Cordelia frowned, concentrating. The clearing grew silent as she accelerated natural processes. Gregory studied the actions of her mind and his cells so that he might accomplish this on his own—somehow he was sure it would be a lifelong undertaking.
Then Cordelia told him, "Flex your arm."
Frowning, Gregory did, and Geoffrey deliberately pulled against the motion with his mind as Cordelia packed new muscle cells into Gregory's biceps. He cried out in surprise at the pain.
"Do you wish me to do it or not?" she challenged.
"Do ... I shall rise above it. .. ." Gregory panted.
"Then flex your leg."
Gregory did, and clenched his teeth against the agony.
Cordelia read it in his face and bit her lip, but forced herself to go on. "Your other leg . . . your left arm . .. Now sit up."
White-faced and gritting his teeth with determination, Gregory complied. His heart grew faint at the pain he sustained, but he glanced at the sleeping face of the woman he had come to know as Moraga and forced himself to sit up, straining against the load his brother dragged on him.
The chapel was very small, as churches went—at the most, it might have held a hundred people. Gwen looked around. "How have you Mass?"
"The pastor of the nearest village comes each Sunday." Mother smiled. "None has ever felt the need to say aught about us to their brethren of the monastery."
Gwen could understand how loyalty to the people nearby could prove more pressing than fidelity to an abbot far off in the south, the more so as there was a certain resentment between the parish clergy and the cloistered monks akin to the old rivalry between engineers and physicists. There was also probable recognition of the importance of the work the sisters
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were doing—and considerable pressure from the peasants of the countryside, perhaps even from the lords. No, quite probably from the lords.
Gwen looked around at the church, reflecting that it needed to hold no more than its hundred, for there were only a few dozen nuns. There was a large crucifix above the altar and a statue of the Blessed Virgin at one side, with one of Joseph against the other. The style of sculpture seemed quite distinct from those Gwen had seen in other churches. ' 'Whence came these statues, Sister Testa?"
"All works you see within were made by our nuns themselves, milady." She led Gwen to the north wall. "Yon is the monk who did appear to Clothilde."
Gwen looked, and the picture slapped her in the face—at least it felt as though it had, for she recognized the visage. It was Father Marco Ricci, the Terran priest who had founded the Gramarye chapter of the Order of St. Vidicon—and one of the very few of the original colonists who had been able to keep his memories of an advanced civilization, perhaps the only one. She felt her heart twist within her and was giddy for a moment, for she had known Father Marco herself, when she and her husband had been kidnapped into the past many years before. It was a strange and disturbing sensation to look at an icon of the man she had known and confront the fact that he had been dead for four centuries and more. But when had he discovered he was an esper? And how had he come by that horrible scar?
Of course, she had never seen him unclothed; he might have had it even when she had known him—but she found room to doubt it.
"You seem disturbed." The Mother Superior's interest kindled. "Have you seen this face before?"
Gwen realized that she was in an excellent position to destroy all the Order's illusions but firmly rejected the opportunity; confronting them with reality was not her task. Instead, she "answered" a question with another. "When did Clothilde and Meryl live, Sister Paterna?"
"Four hundred fifty-six years ago, milady. Our convent has kept exacting records."
Four hundred fifty-six years! That would have made Father
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Marco a very old man— but it was just barely possible. Gwen determined that she would have to go to the monastery and search their records, to find out if Father Marco had gone abroad much in his later years.
Still, the picture was not that of an old man, but of one in his middle years. . . .
"What you think, milady?" Mother Superior asked, her voice low.
"You may have had just such a visitation as you think." Gwen carefully did not say by whom. She turned away. "May we turn to the matter of healing, Sister?"
The nun frowned slightly but respected her wishes and turned aside, leaving Gwen to ruminate over the idea that the convent had just as strong a right to exist as did the monastery, if the monk had indeed been Father Marco. "Did he come again, as he had promised?"
"He did not promise—yet he did come again, years later, when a score of devoted women had come to share the hermitage of Clothilde and Meryl, and the babe Moira had grown to womanhood. Clothilde began to try her newfound knowledge on injured animals and discovered, to her delight, that she had the power the monk had shown her. She taught it to Meryl, who seemed also to have the healer's talent, and the two of them began to jest that she was in truth the witch the village folk had thought her to be. A passing woodcutter must have heard them, for one day a farmer came to their clearing with a listless hen who had lost most of her feathers. Clothilde felt her old resentment return but thrust it aside; she had promised the monk to aid any who needed healing, and though this was not a person, she knew the spirit of her promise should encourage her to examine the hen. But Meryl of the soft heart anticipated her; she cried, "Oh! The poor, wretched thing!" and hurried to lay her hand upon it. Then she mused a while and the hen became once more healthy. The farmer stammered his thanks and fumbled forth a coin, but Meryl returned it sternly. "We do not heal for pay," quoth she, thereby creating another Rule of our Order. The farmer thanked them and went away—but the next day, his daughter came with a healthy cockerel, a gift from her father, and stayed to ask the manner of their healing. Clothilde taught
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her the basis of it and found the girl had the talent. She came again the next week, leading a farmer with an ailing pig. 'Twas Clothilde who healed it this time and again refused payment, saying only, "Belike we shall be in need of your aid someday, neighbor." He looked startled and stammered that she should have any help he could give. He was as good as his word, for when the haying was done, he and a score of villagers came with saws and hammers and builded them a stouter cabin that would turn away any wolf. The women thanked them, though they had been healing a constant stream of animals, perfecting their skills and learning more; and the workmen were still there when the peasant folk brought a woman who was like to die of fever, carrying her on a pallet. Clothilde came hurrying to meet them, scolding them for having moved one so ill when they could have come to fetch herself or Meryl (and the peasant folk looked amazed to hear it). Then Clothilde laid a hand on the woman, realized the depth of her illness, and told the folk they had done right, for the woman might not have endured the extra time it took to fetch her. Clothilde did her best, and the fever lightened but did not cease, so she called Meryl to come and aid.
Together they made great inroads on the fever, yet it persisted. Then the farmer's daughter, who had come so frequently to learn from her, knelt down to aid, but Clothilde took her aside and explained that if she were to show her own power of healing, the folk of the village would like as not cast her out as a witch. The lass considered, and while she did, felt the call of God powerfully within her and said there was little to keep her in the village. So together they cured the woman, who walked home well two days later, but the farmer was now wary of his daughter and made no argument when she told him she wished to remain with the healers. Yet he came weekly with provisions for them, and to build and mend for them, and she learned from another patient that he boasted of her in the village and was honored for being her father.
44 So more ill folk had begun to come?"
"More and more, till there was scarcely a day that one was not at their doorstep."
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"And if the villagers honored the father whose daughter had joined the healers, would not others have sought to join them, too?"
"Aye, though few wished to stay when they came to see they would have to give up home and hearth. Yet there came also women who had conceived out of wedlock, to be 'healed' of their babes. Clothilde rebuked them sharply, telling them she sought to save lives, not to end them—and one challenged her then to keep the babe for her. Clothilde promised she would, and the lass dwelt with them till her babe was born, then left it with Clothilde and went back to her village, claiming that she had not the vocation to abandon motherhood and wifehood for devotion to healing; yet she came often in after years to visit and bring food, and watch how her babe grew."
"And others did as she had, I doubt not. The babes also grew up to become women of the Order?''
"Some aye, some not. Meryl's babe, though, chose to stay, and proved to be the most powerful healer of them all. Moira she was named, and Clothilde appointed her to succeed to the rule of the Order upon her own death."
"Then the monk did not come again whiles Clothilde did live?"
Mother Superior shook her head. "He had not promised, but only said he would try. When Moira was aged, though, a monk did come to their gate—for they had a wall by then, you see, and all the buildings we have now, save the cloister. This monk asked a night's lodging and was kept in the guest house, where Moira visited him with two of her women— they did not yet think of themselves as nuns. The monk proclaimed their convent a wonder and asked to see the hospital. They were glad enough to show him and let him watch as they healed a feverish lad, one who had turned were, and needed many healings. ..."
"Were! You can heal one of being a werewolf?"
"The kind who are wolf-men, aye," Mother Superior told her, "not the kind that change their whole forms. But we can
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heal the ones who have only begun to behave like wolves, for they are not truly were, only victims of a disease that ends in fear of water and the urge to fall upon anything that moves."
The monk watched such a cure, and marvelled. The next morn, he said Mass for them all and, upon his departure, gave Moira a box that was long and flat, neither metal nor wood, and fitted within another box.
'Touch your fingers here and here," he told her, "and you shall hear a voice telling you marvels of healing."
She stared, not knowing what to say, but he gave it to her with a smile. " 'Tis called a 'cassette,' said he. "It should be the emblem of your Order, for henceforth you shall be the Order of Cassettes."
Moira essayed a smile that faltered ere she found her voice. "I thank you, Father. ..." Yet she could not bring herself to say 'twas none of his affair what name they took—which was well, for she yet struggled to comprehend the meaning of his visit. As she grappled with the paradox of his seeming arrogance coupled with his humble manner, he strode away into the wood. Then she sighed, shook her head, and went to the church, that blessed influence might reassure her as she tried the virtues of his gift. And lo! The magic box told her what may go awry inside the brain of one who becomes mad, and showed her ways to cure such maladies, and Moire knew then that "cassette" must be the shortened form of the old words casse tete, which do mean "broken head."
Gwen knew otherwise, but forbore to say so. "It was, then, a monk of the monastery who had heard of them, and brought them that which they needed to better fulfill their mission."
"Mayhap." The Mother Superior smiled. "But when Moira looked up at her mother's picture of the monk who had saved her life so long before, she felt a shock, for surely this was most strangely like to their guest of the night."
Gwen paced onward, thinking that one over. Yes, definitely when she was through here and Finister healed of the twist-
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ings done to her mind, she would have to go to the monastery and ask for historian's privilege.
For now, she only looked up at the Mother Superior and asked, "May I hear that cassette?"
"Gladly, yet I think that first we should go on to the hospital. There is a case that I believe you would wish to see, and treatment cannot be put off."
"Nor should it! But what is this case, that I might find it to be of interest, Moth . . . Sister Testa?"
"A werewolf," Mother Superior said, "much as I told you of before."
"Well enough—you may rest," Geoffrey said with regal condescension.
Gregory sagged against the nearest tree trunk, panting and red-faced. His chest, arms, and legs seemed sickly pale by contrast, for he had taken off his robe to exercise, both of which he rarely did. Gasping for air, he asked, "Wherefore must I perform so silly a ritual when we are increasing my body by telekinesis?"
"Because it is not enough to build up bigger muscles— you must also exercise them, for they will change your balance, the proportion of effort for each action, and the speed and timing of your movements," Geoffrey explained. "Many adolescents are quite clumsy when they suddenly shoot up like young willows, because the greater length of limb and the strength that goes with it change such patterns. They can adjust their coordination over months, but you have not that luxury. You must learn the adjustment quickly, and not all at once either. That is one reason why you must exercise after each increment of gain in your muscles."
"One?" Gregory gulped down air. "Why else?"
"Because you must tone the muscles as they grow, not all at once. Then, too, you must develop endurance, which comes only with practice, not with the gain of muscle only, for you must adjust your breathing and learn to pace your flow of energy."
"I am not a warrior," Gregory protested. "Wherefore should I need endurance to love a lady?"
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Geoffrey only gave him a long look, weighing his words, then decided to let them sink. 'Trust me—with this wench, you shall need all the endurance you can muster. To the calisthenics, then! The Salute to the Sun, now! Right sole against left knee! Balance on one foot! Arms up straight! Now bend slowly from the waist."
Off to their right, Moraga stirred restlessly, muttering; her eyelids fluttered. Cordelia looked up in alarm and probed her mind, finding her dangerously close to the surface of consciousness. With a gentle, lulling thought, she slowed pulse and rate of breathing and turned off synapses. Moraga sank back into sleep and began to dream again.
Cordelia read just enough of those dreams to shudder before she turned her attention away.
CIJHPTER
-12-
Sister Paterna Testa led Gwen out across the courtyard into a long, low building with many windows, the last two of which were barred. Gwen wondered at that but was answered very quickly, for when they came into the hospital they passed directly by the rows of beds with straw mattresses, many filled by patients who were surprisingly cheerful—perhaps not surprising when the room itself, though spartan and with only a few religious pictures on the walls, was filled with light, reflecting off its cream-colored walls, and fragrant with flowers. They passed directly through it, though, to a stout oaken door, double-barred and guarded by two nuns who sat saying their rosaries, but with their eyes ever aware of what went on about them. They came to their feet as Mother Superior came up to them and ducked their heads in greeting. "Good day, Sister Paterna Testa!"
"Good day, Sisters. We must enter to see to the werewolf."
The women nodded, obviously expecting it, and turned to unbar the door. They went through into a short hallway with four doors opening off it. One of the nuns checked though the small barred window in the farthest door, then unlocked it and stepped aside. Inside the room, two stout peasants sat on either side of a narrow bed, sweating profusely. A third man was bound to that bed with many ropes—if you could call him a man. His face was covered with a wild, unkempt beard, his eyes were red-rimmed and furious, and saliva drooled from his mouth, foaming. The fury and hatred in his face were horrifying. His hands, bound to the side
s of the bunk, bore cracked, chipped fingernails grown far too long, and his tunic was so ripped and filthy as to scarcely exist.
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When he saw the women enter, he howled in rage, his whole body convulsing as he struggled to leap up and get at them. The men stiffened and stepped in, one swinging up a cudgel, but Sister Paterna waved them back and came closer to the bed. Gwen followed, amazed at the woman's courage.
4 These two men and four others brought him in this morning, milady," Sister Paterna said, so calmly that she might have been discussing a joint of beef. "He was bound hand and foot with many ropes, and even then it took all six of them to bring him, for he has become monstrously strong."
"Is he not dangerous, Sister Paterna?"
"Most horribly dangerous, not only because he would rend us limb from limb if he could but also because he would delight in biting us and giving us this same disease that doth make him to seem to be half wolf."
"He was bitten by a wolf," one of the men contributed, "a hateful one, that did foam at the mouth."
"Did you see it?"
"Nay, Mother, but all do know that is how werewolves are made."
Mother Superior glanced at Gwen, and the look was as much as to say that she knew, as well as Gwen, that the villain could just as easily have been a hare or a squirrel; the germs did not restrict themselves to people and wolves.
"Yet we have some protection," Sister Paterna said and, stepping over to a little table at the side of the room, poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl. The man shrank away with a howl of rage. "He is half crazed with thirst," Mother explained, "but the mere sight of water induces such painful throat contractions that he dreads the sight of it."
"Hydrophobia/' Gwen breathed. She had learned enough of modern medicine to recognize rabies.
"So is it called," Mother Superior said, fck but not all have that fear—only some."
"How can you cure it?"
Tis all due to seeds of illness, small, voracious creatures
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