After breakfast I go out into the greenhouse. The tomatoes are doing well this year, and Bernadette’s arcane garden is flourishing, including the thick-leafed aloe that is a scion of the plant Rachel had growing here when I first came to Amarna. The poppies are beginning to bloom, unfurling crumpled silk petals of burning red around charcoal centers. They grow remarkably well in this artificial environment.
“Pretty things, aren’t they?” Bernadette comes into the greenhouse from the north door. “I wonder sometimes if they aren’t trying to tell the world they’re full of miracles. Full of sleep for the sleepless, comfort for those in pain. Full of death.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply or expect one, but goes to the worktable, takes up a small pestle, and begins grinding dried leaves in a bisque porcelain bowl. I approach the table and ask, “What’s that, Bernadette?”
“Comfrey. Can’t you smell it?” She hands me a dusty-scented leaf. “Good for vitamin B12. I’ll fix you some comfrey tea later. You’re looking sort of peaked, Mary.”
“Am I? Well, I’ll take your expert word for that. Besides, I rather like your comfrey tea.”
“Little honey in it. That helps.”
She continues grinding, and the soft growl of the pestle seems to follow me as I cross the greenhouse to the sliding door on the south wall that opens into my room. I’m at the door before she speaks again.
“Mary…” I turn, find her studying me intently. She says, “Be careful, Sister. You’re an old woman. Old women are apt to die.”
Those words strike with a chill incongruous in this tropical pocket of space with its sun-drenched banks of foliage.
Yes. This old woman’s death would certainly solve Miriam’s problems. I hadn’t considered this alternative. It hadn’t occurred to me that Miriam might rid herself and the family of my evil influence by the simple expedient of ridding herself and the family of me. But it has occurred to Bernadette, and I trust her judgment.
“Thank you, Bernadette.” I go into my room to get the books I’d set aside for school. It’s almost time.
Miriam’s children seem glad to be back in school, but I find it difficult to concentrate. We practice addition and subtraction, recite multiplication tables, and Jonathan demonstrates some simple algebra. We study history; we’re up to the dark ages in Europe. We read poetry. “My life closed twice before its close….” We gather around the globe for a game of Where-in-the-World. We talk about crustaceans; Stephen brought a hermit crab from the tide pools. And at the end of our allotted time, I’m not sure what I’ve said or the children have learned.
Afterward, Shadow and I set out for the beach, and when I reach the foot of the path, I realize the tide is nearly high. I should’ve known it would be. I pick my way over sea-smoothed cobbles, then walk north on the margin of sand still above the reach of the waves. The surf has a throbbing rumble that I don’t so much hear as feel. The breakers have whipped the foam to a creamy froth, and Shadow spatters through the scallops of incoming waves until she’s belly-deep in foam, making small blizzards as her headlong gallop shatters the ivory mounds.
And I consider my own murder.
Is Miriam capable of murder? Probably. It wouldn’t be murder in her eyes. She’d be ridding the world—her world, small as it is—of a source of evil, a purveyor of blasphemy, a corruptor of children’s souls.
And my death would be her ultimate justification.
At least, it would be if it seemed an accident. An act of god. For Miriam’s purposes, my death must be an act of god.
I look out at the roiling ocean. Old women are apt to drown—if they are so foolish as to walk alone near high tide.
“Shadow!” But she doesn’t hear me. I reach under my collar for the silent whistle and give it a long blast. She looks back at me, then when I blow again, she returns to me, taking her time about it. I lean down to stroke her head. “Good girl. Come on, we’re going back.”
She follows me, reluctantly, and I feel a cast of anger in the apprehension that has taken firm root in my mind. How long, I wonder, am I to be denied the pleasure of walking alone on the beach or visiting the tree? Or climbing up to the Knob? Yes, old women are certainly apt to slip at the edge of a three-hundred-foot cliff.
Damn her.
But I don’t intend to make it easy for her.
The midday meal is another test of our Thespian skills, but we get through it without ruffling the surface calm. Afterward, I go to the deck and stand at the railing. The wind is out of the north with a blunted edge of chill in it, but I prefer it to the chill inside the house.
Finally I hear the sliding door open. Stephen has a smile for me, but behind it is the anxiety, cloaked in silence, that haunts all the children today. We sit down, then I wait, giving him a little time. I know he has questions. I don’t know if I’ll have the answers.
He sits with one leg pulled up, heel caught on the edge of the seat, and at length, he asks, “What happened at the family meeting last night?”
No, I don’t have the answers. I can only say, “Well, Jeremiah heard our arguments—Miriam’s and mine—as to whether I should be allowed to continue teaching.”
“Yes, we could hear some of the arguing.”
I smile briefly. “I’m sorry if we kept you awake.”
He shrugs. “So, Jeremiah decided you could keep teaching us.”
“Yes, he did.”
He watches me, as if he’s waiting for me to go on. Then, “Why doesn’t Miriam want you to teach us?”
“Because she doesn’t agree with what I teach.”
“I wish she…” But he doesn’t finish that, instead asks, “Why did Jeremiah preach at morning service?”
“That was his decision. You’ll have to ask him about it.”
“I don’t think he’ll talk to me about it. Well, I’m glad he said you could keep teaching us.” But his anxiety hasn’t been alleviated. I don’t know what I can say—and be truthful—that would allay his fears. Not when I am so steeped in fear myself.
“Yes, Stephen, I’m glad, too.” Then I change the subject with, “You know, we’re coming to the end of the Chronicle. A few more sessions, then we’ll get on to more orthodox lessons.”
“When will you be finished writing it?”
“I don’t know.” The question now, perhaps, is not when, but will I be able to finish it at all.
He says, “If you can’t finish it, I will—as best I can.”
I’m startled at that. I didn’t mean to reveal so much of my fear. And I’m deeply moved. “Thank you, Stephen. Yes, if I can’t finish it for any reason, you must. I keep it in the bottom drawer in the chest in my room.” He nods soberly, and I bring out a smile. “So, where were we?”
“You’d just found out you really were pregnant. Mary, what…” He hesitates, and I know the question he asks isn’t the one he started. “What did the Doctor do after that? I mean, was he still angry?”
Stephen is thinking of my argument with the Doctor about Rachel. I didn’t tell him about the examination. “No, he didn’t seem to be angry. In fact, he was as kind and concerned as a doting grandfather. He treated me like a prodigal daughter returned. All the Flock did. And in December they had more good news. Sister Hannah was pregnant, too. She was Miriam’s mother, and it was Miriam she was carrying.”
Now it seems darkly ironic that Miriam was taking the shape of life while I was at the Ark.
Stephen asks, “Were you happy then?”