Bernadette. She wore a robe of berry-dyed wool, and her pale hair was even wilder than before. “Sister Mary.” The words signaled recognition, more than greeting. She went to the chair Nehemiah had vacated. Mary waited, wondering if she would prefer to be alone, and at length Bernadette looked at her with her steel bright, gray eyes and said, “Tell me about the woman who worked the farm with you.”
“I’d rather not.” That slipped out before she thought about it. She added, “I miss her very much. Talking about her doesn’t help.”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “Was she your mother?”
“No.”
“Your sister?”
“No. She’s my friend.”
Bernadette considered that, finally nodded. “Rare things, friends.” Then she reached into the pocket of her robe, but Mary couldn’t see what she brought out. She rose, got a piece of kindling from the wood box, held one end into the fire, then as she sank back into the chair, raised the flaming stick and casually lighted a leaf-wrapped cigarette.
Mary stared at her, while Bernadette tossed the kindling into the fire and puffed at the cigarette. When Mary got a whiff of the sweet scent of the smoke, she nearly laughed aloud. “I can’t believe it. That’s—”
“Cannabis,” Bernadette pronounced calmly. “Cannabis is soothing to the nerves and a good analgesic to a point. It eases gastric restlessness and promotes sleep. Here…” And she offered the cigarette to Mary.
But Mary didn’t take it. One reason was that she still harbored the hope that she was pregnant. The other reason she verbalized by asking, “Is this some sort of test? Am I being tempted by the Lord’s advocate?”
Bernadette laughed. “You’re not being tempted, Sister, and you passed my test when you didn’t go all righteous on me. Some people here frown on cannabis as a soporific. Why don’t you take a puff?”
“I… have my reasons.”
“Which are none of my business.” She nodded, then: “You’re going to have a hard time here, Sister. You’re not made in their mold.”
Mary contrasted those words with Nehemiah’s blithe assurance that she would be a blessing for Luke and the Flock. She asked, “Are you made in their mold?”
“Yes. I was raised in the mold. It’s just… well, the mold seems to have bent a little for me. Everybody thinks I’m a little strange. But they never go outside the Ark. You learn a lot out there in the forest or along the seashore.” She took another puff, savored the smoke. “Thing is, nobody worries about how strange I am. I’m a nurse, and I know medicines—the kinds we use—as well as the Doctor. I’m good at what I do, and what I do is important here. If people need you, they’ll put up with a little strangeness—if you don’t carry it too far.”
Mary restrained a smile. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Advice? I don’t give advice. Nothing but trouble in that.”
“That’s probably good advice, too. Sister Bernadette, would you consider teaching me medicine and nursing? I’d like to have a reason to go into the forest or along the seashore occasionally.”
“Would you, now?” Bernadette studied her through a veil of smoke. “Don’t know that I’d want the company. Of course, it’s not up to me. That’ll be for the Doctor to decide. Besides, you’ve got another way to make yourself needed here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lord, woman, you know what I mean. All you have to do is get pregnant and have a live, sound baby. Can you do it?”
“Well, there’s no reason to think I can’t. My periods have always been regular, and I’m perfectly healthy.”
“Those are good signs. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
Bernadette raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look it. Well, as long as you’re in good health, being a little past ideal childbearing age shouldn’t cause any problems. You give Luke a baby. They’ll love you like one of their own.”
Mary hadn’t thought about having a baby as a means of making herself acceptable here. It still seemed ironic—and incredible— that these people were so desperate for children in the imagined shadow of Armageddon and the second coming. She considered asking Bernadette the same question she’d wanted to ask Nehemiah, but she wasn’t sure how to phrase it. Finally she put it as a statement.
“The Doctor believes that Armageddon has already happened, and Jesus will come to Earth soon.”
Bernadette smiled benignly. “Yes, that’s what he tells us.”
Mary waited, refusing to say more, and Bernadette sighed. “You want to know if I believe that? Well, the truth is, I just don’t know, and I figure I may never know. Meanwhile, though, you have to keep on living, and that means you have to keep on planning for some sort of future, even if it’s just planting seeds in spring for fall harvest.”
“Do other people in the Flock feel that way?”
“I couldn’t say.” Bernadette paused, eyed her coolly. “But whatever people think in their hearts, you have to understand one thing: they’ll never go against the Doctor. That’s the way it has to be.”
Mary shivered. The cold was gathering at her back as the fire died. After a moment she rose. She was ready for sleep. At least, for solitude.
“Good night, Bernadette. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Probably. By the way, I know where there’s wild aster and pearly everlasting blooming. I’ll bring you some—for your wedding bouquet.”
Mary was too moved to speak. Then at length, she said, “I’d love that. Thank you.”
Bernadette nodded without looking away from the embers.
Chapter 21
May Day was once a minor holiday celebrated mostly by schoolchildren, a pagan festival emasculated, as so many pagan celebrations were, like Easter and Christmas. At Amarna the family doesn’t recognize May Day. I do, but my celebration is simply a few minutes of prayerless gratitude for the imminent arrival of another summer.
Stephen and I are having our lesson on the beach today, sitting on the wave-smoothed trunk of a redwood. This is the kind of day on which the beach is most alluring. There’s no wind to drive the sand in stinging veils, no clouds to come between me and the warmth of the sun. The sea is chatoyant blue green, the breakers turning lazily with no power behind them. It’s as if the world has slowed down to a contemplative stroll. Shadow is chasing gulls through the shallows, and her hectic movements seem out of synchronization with her context.
And on this May Day the allure of the beach for me is simply that it takes me away from the house, from the family.
Yet when I look back on the morning, I can’t pinpoint any particular words or actions that made me seek the solace of the sea. Of course, Miriam’s children weren’t in school, and after midday meal, Deborah returned the copy of Winnie-the-Pooh I loaned her last week. The child whose vivacity I treasure was subdued and near tears. But Miriam was almost cheerful today. Still, neither she nor anyone else mentioned the family meeting tomorrow night, and it hangs over us like an invisible shadow. The children show the tension more than the adults. They respond to it, as the adults do, by not talking about it, but the children are silent because they don’t know what questions to ask. The adults know, but won’t ask.