The Judas Rose (31 page)

“Good afternoon, Sister Miriam,” he greeted her, tilting his head just the slightest fraction so that the halo would backlight him but not blur her sight. “You may speak to us now.”

She raised her eyes first—they were a brilliant dark blue, almost a violet—and then her chin, so that she stood absolutely straight before them. None of the hunching into herself that was so often a problem with these religious.

“Good afternoon, Fathers,” she answered. “I am here as you instructed me; please tell me how I may serve you.”

Father Dorien kept his face expressionless, but he risked a swift side glance at his colleagues. Ah yes . . . they were both leaning toward the nun with their lips parted and their eyes alert, and they had forgotten all their reservations. It was the woman's magnificent voice. A voice that Father Dorien was confident had been given to her by God, specifically to enable her to serve his purposes in this project. As he had anticipated, she had only had to speak one sentence to put an end to their objections. He had heard that voice many hundreds of times, because he was her confessor, but it never ceased to be something he marveled over.
It was not just a voice, it was a musical instrument, and she was a virtuoso in its use.

“Be seated, please, Sister,” said Dorien. “We will need you here quite some time; we do not wish you to stand.” No doubt both Claude and Agar would have a good deal to say to him about that later; it was not customary to allow a nun to sit in the presence of priests, no matter how long the time, unless she was ill, or aged, or an Abbess. Sister Miriam was none of those, and caution about setting precedents is forever necessary with female religious. Anything a priest does risks being dubbed a tradition; let him do it twice, and the term will be “hallowed tradition.” It required constant vigilance.

But Dorien knew this woman, and he knew what he was about. If they'd sat there and talked to her, and listened to her answers, the combination of her voice and her height would have emasculated Claude and Agar, and he was by no means sure he was himself immune; before it was over, they would have been hanging on
her
every word, looking up at
her
with respectful attention . . . it wouldn't have done at all. And so he had made provisons in advance. The seat he directed her to with a gracious flicker of his hand was a low wooden stool. She would not be particularly comfortable, she would lose the advantage of her height, and she would be obliged either to tilt her head up to look at the priests or to keep her eyes modestly lowered. It was just the thing, and Fathers Agar and Claude could be glad they'd had his prior knowledge to safeguard them.

“You may speak, Sister,” he added.

“It is my privilege to obey,” she murmured, correct in every way, and she took her place on the low stool and waited for them to tell her what they wanted of her, her eyes safely on her feet.

“Sister Miriam,” said Father Dorien gravely, “we call you here today to give you a holy charge—a mission for the Church and for the glory of God. We charge you to keep secret, even unto death, every word that we say to you here this day, and we ask your pledge in the name of the Blessed Virgin. You may speak.”

“I swear,” answered Sister Miriam, without raising her eyes, “in the name of the Blessed Virgin, Holy Mother of God, that I will guard the secret of this meeting and the words spoken here today, even unto death. It is my privilege to obey.”

Dorien looked at his two brother priests, with raised eyebrows, posing the question.
Well? Will she do?
It was a silent question, but clear, and they nodded. So far, so good; a dutiful
religious, seemingly well suited for a difficult job. Despite her irritating attractiveness, about which perhaps something could be done.

“Sister Miriam,” Father Dorien went on, “we are about to speak to you of a perversion of faith—it may be, although we cannot yet be sure, an actual heresy. Let your mind be pure, whatever your ears must hear, Sister; guard your soul. You may speak.”

“It is my privilege to obey,” she said.

“You will have heard, even within the convent, the gossip about the religious fad that has been spreading across the country—the so-called ‘Thursday Night Devotionals' movement originating in the houses of the linguists. Specifically, in the dwellings of their women. It's like any fad—its hold on the female masses is fierce right now, but it will not last long. We applaud the wisdom of our Protestant colleagues in making no move to interfere; they are right that the more freely the flame is allowed to burn, the more swiftly it burns itself out. However, with the usual naiveté of Protestants, they are missing a number of important points. We do not propose to miss those points.” He paused, and made a gesture of permission; then he realized that with her eyes downcast she couldn't have seen it, and he added, “You may speak.”

“I am listening, Father. It is my privilege.”

“Sister Miriam, look at me,” he directed, and admired the grace with which she obeyed. “I will tell you what our Protestant brothers, in their carelessness, have overlooked. Listen most carefully; again, guard your soul! You may speak.”

“It is my privilege to obey,” she murmured.

“First,” he stated, “only shameful theological ignorance would let this fervor be
wasted
; one does not let such opportunities pass. Since the Protestants have no interest in gathering in these souls in the service of their churches while the women are still in the grip of the fashion, we will be only too happy to do that for Holy Mother Church. You will begin that task for us, Sister Miriam. These women are meeting all over the country, always in the chapels of hospitals or in private homes; they have chosen Thursday nights for their effusions, and that's very convenient. It is a proper fad, Sister. Uniform to a fault. Always in chapels; always on Thursday nights. Very easily managed. You will attend some of these meetings locally, Sister, to become familiar with their form. You may speak.”

“It is my privilege to obey.”

Do they ever find it monotonous, saying that, he wondered?
He supposed they did it so automatically they weren't even aware of it, after a while. Unfortunate that it wasn't a
single
word.

“Then in about two weeks,” he went on, “you will be sent to a retreat house in the Ozark hills, where nuns from all over the world will join you at the direction of the Church. You will shape these nuns—who have been carefully selected, Sister, for this role—as a holy task force; you will of course have a priest in residence nearby to assist you. The sisters are to go back to their convents at the end of their session with you and attend all the Thursday Night Devotionals held in their areas—as many as possible. Your function and theirs is to seize this sudden religious fervor, passing fad though it may be, and win it for Holy Mother Church. We can make good use of that fervor, and we are confident that you and the other nuns will be able to devise ways to keep it
from
burning itself out. It's a matter of timing; it is a force without direction or control, that must be caught and turned while it is at its most powerful. You will simply use its momentum for the purposes of the Church.”

He saw the frown, and knew he had been meant to see it; he gave her permission to speak.

“How are we to reach these women, Father Dorien?” she asked. “What role do we have in their gatherings? I don't understand how it is to be done.”

“No problem at all,” he reassured her. “You, and the other nuns as well, will be sent to these meetings as guest speakers. The ladies positively dote on guest speakers, the more exotic the better. You'll tell them what it's like to be a nun, which is what they are curious about, and that will give you an opening. Remember that to Protestant females a nun is as mysterious and exotic as an Oriental harem dancer, inappropriate though it may be; answer their questions, spin them some tales, charm them. And then you will be able to ask them to tell
you
about their liturgy.”

Her eyes widened in courteous inquiry, and Father Agar, whose specialty was religious language, interrupted the dialogue to add his part.

“My dear Sister,” he said, chirping at her, “it appears that these linguist women have, over the course of the past hundred years or so . . . astonishing! . . . constructed a language. As a
hobby! Isn't
that astonishing, Sister? They call it ‘Langlish,' also ‘Láadan,' and of course I've no idea why two names are needed for one language . . . it seems like a great deal of bother . . . and they have been translating portions of the old King James
Bible into the stuff and reciting them aloud at their Thursday night chapel services. The men of the Lines—you do know, Sister, that the families of linguists are called
the Lines?
Yes, I see you do. Well, the men of the Lines have allowed them to do this, which I am not at all sure was a good idea; on the other hand, I can see that for women who are themselves linguists the construction of an artificial language is perhaps an appropriate pastime. Still . . . still, this is where you and the other dear sisters will be able to gain a foothold, win hearts. If you show an interest in their precious Langlish, they'll take you to their bosoms at once. Figuratively speaking. At
once.
”

“And it is in this ‘Langlish,' Sister,” said Father Claude, raising a cautioning index finger, “that we suspect there may be heresy. Despite the way it fascinates Father Agar.”

“We are in fact almost sure,” put in Father Dorien quickly, “that there is heresy there. This language, whatever its name, is said to be—” He looked down at the notes he had prepared, and read aloud exactly what had been said to him by the pleasant woman he had queried on the matter. “—is said to be ‘a language constructed by women in order to express the perceptions of women.' ”

“We don't have any samples,” said Father Agar, unable to resist interrupting again. “We've asked for them, of course, and have been told with the most
charming
courtesy that nothing is available that would be interesting to us, that the ladies would be embarrassed to have us see their poor amateurish efforts, and so on. All just so much persiflage, of course, and don't think we can't spot it, but they were . . . well, perhaps clever is the word. It's clear that they have no intention of letting us examine the material. And since not a single one of the Lines is Catholic, we could compel them to show it to us only by going to the
men
of the Lines and asking that they have it sent. We could do that easily enough . . . it's no problem to pretend an anthropological interest of some kind and send a seminarian along, and I must tell you that some of the correspondence the linguists have been sending to the theological journals on the subject is
extremely
interesting, if a bit hard to follow. But we prefer not to call the men's attention to the fact that we are interested. You will not understand that, Sister—I will explain. If they should suspect that the Church has an interest in their females, they not only will not allow you nuns to attend the meetings, they will send in a regiment of Protestant Bible-thumpers in your place to make certain that their women toe the line! And those Bible-thumpers will wonder why we are interested, and they will begin to see
what we had in mind, and we will lose all those souls, with their delightful fervor. We do not wish to do that, you see; we wish to win those women—and through them, their men—and in the fullness of time, the Lines and all their power. You may speak, Sister.”

Father Dorien had long since fixed his eyes on the ceiling, praying for patience, and Father Claude was glowering at Agar as if he were about to hit him, but Sister Miriam showed no trace of irritation at the rambling monologue. “Thank you, Father Agar,” she said placidly. “I believe I understand; thank you for the explanation.”

They were talking around and around the delicate issue, because all of the men found it distasteful even to think about it, much less speak of it. Worst of all was the need to talk about it to a woman. Father Dorien could see that they might go on in this way for hours . . . Agar was given to the impromptu speech form, particularly when he was handed a topic that he found so alluring; Claude was less so, but would inevitably feel compelled to pontificate in competition with Agar. Father Dorien, on the other hand, wanted his dinner. Much better, he decided, just to speak up about it himself and get it over with, forestalling the orations. It was natural that the other priests, who did not know Miriam, would feel inhibited with her.

He broke in abruptly, without any preamble to spare her feelings or those of the priests. “What we suspect, Sister Miriam,” he said, while Claude and Agar assumed expressions of elaborate indifference, “is that somewhere in these Langlish/Láadan materials you will find mention of a goddess rather than of God. I apologize for being so blunt, but that
is
what we suspect. A score of little things . . . a simple consideration of where ‘a language to express the perceptions of women' might be expected to lead, if nothing more. We may be quite wrong, Sister. It may be that in suspecting the substitution of a goddess we are only expressing the perceptions of
men
—it may be something we don't suspect at all. But we suspect the seeds of an attempt at a ‘feminist' religion once again, goddess or no goddess. If we are right, that is heresy; if they are practicing it openly, in these rituals, it is blasphemy and unspeakable perversion. A great danger, Sister—a great danger, and something that must be stamped out. We want you to find out for us, and to have the nuns helping you find out for us. You will come back here and tell us what you have found, and if the women are innocent we will praise God for that and ask forgiveness for our over-active imaginations. You may speak, Sister.”