She pulled herself up short. She had reached the harbour. She was overheating. Hyperventilating. Terrified.
“Julie,” she said out loud. “Julie, Julie, Julie. I have to find Julie. She can help me. That’s what the Spirit said.”
Saying it all like some kind of mantra helped as she hoped it would. The cold, low clouds began to drizzle, and she stood by the water and let the rain soak her. Her hair strung around her face and clung to her skin. She raised her arms and let the rain wash her down.
She talked to herself out loud. “There has to be some way to track Julie down. She has a daughter . . . Miranda. I remember. I walked her out of the fire, and Chris found her father. Julie will go to her. That’s how I’ll find her.”
She knew she was talking to herself as though to a patient in shock, or someone very old or very young who had to be coached through reality, who couldn’t be trusted just to understand. It felt appropriate. She felt as though she were talking herself back from some kind of ledge.
Maybe because she had somehow split herself in two and one part of her was talking to the other part, it took her a moment to realize someone else was saying her name. She whirled around. Nick was standing on the street corner a few feet away, clutching an umbrella and wearing woolen gloves with his long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans.
“You should wear something warmer,” she said.
He just wrinkled his nose at her, crossing the street.
“Okay, fair enough. Give me that.” She took the umbrella he offered, clutching it like a lifeline.
She’d never been so glad to see anyone. Kind of embarrassing that she needed a kid to rescue her, but there it was. Apparently being alone was a terrible idea right now.
They started the trek back up to the house.
“What were you doing?”
“Just going out for a run.”
“Didn’t you know it was going to rain?”
Yes. No. Maybe. She hadn’t stopped to think about it.
“Do you remember Miranda?” she asked.
“Yeah. She’s weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Immature.”
April didn’t bother hiding her smile—half-amusement, half-reproof.
“She is,” Nick insisted.
“Any idea where she lives now?”
“She’s not my girlfriend, okay?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t be a goon. I just wondered if you knew where she lives. I know you went with Richard to visit her once or twice.”
“They were staying in a safe house then,” Nick said. “I’ll bet Chris knows, though, huh?”
He was probably right. Relief swept her at that—maybe finding Julie wasn’t going to be the insurmountable obstacle she’d almost imagined it being.
“Why do you want to know?”
April briefly considered the wisdom of confiding in a little boy. But this much couldn’t hurt. “I want to talk to her mom.”
“She got shot.”
“And she didn’t stay dead.”
Nick grinned. “I know. It’s cool. Like the fire.”
“You’re really eating all this stuff up.”
“And you’re scared of it. How come? The fire didn’t kill you.”
April wasn’t sure she wanted to consider the question. “I’m not sure. Mind your own business.”
“It’s my business too. We’re Oneness.”
Touché. Still.
“That doesn’t mean we share everything. Remember the meeting the other day?”
“I remember that when you first got outta the fire, you weren’t scared of anything. And now you’re scared of everything.”
That actually hurt. All she could find to say was, “Hey.”
“It’s true,” Nick said, sticking out his jaw in a peculiar way he had of showing stubbornness.
“How did the day with your mom go?”
“Okay, I guess. She bought me a soda.”
April decided to let the rest of that lie. She very much wanted Shelley to be a good mother, and was painfully aware that she wasn’t. But there was hope. Shelley might become One . . .
And end up a basket case like me?
She answered herself on that one: Hey.
Water was starting to collect in the gutters, and April stopped Nick from dragging his feet up them to make waves that would slosh over his feet. He was wearing sneakers, and they weren’t exactly waterproof.
Nick brought up one more thing before they reached the house.
“Melissa’s going to die, huh?”
April paused a half-step. “I think so. Yeah.”
“And we can’t even stop it?”
April thought of half a dozen wise things to say and decided none of them were worth saying.
“That’s stupid,” Nick announced.
“We can’t do everything.” She snapped the words, more than she meant to. “We fight how we can.”
“It’s not enough.” He folded his arms, and out came the jaw again. “Well, it’s true.”
“You just have to accept some things, Nick. Death is one of them.”
His voice followed her in the front door. “That’s dumb.”
Chapter 7
Niccolo and Teresa took their plan to Mother Isabel in the morning, and she approved it so quickly that Teresa wondered if she had some other motive in doing so. There followed lessons: lessons in crushing pigments and mixing paints, in colour, in brushwork, in form, in shadow. Everything Teresa knew. The boy—peasant boy from some village Teresa did not even know the name of—learned it all in a matter of days, and from then on the work was pure joy. He layered paints over panels like a thing inspired, and though every time Teresa feared that his attacks of brush and colour would end in a formless mess, everything he painted came out looking like—
She did not know how to describe it.
Like life.
Like living.
Like love, joy, exuberance.
Like the Spirit itself.
“Himself,” Mother Isabel corrected her when she confided her feelings about Niccolo’s work.
“Why do you call the Spirit by that name?” she asked.
But Mother Isabel only smiled wisely and mysteriously and gave no answer.
“Teach him other things also, Teresa,” Mother said on the third day of Niccolo’s art lessons, while she surveyed the sketches and preliminary paintings he had done. “The Spirit has brought him to you. Teach him all you know. Teach him your compassion. Teach him how you care for the sick. Everything.”
Teresa opened her mouth to ask about Niccolo’s status in the Oneness, but once again the words died away on her tongue, and she simply said, “Yes, Mother. I will do as you say.”
Niccolo tackled everything Teresa gave him to do with the same unbridled eagerness and a willingness to work and learn that she had never seen in anyone. Perhaps because of his willingness, he was also a quick study in nearly every endeavour, and Teresa found herself taxed in trying to find things for him to learn and to do.
But it was the paintings he loved most and believed in most deeply. When he had finished his first, it had not even dried before he was running with it to the sick hall, unable to wait to place it where the dying could see it.
It would seem arrogant except that he was so convinced that he had himself been healed by the effect of such a painting, and that he seemed to regard his ability to make the same sort of painting to be nothing other than a gift given him in answer to prayer: a way he had been given to save others.
And his faith did not seem misplaced. In the first week that his paintings began to grace the hall, along with more done by Teresa’s hand—every one a surprise to her, though none as purely inspired as the one she had done during prayer in the middle of the night—one of the sick children began to recover. And then another.
There was indeed some strange grace in the pictures of the Spirit.
So it was that when things took a turn for the worse after all, and t
he deaths began to multiply, when the incense was not enough to keep out the flies and other vermin, nor to cover the encroaching scent of death itself, Niccolo was of all most devastated.
On a morning when eight were carried out, three of them children, Teresa found the boy sitting on the stone wall in the garden, arms clasped about his thin legs and head on his knees, weeping.
She held back a moment, unsure of whether to intrude, but her heart so moved toward him that she could not stay away. She sat beside him and touched his head, entwining her fingers in his hair.
“Weep on, my lad,” she said. “There is good reason to break your heart. But a new day will come.”
He looked over at her and pushed his head into her hand like a small cat would do, his face streaked with tears. “But why isn’t it working? I was so certain it would work. That if they could only see, they would live.”
“To see . . .” Teresa frowned as she began to understand how little she understood of this boy. “What is it you want them to see, Niccolo?”
“I want them to see what I see. He makes everything alive. Everything. So why is it not working?”
“It . . . it is, Niccolo. Remember the children who recovered? Some have gone home! We are not the House of Death anymore.”
“But now everyone is dying.”
“Not everyone,” she said.
That very evening, as shadows began to fall across the terraced hills and valleys, as moonlight picked up the pale roads and caused them to shine, the first of the sisters began to fall ill.
For months now they had seemed under supernatural protection, and Mother Isabel had intimated she believed they were—that somehow Oneness were immune to the terrible plague. No more.
The kitchen ladies who had been driven so to distraction by Niccolo’s antics were two of the first to fall ill, and Niccolo ran frantic water to them, and bowls of porridge that they were too sick to eat, and blankets for their feet, and when the first of them died, he buried his face in Teresa’s skirts and howled with grief.
His painted panels presided over the hall of the dying as more and more of the sisters fell ill, and those who remained ceased sleeping or resting or caring for themselves as every moment was given to the sick. Niccolo served among them, brow constantly furrowed, a blur of motion that outpaced all of them.
In the early hours of one morning, Teresa sat beside Carmela, who burned with fever, chafing her hands and whispering to her. Carmela motioned toward a far corner of the hall, though she did not waste energy on trying to speak. Teresa looked up to see Niccolo wrestling a larger wooden panel off its easel.
She jumped up and went to him, stopping him just as he was trying to heft it up off the floor and onto his shoulder.
“Where are you going with that?”
“I am taking it away.”
“Why?”
“Because it is useless.”
“The Spirit gave it to you, Niccolo. Remember? You told me what these paintings are for—to place here so that the dying may look on them and be healed.”
“It was a stupid, childish idea,” he said.
And he sounded so much older than he had the day he told her his plan. So much older that it made her heart ache.
“It was not stupid,” Teresa said. Gently, she pried his fingers from the painting and lifted the panel back onto its easel.
“And this is not yours. You painted it for the ill, and your gift came from the Spirit. So you have no right to remove this. Leave it be, Niccolo. Let the Spirit determine what sort of work it does.”
He turned and ran from the room, but she had seen in his eyes, even in the darkness, that he knew she was right. He was running not in petulant anger, but to go away and think over what she had said and pray.
She had never seen a child so filled with the Spirit.
She returned slowly to Carmela while doubts tried to push their way into her own mind. Niccolo was right, after all. Their hopes for the paintings had not come to pass. The death toll grew higher and more costly to them as their own began to cross over, to become a part of the cloud. But she had to believe the unusual works of art had a purpose beyond what she could see. And that the power of death was not strong enough to overcome the plan of the Spirit who was life.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper in prayer as she sat beside her friend, “be the stronger—be stronger than death.”
She did not know what good it would do to beg someone to be something. If the Spirit was not stronger—if, after all, chaos was the superior force—asking that it might be different could do no good.
But prayer was all she could offer.
And so offer it she did.
* * *
“Do you know where they are?”
Chris didn’t have to think about April’s question. “Sure. Andrew left me his address. I think he thought we might need to reconnect at some point.”
“You’re right that Julie will go there,” Reese said.
The pair sat together, Chris’s arms wrapped around Reese’s shoulders, she leaning back against him. Their usual posture these days. Appearances suggested that the broad-shouldered young fisherman was still worried that he would lose Reese again. No one blamed him.
They were an oddity—a romantic pair within the Oneness. But no one questioned that they were connected for a reason, that this expression of unity was beautiful and right. Chris had begun talking about marriage the day after Reese came home. They kept their plans mostly private, but April expected them both to turn up wearing wedding bands any day.
“Why do you want to find her?” Reese asked. “Not that I think it’s a bad idea—I think it would be good for her to reconnect with us anyway.”
“I have questions,” April said simply. “I think Julie can help me with them. It’s just a hunch . . . call it a Spirit thing, I guess.”
Reese glanced up at Chris and then looked back at April. “Things really changed for you in that fire, didn’t they?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure I can explain how.”
“It saved my life,” Reese said simply. “I was steps away from turning against the Oneness. From going beyond redemption.”
“Is anyone ever beyond redemption?” Chris asked, clearly bothered by the statement. April noticed the way he tightened his arms around Reese.
“What changed your course?” April asked.
“The fire itself. It was like—like the Spirit was in it. In a more pure and powerful way than I had ever experienced before. Like it was the Spirit. And I wanted it. Him. More than anything. I couldn’t turn away. It took me a while to realize that was it . . . at first I thought the fire just burned the bitterness away. But it was more than that. It gave me a desire stronger than revenge.”
“And then you saved David,” April said, marvelling.
“Yes.” Reese looked sad. “I think because of Bertoller. He was beyond redemption. David wasn’t. I couldn’t let David go that far too, not if I could do something to help him. He was a friend once. More than that, he’s a man. A human soul, just like everyone else we’re supposed to be helping.”
“The fire changed me too,” April said, “but I don’t understand how. I’ll be honest: whatever is happening to me, I’m afraid of it. I’m hoping Julie might be able to help.”
Chris stood, releasing Reese and heading toward the stairs. “I’ll dig out Andrew’s address for you.”
Reese surveyed April. “Do you need someone with you?”
April smiled. Reese asked the question with an aggressive edge to her voice—the warrior coming out. “No, I don’t think there’s any danger in visiting one of our own. None from Julie, anyway.”
Reese hesitated a moment and then said, “I understand . . . what it feels like. To feel like a danger to yourself.”
The words made April uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if that’s what I feel.”
Reese nodded. “I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
The offe
r was bittersweet. April didn’t know what she needed, let alone how to communicate it to anyone else.
* * *
That evening, April stood on the front step of a suburban home in a nice, moderate neighbourhood, staring at light pouring through windows—a lot of light, from every window in the house, it seemed—and letting the cold air raise bumps on her skin and give shape to her breath in the air.
“You can do this,” she told herself. “You want these answers.”
Realizing that if she didn’t act quickly she was going to turn and run, she stepped forward and rang the doorbell.
And waited.
It opened.
A pretty woman stood framed in the light. Honey-blonde hair hung in a braid down her back; she wore a rose-coloured sweater and a long skirt.
She didn’t look happy—her face fell when she saw who was, or maybe who wasn’t, standing on the doorstep.
“Hi,” April said. “I’m April. I, um . . .”
“Come in,” Julie said, swinging the door open. “I think I know who you are. You are Oneness; I can feel that. So as far as I’m concerned, you’re a friend.”
“Thank you,” April said, still hesitating on the doorstep. Welcome she might be, but she hadn’t missed the look on Julie’s face when she first saw her, or the unhappiness still evident there. “Are you sure this is a good time?”
Julie smiled at that, but the smile was careworn. “All we have is the present,” she said. “Come in, it’s freezing out there.”
April didn’t bother to tell her that she was enjoying the cold—that even though she had always hated chill, now it was reassuring.
Because somehow it kept down the heat inside her.
“Are you expecting someone else?” April blurted out as she entered the front hall and Julie closed the door behind her. “I mean, you looked like . . .”
“My husband went out early this morning,” Julie said. “He hasn’t come back yet.”
“I’m sorry,” April said, and then wondered if that was a stupid thing to say. “When were you expecting him?”
“I wish I knew.” Julie smiled again, bleakly, and motioned toward the living room. “Come have a seat. I’ll see if I can find where Andrew keeps anything warm to drink so I can offer you something.”
Rise Page 7