Mary ran her hand through her damp hair. “Well, Luke was asleep, so I thought I might as well take a bath and wash my hair. Maybe I can get it dry before bedtime for a change.”
“And this early-morning urge for cleanliness had nothing to do with our young guest.”
Mary felt her face go hot. “I just thought as long as I had to be awake anyway…”
“I know. But don’t kid yourself. Or me. After all, he’s a man in the prime of life, and you’re a woman in the prime of life. I wish you well.”
But she forgot to revive her smile, and that was a signal Mary had long ago learned to recognize. When Rachel was angry or anxious, she seldom expressed it in words. Her words were those to be expected under normal circumstances. But she forgot the smiles that should go with the words.
Mary took a swallow of tea, found it cool and flat. “I guess I’d better go see if Luke’s awake.”
“I looked in on him a few minutes ago. He was sleeping like a baby—if babies snore. Did he wake up during your shift?”
“Yes, and he stayed awake for quite a while.” She told Rachel what had happened last night, surprised at the detail she demanded, equally surprised that she could remember with such clarity exactly what Luke had said.
Finally Rachel asked, “What do you think of him?”
“I… don’t know. Except he is definitely a good Christian.”
Rachel sighed as she looked out at the misted ocean. “Damn. After all these years, we finally encounter another survivor, and he turns out to be a rockbound, good Christian—and a literalist, undoubtedly.”
“Did you expect a Buddhist? Or an atheist?”
Rachel looked sharply at her, then nodded. “Good point. The odds are against any survivor in this country being anything but a Christian.”
“Why does that bother you? What difference does it make?”
Rachel took time for a sip of tea. “The only reason I’m bothered is that historically Christians have had a penchant for burning books.”
That silenced Mary, sent a chill through her. The books—their justification for survival, their hope for the future of humankind. And it hadn’t occurred to her that humankind, as embodied in a good Christian named Luke Jason, might not revere the legacy of the books.
I have a book. Those were Luke’s words. A book.
Rachel said, “Just remember the example set by Paul at Ephesus, and the good Christians who burned the Library of Alexandria and flayed Hypatia alive. And book burning by good Christians has continued ever since, right down to that insidious ass, the Reverend Fallon and his Moral Purification campaign. Remember the pyres of burning books in front of the Washington Monument? That was only a year before the End.” She paused, studying Mary intently. “Face it, not many of our books would be included on a literalist’s list of acceptable reading matter. But when it comes to books, I’m as much a zealot as any literalist. I’ll protect ours with my life if I have to, and I think I might be capable of killing for them.”
The mist was dissipating, and at the horizon waves glinted with the first sunlight. Mary said nothing, engrossed in flickering visions of burning books; visions of the fleshy, unctuous face of Reverend Fallon as she had seen it years ago on a television screen, Fallon in his nasal, rural accent urging his faithful to purify themselves and the world; visions of Rachel as a fated Hypatia, battling hordes of fleshy-faced zealots.
“Rachel, I can’t believe it would come to that. I mean, I can’t believe we’d have to die or… kill to protect the books from Luke.”
Rachel gave a short laugh. “I hope not. The trouble is, we’re not just dealing with Luke. There’s that we he inadvertently mentioned.”
“But we don’t really know much about Luke—or his we.”
“No. And with Luke I think we have an opportunity to make him an ally, even a convert. He’s given us an advantage: he thinks he was sent to me by his god. He saw me as—what was it? Full of wisdom. If he was searching for enlightenment when he embarked on his journey, he’ll find it here. At least, enough to give him some respect for books. Mary, I’ll play any role I must—even the role of god-sent ministering angel full of wisdom.” She laughed ruefully. “Just don’t blow my cover.”
Mary mustered a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the enlightenment entirely in your hands.”
“Well, I’d better check our supply of candles and oil. I’ll be doing a lot of reading at night. And we do have a Bible or two and a couple of books on biblical history.”
“Maybe he won’t stay here long enough to get enlightened.”
Rachel eyed Mary curiously. “I think he’ll stay awhile. Unless he’s taken a vow of celibacy.”
Again, Mary felt the heat in her cheeks. She could think of no response, and after a moment Rachel said gently, “I meant it when I said I wish you well.” But there was in her eyes an equivocal melancholy.
Mary looked up at the spruce trees where the sun lighted their green crowns. “We have livestock to feed and eggs to gather and goats to milk—and I’d damned sure like some breakfast before we start.”
Rachel finished her tea. “And we have a patient to look after.”
Luke Jason’s temperature dropped to normal by the third day, and by the fourth Mary and Rachel found it impossible to keep him in bed. They could only manage to keep him in the house, which he explored thoroughly. He pored over the titles of the books that filled every shelf and stood in piles on the floor, but he didn’t comment on them. He studied Rachel’s drawings and paintings, awed by the representational ones, but oddly bewildered and suspicious of all of them. He made friends with the household menagerie. Except for Shadow. She declined his every overture. He asked many questions about Amarna and their history here, and they patiently answered him. They didn’t question him about his history, and he volunteered nothing.
On the fourth evening he sat down with them to a supper of rabbit stew thickened with cattail-root flour, steamed asparagus—the first of the season—cheese, and a salad of oakleaf and miner’s lettuce. Before they began eating, Luke folded his hands and bowed his head, then glanced up at Rachel. “Don’t you say grace here?”
Rachel answered, “I always thought the god that could create this universe should be omniscient as well as omnipotent. That god would know I’m grateful for every mouthful of food. I wouldn’t have to say so in words.”
Mary tried not to smile. So the enlightenment had begun. Luke’s eyebrows went up as he considered what was undoubtedly an entirely new concept to him. “Yes, God knows every man’s thoughts. Still…”
“If you like to put it in words,” Rachel said, “by all means, do so.”
He did, while Rachel and Mary waited politely, then, his thanks said, he turned to the meal with an appetite that precluded all conversation except his enthusiastic comments on the cuisine. Rachel laughed, called up the old saw that hunger is the best sauce, adding, “Sickness seems to work as well, once you’re over the worst of it.”
He did consider himself over the worst, and after they concluded the meal with Gravenstein applesauce, canned last summer, he helped clear the table and declared that he would wash the dishes. “I’m still weak, but I’m good for woman’s work.”
The silence that followed sent a flush into his face, and he added with a sheepish smile, “But everything is woman’s work here, isn’t it?”