Author: Branwell
Combs-bachmann@worldnet.att.net
 

Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and
Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize.
My writing is for fun, not money.

Rating: R (Language, Violence, Sex)

Size: 188KB

Thanks: Thanks to all of the fan fiction writers whose bravery
encouraged me to try this. Special thanks to Karen Rasch, whose
graceful prose is a pleasure to re-read and whose web pages point
the way to so much of the best fiction being done. Special thanks
also to Pellinor for her evocative fiction and her invaluable 'Deep
Background'. I also look forward to every opportunity to enter the
worlds created by Jill Selby, Jo-Anne Lassiter, Vicki Moseley, Rebecca
Rusnak, Kipler, Analise, Nascent and others too numerous to name.

Summary: The story is set in fall of 1997 after Redux II and before
Detour. Mulder and Scully have been assigned to a "routine" X-File by
Skinner. They don't believe it will amount to much, but it proves to be
more dangerous than expected. As the case progresses they're reading a
manuscript that was found among Melissa Scully's things, at the request
of Maggie Scully. Melissa believed it was an account of a past life of
someone in the Scully family. It raises personal issues Mulder and
Scully are not prepared to face.

Classification: Story with Humor, Angst, Romance

Spoilers: Numerous references through Redux II, especially "Field
Where I Died"

Distribution: No restrictions on further distribution. Just keep my
name with it please.

Reactions welcome at COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET

******      ******      ******      ******     ******      ******

        Scully and Mulder sat side by side in the usual discomfort felt by
today's airline passenger. On long flights Mulder sometimes toyed with the
idea of starting a class action suit against the airline on behalf of
those over 5 feet 2 inches tall. They could claim pain and suffering
caused by cramped everything. When he had elaborated on this scheme for
too long Scully would remind him tartly that the overhead compartments
were no picnic for those 5 feet 2 inches and under. Nor did she fail to
point out that she could have purchased a new business suit for what she
had paid to have the ones she owned shortened.

        "You know how it is, Scully, the miniaturized version always costs
more. Besides, haven't you heard? The best things come in small packages."

        "Believe it or not Mulder, I have heard that, but usually from
guys who are trying hard to unwrap it," Scully replied in mock grim tones.

        Mulder grinned enigmatically. The grin earned him a warning look.
He decided to heed it due to number of hours left on the flight. He didn't
want to risk being left with the current case file and no one to talk to.

        Mulder had an unbelievably boring case file which he went back to
reviewing in hopes of finding something interesting. After all of the
emotion and drama of his return from a faked death, the exposure of Agent
Blevins, and Scully's last minute reprieve from real death, Skinner was
playing it as safe as Treasury bonds. He was sending them to investigate
some cattle mutilations in Idaho. Mulder suspected their investigation
would nail some teenagers who had tipped a few too many fragile cows in
coyote country. The patterns in the poorly done photographs were familiar.
He didn't have high hopes for a breakthrough case. Scully's reading
material looked much more intriguing.

        "Those papers look a lot older than the rest of our case file.
Please tell me they document a series of cow mutilations in the area fifty
years ago."

        "Your luck's not in, Mulder. These are some of the papers Mom gave
me from Melissa's storage locker. She didn't feel up to going through them
until recently."

        Mulder winced inwardly. He would always feel guilty about
Melissa's death at the hands of a gunman who was after Scully. Yet he
could never repress a powerful surge of thankfulness that it was Melissa
and not Scully who had died. He added this selfish gratitude to his
already considerable burden of things to feel guilty about.

        Scully continued to explain, without appearing to notice Mulder's
discomfort.

        "Melissa trolled through our grandparents' attics for family
documents during her 'channeling' period. That was in the early eighties.
She was hoping to find family personalities to contact on the other side.
She really hit the jackpot with this thing. It turned out that Grandma
Scully had a sister who got deeply into seances back in the twenties.
Great Aunt Kate found an eighteenth century letter to one of our
great-something or others that referred to an old family legend. She hired
a medium to get to the bottom of it. Then she 'interpreted' the letter and
the results of numerous seances and came up with a story which she
considered a legitimate part of our family history."

        "Scully now I understand your blind devotion to rationality.
You're overcompensating for family members who were a little short in that
department."

        "Sticks and stones may break my bones, and assigning behavior a
DSM number doesn't solve a thing," she replied absently. "I'm reading this
because Mom was upset by it. She wouldn't tell me why.  She said she
wanted me to read it without being influenced by preconceptions. She said
she might be letting her imagination run away with her."

        Mulder thought that Margaret Scully's imagination would find
running away with her to be uphill work. He had never known anyone who
faced the tragic or inexplicable event with such stoicism and calm.

        "See, Mulder, these first pages are Melissa's notes on what
happened when she took the manuscript to this channeler on the West
Coast." Scully frowned at the partially handwritten notes. "It looks as
though her name is Zenith."

        The pages were white, with the blurry print that results from
being too many copies of copies away from the original. Melissa had
entered information on these official-looking forms. There was a page for
each date on which channeling was attempted. Melissa had entered the date
of each session on the first line. The second line of the form provided a
space to fill in the time the entity was successfully channeled. The third
line provided a space to record when an unsuccessful attempt was
abandoned. Lines to record the answers to standard questions followed. A
space was provided for comments. The first five sheets had nothing entered
but a date and time recording the abandonment of an unsuccessful attempt.
On the sixth and final form there was an entry by Melissa in the comment
area.

        "Zenith finally contacted a guide who knew what was going on with
these two. We can't channel them because they've been reborn and are alive
right now! What's even more exciting is that Zenith says there's been
continuity in the family. I'm related to one of them and the other is
someone I haven't met yet. She couldn't get their names clearly, but she
says when I need to I'll know. She says when I know I should use lots of
caution. When these two meet they become a sort of epicenter of mini
earthquakes, figuratively speaking. Things seem to happen around them and
to them. So who is it? Bill's temper certainly can score a five on the
Richter scale. But Bill doesn't strike me as being an old soul. Dana is
way too sensible to cause earthquakes. Charlie is too easy-going. What if
it turns out to be Mom or Dad! You just don't want to think of your
parents that way."

        "Anyway, she says these two are well and truly wrapped around the
axle. They're blocked by a thousand years or more of pride, jealousy,
guilt, fear and mistaken self-sacrifice. She says they have so much shit
to work through she doesn't know how they'll ever do it. And to stand well
back when they're trying."

        "But in spite of it all, they just can't stay apart! They start
other relationships that last as long as several lifetimes and they end by
abandoning them because they don't have the intensity, the depth, that
they crave from each other. But they can't seem to get the timing right
and be open to each other when it counts. So each lifetime is snarled into
a disaster of 'had I but known' situations that end in tragedy. It seems
they can't break the cycle."

        Scully and Mulder sat in silence for a few moments. They were both
thinking of the hypnotic regression that Mulder had undergone during the
Vernon Ephesian case. There had been enough hard evidence to make them
consider the possibility of previous lives. If they believed in the truth
of the recovered memories, then the concepts Scully's sister described
might be valid. Still, it was a long leap from assuming reincarnation
might be true to accepting the validity of this document. The
spiritualists of the twenties wanted to please their paying customers as
much as the West Coast channelers of the present. Since their experience
with Kritschgau, Mulder doubted the validity of any memories retrieved
through hypnotic regression, including his own.

        "Maybe your mother was upset to find that Melissa had totally
rejected Catholic beliefs."

        "No, Melissa never made any secret of her beliefs. I'll have to
read this and then maybe I can reassure her.

        Mulder gave in to his curiosity and read the yellowed, typewritten
document over Scully's shoulder.
 

****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

        Shrill screams dragged Sister Catherine from a vivid but somehow
peaceful dream which involved sinking into icy waters. She woke in deep
darkness to find the blanket twisted up at the bottom of the bed. In her
dreaming mind the damp chill of the room had become submersion in a cold
stream. The screams continued while a sharp rapping began on her door.

        "Sister Catherine. Sister Catherine. Mother asks you to come to
Sister Dorothea's cell. She's very ill. Bring your dressings and
medicines."

        The Mistress of Novices, Sister Michael, entered with two candles,
one of which she placed on the only table in the cell. Her instant
departure in an uncharacteristic flurry left Sister Catherine fearing the
worst for Sister Dorothea.

        Dressings and medicines? Sister Catherine flung a cloak over her
sleeping shift and hastily pinned her veil where it landed on her head.
She grabbed her basket of herbs, extracts and clean cloths, and hurried
through the dimly lit stone hallways. The screams had stopped. She thought
about Sister Dorothea and remembered her complaint two weeks ago of
occasional twinges of belly pain. She had also clearly been suffering from
low spirits. Sister Catherine had brewed her some mint tea and had offered
to lay hands on her belly to determine the cause of her troubles. Sister
Dorothea had muttered something in apparent embarrassment about how she
would feel better when her menses came. Since then she had moped about and
come for no further advice. Had she been so sick and Sister Catherine had
missed her true condition completely?

        The other postulants were clustered in the hallway, frightened,
and giddy with excitement all at once. Sister Catherine raised her voice
to a level calculated to reach them all and addressed a hovering novice.

        "Please lead the sisters to the chapel to pray for Sister
Dorothea. It will help her more than anything I can do."

        Sister Catherine privately thought that the greatest benefit would
be a quiet hallway, but silent prayer would also aid the postulants in
regaining control of their emotions.

        Dame Agnes and Sister Michael were praying quietly over Sister
Dorothea as Sister Catherine entered the cell. She could smell the
metallic odor of blood and immediately pulled down the blanket to judge
the danger of sister's condition. The truth was clear to her in one
glance. Sister Dorothea had already bled enough to soak the cotton
mattress through. Blood still gushed out although she looked too gray to
have any left to bleed. She was unconscious and breathing with shallow,
rapid breaths.

        Dame Agnes looked at Sister Catherine calmly and asked, "Is she
hurt inside? Can you do anything?" Sister Catherine shook her head and
asked only "Have you sent for Father Walter?"

        "Yes, I sent Old Matthew for him when Sister Michael woke me and
told me what was happening to Sister Dorothea."

        Sister Catherine and Sister Michael replaced the blanket and
smoothed sister Dorothea's yellow curls in a preparation for Last Rites
that was more symbolic than effective. Then the three waited, each in
private meditation.

        "Father Walter may not get here in time," worried Sister
Catherine, as Sister Dorothea's breathing slowed and became more labored.
Their fears were realized when one long, impossibly slow breath, wasn't
followed by another. Her hands ceased plucking at the bedclothes.

        "Never mind. We don't know how long the spirit lingers." Dame
Agnes spoke quietly in the silence.

        As she brushed tears from her lashes Sister Catherine asked,
"Sister Michael, what happened with Sister Dorothea?"

        "Her screaming woke me. I got out of bed and Sister Adrian was
already at my door. She told me that Sister Dorothea was in terrible pain
and thought she was dying. I went to see, and by then she was bleeding. I
sent Sister Adrian to wake up Dame Agnes and I came to get you."

        "Mother, I want to talk to Sister Adrian about what happened.
Sister Dorothea came to me with some small troubles a fortnight ago. I
thought they weren't serious; just the moodiness and the boredom I often
see in the young during the winter months. I must have missed something
that was wrong."

        Dame Agnes recognized the possibility of having to live with
Sister Catherine while she went through another period of scrupulousness.
Her morbid guilt never stemmed from worries about religious duties, Dame
Agnes acknowledged to herself with a sigh. Sister Catherine took her
spiritual relationships for granted, as a baby takes the teat. Her anguish
always originated with some imagined failure on her part to know all and
anticipate everything that might harm those she cared for.

        "Sister Catherine, yes, you may talk to Sister Adrian, but
remember she'll be grieving. Sometimes you get caught up in your search
for answers, and you forget that the feelings of others may be more tender
and less disciplined than yours."

        "Yes, Mother, I'll try to be more considerate, " Sister Catherine
replied with genuine contrition.

        Dame Agnes almost smiled. You had to be careful with Sister
Catherine. A reminder to her to be less scrupulous could add to the
Disproportionate guilt she carried for all her faults. They were really
very few. She was intense in her quest to improve her own knowledge and
skills, but she was also capable of losing sight of her own well being in
her empathy with suffering.

        The two older nuns left for the great hall where Father Walter
would be received. Sister Catherine then began a careful inspection of the
area. She found nothing out of the ordinary until she went through the
clothes chest. Between the folds of linens she found a leather bag with a
few pungent curling leaves, and a scrap of paper that described the
process of drawing oils from plants. She recognized the leaves as
pennyroyal. She then thought she knew the truth about Sister Dorothea's
death. Sister Dorothea had had the beginnings of a baby in her, but the
pregnancy had gone wrong. She had unknowingly hastened inevitable death by
using pennyroyal in an attempt to end the pregnancy.

        Sister Catherine remembered the first such death she had seen.
She had been acting as apprentice to her mother to learn the healing arts.
The girl was fifteen, married only a few months. She hadn't used any herbs
hasten the day of dying. Nevertheless when the dying began it moved quite
as swiftly as Sister Dorothea's did. "The physicians say that the humors
are blocked and the blood gathers in the womb when this death occurs," her
mother instructed her. "There's never enough warning to bleed the patient
sufficiently before the blood bursts a vessel inside. I wonder sometimes
what we would find if we called on a surgeon to look at the womb
afterwards." They both knew that the Church forbade dissection as a foul
desecration of the Temple of the Holy Spirit.

        Sister Adrian quietly entered the cell.

        "Sister Michael told me she died, and that you wanted to talk to
me. I did everything I could," she said defensively.

        Sister Adrian looked at the bag in Sister Catherine's hands
thoughtfully, but said nothing more. Her grief, if she felt any, was well
hidden.

        Sister Catherine answered gently, "Yes, you did all that anyone
could." She continued after a pause, "Had Sister Dorothea been acting
different in the last two months? I mean, did her habits change recently?"

        Sister Adrian considered.

        "Well, she seemed different. She used to slip out to the stables
and play with the kittens to avoid extra work. Then, after Candlemas, she
was always offering to do errands and fetch things between the convent and
town for Sister Walburga and Sister Michael. She must have carried scores
of baskets of herring from the fish monger's stall to our kitchen. But she
still got in trouble for daydreaming and being forgetful. Once she put
Sister Walburga's two best applewood spoons right in the kitchen fire
instead of firewood. That got her three days of kneeling on the refectory
floor at dinner."

        This last memory brought a satisfied smile to Sister Adrian's
face. Sister Catherine wondered if the hard-favored Sister Adrian had been
envious of Sister Dorothea's once blooming and delicate features, and her
big blue eyes. She herself had always found those eyes rather empty of
sense, but perhaps that was preferable to full of spite, as the ones
before her were.

        "I really meant, did she eat and sleep well? How did she feel?"
Sister Catherine pressed.

        "She slept so well I could hardly get her out of bed for Matins
most days. She'd go back to sleep after the bells, so I'd go in and pour
cold water on her face. It was to keep her from getting more penances,"
she added hastily, on seeing the expression of distaste Sister Catherine
couldn't quite conceal. "She didn't eat in the morning at all, but she
asked for extra helpings at supper. Sometimes she was so happy she forgot
herself and whistled tunes like a serf in the field, but other times she
seemed sadder than she ever was before. What was wrong with her?"

        "Thank you for talking to me when you must be feeling sad. But
even with your help I don't know all the answers here. We'll have to wait
upon God's mercy to know the meaning behind this death."

        "Is that bag Sister Dorothea's?"

        "I don't know." She unconcernedly dropped it into her basket.  She
was sure that God forgave small lies that contributed to a greater good.
"We must trust Sister Dorothea to the loving hands of God, His will be
done."

        The last phrase usually brought the conversation to a satisfactory
conclusion. The listener could only reply "Amen." Sister Adrian didn't
bother to do so. But she did turn and leave. Sister Catherine thought that
God's will had less to do with events than youthful impulsiveness unwisely
indulged. She could think of no good that would come out of popular
gossiping about Sister Dorothea's pathetic death. Such news only led to
much self-congratulatory condemnation of other people's lewdness.

        She heard low conversation in the hall as Dame Agnes and Father
Walter approached the cell.

************

        Father Walter braced himself for the worst when Bishop Thomas
informed him in hearty tones that he would be welcoming an assistant fresh
from Rome. Mother Church didn't train a man in Rome to become an assistant
pastor in Derby. Father Doun Martin must have a serious problem. He would
be a rakehell or drunkard. God forbid, he might be one of those priests
who sniffed around after serving boys or apprentices.

        Father Walter had locked up the buttery wine cupboard. He hired
Dark Alison to do the cleaning and washing for Father Martin. Alison was
not young, but she had a come hither air and a reputation for living up to
it. Father Walter's theory was that limiting them to the experienced could
minimize the evils of lechery. He couldn't imagine a scheme that would
lessen the evil of seducing children.

        When Father Martin arrived he kept Father Walter in suspense for
weeks. His manner was quiet and reserved.  His interests were scholarly.
He performed his duties efficiently and without complaint. He did offend
parishioners who committed the sin of beating their wives, children or
animals. He made a habit of promising to personally beat them to within a
rod's length of the gates of hell if they sinned that way again. Father
Walter turned a blind eye on these occasions. He knew that a hot temper
was no impediment to a promising young priest. He himself had been known
to thrash the odd bully. Father Martin had a still undiscovered fatal
weakness. In the meantime he did his assigned tasks every day and he
retired to his room and his studies every night.

        One night Father Walter decided to test a theory and served wine
with supper. The appearance of the wine pitcher produced the first smile
with real merriment behind it that he had seen on Father Martin's face.
Father Walter felt vindicated in his suspicions. But after Father Martin
temperately drank his one cup, he refused more with a wink and another
real smile, as though he knew he was being tested.

        Father Walter had observed that Alison missed no opportunity to
touch Father Martin and demonstrate her willingness to be touched. He
consistently showed her an impersonal courtesy, which kept her at a
distance as effectively as a stone wall. He had little to say to boys,
except for vigorously discouraging their games of warfare in the
churchyard. They prided themselves on the dangerous stoutness of their
cudgels. He informed them that none of them could afford to risk losing
the smallest jot of his mental skills to a cracked head.

        As the days got colder Father Martin sometimes lingered after
supper in the big rectory kitchen. Father Walter kept the fire stoked in
the huge fireplace there until late at night while he read his Bible or
went over the parish accounts.

        "I'm not used to these damp English winters anymore. I was in Rome
for three years, " Father Martin said, apologizing to Father Walter for
disturbing his privacy.

        Father Walter thought that the younger priest might also be
feeling lonely. He must have had colleagues in Rome who were sorely
missed. Father Walter hastily protested that he was glad of the company.

        This polite lie gradually became the truth. The two men learned
that they could enjoy lively theological and philosophical debates over
ale and cheese. Neither one took their differences seriously enough to
lose their tempers. Father Walter might not have the theological training
of Father Martin, but he had a shrewd brain. Twenty years of experience as
a parish priest had not been wasted on him. He told many stories about the
parish and himself to Father Martin. He was not rewarded with similar
stories from his assistant. Father Martin talked little about his past,
revealing only that his father had been knight to the Duke of Exeter. Sir
William Martin had acted as the Duke's advisor on war strategies. This was
a grand connection, and it helped explain how he had gotten the patronage
to reach Rome. There was no explanation of how he had ended up being
exiled to Derby.

        Finally, one sharp, cold night, they shared a gift bottle of
French brandy in front of the fire, and Father Walter found out about
Father Martin's problem. It was a problem they could all live with as long
as Father Martin didn't overdo the French brandy with the wrong person.

        Father Martin had lost his faith--not only his faith in God but
his faith in the Church. He could reason flawlessly from any set of
postulates about the universe to their logical religious corollaries, but
he no longer accepted any of the postulates. He talked of these
intellectual exercises dispassionately. When he spoke of his betrayal by
the Church his words came slowly and in broken phrases, hinting at a world
of pain underneath.

        He had been approaching the inner circles of power in his Roman
appointments. Then a younger but less innocent friend had shattered his
complacency. Henri showed him evidence of a cruel and cynical conspiracy
that clearly implicated some of the most revered clerics in the Church. He
had taken his knowledge and horror to his sponsor, Cardinal Ignatius. In
answer he got only soothing words, and orders to participate in a retreat
at a monastery outside of Rome. His prescribed meditations for the retreat
consisted of admonitions to obey his superiors and trust in God. When he
returned he learned that his friend had suffered a tragic accident.
Somehow he had fallen from the small window in his room and broken his
neck on the courtyard stones.

        Even if Father Martin hadn't known of Henri's fear of heights, the
coincidence would have strained his credulity. He asked a lot of questions
very loudly and publicly. He got no satisfactory answers.  Then he was
ambushed in a dark, deserted street and escaped only because he could run
faster than his attackers expected. Whom could he trust? Would he be
allowed to live?

        He had more imposing connections than Henri did. Cardinal Ignatius
smoothly presented a plan to allow him to gain experience in his native
land. He accepted the farcical appointment with the required serious
demeanor. He knew that he had failed a critical test, and that the penalty
could have been more serious than a permanent consignment to the
backwaters of power.

        Events had an effect on him that he hadn't expected. He had seen
the depravity at the heart of God's supposed Bride, the Church.  Now he
found that he could no longer dismiss religious doubts that had long
assailed him. Nevertheless, the Church held ultimate control over
education, politics and wealth in the world he knew. What was he going to
do for the rest of his life? He didn't like to think that his future would
be the perpetual performance of empty rituals. It was clear that his
isolated condition still shocked him, and that he had no idea of what
direction to take.

        "At least here I think I'm safe" he said at the confused end of
his revelations. "When you tested me with the wine I knew you weren't part
of a plan to kill me. You didn't even know why I was being exiled from
Rome."

        "No I didn't know the reason. But every thinking person has
occasional doubts. Usually you should keep them to yourself," he quickly
added. "They can cause bewilderment and misunderstanding among the
simple-hearted. Maybe the doubts will resolve themselves in a few years."

        "No, you don't understand. The cardinals in Rome aren't worried
about my doubts. It's for what I know to be true that they fear me."

        "They fear you!" Father Walter exclaimed in disbelief.

        "If I ever leave the countryside and make myself conspicuous, I
expect to meet with a fatal accident."

        Father Walter didn't know what to reply to this, so he merely
yawned and suggested that they go to bed. He had known unbalanced
individuals who believed they were always in danger from unseen enemies,
but he hadn't before encountered a delusion so limited and precise. He
would have to wait until mania ensued or reason returned. He could see why
this tendency to over-dramatize and see conspiracies would have alarmed
the Roman hierarchy. They liked to maintain considerable discretion in
balancing the sensitive issues of Church and state power. He hoped that
the dullness of everyday life in a small British town would soothe Father
Martin's imagination.

        The next morning they collaborated in the pretense that neither
remembered anything about the evening before. The day was occupied by
repairing the leaky roof of the church porch. That evening they were waked
out of a sound sleep by a summons to the convent brought by Old Matthew.
He informed them that a postulant was dying.

        When Father Walter didn't know the nature of Father Martin's flaw
as a priest, he hesitated to invite him on his visits to the Convent of
St. Ursula. He now thought Father Martin posed no threat to the nuns, and
that he might enjoy their acquaintance. They took the small cart and horse
because of the urgency of the summons. The distance could have been walked
in half an hour. "I'm glad you'll have a chance to meet some of the good
sisters," Father Walter enthused in spite of the gravity of their errand.
"Dame Agnes, Sister Michael and Sister Catherine are among the best souls
I know. They're educated women, and I've learned a great deal from them."

        Father Martin thought that it would be good to know more educated
people in a town where they seemed almost non-existent. It also occurred
to him that the convent might have a library. Sisters were often employed
in copying manuscripts. That would be a blessing. He hoped that the wise
old women would live up to their spiritual director's praise.

        They were led to a hall where he was hastily introduced to Dame
Agnes and Sister Michael. There was no time to talk, since Last Rites were
only supposed to be administered to the living. Mother Agnes made it clear
that haste was needed to maintain even the smallest hope that life
lingered in Sister Dorothea. She led them through a confusing series of
dim hallways, where soft whispers followed in their wake. As they
approached a cell lit by several candles Dame Agnes told them that death
had appeared to take place about half an hour ago. She and Father Walter
spoke briefly in low tones.

************

        Sister Catherine looked up from her book of notes and saw Father
Walter's familiar stocky figure beside Dame Agnes. He was followed by a
tall slender man whom Sister Catherine guessed to be Father Martin. Father
Walter hadn't previously included his assistant in visits to the convent.

        Father Walter and Dame Agnes carried out a plan of action
obviously decided upon before they entered the room. They lost no time in
laying out the oil, holy water and crucifix. No introductions were done
before the ritual was launched.

        While the others were occupied with the ceremony, Sister Catherine
stood quietly in the shadows. She took the opportunity to observe the new
priest. He had soft hazel eyes which missed nothing. His thick brown hair
was cut short, but it still showed a tendency to spring up into an unruly
bush. His large nose gave him a boyish look, but his full lower lip was
distractingly sensual. She supposed that the parish would see a few
big-nosed, full-lipped bastards added to the rolls before Father Martin
moved on. Immediately she chided herself for an uncharitable assumption
about Father Martin based only on a facial feature he could not help. She
focused on Father Walter's bald head while he completed the last prayer.

        After a moment of respectful silence, Dame Agnes invited the
priests to the refectory for meat tartlets and spiced wine. Sister
Catherine was glad to be left alone to continue her work on her notes. She
was lifting the blanket and Sister Dorothea's night shift to complete her
observations when the tall priest suddenly re-entered the room.

        "Excuse me,"  he quickly reassured her, "I think I left my
breviary...yes, there it is." He picked it up from the table. Father
Martin was puzzled by the young nun's employment and manner. She had such
an air of detachment from the event, and from the body itself. And what
was she writing here at a deathbed?

        Red-gold hair was escaping from under her veil, which had a
tenuous purchase on her head. She appeared to be wearing a cloak over a
shift which left her slender arms half bare. This could not be approved
dress for even a postulant. Her eyes were grey in the candlelight. Their
calm gaze implied a serene spirit and confident competence. The decided
arch of her nose and her strong jaw suggested a firm and highly individual
character.

        "I'm Father Martin," he said. "Pardon me for questioning your
convent's practices, but you seem very young to be left alone here to
prepare a body for burial."

        She gave him a slow sweet smile. "You're too polite to say
inexperienced. You've been misled by the candlelight," she replied. "I'm
not so young. I was born the year King Henry died.  I turned 31 on St.
Bridget's Day. Please excuse my dress, but I was called from bed when
Sister Dorothea became ill and I haven't had a chance to right myself. I
'm Sister Catherine, the leech here at the convent."

        Father Martin realized that here was one of the wise old women he
had imagined engaging in scholarly conversation. Her tiny stature and the
informality of her clothing made her seem younger than her true age.

        "I'm sorry, Sister," he said. "I took you for a novice. Father
Walter spoke highly of you and told me you were one of the wise old heads
worth listening to here. I was expecting gray hair on it!"

        Sister Catherine continued cautiously, "I wasn't preparing the
body for burial. Sister Perpetua and Sister Felice do that. I keep a book
of notes on sicknesses so that I'll recognize a pattern of symptoms in the
future."

        She was unsure if she should continue her work in Father Martin's
presence. Some churchmen had narrow views on the proper duties of
religious women. They wanted to limit nuns to sewing and singing. No false
sense of modesty prevented her from making complete notes about a patient.
Her matter-of-fact attitude toward the human body would bring extreme
disapproval from some clergymen.

        Father Martin gave evidence of no emotion except a barely
contained curiosity. Sister Catherine decided to bide her time. She
wouldn't risk attracting the attention of the church hierarchy to the
Convent of St. Ursula. Attention from above always seemed to bring
negative consequences.

        "The students I knew in Rome never seemed to think of taking their
own notes about real patients. They were full of philosophy but short on
practice."

        "You studied in Rome! What a wonderful experience that must have
been. Weren't you sorry to leave?"

        "By the time I left I wasn't sorry. There were many good people,
but I also came across many cruel, arrogant and evil men!"

        The raw emotion in his voice made it hard to frame an appropriate
reply. She sensed that he didn't choose to reveal these feelings--they
were too fresh and close to the surface to be easily concealed. She wanted
to respect his privacy and so tried to distract him with a lure that
couldn't fail to cheer a person with scholarly interests.

        "Perhaps since you're so recently a student you would enjoy
visiting our library. We have one thousand and eight books," she continued
with pride. "We received seven hundred through a bequest from Lady Alfreda
of Gedling. Many of them were copied in Italy within the last ten years."

        She saw that Father Martin had taken the opportunity presented to
overcome his feelings and put the conversation back on the plane of common
courtesy.

        "Are you the librarian as well as the leech," he asked with a
smile.

        "Oh no, that honor belongs to Sister Clotilde. I have small
Greek," Sister Catherine lamented. "It would be a great thing if I could
read Galen to improve my knowledge of medicine, but I don't have the
skill."

        "If you'd be good enough to introduce me to Sister Clotilde and
teach me something about your craft, perhaps I could give you some
guidance in learning to read Greek," he proposed.

        "That's very kind indeed." Sister Catherine thought that this plan
indicated that Father Martin had the broadest possible views of the proper
activities for religious women. "If Dame Agnes approves I'll be pleased to
accept your offer."

        She decided to proceed with her examination of Sister Dorothea.
She pulled the cover down again and lifted dead sister's shift. She made
note of the darkened aureolas around the nipples and the line of darker
pigmentation between her navel and private parts.

        Father Martin watched her innocent boldness in astonishment. He
knew that Sister Catherine expected Dame Agnes to approve of her plan to
study Greek with the new assistant priest. Apparently the Convent of St.
Ursula allowed the sisters much independence of mind and action.

        "I'll try to get more sleep before Prime. I'm pleased to meet you,
Father Martin," Sister Catherine excused herself.

        "We'll all be busy with the funeral tomorrow, but I'll visit
during Terce on St. Valentine's Eve," Father Martin replied.

************

        The next day was cold and gray. It suited the humor of the sisters
as they stood beside Sister Dorothea's grave in the little convent
cemetery. She had been light-minded, but cheerful and warm- hearted. No
one thought that she would have become learned or saintly, but she had
been a pleasant companion. The postulants wept openly, and Sister Adrian
had to be caught by the nuns on each side of her when she fainted at the
sound of the clods on the coffin.

        Dame Agnes was greatly grieved. Sister Catherine's explanation of
Sister Dorothea's death had deepened her sadness with fears for the young
woman's soul. Sister Catherine encouraged her Superior with her own faith
in the mercy of God. She never could believe that God would be less
forgiving than her own dear father would. The Hell of her imagination
might not even contain Satan after the Day of Judgment. Dame Agnes agreed
that no good would come from making their theories about her death known
to everyone. The tale could bring unwanted scrutiny from the Bishop if it
reached his ears. Dame Agnes planned to tell Father Walter because the
matter might come up in the confessional. He knew how to keep his counsel.

************

        The following day, St. Valentine's Eve, held some promise of
spring with blue skies and weak sunlight. A mild wind drove scraps of
white and gray clouds across the horizon, reminding Sister Catherine of
the lambs that would soon be born. The hint of growing days to come
inspired her to go out into the herb garden after Matins. She walked up
and down the paths of the walled garden planning what to put into the
different beds.

        She was too deep in thought to hear as Father Martin entered the
garden through the stone arch opening onto the winter pasture. The
springlike weather and the sight of little Sister Catherine earnestly
taking copious notes in her book lifted Father Martin's spirits. He
noticed that under blue skies Sister Catherine's eyes were blue.  Today,
however, she was neatly tucked up in the conventional brown habit and
white veil of her convent.

        They greeted one another and she proceeded to tell him what herbs
would grow best in shade, which in sunlight, and which could only be
gathered in the wild. She told him about the seeds she had harvested last
fall and the seedlings she would seek out in the spring for planting. Her
mother might have some interesting new finds to give her as well.

        "Each month or so I spend a day looking for what's in season in
the forest, the marsh and along the river banks. I gather the plants for
preservation or planting."

        "Does Dame Agnes allow you to go alone?" he asked curiously.

        "She trusts my judgment, and she knows she has no cause to worry
about my behavior", she replied. "But usually I ask Young Matthew to go
with me. He can carry our biggest basket full of plants with dirt on their
roots. I can't carry nearly that much. Have you heard enough about herbs
for now? I can take you in to meet Sister Clotilde."

        "I would be honored to do so," he answered, happily anticipating
the investigation of a new library.

        Sister Clotilde proved to be a well-educated if impractical woman.
She rearranged the books and manuscripts of the library several times a
year in search of the perfect organizational method. The sisters rarely
had time to learn a system before she replaced it. Since Sister had an
excellent memory they simply asked her to find the book they needed.
Sister Catherine left Father Martin to explore their documents.

************

        The cold rain of winter was back the next day. In spite of the
weather Father Martin found he looked forward to the cheering atmosphere
of St. Ursula's too much to delay his next visit. Sister Catherine had
just built up a fire in her workroom when Father Martin appeared in the
doorway holding a leather wrapped book. He was drenched.

        "You have a very comfortable work place here!" He exclaimed at the
warmth and the array of clean neat cabinets, tables and benches.

        "And you have very wet clothes!" Sister Catherine rejoined.  She
urged him to place his boots, surcoat and cloak in front of the fire she
had just stoked. He offered her the book, which proved to be a Greek text.
He told her to start studying the Greek alphabet in preparation for their
work.

        "It's an exceptionally fine workroom," she agreed, while he paced
the floor in his tunic, breeches and hose. "We're a fortunate community.
Many of us come from families with wealth who make generous donations to
St. Ursula's. Dame Agnes is wise enough to know that poor conditions
distract us from the spiritual quite as much as luxury."

        "I fear for the future of communities like yours," Father Martin
sighed. "In Rome they were full of plans to expand the influence of the
Fourth Lateran Council. They'd like to crush out this kind of independence
and self-sufficiency. When the bishops begin to feel the discipline of
Rome, they'll surely extend that discipline to you."

        "That's sad news," Sister Catherine responded. "Everyone knows it
is better to altogether escape the notice of a prince or a bishop."

        "It is sometimes difficult to discriminate between their duties,"
Father Martin added, with a tight smile.

        "While I still have my workroom, let me show you around. I'm proud
of its arrangements."

        She showed him her basket of medicines and bandages. She hadn't
looked into it since the night of Sister Dorothea's death, and only
remembered the bag of leaf scraps from sister's linen chest when she
started to show the contents of the basket to Father Martin. However the
bag was not there. She would have to look around to see if it had dropped
out when one of the postulants had carried it back here. She displayed her
stored flasks of extracts and infusions, each one labeled carefully.
Sealed earthenware pots held dried leaves and stalks of numerous herbs.
She had pots, spoons, mortars and pestles--everything required for the
preparation of tonics and salves. Another shelf held several numbered
volumes labeled "Notes".

        "I see your current notebook's only one of many," Father Martin
remarked.

        "Yes. And someday my Mother will pass her books on to me. Not that
I want that day to come soon," Sister Catherine added quickly.

        "Does your mother live near here?"

        "She lives with my brothers on their farm just north of Derby.
She taught me leechcraft from the time I was big enough to put a pot on
the fire to draw an infusion. People still come to consult her in
difficult cases, and I sometimes visit her for advice if a patient has an
unusual problem. Her name is Margaret. My father died two years before
King John's death. Where does your family live?"

        "My father is Sir William Martin. My family is part of the Duke of
Exeter's household. I was raised alongside his son Edgar."

        Sister Catherine couldn't decide what Father Martin's regretful
tone meant.

        "You sound sorry. Did it make you envious to grow up with him
knowing that he would be a Lord, and you would have to leave the castle?"

        As he stared into the fire silently, Sister Catherine feared she'd
offended him by prying into matters that had nothing to do with her.

        Then he laughed with a bitter note underneath. "No indeed. I had
no interest in a life of fighting, hunting and drinking. I felt lucky to
share a fine tutor with him. I was ten when they discovered that I could
explain how Canon Law justified a tax levied by Rome on the income of
English clergy. From then on I was marked as a scholar and priest. I never
wanted anything else. I was just remembering how wonderful it felt to have
that future before me."

****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

        "What about wenching, Scully? He left out a major perk of the
aristocracy there," Mulder broke in with a leer.

        Scully smiled tolerantly and barely resisted the urge to pat him
on the head. There had been too much pain and drama in their recent lives.
When it subsided, Scully could almost hear the sigh of relief with which
Mulder had fallen back into his comfortable role--a workaholic loner given
to occasional insinuating or caustic remarks. She supposed it was an
unhealthy regression, but it felt like normality--or what passed for
normality in their lives. During her illness she had forgotten how good it
felt to feel good. She just wanted to enjoy it. She didn't think even
Mulder at his most annoying could spoil her mood.

        "I wouldn't know anything about aristocratic ways, Mulder. In the
Old World the Scullys were hard-working but starving Irish farmers."

        "Did you know that the potato famine was a British conspiracy to
reduce the Irish population, Scully?"

        "Of course. We Irish have known it for years. Speaking of
starving, did the FBI travel page have any suggested restaurants listed
for Digger, Idaho?

        "We're going to be on our own in Digger, Scully. Apparently no
agents have eaten there in the line of duty, or at least they haven't
lived to post it to the travel page."

        Mulder had found a new and unexpected pleasure in life. For months
he had sat and pretended not to notice as his partner faded to a gaunt,
gray shadow. She would sit with him at meals and push food around on her
plate endlessly. Sometimes he could barely force his own food past the
lump in his throat. Other times he had to fight the irrational urge to
yell at her to at least make an effort to eat for Christ's sake. Now
healthy and underweight Scully was hungry all of the time. It was a
delight to watch her eat.

        He had made a game of it with himself to find the limits of her
appetite. She ate fried eggs and cheeseburgers with him in formerly
despised diners. She hadn't turned her nose up at the haggis served at
Agent MacGregor's retirement dinner or at grilled rattlesnake at the new
"Wild Things" restaurant.

        A small Idaho town might seem to offer nothing unusual, but
experience prevented him from underestimating the weirdness which could be
found in towns that looked just like Mayberry. He and Scully had sampled
more mystery meats in their travels than lifetime inspectors of school
cafeterias. He hoped there would be at least one establishment that would
challenge its patrons, and provide him with another data point off all
previously known scales.

        While he considered these possibilities, Scully had gotten some
smoked almonds and orange juice to hold off starvation a little longer.
Mulder stuck with his sunflower seeds.

        Scully believed she already knew what her mother found unnerving
about the manuscript. She wasn't sure how to open the subject with Mulder.
Was he waiting for her say something so he could shoot it down, or was he
genuinely unaware? After all, he hadn't recognized that BJ and her sheriff
boss were lovers. Some insights simply seemed to be above or below his
personal radar. On the other hand, he would relish having his skeptical
partner be the one to suggest that seventy or eighty years ago some
spiritualist had put characters modeled on them into a purported case
study of reincarnation. She didn't think she was ready for that discussion
yet. Her good mood might be at stake.

        Actually Mulder had recognized the similarities and silently
framed his own theory. But he didn't want to be the one to suggest that
his partner's sister had been planning a publishing hoax. He thought it
was all faked, including the channeling sessions. She had appropriated
their looks and personalities, filtered them through her overheated
imagination, and come up with a 'non-fiction' New Age inspirational tome
that could earn some quick bucks. He found her use of him and Scully
amusing. So far she hadn't had them doing anything offensive. That had
better change if she wanted to sustain her readers' interest.

        Scully settled back to continue reading her manuscript and Mulder
resumed reading it with her.

****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

        Once again Sister Catherine sensed pain and anger barely
controlled. This time she remained silent to allow Father Martin to
determine the direction of their conversation. If he needed to talk she
knew how to listen and keep confidences. She avoided looking at him and
busied her hands with dusting and re-arranging flasks. He remained silent.

        'Do you want to tell me why you were sent away from Rome to
Derby?" she finally asked quietly.

        A few days ago Father Martin wouldn't have believed how fierce the
temptation to confide his fears and confusion could be. Without strong
drink to loosen his tongue he'd thought it would be easy to be alone and
silent. With Sister Catherine's intelligent and sympathetic face before
him, he longed to share his thoughts and hear understanding words. He
struggled and overcame the temptation. If she were a spy the telling would
endanger him; if not it would endanger her.

        "I deeply offended Cardinal Ignatius, my patron. I no longer have
a future in the Church," he answered briefly.

        "I hope you don't let your disappointment make you bitter so that
you can't enjoy all of the other good things life has to offer. Ambition
isn't the most important part of life."

        "The situation is a little more complicated than just
disappointment, I'm afraid. But my difficulties need not interfere with
your learning Greek!"

        With that Father Martin firmly turned the conversation away from
his own problems.

        He proceeded to show Sister Catherine the text he had brought.

        "It was especially written for Edgar and me when we were learning
Greek," he explained. "Edgar didn't want it after we became pages. He
never cared that I was leagues ahead of him in our studies. We were well
matched in arms exercises, but he always outdid me when it came to
organizing the other boys and executing a strategy in mock warfare. He was
born to lead. He'll be a worthy successor to his father."

        "It sounds as though he were a very good friend. Maybe he could
use his influence with his father to get you back into the Cardinal's good
graces."

        Why was she worrying at that subject again? Was she trying to get
him to say something damaging?

        "No, I wouldn't want to get him involved," Father Martin hastily
replied. "That would put him in a very difficult position." It might put
one of us into a lethal position, he added to himself.

        "What about your father? Can he help you?"

        He had trusted his father enough to tell him the whole story when
he met with him on London on the way to Derby. At the same time he had
wondered how much his father had known of the connections between the
College of Cardinals and the men in power here in England. His father had
called him a fool and worse.

        "I gave you the opportunity to become a Prince of the Church.  Now
if you disappear into the countryside and spend ten years in silence you
might be considered for appointment as pastor of a God forsaken poor Irish
parish. Don't you understand anything about the way the world works? There
are those with power and those without. I chose to have power. You made
another choice. Don't come to Exeter Castle unless you're sent for. You're
bad for our reputation."

        This speech had left him with no doubts about the extent of his
father's collaboration.

        "No, my father can't help me, Sister. I went too far for
reconciliation." He spoke softly, but his expression held all of the pain
inflicted by the parent who rejects his child.

        Sister Catherine was appalled to realize the extent of Father
Martin's isolation. No wonder he was not just willing, but eager, to spend
time studying Greek and the medical arts with an obscure nun.

        She broke the silence that followed with a suggestion she thought
might divert Father Martin from his troubles.

        "Are you ready for some real experience at leechcraft? Come with
me on St. Julian's Eve. Once a week I visit the poor of the parish who
can't afford to send for a physician or surgeon. Can you come here in the
afternoon?"

        "I'll check with Father Walter to make sure I can finish my
regular duties before then. Shall I come tomorrow too so we can start the
Greek?"

        "I'll look for you tomorrow." Sister Catherine tried to smile
encouragingly and to conceal the pity she felt.

************

        St. Julian's Eve was chilly and gray, but blessedly dry when
Father Martin and Sister Catherine set out to visit the poorest and
sickest people in the parish. Old Matthew drove them in a wagon used in
harvest time for hay. The wagon held firewood split by Young Matthew that
day. There were loaves of black bread, wheels of cheese, and sacks of
potatoes, onions and beans bundled into the wagon.  Sister Catherine had
her basket of medicines and bandages as usual.

        She told Father Martin what to expect in the places they would
visit. Seth and his wife Anna were merely very old and poor. Gib had been
left with six children when his wife died bearing the seventh. Sister
Catherine was uneasy about his treatment of Joan, his twelve year old. She
feared that Gib might be using her in every way in the place of her dead
mother. Hugh and Deborah were not married, but they lived together and
cared for one another. Sister Catherine told Father Martin frankly that
Deborah was a prostitute. Hugh gasped out his life between the fireplace
and his bed. His ankles swelled and his lips were often blue. Sister
Catherine had a tonic for him.

        Joseph Thornapple and Lettice were the parents of eight children.
They worked as field laborers and barely earned enough to survive. Sister
Catherine had tried to explain to them that they could avoid constant
pregnancies by limiting their conjugal relations to certain times in
Lettice's menses. They never understood. If she were not already pregnant,
Lettice soon would be. Hob and Annice were the old parents of Alan, the
Baron's bailiff. He helped them with money for food and shelter, but
depended upon Sister Catherine to provide them with the medicines they
needed. Annice had pain and deformity in her joints. Hob suffered from a
skin irritation. Without the balm she supplied he was driven to scratch
until he bled.

        Father Martin had not been close to such poverty and suffering
before. He found it hard to look at it steadily. Sister Catherine seemed
not to notice it. She addressed the people she visited as fellow sufferers
in a shared world of trouble. When they turned to her, she always had a
common sense solution to suggest. Her self-control only failed her once
that day.

        Joan described how she had bled and delivered a dead, scarcely
formed baby a few days ago. Her father had told her to throw it in a privy
and stop carrying on like a noblewoman with a case of gas. Gib said that
Joan lay in the hedgerows with any man who offered. Joan refused to
identify the father of the dead baby. Sister Catherine noticed that Joan
had a black eye and sprained wrist to testify to her father's displeasure
with her behavior. He allowed that he had had to discipline her for her
lazy and sluttish behavior.

        Sister Catherine excused herself to go back to the wagon to get
more supplies.  When she failed to return in a few minutes Father Martin
went out to see if she needed help. He found her weeping silent tears
behind the cart. She pounded her fist on it until her hand was bruised
while she told him that this was all her fault. She had felt that
something was not right. Why hadn't she acted before there had been
serious consequences? Father Martin knew that the question was not
directed toward him, and remained silent. Sister Catherine then re-entered
the hovel and told Joan of her plan for apprenticing her to Martha
Brewster. She would live there of course. The convent would pay Widow
Sarah nearby to take in the younger children. Joan, a tall and large-boned
girl, hugged Sister Catherine so violently that she was thrown off
balance, and Father Martin's had to steady her with his hands on her
shoulders.

        Since their arrival Father Martin had recognized Gib as one of
those parishioners who had been promised a personally administered earthly
penance if he were guilty of backsliding. Gib had not returned to the
confessional after this promise, but Father Martin was resolved to keep
his word as soon as possible. On the way back to the convent Sister
Catherine thought out loud about her options for getting the money to pay
the Widow Sarah. She was certain that Sisters Perpetua and Felicity could
persuade their families to contribute the funds. The sisters were
irresistible when they determined to get money from their soft-hearted
fathers.

        From that evening on Father Martin could no longer seriously
believe in Sister Catherine as a spy. As they met day after day, he found
his defenses weakening. Conspiracy seemed very far away from this small
English town. He began to confide some of the story of his betrayal and
exile to her. Although she did not totally believe in the objective truth
of his story, she never doubted his sincerity. She reserved judgment on
his interpretation of events, but accepted Father Martin without reserve
as a friend.
 

****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******
 

        "You know, I'm beginning to think this isn't much better reading
than our case file. I'm sure your family had nice people in it, but...it's
kind of boring. By the way, which is of these characters is supposed to be
related to your family? And how are they related if they're both celibate?
They could be related indirectly I suppose. Or is there hope this story
may develop along the lines of 'Father Peter Meets Three Naughty Nuns?'"

        "Was that September's Pick of the Month in the Adult Video Guide,
Mulder?"

        "As a matter of fact it was the August Special. But it might still
be available if you'd like a copy for research purposes."

        Scully gave this suggestion the attention it deserved--none-- and
thought instead about why this manuscript worried her mother enough to
involve her. Granted, the figures in this had a slightly uncanny
resemblance to herself and her partner. Did it really need to be
explained? She searched for neutral words to discuss this with Mulder.

        "Have you noticed a sort of resemblance between two of these
characters and...," she began tentatively.

        "Us, Scully? Yes, I think there are resemblances between Sister
Catherine and you and Father Martin and me. Although I've never been aware
of my lips interfering with anyone's concentration."

        "With you, it's what comes out of them."

        He continued without responding to her comment.

        "It's another X-File: the phenomenon of precognitive historical
novelization-a character from the future is depicted in an account written
in the present day that records past historical events in the form of a
novel. Except that you don't know it's an X-File until you get to the
future where it turns out the character is real."

        "You're kidding about the X-File, right?"

        "I'm kidding. Do we really need an explanation other than
coincidence for this, Scully?  I'm sure there's never been a shortage of
smart redheaded women in your family. Who's to say Aunt Kate didn't pick
your grandmother as her model for Sister Catherine?

        "But what about Father Martin?"

        "That's an easy one, Scully. She just described every woman's
dream man--tall, dark and paranoid."

        This won him a real laugh from Scully, and he congratulated
himself on his diversionary tactics. He didn't think that there was any
point in tarnishing Melissa's memory by unearthing evidence of her
involvement with a semi-fraudulent publicity stunt. Let Scully and Maggie
have the memory of their idealistic Melissa to cherish.

        To his dismay Scully continued, "I gave the last page of the
manuscript to Mullins at the crime lab before we left. He's going to
analyze it for the age of the paper and ink."

        My God, the woman was relentless.

        "What cost center did you put that under?" he asked with a serious
expression.

        "Mulder, you know as well as I do that those lab techs spend half
the day sitting around discussing football pools...." she began
exasperatedly, before she saw the 'gotcha' grin on his face. "They should
be calling me with the results in the next couple days," she continued,
determinedly maintaining her good mood and even temper.

        "OK, but keep in mind that Melissa was a pretty free spirit.  She
might have had a more elastic interpretation of 'true' and 'factual' than
you. Maybe she thought if something were true it would be all right to do
things that would get other people to believe it...," he trailed off
lamely under Scully's steely-eyed scrutiny and then rejoiced to hear the
captain's voice announcing their imminent landing in Idaho Falls.

        "Are you saying she faked it?" Scully demanded.

        "Please don't tempt me with openings like that," Mulder requested,
closing his eyes and assuming a martyred expression. "I have enough
problems maintaining a professional demeanor."

        Scully could see there was no hope of getting a serious answer on
the subject, so she turned her attention to packing up the manuscript and
taking inventory of her belongings in preparation for disembarking.

        Their luggage turned up quickly at the right carousel, and the car
they had requested was ready outside the rental office.

        "Scully it's about 150 miles, half of it on two-lane roads, to
Digger. Shall we eat on the way or wait until we get there?"

        "Let's look for something along the way."

        Scully spotted a possibility within the first twenty minutes of
the trip. Woody's Country Inn offered fourteen versions of 8 ounce Idaho
beef hamburger, served with fries. The atmosphere was primarily farm flea
market, and there were numerous families shuttling in and out of the
doors.

        "How does that look to you, Mulder?"

        "Sure, I could use an Idaho burger with all the trimmings."

        As they exited the car they were both grateful for their heavy
overcoats and gloves. Winter came early to this part of the country.

        "It's just our luck to be sent here after the summer sports
activities and before the skiing season. Without tourists this is lonely
country."

        "It doesn't look very lonely," Scully remarked as she vainly tried
to get the attention of the busy waitress.

        "We're still in the outskirts of Idaho Falls. Digger is northeast
in ranch country. Those ranches cover thousands of acres, with about one
person for every thousand of them."

        "There, she sees us!" Scully exclaimed.

        Mulder was not surprised when Scully's order rivaled his own.
They ate in simple enjoyment with little conversation except for
occasional comments on the other patrons.

        When they got back on the road Scully decided to speak her mind on
the subject of the mysterious manuscript.

        "Mulder I've been thinking about that manuscript. I know what you
believe--that Melissa produced a fake old document for some unknown
purpose. But I have an advantage here.  I knew Melissa better than you
did. She simply wouldn't do that. She might not be able to support all of
her own beliefs with evidence, but she wouldn't manufacture evidence, even
for someone's own good, anymore than you would."

        "I'll agree to suspend judgment, Scully, in deference to your
experience and because the forensic evidence isn't in. And even if the
manuscript is fake someone else could have foisted it onto Melissa."

        "You need to know one more thing about it, Mulder. Mom remembers
glancing through it back when Aunt Kate died. She packed it up and put it
into storage with other family papers in grandma's attic.  So we know it's
been around from the time I was five."

        "You know Melissa had a manuscript that looks like one that your
mother saw years ago. Someone could have doctored it or substituted
another similar document," Mulder maintained stubbornly.

        That was certainly an extreme possibility, Scully had to admit.

        She amused herself by looking at some brochures she had picked up
in the restaurant.

        "I don't suppose we're staying at the "Silver Swan Bed and
Breakfast?"

        "No, Scully, we've got cabins at the Nighty-Nite Motor Court."

        "Next time why don't you look into the Silver Swan. Their rooms
have fireplaces, hot tubs, and king-size beds with down comforters."

        "The only problem is that two nights would probably blow our
expense budget for the entire fiscal quarter."

        "I know, but just imagine soaking in a hot tub and then drinking
wine in front of a blazing fire."

        Mulder's imagination obligingly presented him with a vision of
Scully. She was damp and pink in a terry cloth robe closed with one of
those self-belts that was always coming undone. No, imagining was not a
good idea.

        "The theme here seems to be warmth, Scully. Do you need me to turn
the heater up?"

        "No, the heat in here is already making me sleepy."

        "Go ahead and sleep. It'll be about ten when we get there."

        She didn't mean to, but Scully woke up to find them pulling into
the motor court. They were still thirty miles from Digger. There was
nothing acceptable any closer. The Nighty-Nite had seen its best days in
the fifties. Scully hoped the cabins would have heat and clean bathrooms.
Judging from the length of time they had to knock at the office door, the
manager had probably been asleep in the back room. A round, red-faced,
man, he pushed the forms across the counter at them with his eyes half
shut. He didn't bother to verify their credit cards.

        Mulder walked Scully to the door of her cabin, and entered briefly
while they conducted a routine security check of the place. He
apologetically asked Scully for the questionable manuscript.

        "I hate to bother you when I know you want to get to bed, but I
don't have anything to read, and they don't have cable TV here. You know
how sometimes I have a little trouble sleeping," he ended diffidently.

        Scully felt a pang of guilt as she practically yawned in his face
when she handed him the manuscript and the pamphlets she had picked up at
Woody's. She barely noticed the almost antique bathroom as she hurried
through washing and brushing. Her sleep was undisturbed.

        Mulder was disgusted to find that the TV in his room didn't work
at all. He was thankful that he had had the foresight to provide himself
with something to read.

****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******

        In the following months Father Martin and Sister Catherine
continued to study Greek together. They also shared the charitable
obligation of looking after the sick of the parish. Their methods blended
so smoothly that they felt they had worked together for years. Sister
forgot that she had ever pitied this man. Father Martin had kept his
intellectual curiosity in exile. He was a marvellous companion for someone
who thrived on learning. Father Martin allowed his memories of corruption
and ambition to fade. They were overlaid by the day to day concerns of
crops, babies and weather. He redirected his intensity to scholarly work
and the puzzle of the medical arts. Father Martin and Sister Catherine
became so used to the routine of working together that a day seemed
incomplete if they had not met to exchange gossip, insights and jokes.

        On St. Dunstan's day Sister Catherine planned her second spring
trip outside the town in search of wild growing herbs and other useful
plants. Father Martin had been busy with the Miracle Plays for Easter when
she had made her first trip to the river. This time he was busy with
religious preparations for Whitsunday and mundane arrangements for the
summer festival days.

        "Why do you plan your trips when I can't come with you? Are you
afraid that I'll outdo you in concocting potions and curatives?"  Father
Martin teased.

        "Now you know I don't plan the weather, and that's what determines
how well grown the plants I need will be. The comfrey will be perfect for
harvesting tomorrow and I need some."

        "I hope any patients I have in the future will understand if I can
only offer them medicines made from herbs harvested in midsummer and
fall."

        "Nonsense, spring will always come again," she reminded him, as
she waved goodbye from the convent gate on the Eve of St. Dunstan's.

        Dawn brought the softest of breezes and a rosy sky. Sister
Catherine dressed in an old linen shirt and blue fustian kirtle she had
been given by the fuller's wife. The dirt she collected on these
expeditions was impossible to remove without washing, and wool habits
washed very badly. Besides these old clothes would be much cooler. The
kirtle could be loosened at the laces and the shirt unbuttoned at the
throat. She wrapped a white linen veil around her head and went to her
workroom to get the baskets. She took the three largest and headed for the
refectory. She would take bread and cheese for herself and Young Matthew.

        When she stepped outside she found him preparing to clean the
stables. He looked at her and his expression showed great disappointment
very plainly.

        "Oh, Sister Catherine, I forgot. I was trying to get my duties
done early so Johanna can work on my Summer King costume for next week."

        Sister Catherine knew her face must mirror his disappointed
expression. She also knew she couldn't insist on her own schedule against
his chance to reign as Summer King, in an outfit more magnificent than
anything else he would ever wear.

        "It looks as though I'll be working harder than I expected today.
Since I'll be doing all the carrying, I'll have to be especially careful
to choose only the best plants. You'll be a gay and handsome King,
Matthew. I wouldn't deprive myself of the sight of you dressed in one of
Johanna's creations by making you come with me now."

        He grinned his relief and offered to return the bigger baskets to
her workroom. She accepted his offer and set off alone down the lane that
went through the plowed fields west of the town.

        The day thrilled with bird song--cuckoo and lark celebrating the
sunrise. The scent of fresh green growing things filled the air. Sister
Catherine enjoyed the warmth and sunlight the more for thinking of the
cold damp winter that had preceded it.

        Half an hour brought her to the place where the lane curved south,
away from the marshes. This is where she left it and forged her own path
in the direction of the river, which was bordered to the west with thick
forest. She found marsh marigold with its tiny yellow flowers just opened
up to the sun. Farther on she spotted the fuzzy pinkish white blossoms of
the bogbean. Within the next two hours she had worked her way to the
riverbank, and started east toward the trees. She knew from last year of a
good place for comfrey in a bend of the river. The sun was high by now,
and she was grateful for the deep shade of the trees.

        Sister Catherine was scanning the riverbank for the lavender,
bell-shaped blossoms of the comfrey plant when she walked into a clearing
where a huge man in chain mail was relieving himself against a tree. He
saw her simultaneously and turned to her without bothering to pull up his
breeches.

        "I'll bet you've never seen one this big, have you?" he
challenged.

        As her mother's helper at sickbeds Sister Catherine had actually
seen many men naked, and in spite of his general size this man had nothing
special. It did not occur to her to voice this retort. Interior warning
bells were deafening her with their clamor. She dropped her basket and
turned to run. With the advantage of her lighter weight clothes and shoes
against his mail and boots, she might have escaped if he had been alone.
His companion suddenly stepped into her path. The large soldier barked
"Grab her, Con!" and Con hooked his arm around her throat. She kicked back
at his legs, but inflicted little damage with her soft shoes. He tightened
his hold until kicking and screaming were both impossible.

        "Give her here, Con. I saw her first."

        "Yeah, but I snagged her, Tom."

        Tom had pulled out a knife, which he held against her neck under
her ear. His arm replaced Con's around her throat.

        "No screaming, right little cat? Your blood can be all over the
ground here in the less than a minute with one pull across."

        He kicked the basket half-filled with herbs down the river bank,
and began pulling her back deeper into the forest.

************

        Father Martin also rose at dawn. He wasn't going to enjoy the
weather in the countryside. He was going to assist the town guild members
in erecting a temporary platform in the town center for the performance of
the Whitsunday Miracle Plays. Then he was supposed to sit with the
apprentices of all the craftsmen and write down the lyrics they would make
up for songs to be sung around the maypole. Father Walter had warned him
he would have to edit their efforts ruthlessly. They would create lyrics
as personal and as bawdy as they could get away with. More than once the
maypole dancing had ended in a brawl between the singers and those who
heard insults to themselves in the song. He had been hard at work for two
hours measuring wood when Father Walter saw him.

        "You look as though you could appreciate a big mug of Bride's ale.
I won't interrupt you and postpone that experience. I just wanted to pass
on some information I got at the baker's. Young Geoffrey, Daniel
Shoemaker's son, came back from Linnetvale this morning. There wasn't much
news, but the leather dealer there warned him that there was a band of
mercenaries moving north from a town south of there. Baron Edmund ended
their contracts when they landed at Dover several weeks ago. They were
told they could join Lord Morrow on the Scottish border, but along the way
some of them are looting and robbing travellers to get supplies and
horses. Some of the robberies were very bad. Most of the victims were
killed even if they offered no resistance. If the soldiers' pace stays the
same they'll be in this area in about two days. People leaving the town
should travel in large groups. Just let people know as you talk with them
today."

        Immediately Father Martin thought of Sister Catherine and the
expedition she had planned. He told himself that Young Matthew was a
stalwart protector. He would not permit anyone to harm her. His notable
size and strength made it unlikely that anyone would try to get through
him to Sister Catherine. Attacking her would be a sacrilege. There were
few men desperate enough to do that. It would be clear from their
appearance that neither she nor Matthew carried money. The mercenaries
were not expected to reach here for another two days. Geoffrey had
traveled from Linnetvale unscathed with a load of fine leather. He
repeated these soothing thoughts to himself for half an hour.

        Then he saw Young Matthew striding through the green on his way to
Johanna's.

        "So Sister Catherine postponed her trip into the forest today,"
Father Martin suggested hopefully to Young Matthew.

        "Well no," Young Matthew said, somewhat abashed since he knew he
had been excused from an important responsibility by Sister Catherine. He
reminded himself that this wasn't the first time she had gone alone. "She
went alone because I had to be here for work on my Summer King...."
Father Martin immediately stopped listening to Young Matthew's
explanations and tried to weigh the odds objectively. They didn't expect
the mercenaries in the area for two days. Even if they were here the
chances of them encountering Sister Catherine in the marshes or forest
were not great. On the other hand they would use the river as a source of
water, and Sister Catherine had told him enthusiastically about the
comfrey she hoped to find near an old oak copse at a bend in the river.

        He succeeded in reasoning himself out of his fears for the space
of about twenty heartbeats. Then he found himself heading for the rectory,
his mind dominated by vivid pictures of his friend as the victim of
horrible brutalities. In his room he opened his storage chest and tossed
everything out of it until he came to his sword. He had not worn it since
leaving the Italy. He knew Sister Catherine would think he looked foolish
descending on her armed with a sword. But he could have no peace of mind
until he saw her. He would have reason to feel foolish if he arrived to
find her in trouble and he was weaponless.

        Sister had described her planned route and Father Martin quickly
traced her path to the river. During this time his mood alternated rapidly
between optimistic calm and an anxiety close to panic. He suppressed
violent images when they arose, knowing that he would need a cool head if
the worst had happened.

        The riverbank was green beyond imagination with fresh young grass
and emerald moss. Occasionally in the damp dirt he saw the shallow imprint
of a small foot shod in smooth leather. He listened carefully for voices
and scanned the area for oak trees and the characteristic lavender flowers
of comfrey. Just as he spotted a large expanse of the plants, he
recognized Sister Catherine's favorite basket, the largest she could
carry. It was half stuck in the mud at the river's edge. His heart now
thudding rapidly and painfully, he detected a trail of partially flattened
grass with tufts torn out by the roots in places. A struggle had taken
place, but not a big struggle. He knew that even one man would have enough
of a size advantage to overcome her resistance very quickly. If there were
more than one he hoped he would be good enough to stop them. Assuming he
was in time to do something more than just carry Sister Catherine's body
back for a Christian burial. That was something he could not allow himself
to think about.

        The trail was leading back from the river to thicker woods and
higher ground. The denser foliage and reduced undergrowth made the trail
easier to see. Within several minutes he didn't need to see it. He could
follow the sound of men's voices raised peevishly in argument. Father
Martin began to doubt his decision to choose speed over allies.

        "Last time in Calais in that tavern basement you went first with
that tasty young serving girl. And then you hit her so hard when she bit
you she was almost dead even before I started."

        "Well, that brother of hers would have done for you, Tom, while
you were still at it, if I hadn't managed to get behind him with a barrel
stave."

        "The only reason he came back and found us was you took too long
getting up and in, Con."

        "Last time you went first."

        "Two weeks ago in that miserable little town of Dunnock or Paddock
or whatever it was? You mean when you let me go first with that dirty old
scrubber of a field hand? I think it was just to make sure she didn't have
teeth down there!"

        "And better she had than the pox she gave us!"

        They both laughed.

        "She died hard though, didn't she, Tom?"

        The noise of the argument allowed Father Martin to approach
closely enough to see figures through the trees. From behind a huge old
oak he saw a sight that increased his fears for Sister Catherine tenfold.

        Two big, healthy-looking horses carrying heavy loads were tied to
a stake driven into the ground at the far end of the clearing. A
black-haired man stood with his back to Father Martin. He had removed a
chain mail shirt, and was putting it beside a helmet and sheathed sword.
As he turned Father Martin could see that his face was leathery and
scarred, providing a sharp contrast to his light blue eyes. He looked
strong and tough, a veteran of many battles. The other still wore his mail
shirt. He was younger, but a giant of a man. He was at least a head taller
and fifty pounds heavier than Father Martin, with a sword to match his
size strapped to his side. With one hand he gripped Sister Catherine's
hair, while the other held a knife to her throat.

        "Jesus Christ, I don't think I can handle both of them," he
thought grimly. Nevertheless he tried to form a plan. If he attacked the
smaller soldier, the large one might let go of Sister Catherine to help
his companion. Would she be able to run?

        Father Martin expected her to be in a faint from hearing the
terrifying dialogue between the brigands. But she was highly alert, her
eyes darting about the campsite. Obviously she had not yet given up hope
of escape. In fact, at that very moment her eyes locked with those of
Father Martin and her heart sank. "Dear God, they'll kill him," she
thought. Now she knew fear; before she had been sustained by her anger.
Instantly she tore her gaze from him and determined how she could give him
some slight advantage. It never occurred to her that he would leave her
because of danger to himself.

        Seconds later Father Martin was startled to see her undergo what
appeared to be possession by another being. She relaxed her stiff,
resisting posture and took a stance that thrust her bosom and hips
forward. Her eyelids half closed and her mouth opened slightly. She
reached up to her throat, but instead of grasping for the knife, she began
loosening the laces of her kirtle and unfastening her shirt until the tops
of her breasts could be seen.

        By now the two soldiers had noticed her behavior and halted their
half-hearted argument. She dropped her eyes from Con's and said softly
"Sirs, don't you ever let a lady choose who gets to go first?"

        They both laughed hard at being addressed as "sirs". Con shrugged
and answered "Nobody ever asked to choose before. How about it Tom? We're
supposed to join the others by sundown. We got to leave time to, um, clean
up the campsite before we leave here."

        Tom confidently answered "Why not?"

        She appeared to look critically between the two several times, and
then nodded up at the man who held her.

        "So you liked what you saw," Tom bragged. He sheathed his knife
with a grin and reached into her shirt and began squeezing her breasts. It
was the sight of her struggling to smile at this treatment that gave
Father Martin the final furious impetus he needed to stop thinking and
rush into the clearing.

        He lunged from behind at the smaller soldier. Con snatched up and
unsheathed his sword in time to deflect the first blow from Father Martin.
They parried briefly, equally adept in swordsmanship. Then Con made the
mistake of glancing away to see what was keeping his companion from coming
to his aid. That was all the opening Father Martin needed. He ran his
sword through the soldier's upper sword arm and as his point dropped the
priest slashed his thigh.

        The delay in help from Tom was caused by Sister Catherine, who had
grabbed both of Tom's thumbs with all her strength when Father Martin
burst into the clearing. He was able to push her off almost immediately,
but then she flung herself at his feet and clutched at his ankles. This
earned her a tremendous kick, which she was able to anticipate and
partially avoid. He then picked her up and literally threw her aside. By
this time he had unsheathed his sword, and she could no longer approach
him. She had delayed him long enough to allow Father Martin to disable the
other soldier.

        Father Martin knew that even successfully parrying an overhand
blow from his new opponent was likely to break his arm. Tom was not as
swift or skilled as Con, but he had tremendous reach and power. Father
Martin's first strategy had to be to keep his distance, drawing blows,
which would not connect. He knew he was fast enough to make this work for
while. Then he would have to come up with a second strategy.

        Sister Catherine had been knocked breathless when she landed on
the ground. Within a minute she forced herself to her feet, stumbled over
to the horses and began to untie them. The wounded soldier saw her from
where he sat leaning against a tree and gasped painfully "Tom, stop her!"

        She released the bridles, picked up the veil which had been torn
from her earlier, and began flapping it at the horses' heads, yelling and
darting back and forth beside them. These were not warhorses. Tom and Con
had probably stolen them from the stables of a wealthy knight who enjoyed
riding. Sister Catherine's activity was enough to send them out of the
clearing at a gallop.

        At this, the giant doing battle with Father Martin strode into
him, driving his fist into his chest and using the force of his sword blow
against Father Martin's sword to add to the impact. This sent Father
Martin flying backwards into a tree. His head hit the tree hard enough to
stun him. He slid to the ground. Tom turned with a curse and took off
after the horses.

        Sister Catherine swiftly went over to pull Father Martin to his
feet.

        "Can you walk?" she asked urgently.

        "Of course," he said, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his
head.

        "I think I know a place to hide," she told him. "We've got to make
it more trouble for them to find us than to leave us."

        "What about him?" Father Martin asked, pointing at Con, who
appeared to have passed out from blood loss.

        "Do you want to kill him?" Sister asked him hesitantly.

        "Yes I do, " Father Martin replied. "But I probably couldn't bring
myself to kill an unconscious man," he added honestly.

        "Well I can't bring myself to help him," Sister Catherine said in
a choked voice. "So let's get out of here before Tom comes back after
him."

        She half led and half pulled Father Martin farther up hill, away
from the river. Within ten minutes they came to an even steeper rise,
where trees leaned over and all but covered the ground beneath.  They sat
gratefully on the damp dirt behind leafy branches. Father Martin knew they
could be followed by anyone who cared to take the time. He hoped the
brigands would concentrate on their own escape from the area instead. They
could not be sure how long it would take their intended victims to seek
aid from the town.

***********

        They looked at each other and laughed in silent hysteria.

        "You should have seen Con's face when you came rushing out of the
woods behind him. And then when you fought so well; he couldn't believe he
needed help to defeat a priest!" Sister Catherine whispered.

        "You should have seen the big one's face when he realized the
horses were on the way to London carrying all their worldly goods,"
Father Martin rejoined.

        They congratulated each other on their fast thinking, and their
successful escape. But gradually Sister Catherine became silent and
started to shake. She was allowing herself to realize how close she had
come to being brutalized to death, and the extent of the risk Father
Martin had taken. When he entered that clearing the odds were heavily
against him.

        "Did they hurt you?" he asked her carefully.

        He didn't know what had taken place before he arrived, but several
sickening possibilities occurred to him.

        She shook her head. She was shivering so hard her teeth were
chattering. Father Martin put his arm around her shoulders to try to warm
her and started to speak soothingly.

        "I haven't drawn a sword in months. I was lucky old Con was a
little rusty too. You know, university students aren't strangers to
swordplay. There are a lot of feuds and political fights and just plain
drunken brawling that make it wise to be armed in the streets. I was lucky
our master-at-arms was a demanding teacher."

        "I didn't know you could fight like that," she said shakily.  "I
thought they'd kill you."

        She remembered that fear had not played much part in her reaction
to her plight until Father Martin was in danger with her. She chose not to
examine this thought closely.

        Now she started to cry quietly. Father Martin gently pulled her
head to his shoulder where she sobbed noiselessly for some time.

        They sat for several hours, unsure of whether they were being
hunted. It became noticeably darker in their green glade, and they heard
no voices or sounds of pursuit.

        "Didn't they say they were meeting up with the rest of their group
at sundown? I don't think they're coming after us."

        "No. We can go back to town," she answered. But neither made a
move to do so.

        Going back meant leaving the world of emotional extremes they had
shared exclusively today. No one else would ever quite understand their
experience in the same way. Going back also meant facing a lot of
practical problems.

        "What shall I tell Dame Agnes and the other sisters?" she wondered
out loud.

        "The truth," Father Martin answered. "We have to tell the town
councillors what happened so they can send some real soldiers after those
criminals."

        "But you know what they'll say about me," she continued, her lips
trembling and her eyes once more full of tears.

        Father Martin looked at her to determine if she was in any state
to talk about what had happened and to make decisions about telling the
story. Her eyes looked green under the canopy of leaves. They were swollen
with the crying she had done.  His gaze fell to her bosom and he glimpsed
her still partially exposed breasts. His cheeks reddened with
embarrassment at the sudden arousal he felt at this sight and her
nearness.

        Sister Catherine followed his gaze and reddened in turn.

        "I see you know what they'll say about me. That I was dressed
immodestly, that I was wrong to be alone, and that if I hadn't wanted this
happen it wouldn't have."

        "How can you think anyone would be presumptuous enough to
criticize you?" he asked, with such sincerity that she believed he truly
doubted she could be suspected of improper behavior.

        But even as he said it he remembered the talk that went around
amongst the pages and men-at-arms when they sat at meals after there had
been a complaint from a woman about ill usage. Nod, wink. Nod, wink. Elbow
nudge to the ribs. So the kitchen maid complains of being pinched. The
dairymaid says she was taken against her will behind the barn. They didn't
complain until the father or husband came into the picture. You can't
thread a needle if the needle keeps moving away. Her parents say she was
rescued before he ruined her, but they would say that wouldn't they?
Everybody knows nuns can't get enough of it.  There aren't enough priests
to keep them....

        He flushed again at the memory of the nastiness of the last
comment.

        "How can we let those animals go free to keep doing the awful
things they do?" he asked dully.

        They trudged in silence back to the road, each lost in painful
thoughts.

        Sister Catherine was fixing her clothes. Her strategy had seemed
so right at the time. Now she wondered at how she could have behaved like
a harlot. Even Father Martin was shocked at her behavior.  His red cheeks
betrayed him. She was going to pay a heavy price for this trip into the
woods.  No one she knew would ever look at her again with the same
respect. She would be the nun who "almost--well, she said almost--was
violated by a gang of brigands." She though she could endure all of it
except for the humiliation of having Father Martin witness her wanton
actions towards Tom and Tom's subsequent response to it. She had
sacrificed the best friendship of her life to save the friend's life, and
her own.

        Father Martin was wondering what on earth was the matter with him.
How could he think of Sister Catherine in that way? Especially when she
had just been terrified by the prospect of rape. He wanted to protect her
from being hurt. It had felt so good to comfort her and hold her head on
his shoulder while they sat in their hiding place. He was horrified to
realize that that this innocent memory was arousing him more thoroughly
than the glimpse of her breasts. Their friendship would end if she knew he
felt these things. How could he lose the best thing in his life over these
unruly whims of his body?

        Sister Catherine resolved to face her fears and know the worst.

        "Father Martin, do you think what I did this afternoon, to
distract those men, do you think it was wrong?"  Sister Catherine asked
haltingly. "Was it a sin?"

        Since he had known her, Sister Catherine had seemed supremely
confident that her actions, if not strictly sanctioned by the Church, were
approved by God. She relied on her conscience to interpret God's will
directly, and seemed assured that she worked things out satisfactorily
between them. Father Martin hated to see that confidence undermined. Then
it struck him that she was really asking him for approval, not God.

        "Lord in heaven, no!" he exclaimed, with as much as much certainty
as he could put into his reply. "You saved both our lives! It was a
brilliant strategy, worthy of William Marshall."

        "All my life I've heard the stories about St. Agnes, and St.
Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins. The saints are supposed to be an
example for us. They all resisted being...attacked, and were killed for
it. But I knew all along that it wasn't that simple. Resistance can be
overcome by so much less than death. Gib didn't even have to hold a knife
to Joan's throat. A man big enough to hold you down doesn't have to
threaten. The truth is, I never even thought about dying to be virtuous. I
wanted to survive, even if the worst happened. I guess that means I don't
believe that being violated is really the 'worst'. But what could be worse
than losing heaven just to stay alive a little longer on earth?"

        In the face of Sister Catherine's need for reassurance Father
Martin found his carnal desires miraculously under control. They were
falling back onto the conversational mode he was used to. Perhaps they
could get through this and still be friends.

        "I never wanted to influence your faith, Sister, but I've read
tales about ancient gods and fairies that are identical to those told
about our saints. We can't model our lives on fabulous tales. As you say,
reality is more complicated."

        "You don't believe any of the Church's doctrines anymore, do you,
Father."

        Father Martin had spoken to her about his doubts, but he had never
openly challenged her beliefs. What could he offer to replace them? He
himself felt like a ship at sea with no pole star to steer by. He couldn't
claim that losing his faith had made his life better.

        "You're right, I don't believe."

        "Never mind, you'll understand the truth someday. You're an honest
person. You won't reject the truth when you recognize it."

        "No, I wouldn't do that," Father Martin replied. Privately he
thought that "No, I didn't do that," would be a more accurate answer.

        There was a quiet uproar when they reached the convent. Sister
Agnes was content with the assurance that Sister Catherine was unharmed.
Many of the older nuns had been through wars fought in their own
countrysides, and could have told stories themselves. They didn't because
they knew the pity didn't outlast the prurience. It was the postulants and
novices whose imaginations were set aflame. Many versions were soon
circulating, all of them more lurid than the truth. They did not neglect
the hurts ofthe heroic Father Martin, who had the bump on his head and the
bruise on his chest well-tended.

        Sister Adrian remarked to more than one fellow postulant that
Sister Catherine certainly had no shame about making herself the center of
attention. If she didn't want to get attacked maybe she should consider
spending more time in the convent chapel and less time running around the
town and country.

        The people of Derby talked of nothing but the adventure of the
brigands for days. The next day a large contingent of volunteers was
raised to search for the men. They were not found. Father Martin believed
the men had moved on that night as planned, and then broken up into pairs
to lie low during the day. The town councillors sent messengers to
villages north of Derby, and no more incidents were reported. Then people
were distracted by the violent fight that broke out after the maypole was
celebrated at the Summer Festival. The songs had been insulting and vulgar
as never before. Several young men were laid up with bruises and cracked
bones. There were still jokes about Sister Catherine in some quarters, but
none within Father Martin's hearing after the incident of the carpenter
and the millpond.

******      ******      ******      ******      ******      ******

        Well, this was getting a little weird. Melissa had shown uncommon
insight into his moods, but this left him feeling rather exposed. Melissa
had stampeded them, that is, Father Martin and Sister Catherine, into more
controversial, if not offensive territory. Mulder found it hard to believe
that Margaret Scully was naive enough to be upset at the thought of
priests or nuns having sex, or her daughter writing about sex. Was it the
sum of these that exceeded her personal standards? No, wait. Mrs. Scully
didn't believe Melissa wrote this stuff. Mulder gave it up.

        This material was not helping him to drift off to sleep as he had
hoped. Quite the opposite. With a sigh he picked up the case notes he had
abandoned earlier. He started to plan their schedule for tomorrow based on
the sparse information they had about the incidents.

        He was awakened at seven by a brisk knocking on his door. The
notes were scattered around him on the bed and the bedside lamp was still
on.

        "Mulder there isn't any coffee here, even in the manager's office.
Can we please go get some pretty soon?"

        "Uh, yeah. Give me a few minutes. I still need to shower. You want
to read the next installment of the 'As The World Returns?'"

        "Sure, they don't have newspapers here either."

        Mulder pulled his overcoat on over his underwear as a makeshift
robe and opened the door.

        "How did you sleep?" Scully asked as she took the manuscript.

        "Better than usual. This case seems to be good for my stress
levels. See you in about fifteen minutes."

        Scully put the manuscript away about half an hour later as they
drove into town. She shared no comments with Mulder. The document was
being to disturb her too, but she didn't want to discuss it.

        "There!" she exclaimed suddenly, startling Mulder into tapping the
brakes and quickly surveying the surrounding street for threatening
traffic.

        "See, there's a place to eat."

        Among the few small stores selling feed, riding gear and hardware
was a small cafe that advertised itself as 'Marge's Kitchen.'

        "Does that look OK to you, Mulder?" Scully asked in hopeful tones.

        "I think it better. It looks like the only place in town."

        The waitress was a comfortable, middle-aged woman who laughed when
she heard their inquiries about cattle mutilation in the area.

        "That would be Old Zeb with his UFOs and abductions and alien
cattle mutilation. His son is a police officer in Pocatello. Zeb finds out
from him where to send his observations and pictures. He's been bombarding
all the law enforcement agencies with 'proof' of an alien invasion for
years. I wonder why they listened this time?"

        "Ma'm, I think there were pro-active potentialities to be realized
that led them to hypothesize that the bureau would achieve highly
prioritized goals in its mission statement by making resources available
to the local representatives of the executive branch," Mulder answered. It
paid to stay fluent in federalspeak. The English translation: "We can save
ourselves a lot of PR problems if we find these troublemakers some
harmless busywork," didn't inspire the same faith in government
institutions.

        "Well good luck, son. If you dig long enough maybe you'll find the
pony."

        "Scully, do you think I look young enough to be her son?"  Mulder
asked in a pleased tone of voice after the waitress had returned to the
kitchen.

        Scully looked at him and remembered occasions when she had felt
she was ministering to a bereft four-year-old. Other times she could swear
she was dealing with a sulky adolescent. All she said was "She would have
had to marry right out of high school. But they probably do around here."

        They paid for breakfast and left to walk to the sheriff's office
several doors down and across the street. They passed an unadorned bar
called "Kelly's". An old house had a dilapidated sign in the yard
designating it as 'Mae's Home for Strays.' The yard was dirt, scattered
with dog and cat feces of varying vintages.

        "Maybe we could have gotten a room here that would be more
convenient to the sheriff's, Scully," Mulder said, pointing to a sorry
looking wooden house with the sign 'Rooms to Rent' in the window.

        "Accounting would love us, but I think I'd rather sleep in the car
and wash up at a gas station."

        "Now there's a cause the media could hyperventilate over--
homeless FBI agents."

        After passing a few more old houses, all kept to different
standards of repair and cleanliness, they crossed the broad street and
approached the sheriff's office. This was another tall wooden structure
that dated back at least a hundred years. It had a high, peaked roof and a
porch in the front that extended back on along each side. It had been
given a newer look sometime in the fifties when a faux brick facing had
been applied to the front. As they entered it became clear the
redecoration had been skin deep.

        The front of the house was one large room. Three mismatched,
battered old desks, assorted chairs, a fax machine, and a few gray filing
cabinets made up the office furniture. The sign reading 'Jail Cells' with
an arrow pointing up the staircase on the right declared the second role
played by the building. A man about fifty years old sat behind one of the
desks. He had sandy hair and a beer belly that strained his uniform to the
limit. He looked at Mulder and Scully with raised eyebrows.

        "Agents Scully and Mulder from the FBI. You were notified we were
coming?" Scully intoned, as they displayed their badges.

        With a broad smile he invited them to find chairs and pull up to
his desk.

        "Cattle mutilations, right? I'm Sheriff Reynolds. I'm sorry you
people had to waste your time looking into this when there are serial
killers and kidnappers on the loose in every state. What can I do to help
you check off your boxes and get back to real work?"

        "Our case file states that cattle were found dead with strange
mutilations. We're looking into possible cult activity. The individual who
sent the information suggests the intervention of extraterrestrials,"
Mulder answered.

        "I don't know what makes a person act like Zebulon Smith. Was it
his childhood, or was he just born with part of his brain out of
alignment? He takes perfectly normal events and picks the most outlandish
possible explanation to account for them. Do you have any of the pictures
he sent?"

        The sheriff leafed through the pictures, and sighed.

        "I looked at these myself. My deputy, Bob Hansen, investigated all
of these reports from Zeb. He sends them everywhere. These look like
classic cases of animal carcasses ravaged by wild dogs or coyotes. Also,
did you know they released wolf packs into the Frank Church National Park
some one hundred miles north of here? Do people think the wolves are going
to stop at the park boundary and decide not to expand their hunting
territory?"

        "In your opinion Sheriff, were these animals killed by the damage
predators did, or could something else have killed them and then a
scavenger mutilated the bodies?" Scully asked.

        "There's certainly enough damage to kill them, but that doesn't
mean they weren't weakened or hurt and made vulnerable to the predators.
But that doesn't sound like something a cult would do."

        "You're right about that, Sheriff. We'll complete our
investigation and at least rule out unusual criminal activity in the
area," Mulder answered. "We'd like to start by interviewing Deputy Hansen
and Zebulon Smith."

        "Hansen will start out driving patrol from his own place at 11
o'clock this morning. He won't be back here until 7 o'clock this evening.
I can give you directions to Old Zeb's, and you can see Hansen later when
he reports in."

        They spent half an hour making sure they understood the map the
sheriff sketched for them. He warned them that there were few road signs
and some graveled roads on the route. They couldn't expect to make good
time in their standard rental car. If the weather turned bad they wouldn't
be able to get around at all in this area.

        Some sections of the road bounced them around as badly as they had
expected, but for the most part the roads were paved. They stopped
frequently to re-orient themselves to the map, and incidentally to
appreciate breathtaking views of the jagged violet colored mountain range
to the north. When they passed the drive to the Bar J, they knew they were
close. The next turn off was the Leaning Z.

        At the end of a very long unpaved drive Zebulon Smith met them
with ecstatic welcomes. He fit the stereotypical profile of the UFO
fanatic perfectly. He was skinny and sported a white beard that contrasted
with the barely silvered brown hair on his head. His house was neat, but
filled to the ceiling in places with boxes labeled "Sightings." Each one
had a date range written on it. They were organized by date against the
walls of the living room, hall and bedroom. The earliest boxes covered the
widest range of dates, starting in 1949. Those closer to the present held
only about three months worth of whatever it was they held. There were at
least one hundred standard size moving boxes. Zeb was eager to share the
contents of each and every one.

        Since Mulder learned of the government's conspiracy to cover up
its crimes with fabrications about aliens he took a different attitude
toward exhibits like this. Now it was all evidence of the hoax, but his
appetite for information remained insatiable. Here was an unparalleled
archive. The prospect brought a frightening gleam to Mulder's eye that
prompted Scully to take the lead.

        "Mr. Smith, we want to focus on the recent incident--the cattle
mutilations which took place last summer. Can you add anything to the
information you sent to the regional office at that time?"

        "Can I see what you have Miss Scully?" I've sent out so much
information over the years I can't entirely say what was in the packet
you've got."

        Mulder gave Zeb the copies of the original complaint and photos
from their case folder.

        Zeb examined them with an increasingly quizzical expression.

        "Is this all you have, Mr. Mulder? I'm pretty sure I sent more
photos than that."

        He went to his most recent stack of boxes and began digging
through them.

        Scully sighed in resignation while Mulder strolled around checking
dates on boxes.

        "Here we are," Zeb exclaimed with satisfaction, bringing his own
folder back to the table where they sat.

        "See, I've got more and better photos than the ones you've got
there. Those make the bodies look more like they were scavenged. These
show cuts that look more surgical-like, like somebody planned them. How
come you don't have all of them?"

        "How come indeed?" Mulder echoed. He examined the new photos with
renewed enthusiasm.

        Zeb's photos included a series taken from a greater distance,
which emphasized a pattern suggestive of planned cutting, and a series
taken from close up, which showed tearing neater than one would expect
from teeth and claws.

        Zeb sensed a change in the atmosphere and grinned openly. He
couldn't wait to get a reaction.

        "Well, what do you thin