said he would arrive within the hour. About now.”

  Teresa removed her apron and laid down her brushes. “You might have warned me earlier.”

  “You were busy.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Teresa said quietly. She smiled at her friend. “I’m sorry. I am glad to help you.”

  Carmela smiled back, relief showing in her wide blue eyes. “You’re a good friend, Teresa. I don’t want him to think he might succeed in his object . . . or for my parents to think it. I hate that they send him here even with all that is happening in the countryside.”

  “Perhaps they want to draw you away from this place of death,” Teresa said. “They do love you, though they do not understand your choices.”

  Carmela bit her lip. “Yes. In a way, that makes it harder. If they had simply disowned me, I think I could grieve and move beyond it. But their wanting me back is a hard burden to bear.”

  Teresa wiped her hands with a rag and hugged her friend around the shoulders. “The Spirit’s plan has not yet come to fruition. Perhaps even this will have a role to play.”

  * * *

  She spotted him as she approached the door to the garden where he often waited. He was early. Not a tall man, he was nevertheless commanding. With a firm jaw and close-cut blond hair—northern features—he was broad-shouldered and aristocratic.

  “Good afternoon, Franz,” she said as she stepped into the garden. Thick-trunked olive trees drooped long branches over the wall surrounding it, shading the purple flowers that grew in abundance around a moss-covered well. He leaned against the stones of the well, his quick eyes lighting up when he saw her.

  But her attention was drawn away from him to the boy standing with him. Small, thin, with a shaggy mop of dirty, dark hair, and eyes too intelligent for his age—and the first signs of fever burning within them.

  In her dream he had been much older, but she recognized him immediately.

  And with him, the unmistakable mark of the Spirit’s plan. They were meant to meet this day. They were meant to meet, and to become something to one another that would grow into the dream haunting and inspiring her every thought.

  She reached out silently, seeking to know if the boy was already Oneness. He was not.

  She knew that would quickly change.

  Perhaps this was why Franz had so stubbornly continued to come to the abbey—because he was intended to bring this boy here, though he himself was probably unaware of that. Sometimes people chose to act in concert with the Spirit. More often the Spirit simply seemed to direct their steps, turning the paths they walked in whatever way the Invisible decreed.

  She would have gone to address the boy directly, but Franz seemed to sense her intent, and he moved to position himself between them and reached for her hand, bowing as he kissed it.

  “You look well today,” he said.

  The words felt particularly inane in this setting, with the child behind him clearly ill.

  “As do you,” she responded, “but this boy is not. I see fever in his eyes, unless I miss my guess.”

  “Indeed,” Franz answered, “and so I have brought him to you. His parents were afraid to keep him at home, and I felt your sisters could do him some good.”

  Yes, Teresa answered in her heart. Far more than you know.

  Of the sick who came to them, adults and children alike, most were dying. But some would survive.

  This one, assuredly, would survive.

  “How did you come into his company?” she asked.

  Franz moved aside at last, allowing her a clear look at the child. The boy was perhaps ten. He looked at Teresa with the same intensity she knew she was bestowing upon him. The gentle green of the garden framed his skinny, tattered form.

  “His parents recognized me as a frequent visitor to the abbey and accosted me on the village street as I passed by. They were bringing him here themselves, but decided to entrust the last of the journey to me.”

  Inwardly, Teresa winced. Many were afraid of the abbey—of the death congregating there. But surely this child felt the abandonment, having been left in the care of a stranger to be entrusted to the care of more strangers.

  “Did they give you their names? Any instructions?”

  “None.”

  Chances were, then, that they did not expect—or want—the child back.

  She fought back a deep sigh, not wanting the boy to hear it, and instead extended her hand and a smile to him.

  “Well,” she said. “Tell us your name.”

  “Why does it matter?” the boy asked. He did not take her hand. “I am going to die anyway.”

  “I assure you,” Teresa said, “you are not.”

  Franz made a sound, but she ignored him.

  “How can you say that?” the boy asked. “Hundreds of children die in your house. It is the place where people send death. That is what they say.”

  “Many have died,” Teresa said, “and many more will, for the disease is terrible and we know no way to defeat it. But not everyone will die. And you will certainly not. For you, this will be a house of life. I promise you that.”

  The more sensible side of her said that she ought not to make promises, that she might be interpreting her dream all wrong.

  But she had long ago learned that the sensible side of her knew very little of the Spirit’s ways and deserved very little of her trust.

  Franz was listening intently, far more so than the boy. The boy was simply staring at her, as though his ears struggled to take in her words, and then, before she could react, his eyes rolled back and he fainted. She was just quick enough to catch him, and to be shocked—despite all of the illness she had seen in the last few weeks—at how little he weighed.

  Franz maneuvered quickly and deftly behind her, taking the boy from her tenuous catch and lifting him up in his arms. “Show me where to take him,” he said.

  She led him through the door and down the arched corridors to the great hall where the sick were laid out, side by side, the sisters caring for them, the air thick and choking with incense and the unmitigated stink. Almost as soon as they entered the room, she heard herself saying, “No . . . no, this is not the place. Come with me.”

  She turned, noting the way Franz’s hungry eyes swept the room and took in every detail, and led him out of the room and down the corridor to her own quarters. She opened the door to a mess of pigment jars and wood panels and light and air flooding in through the windows. Once again, she turned to see Franz’s eyes quickened, drinking in every detail. It was not right to have a man in her quarters, but what could she do?

  She pushed a mass of painting equipment off her bed and motioned for him to lay the child down. “Here.”

  “These are your quarters?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your paintings?” He straightened from laying the child down and turned to take in the panel she was working on, as well as others leaning against the walls.


  “Yes, they are mine.” She wished he would leave so she could tend to the child without his intrusive presence, but she chided herself—the Spirit had brought Franz too. There must be some purpose in it. Some way she could minister to his soul, though his body was healthy.

  “Yours is a remarkable gift,” Franz said, bending close to one of the paintings. “I have some knowledge of these things. With some training, you might go all the way to the royal courts.”

  She flushed. “My gift is not for kings, Franz Bertoller. It is for the sick, and for the Spirit.”

  “Does the Spirit care nothing for kings?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his eyes. “Is that why you and your sisters insist on treating me like a commoner?”

  “The Spirit is not a respecter of persons.” She did not apologize for his taking offence, real or affected.

  “Nevertheless, I could provide you with training.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I do not wish it. My life is here, as are my duties.”

  The emphasis on here once more directed her attention to the fact that this man was standing in her private quarters, and they were alone but for an unconscious child who could be of little assistance even were he awake.

  Not only were the circumstances improper, but for the first time in Franz Bertoller’s presence, Teresa felt a threat in his manner—he was always intense, always drinking in his surroundings, but now that intensity, that drinking in, was trained on her.

  It was a deeply uncomfortable feeling.

  “My apologies,” she said, “but I must ask you to leave.”

  “I see,” he answered. “Of course. Tell me, where can I find your sister Carmela?”

  It was a deliberate provocation, and she knew it. She could hardly require him to leave the grounds entirely, but nor could she leave him to wander without a hostess, and if she abandoned her post, she would be leaving Carmela to a situation she had promised to help her out of.

  “A moment, then,” she said. “Just let me tend to the child, and then I will attend you.”

  He nodded and moved to a corner of the room, both giving her space—for which she was grateful—and gaining a better vantage point from which to watch her. She tried not to think about the second factor as she made the child comfortable and coaxed him back to consciousness. From the looks of him, lack of food and sleep had contributed as much to his faint as the fever, which was low.