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 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.
"So more ill folk had begun to come?"
"More and more, till there was scarcely a day that one was not at their doorstep."
"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 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 twistings done to her mind, she would have to go to the monastery and ask for historian's privilege.