Perhaps it was. Perhaps Joyce owed her body in return for all she had received, but she could not give it. The old woman might have named her, taken her in and raised her when no one else would, but it was too much to demand. Surely that demand was the greater betrayal. Or perhaps Joyce was no more than an animal raised for slaughter. That thought left her with a dull ache inside. She had felt safe if not loved. Now that was gone. Joining the Convocation of the Penitent had done little to ease her sorrow, but it did ensure that the dowager could never take her by force. The bishop and the deacons would guard her against that.
Joyce watched the old woman hobble along, making a slow progress from table to table, ancient eyes inspecting every detail. Stern. Fierce. Grey. Everyone bowed. Each showed their regard. Even the guardsmen were respectful. The dowager had the means to feed or frustrate their vices.
She passed by Joyce with only a nod, unable to keep the anger from her eyes but remaining silent. Joyce kept her own eyes averted and, wishing no confrontation, made the briefest acknowledgement possible. It was much the same as every other day. Joyce would gulp down her panic and keep her face stiff. The moment would pass.
A train rumbled and Joyce looked up, thankful for the distraction. The tent hid the concrete beams overhead but she knew they were up there and the station above that. She had been found there and named for it. So far as she knew, she had never been more than a few kilometres away from it.
She knew the towers, all clustered around the station, that were principally billets for the guardsmen. She knew the burn belt from Metrotown Enclave in the east to the industrial areas around Pit One in the west. Best of all she knew Central Farm, which had once been a park, where she went to collect her herbs from the hedgerow and barter for vegetables. This was her little world. It kept her alive. That was more than many achieved.
With the meat cubed, Joyce raked the charcoal and placed the flesh on the steel plate that served as a cooking surface. She added a few crushed herbs and some fat. It sizzled. While the meat seared, Joyce began preparing vegetables. It was early spring and the only root vegetables available were those from last season. Joyce could not afford the best of these. She picked up a turnip. The surface was wrinkled and soft. She took care to remove the decaying portions without wasting any part of the healthy flesh beneath. She tasted a small cube of this to be sure it had not been tainted and then chopped the remainder. Onions came next. She cursed to herself when several proved to be rotten at the centre. She salvaged what she could before moving on to the carrots, limp and spotted black, muttering at the state of them.
“Good afternoon, Sister.”
The voice surprised her. Joyce had been entirely concerned with her preparations but now she looked up. Archdeacon Nathaniel was standing on the far side of her work table. He wore the same type of rough grey coat that wrapped her and the same pattern of nails glinted over his heart. He was a big man with a grizzled beard. Joyce flushed, hoping he had not heard her angry words.
“Peace be with you, Archdeacon,” she said.
“And also with you,” he returned. “Have you been well?”
“Yes, Archdeacon. I did not expect to see you today.”
“I have just come from discussions with the bishop. He is concerned that you are alone in this place.”
Joyce blinked in surprise, then said, “I didn’t think the bishop even knew my name.”
“He does,” the archdeacon assured her. “We have often spoken about you.”
“Yes, but I’m not alone. There are others. There are other brothers and sisters that work on the farm. We gather together and pray every morning before the wind. Many of them come here in the evening to eat the stew I sell.”
“It is good to have the community of other Penitents, that is true, but this is not the same as having someone to hold and cherish you.”
“Hold and cherish,” the words rolled through her. “But I...”
“We know the dangers you face,” the archdeacon told her.
“And the dangers faced by the entire community. You are without a guide.”
“That is true, but we know that we are not forgotten,” she assured the archdeacon.
“Indeed, you are not,” the archdeacon said. His usually grim visage was lit with a paternal smile. Joyce thought that this must be what it is like when the sun peeks through the clouds. “We have decided that you shall have permission to marry and we have a man that will make you a good husband.”
Joyce felt suddenly numb. She did not know what to say but her look must have said enough. The archdeacon said, “There is no need to worry, Sister. He is a fine man. I have picked him for you myself. He will come to see you tomorrow evening but I wanted to tell you today so that you could prepare yourself.”
“Prepare myself?”
The archdeacon made an oddly indefinite motion with his hand that seemed to take in all of her. “Perhaps if you combed your hair and washed your face. He will value your earnest faith but if you showed some of your other fine qualities…”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Sister, you need only agree.”
“I knew this day would come,” she said, “but so soon? I don’t need a husband.”
“You need him more than you know and he needs a wife. He has been sent here as the local priest. He has no wife and it would be best if he married a local woman. You have courage and youth. You will make him a good wife. Please consider it. This marriage will be a great service to our cause and you may learn to love him.”
“I will be here tomorrow night. I have to be. If he comes to the tent, I will speak to him,” she assured the archdeacon.
“Excellent,” he said, satisfied that she had agreed to that much. “I will return to Vancouver with the news but I would like to travel with a full stomach. When will the stew be ready?”
Joyce smiled as earnestly as she could and told him. When the archdeacon walked away with a promise to return for dinner, Joyce went back to her cooking but now her hands were guided only by long habit. Her mind was elsewhere. A husband. She did not want any man, not those that the dowager would force upon her nor some stern protector hard as the nails he wore. Life offered her little enough freedom. Necessity dictated most everything she did. What would she have if she had a husband?
Would he make her give up what she had? As the stew simmered and she made meat pies, Joyce tried to think it through. The archdeacon was a stern but fair man. He might have chosen well for her. Perhaps she should be glad of it. It was a hard world. To have the help and comfort of another was no small thing. Still, she should be the one to choose. The choice should not be made for her. But if she turned her suitor away, what would that mean? Would it drive her out of the Convocation and leave her truly alone? Perhaps the dowager would win after all. That was the most bitter thought of all.
Most people had little choice. Women had least of all, but Joyce had fought for her place in the world. Her little empire might be no more than a stew pot and a table, but at least she owed it to no one and she ruled it alone. Alone. For better or for worse.
All day and into the night her thoughts ran in circles. She did her business in silence and she did not hear the honey voice of the hurdy-gurdy man as he sang. By the time the lanterns were turned down and the last customers shuffled from the tent, there was more resignation than resolution in her. She hung her pot from a line outside the tent, ready to be scoured by the grit of the morning wind, and then went to bed. Her troubles would not be as easily worn away.
By this time tomorrow she might be betrothed.
That thought was a poor pillow and, as Joyce curled up on her bedroll beneath the table, sleep was elusive. Her mind conjured up images of her intended. He would be serious and unbending. She had met enough of the priests and the deacons to know the type. They were harsh and joyless men with hard eyes, stalwart protectors but exacting masters. He would uncover her every fault and chastise her for each. There in the dark, she began to enu
merate her sins and shortcomings, the chief of which was pride.
By dawn, sleep seemed further away than ever and it was time for prayers. Joyce rose to prepare herself. She needed the water ration for cooking and so scrubbed with pulped leaves, hidden from view beneath the coverings of her table. Then she pulled her hair back and tied it in place. Her smock was only slightly stained. It would do for another day. She pulled it on and dragged the coat over it. Thus prepared, Joyce crawled out into public view and straightened to stretch the soreness from her back.
The tent was nearly deserted. The hemp panels hung limp and damp, tinted by a ruby light. There was the sound of dripping from somewhere and the sounds of people still abed all around. Quietly bundling lengths of course twine, sacks and a harvest knife took only a moment. These she placed in the market basket. Then she pulled on a pair of cracked and ill-fitting goggles, wrapped a scarf tightly across her nose and mouth, pulled a shawl over her head and prepared to depart for her morning errands. It all felt so ordinary. The goggles rode on her forehead for the moment, not yet necessary though ready for use, and as a final measure Joyce pulled on a pair of gloves. They were a good pair with only a few holes. They had been a gift from one of the other Penitents. Thus protected, she stepped through the tent flap into the wider world.
That world was made indistinct by the fog. The towers were no more than silhouettes and the sun was a red glow, but they led the way. Follow the shadows toward the dawn and then turn right at the main road. That road was called Boundary. A rusty sign told her that, though it gave no indication what boundary it might mark. Farther up she would cross Kingsway. She did not know which king. The Caretakers were the only rulers Joyce knew.
For much of the way the road was still reasonably good. Most of the old surface was gone but the holes were regularly filled with gravel and the invasive brambles kept down by the traffic. It was only a short walk, easy for a young woman even if she were carrying a burden, but that morning the weight on her shoulders was heavier than it had ever been. She stopped, held back a sob. All she wanted to do was return to her bedroll and cry herself to sleep.
That would not get her vegetables in or make the stew or banish her problems. That was not how she had lived. She would not live that way now.
Joyce raised her eyes toward the crest of the hill and began walking once more. She climbed to where Boundary and Kingsway met on the high ground. The mist was thinning now. Only a breath of wind stirred the air. Joyce glanced to the east and gauged how much time she had before that wind rose in earnest. That was perhaps an hour away. She moved more quickly. She was nearly at the farm.
It was an orderly tangle of wind breaks, vegetation and dew traps. Stone hedges bordered most of it and divided the fields. At this time of morning there were only a few people about. These were the overseers considering the necessary tasks for the day. Most knew Joyce by name. She usually wound her way through the fields on the way to prayers, the route more direct than following the road, and that had been her intention this morning, but once in the fields she seemed to take root. She needed to pray but she realized quite suddenly that she did not want to go to the meeting. Perhaps they knew about her betrothal. There would be questions and congratulations and offers of help with the arrangements. There would be excitement and solemn declarations. She could not face any of that. What she most earnestly wanted was a time of solitude.
Removing the gloves, Joyce knelt with her knife in hand. Rosemary and parsley were growing from a cleft between two rocks. Sage grew a little farther on. Her blade cut cleanly through the stalks and sent the water drops falling like jewels. Perfume rose to scent the morning. She worked quickly, sorting the harvest as she went. This was a good spot. It had not been gleaned in some time, half-hidden as it was by a large bush. On any other day this would have been a perfect moment.
“Hello.”
Joyce started. She had been lost in her work and the other had approached quietly. She looked up to find a man leaning over the wall. He was young and thin. Wisps of blond hair escaped from beneath his hat. A heavy scarf was wrapped around his neck, ready to cover his mouth and nose when the wind rose. His goggles were likewise around his neck, hanging loose by their straps. He had a pleasant face, strong but open. Three nails glinted on the left breast of his rough coat.
“I suppose it is too late for dawn service?” he asked.
Joyce looked at the sky, judging time by the colour in the east. “They will be doing the confessions now, so it would probably be done by the time you got there.”
He nodded, then observed, “You didn’t go.”
“No,” she admitted the obvious. “I will make my prayers privately.”
“Sometimes I like to pray alone, too, but I had hoped to meet the people.”
“You are new here?” Joyce asked, though it was unnecessary. She knew everyone in the local Convocation. When new members arrived, they were usually brought to the market tent to be introduced to Joyce and her stew. Those new arrivals were becoming more frequent. The community was growing.
“I am from the Prairies. My people ranched in the foot-hills.”
Joyce had only a vague idea of where the Prairies might be. She knew that they were to the east across high mountains and that the journey was difficult and dangerous. She said as much.
“An uncle of mine works on the train. He arranged for me to travel with some cargo. They have had problems with the mountain men and are happy to have another man on board if he can fight.”
“Can you fight?”
“All members of the Convocation must be warriors,” he said rather too seriously.
Joyce giggled and then caught herself. Such frivolity was unbecoming. She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you.”
“It’s all right. That sounded like a boast but I did not mean it that way. I can fight when I have to. The mountain men raid us too and we have to defend what we have.”
“Are you going to Vancouver?”
“I was in Vancouver for a year. Now I have come to stay with my cousin. She works on the farm here. Perhaps you know her, Sandra Clement?”
“Yes,” Joyce said, and then a little silence settled between them before she thought to introduce herself. “My name is Joyce Collingwood, by the way. Yes. Just like the station. I was found there when I was a baby.”
“Oh,” the young man said. He seemed surprised but smiled and nodded as though he knew all about it, then looked at her thoughtfully before saying, “You are very pretty.”
Joyce was shocked. The last person to tell her that had been the dowager. Instinctively Joyce pulled the scarf up to cover the lower half of her face. It had fallen away while she had been harvesting the herbs. The cloth hid her blush. Or so she hoped. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“Truth shall fill the penitent mouth.”
“And discretion council his tongue.”
“I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but you are pretty.”
“A man should not say things like that to a woman he meets in a field. If the deacon hears about it, he will be mad.”
“And he will tell the priest.”
“We have no priest of our own. Not yet.” Joyce paused and her lip quivered a little. “There is one coming tonight.”
“You don’t sound happy about that. Surely you want to have a leader.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but there is more to it. He is going to marry me.”
That was the first time that Joyce had said it. Hearing it in her own voice was worse than thinking about it and she let out a little sob.
The young man looked concerned and asked, “But surely you are happy about having a husband.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know him. I don’t know anything about him. He’s probably some old man with cold hands.”
“Are warm hands important to you?” the young man asked.
Joyce looked at him in shock and then broke down entirely. Great sobs erupted. Her head dropped into her hand
s and she took shuddering breaths. All the weight of the world pressed down on her. She wished that everything would go away. It did not. An arm curled around her shoulder, warm and comforting. Joyce collapsed into the embrace without thinking, pushing against a strong chest as she let her tears flow. It was only when a nail scratched her ear that she realized what was happening.
“What are you doing?” Joyce shrieked as she tore herself free. She toppled forward, landed on her hands and knees, then scuttled away from her comforter like an enraged crab. “What if someone had seen us?”
The young man held up placating hands. “It would be all right.”
“All right? I tell you I am getting married and you put your arms around me?”
“It really will be fine,” he assured her. “We had chaperones. You see?”
Joyce looked in the direction indicated by the young man. She had been wrong about the time. The Penitents had finished their prayers and were returning to the fields. A group of them stood a short distance away, watching her and the young man. Joyce scrambled to her feet, grabbed her basket and fled. When she dared to look back, the young man had his back to her and was deep in conversation with several members of the Convocation who had seen their indiscretion.
Joyce had no idea how she could face any of them after this. She wanted to run back to the market tent and hide under her table but she needed supplies.
In the farthest part of the farm she cut the last of the necessary herbs and then bartered for vegetables. These cost too much but her heart was not in the bargaining. She was disgraced. Despair. Promiscuity. Ingratitude. There was no end to her sins. She could not even imagine the penance that would be laid on her.
With supplies in her basket, she crept homeward. Like a punishment, the wind began to rise in rough gusts, tearing the fog away from the land and raising the stinging grit. Joyce dropped her face behind a hunched shoulder for protection. The scarf was not enough. As she walked, her eyes were drawn to the vast area of the burn where the blackened rectangles were only now softening beneath brambles and the stunted twists of trees. Most of those ruins had been homes before the Fire. Divine wrath had consumed them. The survivors might dispute whether it had been God or Gaia but the truth of the devastation was plain for all to see. The old world had been punished for its evils. Those that did not repent their faults must continue to suffer. That was why Joyce was suffering.
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