Crooked Vows (11 page)

Macpherson watches approvingly.

‘I see that you've been working on the skill of relaxation. I imagine that the sights and sounds of the plane crash have been coming back to you at times over the week. It must be disturbing when they do. Inevitably. Have you found the relaxation exercise useful to keep your reactions under control?'

Thomas opens his eyes to respond.

‘Yes, but there's something else. I'm not sure how this might sound, to you I mean.' He feels the muscles of his neck and shoulders begin to tighten.

‘We won't worry about how it might sound to me. Try to relax again and tell me about it.'

‘It was at the cemetery last Wednesday. A funeral. I went with the parish priest. Beside the new grave, suddenly it all came back. You know, the horror, the torn pieces of body and the smashed heads. The roaring flames, and the screaming. The hideous screaming was worst of all. I felt as if it was tearing something apart inside my head.'

He pauses, shakes his head as if to shake some of the horror loose.

‘And I looked around to focus on something else—you know, anything different from what I was seeing and hearing in my head. There was a tombstone there. And written on it were the words,
Sleeping Peacefully
. It seemed to help. Just looking at the words, and imagining those people sleeping peacefully. I felt more peaceful myself.'

‘That's interesting. As far as I can see you are managing those traumatic memories well. Perhaps we could go on with our strategy. I see that you've brought the book. Who is our saint for the day? The second of December, if I can trust my notes from last week.'

Thomas leafs through the pages. ‘December the Second. The Feast of Saint Bibiana, virgin and martyr. 363A. D.'

‘Well, now. Saint Bibiana. Another stranger to me. And an ancient one. Let's hear about her. Remember to be alert for any memory that comes to mind from the last time you read her story.'

Thomas sits back with his book and begins.

We are informed by Ammianus Marcellinus, a pagan historian of that age, and an officer in the court of Julian the Apostate, that this emperor made Apronianus governor of Rome in the year 363, who, while on his way to that city, had the misfortune to lose an eye. This accident he superstitiously imputed to the power of magic, through the malice of some who excelled in that art; and, in this foolish persuasion, to gratify his spleen and superstition, he resolved to punish and exterminate the magicians; in which accusation Christians were involved above all others, on account of many wonderful miracles which were wrought in the primitive ages. Under this magistrate, Saint Bibiana received the crown of martyrdom.

This holy virgin was a native of Rome, and daughter to Flavian, a Roman knight, and his wife Dafrosa, who were both zealous Christians. Flavian was apprehended, deprived of a considerable post which he held in the city, burned in the face with a hot iron, and banished to Acquapendente, then called Aquae Taurinae, where he died of his wounds, a few days after. Dafrosa, by order of Apronianus, who had thus treated her husband for his constancy in his faith, was, on the same account, confined to her house for some time; and, at length, carried out of the gates of the city, and beheaded.

Bibiana and her sister Demetria, after the death of their holy parents, were stripped of all they had in the world, and suffered much from poverty for five months, but spent that time in their own house in fasting and prayer. Apronianus had flattered himself that hunger and want would bring them to a compliance; but, seeing himself mistaken, summoned them to appear before him.

Demetria, having made a generous confession of her faith, fell down and expired at the foot of the tribunal, in the presence of the judge. Apronianus gave orders that Bibiana should be put into the hands of a wicked woman named Rufina, who was extremely artful, and undertook to bring her to another way of thinking. That agent of hell, employed all the allurements she could invent; which were afterwards succeeded by blows: but Bibiana, making prayer her shield, was invincible.

Apronianus, enraged at the courage and perseverance of a tender virgin, at length passed sentence upon her, and ordered her to be tied to a pillar, and whipped with scourges loaded with leaden plummets till she expired. The saint underwent this punishment cheerfully, and died in the hands of the executioners. Her body was left in the open air, that it might be a prey to beasts; but, having lain exposed for two days, was buried in the night, near the place of Licinius, by a holy priest called John.

Thomas shuts the book, puts it aside and looks up to find Macpherson's eyes on him.

‘That's not a long story, but it's certainly a remarkable one in some ways. We'll return to that later. For the moment there are more pressing matters. When you last closed the book on that story, where were you? Or rather, where are you? What is happening around you?'

Thomas closes his eyes. Images and sensations start to float into his consciousness. He is putting the book down on fine white sand. Looking over his shoulder he finds that he is sitting at the foot of a high dune, with his back against the steep slope. The surface of the sand has been warmed by the increasing heat of the morning, but when he pushes that layer aside there is a pleasant coolness against his back. With any slight movement, small runnels of sand slide down the slope. He picks up the book again to return it to the rucksack that is resting beside him, and takes out a water bottle for a drink. It has an unpleasant, muddy taste. The bottles had been filled from a small creek running through a low-lying area. The water was brownish, like weak tea, and smelled of mud and decaying leaves. Tiny fish darted away for shelter in tangles of fallen leaves and branches as he dipped the bottles into one of the deeper pools.

From the other side of the dunes, Thomas can hear the soft thunder of waves breaking on a beach. The sound has been creeping gradually nearer through the morning's trek towards the coast. Before him is the stretch of country across which they have struggled to find a way: an expanse of fairly flat land densely covered with scrub, mostly about eight or ten feet high.

At this distance the scrub is a uniform dull grey-green. Seen close up most of the shrubs have small leaves and tiny white flowers. When a branch was shaken as he passed, a shower of delicate petals drifted down and settled on his shoulders. Here and there are bushes with bigger leaves and bright red bottle-brush flowers that stand stiffly upright. Away in the background is the higher ground from which they have come: a line of hills that stand up steeply out of the low flat land between. The hills are crowded with towering trees: massive, smooth trunks with high branches that he sees, from this distance, as arms reaching up, dividing into clumps of leaves like thickened fingers. And, somewhere among those hills and trees, the shattered remains of a plane, and the scattered burnt remains of its occupants. A small smudge of what looks like smoke among the deeper green tree tops suggests the location.

Macpherson intervenes: ‘And the young woman? Where is she? You have a name for her now I think, according to my notes. Should she be Jane, or Miss Peterson?'

Thomas scans the scene. She is there sitting beside her rucksack, a few yards away along the foot of the dune, leaning back against the steep sand incline. Her eyes are closed. She looks exhausted. Seeing her resting, vulnerable, he thinks of her as Jane.

She has struggled with the walk from the crash site, limping from the pain of her deeply bruised leg, pushing through the scrub. Once a branch had whipped back after Thomas had passed ahead of her, and caught her in the face. He heard her cry out and turning back, realised his carelessness. At the time he said nothing. Perhaps he should have said something, but what?

They have had to detour around patches of swamp, tripping on roots and stumps. She has sometimes fallen too far behind and had to call to him, ask him to wait.

‘Please. I can't walk so fast.' Her pack, with food and water bottles and spare clothes and shoes is too heavy for her. He has had to wait for her to catch up. Several times. When they stopped beside the creek to refill the water bottles he had been anxious to press on promptly, but she wanted to sit with her back against the stem of one of the bigger shrubs and have what she called a proper rest. He had to sit down too, chafing about the loss of time.

It was during that rest stop that she turned to him with a series of questions. They followed each other as if she had been turning them over in her mind for some time. A priest, she said, a Roman Catholic priest would have to stay single, celibate, is that right? He agreed, wondering at the same time why she would want to press him about this. She turned the questions in a much more personal direction. Why would anyone, she began, why would he want to do that? Wouldn't he want to marry, have a wife and a home of his own? A family? In time, of course. It's what most people imagine themselves doing.

He found her questions confronting. A kind of invasion. Another Catholic wouldn't have asked him these questions, would have understood that a priest commits himself not to do what most other people do. What reason would she have for interrogating him like this? He noticed her puzzled expression while she listened to his hesitant attempt at an explanation.

Finally, after that rest by the watercourse, she was ready to move on. But it must have been only half an hour later that she stopped to look at a flower, calling to him to come back to see it. An orchid, she exclaimed. It was nothing special: a spidery thing close to the ground, hardly noticeable. It took much longer than it should have done to get this far, to the beginning of the dunes.

Now he stands, swinging his own pack up onto his shoulders. They must move on. Over the sand-hills to the coast. It's the only way to find an escape from this wilderness.

She crouches, twists her body to get the straps of the pack over her shoulders, lurches forward onto hands and knees and struggles to stand. He waits until she is upright, then turns and tackles the steep face of the dune. The sand is soft and loose. His feet sink deep into it as he slogs laboriously up the slope.

Half-way up he hears her call from behind and below.

‘Wait. Please, Thomas. For me.'
He turns, plods down the slope again, feet sinking and sliding, and stops a couple of yards short of the bottom.

She is looking up at him. Tears are running down her cheeks. She can't do it. The pack is too heavy. Her leg is really painful after they have walked so far. Her feet are sinking into the sand. She will never get to the top.

Thomas looks down at her. When did a young woman last address him by name? When did one speak to him at all? He notices again how slender she seems. How slight her shoulders and arms. How strange, that these made no lasting impression on him until now. And the bruise down the side of her leg, or as much as he can see of it below her skirt—he hasn't really noticed before how big and dark it is.

Sliding down the last of the slope, Thomas hoists the pack off his shoulders. She sits and shrugs hers off with an effort. He sits too, confused, undecided. What is to be done? What can they do? Eventually, he has a suggestion. Perhaps she can stay here. He can go on alone and try to get help back to her when it is possible.

She looks around.

‘Stay here? In this place? By myself? For how long?'
She is silent for a long while. The surf booms from the other side of the dunes. She shivers.

Finally she turns towards him with another suggestion, sounding tentative, apologetic. Perhaps her rucksack could be left behind. If they left behind everything but the absolute essentials. Food and water bottles. If they shifted those into his pack. Perhaps he might be able to carry the load for both of them. She is sorry, but she doesn't think she can go any further with weight on her back. But she can probably climb this hill and go on without this burden.

Thomas feels a moment of resistance. Then he considers. Perhaps it's possible. They begin to discard spare clothes, shoes. He looks at the clerical collars that have come from the bottom of his pack. Glances across at her, remembering her eyes focusing on them the previous afternoon. He pushes them aside. After a moment's thought he unfastens the collar from round his neck and drops it with the others. They shift food and water into his rucksack. He tries the weight. It is heavier, but not impossible. He looks at
Lives of the Saints
, considering, deciding that for him this is one of the real essentials. He stuffs the book back in, between sultanas and peanuts, hoists the pack onto his shoulders, and takes two or three short steps up the face, his feet sinking deep in the loose sand. Jane calls from behind. He turns back, sees her outstretched hand. Can he help her?

‘Please, Thomas, just a little.' She's sorry. Her leg. This hill is very hard for her, even without the extra weight.

He reaches out with his right hand, takes her left hand in it, feeling a tense, prickly feeling across his neck and shoulders as their hands touch. There is an urge to withdraw, to pull back into himself. Her hand grips his more firmly. With the pressure of her grip his whole body is taken over by a surge of arousal that he can do nothing to control or conceal. He prays that she will not notice, trying to stay a little ahead of her as they trudge laboriously, hand in hand, up the steep face of the sand-hill under the heat of the mid-day sun.

At the top a revelation is waiting: a vast expanse of ocean stretching out to the horizon, transparent turquoise close to the shore, shading to deep opaque blue in the distance. Streaks and flecks of white foam chase each other across the surface. Long swells are peaking and curling over slowly and breaking white on a long beach. Away in the distance in both directions the sand ends in rocky headlands. Between where they stand and the shore there is a series of lower dunes: brilliantly white sand, unmarked except for small wind-formed ripples. A few patches of coarse pale-grey grass are growing through the sand. A light breeze from the sea makes the grass clumps ripple and sway.