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: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Explicit Sex)

Size: 162KB

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
 

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        "Roberto, go see what that knocking is," Dangelo ordered.
Father Martin had concluded that he must be the man who brought the
rack. The bag probably contained other tools of his trade. He supposed
they would soon have him regretting he had ever been born. Different
only by degree of urgency from his current state of mind. Could he
stay quiet enough to deprive Dangelo of the pleasure of wringing
Sister Catherine's heart with his screams? He supposed they would
refuse him a gag now, if he asked for it.

        He and Dangelo sat waiting for the return of Roberto for ten
minutes. The suspense seemed harder to bear than knowing the worst.
Dangelo was fairly twitching with eagerness. He started a little game
of raising a hand in a threatening gesture and then merely laying his
hand on Martin. There was something about Dangelo's touch that made
his flesh creep, and Dangelo was obviously aware of his aversion. It
was beginning to make him frantic, when they all heard a strange voice
in the area outside the cell.

        "This one's empty."

        "He's not in this one. This poor soul isn't going to be here
much longer either."

        Dangelo had risen and reached the door when it swung open and
revealed a man with his hood pulled down over his face. There were
holes cut for the eyes.

        "He's in here," the hooded man called back over his shoulder.
It was impossible to tell whom he referred to as he spoke. Then he
walked over to Father Martin and cut his bonds.

        "Who are you?" Father Martin asked, as the stranger tried to
help him stand up. His feet and legs were numb. He lost his balance
and fell down as soon as support was withdrawn. Dangelo moved as if to
leave the cell. The stranger stepped in front of him and gestured
menacingly with his knife.

        "Are you from...." Father Martin began.

        The hooded figure lifted a finger to where his lips would be
and jerked his head emphatically toward Dangelo. After picking up the
ropes that had tied Martin, he went to the cell door, pushing Dangelo
out before him. He spoke again to someone outside.

        "He can't walk. I'll take care of the monsignor here. Then you
can tell him what's going on."

        "Did that piece of offal hurt him? I'll never forgive myself
if I waited too long." The familiar voice came closer.

        This time Father Martin used the wall for support and made it
to his feet in time to stagger to the door and embrace the hooded man
who appeared there.

        "I'd given up on you Edgar."

        "Don't ever do that."

        Now that the area had been cleared of Dangelo and his
soldiers, Edgar pushed his hood back.

        "What's your plan, Edgar? You've always got a plan."

        As Martin spoke he was urging Edgar toward Sister Catherine's
cell.

        A tall, dark man looked in from the hall. He smiled broadly at
the sight of Martin.

        "Dru, you've got a lot more beard than the last time I saw
you," Father Martin greeted him.

        "Be respectful, Martin. Dru is my sergeant-at-arms now. He
took over when Gregory got too stiff in the joints," Edgar admonished
him jokingly.

        "Dangelo and his men are tied up in the outer room," Dru
reported.

        "We should be able to leave within the quarter hour," Edgar
told him.

        Dru went back to other duties as Martin guided Edgar firmly
into Catherine's cell.

        "I need a cover for her," Martin said, as he stood once more
beside her

        Edgar handed him his cloak wordlessly and explained his plan.

        "Tonight we're riding to a hunting lodge between Gedling and
Nottingham. In the morning you and I and a few others will ride west,
starting for the coast. You can sail to Ireland from Bristol. When the
memory of your 'crime' has had time to fade, father will end your
outlawry by paying a fine, and you can come back."

        As Edgar explained his plan, Father Martin was carefully
tucking the cloak around Sister Catherine. She opened her eyes and
indicated her recognition of him, but did not speak.

        "Ride? Catherine can't ride. Do you have a cart?"

        Edgar looked extremely uncomfortable at this.

        "She can't come Martin."

        "She has to."

        "Look, I can't be caught interfering with the official actions
of a representative of the Pope. Father's special arrangement with the
Vatican would be compromised. The only reason he let me come at all
was because you might be hurt in some way. I made sure he knew you
were in danger. He said I wasn't to act unless something threatened
you, and I wasn't to burden us with the nun who'd bewitched you."

        The Duke had made it sound simple enough when he explained the
rules to Edgar. Even at that time Edgar had suspected this would be a
more difficult moment than his father anticipated. Now he watched
Martin tenderly touch Sister Catherine's cheeks, checking for a fever,
and he knew it would be impossible. The look on Martin's face was
familiar to him from childhood. He had never backed down, not ever,
when his face had taken on that look.

        "She didn't bewitch me. That's nonsense. She's innocent of
witchcraft". He paused in thought and then went on. "You mean you've
been here watching for weeks until I was imprisoned?"

        "We stayed at the hunting lodge I spoke of. The hunting was
good. I've been paying two of the servants here to pass on information
every evening to one of my men. When I heard that degenerate swine had
accused you and locked you up, I came as fast as I could."

        "All this time, all I had to do was endanger myself," Father
Martin said, with a baffled look on his face.

        "Father would have preferred that we didn't get involved at
all," Edgar reminded him.

        "I lost my temper with Dangelo, fell right into a trap he set
for me. I tried so hard not to let him provoke me. I might have been
able to get the support of the town and force her release. But there
was no way he could lose. There was no limit to what he would have
done to anger me."

        "From what I've heard from the servants, Dangelo would have
Christ Himself brandishing the cross at him like a cudgel," Edgar
remarked, continuing hastily, "You can't kill him. It would cause too
much trouble."

        "Edgar you know when I'm serious. I can't desert her, so
decide whether you want to rescue both of us or neither of us."

        "You know she won't be able to travel for weeks." If she
doesn't die, he appended silently, and then we'll have had all that
quarrelling with the Vatican for nothing. "She'll hurt your chances of
getting out of England."

        "You can take all night to decide, but my terms aren't
changing."

        Of course that was exactly what he couldn't do. Someone in the
manor could waken at any time. Edgar knew his father would be furious
if he brought the nun, but he would be equally furious if Martin were
left in Dangelo's keeping. Given these choices, Edgar decided to
follow his heart.

        "Dru, go find a wagon and a docile horse. Don't wake anyone."

        In a quarter of an hour Dru returned with the report that the
best he could do without disturbing anyone was a two wheeled cart and
horse used by the cook's helpers for going to market.

        "We've got to get on the road quickly. Traveling with a cart
is going to slow us down. Dru, get two of the men to help you bring
the wine in and let's start taking care of the guards. And the good
monsignor, of course." Edgar turned to Martin explaining, "I brought
drugged wine. They all get the choice of drinking it or being knocked
on the head. We took them so much by surprise we didn't have to kill
anyone, thanks be to God."

        "Where are they?"

        "They're tied up in the outer guard room. My men have kept
their faces hidden, and have been careful not to mention names or
places. When the wine has made them groggy we'll untie them and pour
the rest of it over them. Then we'll see what tale comes out of
tonight's doings."

        After the doses had been given to the guards, Father Martin
asked for help in carrying straw out to the cart. Several of Edgar's
men offered to help, and gave him their cloaks for bedding.

        When the cart was ready Father Martin began to lift Sister
Catherine from the straw. The slightest movement made her cry out from
the pain in her shoulder. He laid her back down and his heart sank as
he thought of the hours of travel over rutted roads that lay ahead. He
went to the door of the guardroom where most of Dangelo's men were
already unconscious.

        "How much of this should I give her?" he asked Dru, holding
up one of the half-empty bottles. Dru took a pottery mug down from a
cupboard shelf, and poured it half full.

        "That should be about right. But in truth you're taking a
chance, because if she's weaker than I judge, she might not wake up."

        "If I don't give her something, the suffering and strain of
the journey may kill her," Father Martin answered quietly.

        He held Catherine's head up slightly and coaxed her to sip all
of the wine, telling her that soon she would feel much better. Within
minutes she had fallen into a sleep so deep that she didn't stir when
he carried her out to the cart. The group walked the half-mile to
where the horses waited, with one man leading the horse pulling the
cart. Edgar instructed the man to mount and continue to lead the cart
horse. There was a horse for Martin. The wagon undeniably forced a
much slower pace than the group was capable of.

        They didn't arrive at the hunting lodge until dawn was
breaking. Edgar drew Martin aside and told him they needed to decide
on a another plan.

        "My men and I should move on immediately. By now they've
discovered Dangelo and the guards. Our numbers draw too much attention
to this lodge. I could find a woman to take care of Sister Catherine
here so you could come with us as planned," Edgar suggested hopefully.

        He knew before he stopped speaking that Martin would reject
this plan. Its greatest weakness was the likelihood that an outsider
in daily contact with her would almost certainly lead searchers
straight to Sister Catherine. Edgar didn't much care if this happened
to her, but he couldn't tolerate Martin running the same risk. He
looked doubtfully at his friend.

        "Could you manage here alone with her?"

        "I can except for getting food and maybe cutting firewood
until she's better," Martin asserted confidently.

        Their reversal of fortune with Edgar's arrival at the manor
made anything seem possible to him now.

        "I'll have Dru give you what we can spare from our supplies.
We'll cut you some firewood before we leave. I planned to find a place
to sleep in Nottingham tonight. I know some reliable people there who
can count their coins in silence. The story I used to borrow the lodge
was that I was going to hunt. I'll see that a rumor goes around that
that was a lie. I'm really using it as a place to keep a ladylove who's
inclined to let her fancies wander if she has too many temptations. Do
what you can to make that story work."

        They were all busy for an hour clearing out the rubbish and
sweepings Edgar and his men had left in the lodge. Catherine remained
in the wagon, still sleeping deeply while this messy, noisy work was
completed. There was large bed with a down mattress in the lodge,
which led Martin to think that the place was indeed used more often
for trysting than for hunting. The furs and woolen covers on the bed
were of dubious cleanliness, but they would have to suffice for now.
He would wash the sheets when he could.

        When Martin finally got Catherine settled in the bed, he was
able to do what he had been longing to do since yesterday when Alan
had admitted him to the prison. In spite of her continued drowsiness,
he succeeded in getting her to drink a small amount of sweet wine with
egg yolk and sugar beaten in. When she didn't vomit he thought she might
live.

        Edgar came into the lodge to bid Martin farewell.

        "Edgar, I've been trying to understand what's going on here.
You felt you had to tell your father about my request for help. Were
you afraid to act without his knowledge, or are you involved
personally in the diplomatic connections...like my father is?" Martin
asked with some apprehension.

        "Oh no, I want nothing to do with those lying weasels from
Rome. There's no honor in it. I knew father would want to know about
your troubles."

        "Why? Why did he allow you to help me at all? My own father
doesn't care what happens to me," Martin asked, trying to keep the
catch out of his voice.

        Edgar paced up and down the small room several times in
silence, clearly trying to make up his mind.

        "I thought he would tell you before you left England. I
learned it years ago from a young woman who was the daughter of the
old bailiff. My father is your real father, Martin. We're half
brothers," Edgar said with a worried frown, looking at Martin and
trying to assess his reaction. "Lady Elizabeth married Sir William in
May. You were born in October. The marriage was arranged quickly to
conceal her condition. Father always cared a lot about you. When
things went wrong in Rome, he got the place in Derby for you. He
planned to bring you back when the Vatican furor had a chance to fade.
He thought he could get a place for you in some grand household in
England. Sir William was supposed to tell you that part when you met
in London." He looked at Martin apologetically, noting his
bewilderment. "I have to assume he didn't. God's Blood, Martin did you
think we'd all abandoned you?"

        Martin nodded mutely, trying to rearrange his understanding of
his situation to fit these new revelations. What did it mean for his
future? He hadn't even thought in terms of having a future since
Sister Catherine had been imprisoned. Before that he had assumed that
he would pass the rest of his life in Derby. He had begun to see some
compensations in life lived on a small scale, without the ugly plots
that dominated the higher levels of power.

        "I can't think about this now, Edgar. Sister Catherine needs
me. Just remember that I loved you as much as any brother could before
I knew we were brothers in blood. I'll never forget what you did for
us."

        "If you need me before we return in two months send a message
by the man who'll deliver your market goods. Isaac Goldstone will be
holding money to be spent for what you need and its delivery. God help
you."

        It wasn't until they were gone, and Martin stood alone in the
snow dusted forest that he felt the full weight of his responsibility.
He was the only defense between Sister Catherine and all that
threatened her. He was soon too overwhelmed by the hour to hour
details to dwell at length on this fact.

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

        At first she could do nothing for herself. He had to help her
with her most private needs. Once the mere thought of this would have
embarrassed him, but he found he could do anything that she needed
done without discomfort. When he had to undress her, he felt nothing
but grief at the sight of her starved body and the evidence on her
back of the use of a whip. Her shoulder was bruised black and blue.
Dangelo's violence hadn't dislocated the joint, but it was severely
damaged in some less obvious way.

        Martin tended the fire constantly, keeping the lodge warm, but
conserving firewood as much as possible. He didn't bother at all with
cooking. There was no time. Bread and cheese were enough for him. He
continued to give Catherine small amounts of egg, wine, honey and milk,
throughout the day. After a week of this she had recovered enough
strength to walk across the room with his help. She suggested that he
ask for game or mutton from the man who brought their food and
instructed him in making broth.

        All of their conversations were like this. They talked about
food, household tasks and the weather outside. He had explained how
they were supposed to be a knight and his mistress. She accepted this
gravely, without comment. Martin told her of Edgar's plan to get them
to Ireland. He thought that some of her spirit might return with the
prospect of hope for the future. However she asked for no details and
continued to live each day largely in silence. Her expression, when
she thought she was unobserved, was intolerably sad. It changed to a
politely neutral look when he addressed her. Then after three weeks of
slow but steady improvement came the terrible night of Christmas Eve.

        By then Catherine was able to sit by the fire and feed it
small sticks while Martin cut more wood. Truth be told, he looked
forward to these chances to escape the confines of the smoky lodge and
the sight of Catherine's desolate face. That afternoon when he
returned he found her lying doubled up on the floor in agony from pain
in her belly. Within a short time she was vomiting and purging at
least once each hour. This went on and on until three in the morning,
when the symptoms eased. Many suffered briefly from this kind of
sickness, and recovered from it easily. Her thinness and general
weakness made it questionable that Catherine would. She had lost so
much fluid that her pulse was weak and dangerously rapid.

        "Here Catherine, you need to drink this" Martin said
resolutely. "It's water with salt and honey. It might not taste very
good, but your body needs it."

        "I'm too tired right now."

        "I know, but your pulse is like a thread, and your heart is
racing. Look at this."

        He pinched a fold of skin on her arm and showed her how long
it remained tented.

        "If you don't replace some of the elements you lost, you'll
die. Your heart will lose its rhythm. Remember, you taught me that
yourself?"

         He kept hoping that the old, confident Catherine, proud of
her knowledge and skills, would emerge. He had to get her to
understand what was necessary.

        "I can't keep it down," she said weakly, turning her head
away.

        "Please try, Catherine," he urged, now with tears in his eyes.

        When she remained as she was, he put the cup down and took
several deep breaths. Then he gently turned her face to his.

        "Do you want me to let you go, sweetheart? You've suffered so
much. You can't imagine how hard it will be for me, but I'll just hold
you while you slip away, if that's what you want."

        Tears were on his cheeks, and his face was twisted with grief,
but he said no more. He sat on the bed beside her and held her hand.

        Her expression had changed to a puzzled look. Something had
broken through the barrier of numbness that had allowed her to survive
prison and torture, but now made survival seem pointless. Then her
face changed again and he saw on it a mixture of fear and suppressed
fury.

        "You don't understand. I'm not afraid to die anymore, I'm
afraid to live. " She said in a low, rough voice.

        "I know I can't promise to protect you. You've seen that. I
can only promise to try," Martin answered, burying his face in his
hands.

        "I was glad when you stopped coming to ask for me. Then I
didn't have to make the decision every day to deny myself the comfort
of seeing you. Sometimes, after a bad night, I'd tell myself that
maybe, even if you visited me, they'd let you alone after all. But I
could never take the risk. When you gave up I could let myself endure
without hope of anything except that the pain would end eventually."

        "Christ, Catherine, I never gave up. Those bastards quit
telling you I was there."

        Martin sat in helpless silence as the minues went by. The
longer he sat with his eyes covered, the more afraid he became to
uncover them and see what the silence meant. His own panicky
breathing started to make him light-headed. He thought that perhaps
death would take him too, right here at her side. He would be spared
digging her grave alone in the cold ground outside the lodge.

        Catherine's voice broke in on his despairing thoughts.

        "You say you're willing to let me go, but you're making me
feel. I'm trapped here by those feelings." After a long moment, she
sighed. "You can't help it, anymore than I could. Yes, please hold me.
You know, the remedy may not work anyway, but I'll try to drink it."

        These words seemed to release a band of iron from Martin's
chest. He took the flask he had prepared and settled himself beside
her on the bed instead of retreating to his usual nest of skins and
blankets on the floor. Until he nodded off into the sleep of
exhaustion in the mid-morning he kept offering her drinks and she
valiantly tried to swallow as much as she could.

        While he slept Catherine tentatively reached out to him. She
traced his features with her fingertips and touched her lips to his
cheek. When he woke his arm was around her and her head rested on his
shoulder. He was astonished at how familiar the pose felt.

        When he checked her pulse and heartbeat the results were
encouraging. Later that Christmas Day Catherine talked of Derby for
the first time, weeping for her mother, Dame Agnes, and Father Walter,
whom they were never likely to see again. But she made greater efforts
to eat and drink that day.

        During the following two weeks Catherine regained some of her
determination and energy. Martin had been worried about her shoulder.
When he had suggested that he move it for her  each day, to keep its
flexibility during healing, she had refused repeatedly, saying that it
was too painful. It had healed some and the bruises had faded, but the
joint was frozen. Catherine began trying to exercise it, increasing its
mobility by the tiniest amounts each day. One day she proudly
demonstrated that she could lift her left hand a span away from her hip.

        "I'll start working on forward and backward as well," she
planned aloud.

        She suggested that they add vegetables to their requests for
food to be delivered. She directed Martin in concocting more substantial
soups.

        One evening she asked him to help her fill the tub he used for
baths so that she could have a real bath too, instead of washing out
of a basin. As she stepped into the tub, Martin ran his eyes over her,
rejoicing in a hoped for gain in weight. He had been seeing her with
the eyes of a physician for so long that he was shocked to realize his
perspective had changed again. Her naked body stirred desire in him,
and he didn't look away immediately. When he suddenly turned and
busied himself with rearranging cups and bowls on the shelf, he
realized Catherine had noted his stare. He was careful to keep his
gaze directed at the floor until she was dressed again. Neither of
them referred to the incident, but he noticed she was more careful to
maintain her modesty afterwards.

        Two nights after that Martin was wakened a few hours after
they had fallen asleep by an unusual chilliness in the air. The
temperature outside had dropped more than usual that night. He got up
and added more logs to the fire. While he stood making sure that the
additional wood would burn steadily he heard Catherine stir in the
bed. He looked over to make sure that she was all right before he
returned to his pallet. In the rosy light of the renewed fire, she was
beckoning him to the bedside.

        When he got there and bent down to ask her what was wrong, she
silently lifted the blankets and invited him with a gesture to lie
down beside her. He backed away in confusion. Two weeks ago he had
been able to offer solace by holding her. Now he feared he would be
tempted to offer much more. She continued to hold the blankets for
him. As he hung back, her face took on a hurt expression. He couldn't
reject her implicit need for comfort with no explanation. He
approached the bed intending to explain the need for separate sleeping
arrangements. She dropped the blankets and reached out with her right
hand to grasp his hand and draw him toward her. Since he had left the
proximity of the fire, he had begun shivering with the cold. He
decided to lie down briefly and warm himself while he told her the
shameful truth of his doubts about his own behavior.

        Catherine put her head on his shoulder as though it were their
routine. Then she took his left hand and drew it to her mouth. She
closed her eyes and began kissing his fingers. When she began
delicately licking and sucking at the fingertips he could not pretend
to misunderstand her meaning. Her approach lacked subtlety, and she
was obviously inexperienced; but she was trying to seduce him, rather
than artlessly seeking comfort. The problem was that the lack of
subtlety didn't preclude results.

        The heat of her body next to him and the memory of their first
delicious, disastrous kiss started to cloud his judgment. He knew that
she could feel his erection through his shirt. She didn't shrink
away. Instead she opened her eyes and gave him a timid smile, as if
pleased with her success so far, but silently asking for help in
progressing farther. He found he couldn't refuse an opportunity for
another kiss. He rolled on to his side and pulled her to him putting
his lips to hers very gently. This time she took the first step in
making the kiss more intimate, pushing her small tongue between his
lips, tentatively at first, and then more eagerly, as if finding this
new activity very much to her liking.

        After they had enjoyed kissing for several minutes, Martin was
thoroughly distracted from his reservations about consummating their
love. He slid his hands down to her small breasts and stroked them,
rubbing her nipples through the cotton shift with his thumbs. Her
breathing quickened at his touch. Now Martin was no longer thinking.
He was only experiencing sensations, and he took the initiative
instinctively.

        He rolled onto his back, unfastening his shirt and stripping
it off. Then he sat up on the bed and did the same with Catherine's
shift, remembering to be careful when easing it over her left
shoulder. He gazed at her body in the light of the fire for a full
minute, until he noticed that she was lying under his scrutiny with
her eyes shut and her head turned away in embarrassment. She reached
up for him and clearly sought to bring his body back into contact with
hers. He lay down on top of her, taking his weight on his elbows and
knees, and began kissing her more forcefully than before. She relaxed
again and returned his kisses with enthusiasm.

        He put one knee between her legs and she awkwardly opened them
for him. Then when he began pushing between her legs with his erect
penis he felt her go rigid beneath him and try unsuccessfully to close
her legs again. He nuzzled her neck.

        "Do you want me to stop, Catherine?" he breathed into her ear.

        She silently but emphatically replied by shaking her head and
ending her resistance to his entry. Nevertheless Martin could still
feel the stiff way she held her legs, and the clenched muscles in her
jaw. He longed to ignore these indirect signals of protest and achieve
penetration, but he couldn't do it.

        He continued to hold her while he rolled back on to his side.
He was dismayed to see her eyes wide open with what looked like fear.

        "What's the matter, sweetheart? Are you afraid it will hurt?
I'll be very careful."

        Again she shook her head.

        "I want you to love me, Martin. I want to do this for you. But
I didn't understand how it would be. I feel like I'm going to lose
control or make ugly noises. I don't know what I'll do."

        The last thing Martin wanted to do was laugh, but he couldn't
help seeing the humor in it. Catherine might know all about the way
the body worked, but some things were clearly far outside her
experience.

        "You understand that you aren't supposed to do this just for
me, It's supposed to be for you too."

        "I've heard that some woman grow to like it,"she said
doubtfully. "I like to kiss you."

        Martin responded to this by giving her another long kiss.

        Then he asked her "Would you think it was ugly if I made
noises?"

        "What do you mean?"

        He took her hand, curled it around his penis and moved it
slowly up and down several times, giving out a series of soft,
convincing moans.

        Catherine moved restlessly next to him and unconsciously
grasped him harder.

        "No, that's not a bad sound."

        She found herself savoring the sound and the feeling of
mastery it gave her.

        "You need to trust me enough to give me some power over your
feelings, as I trust you. I'm going to go a lot slower now, and you
tell me if something doesn't feel good."

        He began stroking her naked breasts gently while he kissed
her, and then lowered his head and took each of her nipples in turn
between his lips.

        This made her breathe more rapidly, and she arched her back to
increase the force of his mouth crushing her breasts. He went on
sucking her nipples in turn, and he started to gently stroke the hair
that covered her pudenda. This caused her to flinch slightly, but as
he continued to be gentle, she relaxed into the sensation. Very
gradually, he began to increase the pressure, and to make his
movements circular. This brought small groans of pleasure from
Catherine, and she lifted herself against his hand to add to the
sensation. Martin was beginning to doubt his ability to postpone his
own climax as long as necessary. He found her increasing arousal
almost unbearably exciting.

        Martin drew one finger between her legs, penetrating her a
little farther each time, stretching the thin membrane there, instead
of leaving it to be violently broken by his thrusts. After he had done
this for several minutes, she opened her legs with no prompting to
allow him more access to her. He decided to take his chance, and once
more rolled over to cover her body with his. This time when he stroked
her opening with his erect penis, her hips smoothly rose to meet his.
The slight pain she felt at his penetration was lost in the intensity
of the enjoyment of being filled. She met each further thrust by
raising her buttocks. He couldn't last long with this stimulation, but
they still reached their climaxes together, shuddering with the blazing,
melting power of their surrender to pleasure. Catherine gave a low shriek
that contained elements of both release and surprise.

        Then they both lay stunned at the dimensions of their action. The
experience had overtaken them like a tidal wave crashing irresistibly over
a beach. Now they would have to determine what it had brought and what had
been swept away.

        Catherine was staggered by the profound nature of their
consummation. Now she understood the Biblical description of marriage
as being two in one flesh. They had now been united in every way, and
she felt a comfort and ease with Martin she couldn't have imagined
before.

        Before this event she had had the physician's understanding of
the mechanics of intercourse. The emotions were a closed book to her.
As a girl of thirteen she had talked the matter over with a cousin of
the same age who was preparing to marry. Lucy had confided that her
mother had told her to put her hands over her head and allow her
husband to have his will of her body. A year later when her cousin's
baby was christened Catherine had tried to ask about the marriage act
again. Lucy just shook her head and told her that she was lucky to be
going into the convent. She didn't have to worry about it. From this
scanty information she had concluded she could make a gift of her body
to Martin quickly and simply. She had been surprised when he had
expected more: she had been shocked that she wanted to give it. The
important gift had turned out to be her naked emotions, rather than her
naked body.

        Martin's heart felt so full of lust, love, tenderness and fear
that he though it might burst. He was already longing for their next
opportunity to make love. At the same time he took the greatest
pleasure in simply holding Catherine protectively, and rejoicing in
her existence. Underneath these emotions lay the not unreasonable fear
of losing her. It was grounded in the reality of all the dangers that
still threatened her, and the uncertainty of the future they faced if
they managed to escape their immediate perils.

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

        During the following days Catherine and Martin gave themselves
up to their enjoyment of each other. Lovemaking became the new focus
of their lives. Martin was surprised to discover how quickly Catherine
learned to give and take pleasure in it. He sometimes caught hold of
her and thrust himself into her after the briefest of fondling and
kisses, not pausing to remove any clothing. Catherine explored her
power to tease him with her hands and her mouth, refusing to allow him
release until he was almost begging. They invented a game where the
first person to wake up in the morning would start trying to arouse
the other, while the sleeper had to pretend to be asleep even when
thoroughly wakened. The object of the game was to see how long the
sleeper could refuse to respond to the most seductive sensations. No
one ever lost. There were long evenings of slow, deliberate caresses
ending in almost painfully intense climaxes followed by sleep. The
mute fears that hid behind this desperate explosion of sensuality were
spoken of only once.

        "What will become of us, Martin?" Catherine asked one day.

        They were outside looking for firewood. Partially melted and
refrozen snow remained on the ground in places shaded from the midday
sun. The world was poised on the edge of a change in seasons, with the
days gradually lengthening again. They expected Edgar to arrive within
the next two weeks.

        Catherine had difficulty remembering when she knew what to
expect with every day of every season. It had only been four months
since she had been shut up in a prison cell, but it felt like a
lifetime. Since then she had lost her place in the world, her friends
and family, her faith, and the use of her left arm. Now she had a
lover who was an outlaw like herself--a lover on whom she was utterly
dependent. She had chosen him over her integrity and over death, when
death had seemed like the greatest boon the world held for her. How could she possibly know what would happen now?

        She looked over at him to see if he had heard her question.
His expression was troubled.

        "I spoke to Edgar when he left us here. The plan was to sail
for Ireland. At the time I was only thinking of a safe place for you
to live, probably in another convent. That was before things changed
between us. We can't be parted now," he said with finality. "I'll have
to make my family understand that. There's work I can do for the Duke,
as Sir William does."

        Catherine knew how he felt about the conspiratorial activities
carried on by Sir William.

        "Don't look at me that way," he admonished her. "There's more
to administering a dukedom than foreign connections."

        She stepped over to Martin and pressed herself up against him
as closely as possible, putting her arm around his neck.

        "I know," she said. "Let's not talk about it anymore until
Edgar gets here."

        They didn't discuss their future again while living in the
lodge. There were other things to talk about.

        They sat in front of the fire and talked about what had
happened to them over the past year.

        "What did you think when you first saw me?"

        "I thought there'd be numerous babies left in the parish with
your wonderful nose and mouth."

        "I don't believe it. You can't tell me you felt that way about
me from the first time you saw me."

        "No, not immediately. But it took so little time before I felt
a special connection with you--as though we were meant to be together.
Now it's your turn."

        "What do you mean?"

        "Be fair! You know, what did you think when you first saw me?"

        "I thought why is that lovely young girl here, pretending to
know what she's doing at a death bed?"

        Catherine smiled at him and then her face changed. With her
right hand she touched her gaunt cheeks and rough, uneven hair. She
stared at her left hand lying in her lap.

        "No one is likely to make that mistake again," she remarked
sadly.

        "I doesn't matter. You're still beautiful. Even if you weren't
I'd love your face because it's yours. It makes me happy," Martin
responded.

        He ran his hand through her short hair, down her neck and
shoulders, to her breasts. Gentle strokes through her shift led to
fiercer caresses. Martin picked her up and carried her from the
fireplace to the bed, where they hurriedly joined their bodies in the
welcome rush to ecstasy followed by oblivion. Martin woke up in the
middle of the night to find that the fire had burned so low that the
room was in almost total darkness.

        He got up and revived the fire. When he returned to the bed in
the light of its orange glow, his chilly skin woke Catherine. She
snuggled up to warm him more quickly.

        "Catherine? I never told you before. I'm so sorry for what I
did with Alison. I betrayed you. I betrayed you more than I knew."

        "I knew you were sorry. It wasn't really your fault. You were
suffering, so unhappy and alone. I knew that, but I was relentless. It
was cruel to both of us. As soon as Dangelo shut me away from you I
knew my mistake. I found out I needed to see you if only to punish
you. And then I saw how wrong that was."

        "If I'd never came to Derby and made Alison jealous you
wouldn't have been imprisoned."

        "No," she agreed. "I suppose I'd have been lying in a shallow
grave by the river these seven months. It's all too mixed up to figure
out how things might have been different. But I can't regret loving
you."

        "At the Vatican I read some Latin translations of Arabic texts.
The Persians trade with an eastern land where the people believe everyone
is born over and over again."

        "Life after life, forever?"

        "No, with each life the person is supposed to become more
noble and spiritual. When he's pure enough his soul merges with the
World Soul, and he has no separate existence anymore. Some of the
Greek philosophers played with the idea."

        "So, the two of us, we might get a chance to come back and avoid
the mistakes we made the first time?" Catherine couldn't keep the longing
out of her voice.

        "Do you think we can assume this was the first time, Catherine?"
Martin asked with a laugh. "We may have made a tangle of things a score
of times before. Do you remember Athens? Or Babylon? Or leaving Egypt
with Moses?"

        "I'm willing to keep trying." Catherine laughed too. "But I
always want to be with you."

        They didn't either of them really believe there would be another
life for them, but what an enticing idea it was.

        The next day brought pale blue skies, ragged white clouds, and
enough sun to melt the remaining snow. This kind of day had once
stirred Catherine to start planning for her annual garden. Instead she
sat in the doorway for the daylight and tried not to think about it.

        She was working on clothes she would need when it was time to
leave. Martin had commissioned their messenger to get them some clothes
for their journey. He had nothing except the clothes he wore to the
manor that day, and she had nothing but the shift and penitential smock
she wore in the prison cell. She struggled to alter one of the gowns
Harry had brought back from the market. Her desire for inconspicuous
clothes had meshed well with their pretext for staying in the lodge.
Martin had made a show of jealousy, demanding that Harry bring gowns
that were old, plain and very modest. The results exceeded the
requirements, since they proved to be ugly as well.

        Catherine had never found sewing a pleasant task. Now it hurt
her shoulder when she tried to hold the stiff material still against
the push of the needle. She felt frustrated and clumsy, but was
determined to do something useful, even if it was only a plain hem.
When Martin had finished the washing, she was still trying. For a
while, he watched her repeatedly drive the needle into a finger or
turn white with the pain of using her left hand. He found it very
difficult to refrain from snatching the work away from her and seeing
what he could make of it. She had already refused his offers of help
twice, and he didn't think she would welcome a third offer. Once upon
a time she would have punctuated her activity with occasional appeals
to Mary, Jesus or God.  Her silent efforts reminded him of a worry
that had been growing since their rescue from the prison.

        "Catherine, you don't have to talk about this, but I've
noticed that you don't pray anymore. Have you given up on your
salvation because of....us?. Please tell me you don't think you're too
sinful to pray. Even the Church recognizes that sins of the flesh are
not the great sins."

        "What should I pray for? Should I pray for the strength to
resist you, and sleep with a sword between us--if we had a sword?" she
asked him, with a smile.

        "We do have a sword. In prudence, Edgar left me a sword.
However it's remarkably sharp, and you won't find me in any bed where
it lies unsheathed."

        "There you are. The sword would make virtue simple for me. But
I couldn't pray for that strength because I don't really want it. I
don't believe what we do is wrong."

       It was not these words, but the ones that followed that brought
a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

        "I'm ashamed to say that it was my own ordeal that caused me
to lose my belief in God while I was in prison. If I'd really allowed
myself to see the suffering that was going on around me in the past,
I'd have lost my faith long before. Suddenly I knew so clearly that it
was all random chance. Look at Deborah, Hugh, Joan, even Gib. They
trudge on like animals under burdens I couldn't begin to bear.
Suffering isn't ennobling them, or saving them. They just try to duck
away from it, the way the village dogs dodge stones. But they usually
don't succeed."

        Martin was relieved that Catherine wasn't in fear for her
soul, but against all reason he regretted the loss of the sweet,
childlike confidence she had once had in the Universe. It was a dark
place with no Father in the sky to turn to when all else failed. Most
of all he bitterly regretted the anguish that had brought her to this
stark acceptance of the indifference of the cosmos.

        "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Catherine, You never
turned away from someone without doing what you could to help, and it
wasn't just prayers you offered them."

        Martin waited a few minutes and tried to figure out how to
offer his help again without seeming to question Catherine's competence.
He went over to the doorway and sat on her left side. As she began to
push the needle through the fabric one more time, he simply placed his
right hand under her left elbow, bracing it so she didn't have to
tense the left shoulder. At her look of reproval he smiled and tried
to make an unanswerable argument.

        "You aren't going to make me feel bad by making me turn away
from someone who just needs a little help until she heals more?" He
further disarmed her by following up with a kiss.

        She gave in when she saw how much faster the work went. The
hem was good enough. The clothes themselves, with the necessary veil,
reduced her to little more than a pair of huge gray eyes, a prominent
nose, and a very decided chin. What she could see of her reflection
when she looked into the well made her glad she didn't have a looking
glass. She thought Martin was very kind to pretend not to notice how
dreadful the clothes made her look.

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

        Edgar arrived at the end of the first week in February. He was
their saviour, but he was also an intruder into their exclusive world.

        He had brought an escort of fourteen armed men. When he saw
Martin's surprise, Edgar drew him aside and quietly told him of the
messages he had continued to get from informants among the manor
servants.

        Dangelo was still furious over the successful raid of the
manor prison cells. He had put spies everywhere to find out who was
responsible and where the prisoners were. He kept a party of soldiers
ready to act on any information he got.

        There had been total confusion the morning after the raid.
About half of the guard swore that Sister Catherine had summoned the
fair folk from under the hill to her rescue. The gentry had hidden
their faces, sneaked past the soldiers and then put them to sleep, all
by the use of their magic. The other half of the guard testified to a
force of fifty bandits lead by a hooded giant who forced them to drink
what he swore was poison. Unmoved, Dangelo patiently looked for
evidence to support his story. He maintained that a few clever men,
obviously well trained as soldiers, had carried out the rescue.

        "He sent people to talk to your friends and relatives.
Matthew, the man you sent to me with your message, must have let
something slip. People have been asking questions about me in the town
of Nottingham. They haven't learned anything definite yet, but that's
too close to take chances. We'll be leaving tomorrow," Edgar informed
hm.

        "I believe Catherine is well enough to ride now," Martin
agreed reluctantly.

        He felt the sorrow of irreparable loss at the thought of
leaving their seclusion and their illusion of safety. He hated being
made to face the anxiety and fear again, but he and Catherine had
known this day was inevitable.

        Courtesy required that he invite Edgar to say in the lodge
with them that night.

        "No, I won't accept your kind invitation, Martin. It's better
if I stay with the men and go over our plans; " Edgar answered.

        He would give them their chance to say good-bye. Given the
realities of the world, that's what tonight would be for them.

        That night Martin and Catherine held each other and reassured
each other of their love as though they had to fit in enough words for
a lifetime. Each silently vowed to hold the shape and feel of the
other in memory forever. When they left the lodge the next morning, it
felt like a death.

        Edgar introduced Sister Catherine to his leaders in the pale
darkness of early dawn. Most of them already knew Martin. Only Edgar's
sergeant-at-arms, Dru, was able to look Catherine in the eye and wish
her a good morning.  Catherine knew she made the soldiers
uncomfortable. They didn't know what role to assign to her. Was she a
holy nun or a camp follower? She was no one's wife or daughter or
sister. Edgar treated her with politeness, but his distant attitude
was clear.  She tried to stay out of everyone's way.

        Martin helped her onto her horse. Catherine had ridden little
since her childhood on the farm. As hard as she had worked on her left
shoulder and arm, she had regained nothing more than the initial small
increase in range that came with first moving it. She was worried
about how she would manage the mare Edgar had brought for her. The
horse was both skittish and stubborn in temperament. But they set an
easy pace the first day, and the animal appeared satisfied to walk
among the other horses without balking or shying.

        The only mishap occurred at the end of the day. When Catherine
dismounted her legs were so tired from the unaccustomed activity that
they shook and gave way beneath her. She ended up sitting on the
ground and feeling foolish. Dru noticed her predicament and quietly
came over to help. When she proved unable to stand immediately, he
laid one of her blankets on the ground and helped her make herself
comfortable against a fallen log.

        "You did very well to keep up with us today, Sister," he said
encouragingly. "I remember how you looked two and a half months ago. I
was afraid you wouldn't still be with us. I certainly didn't think
you'd be ready to ride."

        "Thank you for your help, sir. Father Martin is the one who
worked the wonder."

        "He is a remarkable man. But so are you a remarkable woman."

        Edgar had asked Martin to remain behind for a while to keep a
lookout for anyone who might be following them. Until he arrived, Dru
brought water and food to Catherine, and helped her arrange her
blankets for sleeping. When Martin arrived later he was full of thanks
to Dru for his care of Catherine. The other soldiers found it much
easier to ignore her.

        "You'll never leave her, will you," Dru stated, rather than
asked. He was sitting with Martin by the fire as he ate a belated
meal.

        "That's true. You can have no idea yet of the bravery and
sweetness of her soul, and the breadth of her mind. There's no one
else like her in the world. I know what the men say about us, and what
Edgar thinks. It's all one to me. We need to be together and we will
be."

        Dru thought that Edgar didn't really understand what he was
dealing with. He persisted in thinking that Martin could easily be
distracted from Catherine by the prospect of a good position with a
noble family. Dru saw that their connection had such deep roots that
tearing them out would do serious harm to the lovers themselves.

        "I found she's not one to complain. Watch her on this journey.
She'll fall off her horse in exhaustion before she'll protest the
pace," Dru observed.

        "Not one to complain," Martin echoed, feeling a hysterical
laugh rising up in his throat. He managed to choke it back. "In that
prison. There were whips. Do you know what they had started to do...?"

        Dru shook his head and held up his hand to stop Martin's
words. They had to be as hard to speak as to hear.

        "How could they bring themselves to do what they did to her?"

        He spoke so quietly that Dru believed he did not expect an
answer. They both knew there were a thousand reasons for cruelty and
none of them were sufficient.

        Martin went back and arranged his own blankets as close as he
could get to Catherine without contact. They had agreed to strict
propriety in their actions to avoid giving offense. He placed the sword
he always wore now within easy reach.

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

         On the second day of the journey Catherine sat out of sight
with her back resting against an old oak while they ate a mid-day
meal. Edgar had again asked Martin to watch the road behind them. She
heard a group of the soldiers settle down on the other side of the
tree.

        "I don't believe she was ever in a convent. There's nothing
shy or pious about the way she looks at Father Martin. His fascination
with her is no mystery. I'll wager her mother broke her in early and
taught her everything she knew."

        "By Christ's Cross, it's got to be witchcraft," asserted one
of them, in a voice that boomed as if it came through a hollow log.
"She looks like something you'd see in the churchyard on the Eve of
All Souls."

        "She's not that bad, Jack. And who knows what's under that
ugly gown? With that complexion I'll bet she's a redhead."

        "So? Redheads have bad tempers," Jack said smugly. "One more
fault."

        "But I've heard they're uncommon lusty."

        "Well, why don't I just find out? "

        The third speaker sounded much younger, but he was trying hard
to match the worldly, cynical tones of the older men. There was total
silence for a moment. Then Catherine thought she heard a suppressed
laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Jack's voice boomed again.

        "Yes, why don't you do that? What's your name?"

        "John. John Woodson."

        "Here's what you do. Wait 'til we stop and Edgar sends Father
Martin on one of those eternal errands. When she goes off into the
woods for her modesty's sake, you follow her and tell her she's stolen
your heart and you have to have her or you'll die. Women like to hear
that. Then lay her down flat and take her. She may be saying  'No',
but a man of your experience knows she'll be grateful when you raise
her up. Be sure to remember to find out if she's a redhead."

        "I'll have her begging for more," the young man bragged.

        "We're depending on you, John. Does anyone want to place a
wager?"

        "Not on the question of hair color but maybe another matter,"
a fourth man volunteered.

        There were several snorts of laughter at this.

        "Why are you men sitting around here telling tales as though
it were December in the great hall? We're getting ready to leave"

        Catherine recognized Dru's voice.

        "Wait a minute, John. I need to have a word with you. I heard
some of what you were saying before you knew I was there," he went on
after a moment's silence.

        There was an inaudible mutter from John.

        "I hope that's true. Jack and the others were trying to make
trouble. You're new to Edgar's service, and they're taking advantage
of your ignorance. Touch the hem of that woman's gown disrespectfully
and Martin will be handing you your balls on a trencher, before
you know they're missing. He may be a priest but he's as good as
Edgar with the sword. And you'd better be careful about what you call
foolish jests. You know that Lady Elizabeth is Martin's mother. It took
Jack a month to recover after Martin heard him 'jesting' about Lady
Elizabeth having a paramour."
 

        Catherine sat in a sick daze. She felt humiliated, degraded
and terrified, but she was safe. She was safe only because she
belonged to a man whom the soldiers respected and feared. What kind of
life was this going to be?

        She heard Martin's voice then, first calling her, then
demanding to know where she was. If only they could be together in
peace and safety. She walked toward his voice and once again enjoyed
the sight of his face brightening as he caught sight of her. She knew
his expression was matched by her own. Catherine had been avoiding
public acknowledgment of their relationship by forbidding herself any
physical contact with Martin. Now she allowed herself the comfort of
touching his hand and laying her head briefly on his chest. She
worried that he would draw back in embarrassment. That would be
painful to bear. Instead he embraced her tightly and turned her face
up to his own for a lover's kiss. Yes, Catherine thought, for better
or worse they belonged to each other.

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

        By the third day of their journey the chance of a challenge
from Dangelo had diminished. They were leagues from Baron Philip's
demesne. Still, Edgar sent men ahead and behind them to look for any
signs of danger. In spite of a greater sense of security, the weather
lowered everyone's spirits. There was no sun. The chill mist of the
day became a clingy wet fog with the onset of evening. Sounds were
dampened and visibility was reduced. The band of travellers felt more
isolated than ever.

        They were coming up to the crossroads where the road to
Coventry turned off to the east, and the road to Worcester continued
south. The lead riders were a little frightened when they heard the
sound of harp strings, slightly distorted in the damp air, from an
area off the road. They were all for continuing on very quickly in
case the fair folk were at market or revelry, but they duly informed
Edgar of the discovery. He was riding with Martin, who laughed off
their fears and disappeared in the direction of the music, greatly
increasing his reputation for bravery.

        He found two damp and unhappy men preparing to make a camp for
the night. He introduced himself using the name 'William,' and told
them he was one of a large group. They told him they were Sean and
Padraic, Irish musicians who were travelling to Coventry, and picking
up what earnings they could on the way.

        "We're late from Ireland, sir," Sean volunteered. "We came
across from Dublin to Bristol and we've been travelling on foot ever
since."

        "Why don't you join us around our fires, and share some food
with us. We'd be pleased to hear some of your music in exchange,"
Martin offered.

        They were happy to abandon their fruitless attempts to start a
fire and join the larger group. Dru directed everyone who was not
engaged in taking care of the horses or unpacking food to search for
dry firewood. This was a tedious business on a wet night. The general
disinclination to wander very far from the others through the mist
shrouded trees made it more unsuccessful than usual. After half an
hour spent gathering small branches, Martin came on a log protected by
a cluster of holly bushes. He brought it to one of Edgar's men, a soldier
known for his skill at starting fires under difficult conditions.

        Then he began looking for Catherine as he looked for more
wood. When half an hour had gone by without his catching sight of her,
he began asking others if they'd seen her recently. He ended by
bellowing her name into the forest at intervals for fifteen terrifying
minutes. For him they went by as slowly as fifteen hours.

        Catherine tried to approach him unobtrusively when she re-
entered the cozy circle of firelight, but Martin caught her by the
waist and greeted her with loud exclamations made up equally of
reproach and relief.

        "Do you know how thoroughly you can get lost in a fog this
thick? If you had gone very far in the wrong direction we might never
have found you." He shuddered as he imagined passing the rest of the
night being urged by the others to wait until dawn to start a search.
"Think what it would be like never knowing what happened to you."

        "I'm so sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to be a worry. It was
hard to find dry wood and I just kept walking and looking."

        "When did you realize you were lost?" he asked, keeping his
hand on her arm, as though fearing she would slip away again.

        "I never did," she said with a shamefaced smile. "But as soon
as I heard my name I realized that I wouldn't have known which way to
go without your voice as a guide."

        "Why are you shaking so much? It's damp tonight but not
freezing."

        "I was in a hurry on the way back. I stumbled into a pond or
puddle and got a little wet."

        Martin ran his hands over her cloak and gown and realized her
feet, skirts and sleeves were soaked.

        "Here, come right up to the fire. You need to dry out."

        Catherine stood as close to the fire as she safely could. The
flickering, rosy glow softened the sharp angles of her face, and
erased some of the lines added recently by suffering and anxiety. Her
serenely contented expression, as she stood in the comfortable warmth
with Martin's arm around her, restored more youthfulness to her
aspect. Edgar saw her and felt a pang as he thought of the plan he
meant to carry out tomorrow. Would he truly be doing a favor for his
brother?

        The Irish whistle player noticed Catherine also, and
questioned the young soldier beside him about her.

        "You've got one woman with you. Isn't that strange? A
respectable woman usually brings at least one companion along to avoid
talk of scandal. Or is she just a camp-follower?"

        "They tell me she's a nun," the young man said, with sarcastic
emphasis on the work 'tell'. "She was living with this so-called
'priest' in a hunting lodge near Nottingham. The two of them are going
to Bristol. Apparently they're outlaws being chased by some interfering
monsignor from Rome. That's why there are so many in our party. This
Italian has his own soldiers and is trying to hunt them down. Don't get
any ideas about her--that pious priest Father Martin will fight like a
cornered badger in defense of her 'honor'. So I'm told."

        "How interesting. And what a romance," Sean commented.

        The youth looked sour, and went to claim his portion of food.

        When the food had been doled out and eaten, Edgar called out
for some music.

        "Let's have something lively to chase away the ghosts and
goblins!"

        Sean and Padraic obliged with a jigs, reels and marches. Some
of the soldiers kept time with Padraic, who accompanied the whistle on
a small drum.

        After more than an hour of these, Sean finally spoke for both
of them and admitted they were too tired to play any longer.

        "I want to play one song for the lady in your midst before we
quit. It's an old one that we call 'The Black Rose'."

        They began an air quite different from the preceding dance
tunes. The melody was like the call of a lonely bird, singing of
unbearable loss and regret. Padraic counterpointed the notes with
low silvery notes on the harp that seemed to promise peace, if not
hope to the melancholy caller. At the end of it Catherine and Martin
could not trust themselves to speak. They stood leaning against each
other and staring into the fire.

        "That was pretty, but too gloomy to end the evening with,"
Edgar spoke up. "Let's have another jig to send us off to pleasant
dreams."

        "There are times when cheerfulness isn't a reasonable humor,
sir," Sean replied with a sad smile. "In my homeland I get as many
requests for the beautifully sad airs as the for the jigs, reels, and
dances. We can't play any more tonight."

        If Sean's aim had been to restore a sense of eerie isolation
to the group, he had succeeded. The men sat up as late as they could
manage. They  gazed into the firelight with the white wall of vapor at
their backs, concealing who knew what.

        That night, as they settled side by side, Martin pulled
Catherine to him and curved his body around hers.  He told himself
that no one could see them in the heavy mist. The wistful piping
haunted their dreams, but they clung to each other, and were.

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

        The next morning it was quickly apparent that the musicians had
disappeared from among them during the dark hours. This made Edgar
uneasy, especially since they hadn't stolen anything. Some of the men
whispered among themselves that they had been right all along. The two
music makers had been of the gentry who live under the hills, come to
play for Sister Catherine.

        Nevertheless, improvement in the weather made the day brighter,
both literally and figuratively. There was enough weak sunlight to
disperse the fog by midmorning. The sky took on a white burnished look,
like polished tin.

        "Martin, would you ride ahead and find out how long it will
take us to reach the river crossing?" Edgar asked.

        Martin nodded. He wanted to assist Edgar, but he also knew
that his errands were a deliberate strategy to separate him from
Catherine. He would humor Edgar to some extent, but he was beginning
to feel the limits of his patience.

        When Martin had been gone for a while, Edgar came to
Catherine's side and opened a conversation. It was the first time he
had directly addressed her.

        "Sister Catherine, I've been watching you for the past several
days. I'm a good judge of character. I believe you're a good woman,
and that you really love my brother. I hope you don't plan to ruin his
future by staying close to him. He's got the ability to reach some of
the highest Church and state positions in England. The English
prelates don't care about misunderstandings in Rome. Our father can
get him into households where his abilities will be noticed. After that
there are no limits on what he can accomplish. A continuing scandalous
attachment to a nun who signed a confession to witchcraft--well, I
probably don't need to say any more."

        "I understand," she answered in a suffocated voice.

        "Martin will never abandon you. He is loyal. No matter what
his personal preferences might be he'll honor any promise he made to
you. It will be up to you decide if he should be freed from such
promises so that he can rise as high as his own merits permit."

        It felt to Catherine as though Edgar had neatly and kindly cut
out her heart and quartered it before her eyes. She could not imagine
telling Martin a final goodbye, but that might be the most loving
thing she could do.

        Edgar went on. "I made some inquiries and found out about a
convent in Ireland that would take you in as a laywoman. They're known
for their excellent library and the beautiful manuscripts they
produce. Why don't you give some thought to your own future?"

        He nodded courteously at her, and urged his mount forward a
few paces.

        Martin was riding back from the crossing and saw them in
conversation. What in the world was Edgar saying to her? They both
looked composed, but he had hoped never to see that white, desolate
look on Catherine's face again. He reached them and addressed Edgar
first.

        "The crossing is only a fifteen minute ride from here. But we
won't be able to cross there. The current is too strong, and the river
is too deep. The snow hasn't usually melted this much by mid February.
We're going to have to continue south until we reach a bridge."

        "The next bridge is at the village of Clentcombe," Edgar
responded confidently. "It's only half an hour's ride farther."

        Then Martin was sure that Edgar knew this route well--too well
to need him as a scout. He resolved to question Catherine about their
conversation when they got a chance to speak alone.

        Catherine was thinking, as Edgar had advised. For the first
time she could not visualize any future for herself. She wanted to be
with Martin the way she wanted air to breathe. How could she make the
choice Edgar had so clearly pointed out to her? It would be like
sailing off the edge of the world.

        "Catherine, do you need to stop and rest?

        She had unconsciously dropped back behind the last of the
group. Martin had come up beside her. She shook her head.

        "What was Edgar saying to make you so miserable earlier. I saw
your expression."

        "He was describing a place I might go to live after we leave
England, " she revealed reluctantly.

        "You, but not me." Martin understood instantly what was going
on. "Edgar has no right to interfere between us."

        "What he said was true. I can't ever be anything but a
liability to you."

        "Since he doesn't know how things are between us, he has some
excuse for saying that. What's your excuse?" he retorted cuttingly.

        She looked up at him, as shocked as if he had slapped her.

        He was terrified of her power to withdraw herself from him.
Fear for their future, and the unwelcome knowledge that, in the
worldly sense, Catherine and Edgar were right, fueled the anger he now
directed at Catherine. He continued to speak bitterly. Didn't she
feel, as he did, that the problems would just have to be solved?
Whatever sacrifices had to be made, would be made. You couldn't
bargain away the necessities for the luxuries. The words themselves
were not cruel, but the tone of voice came through more clearly than
the content.

        Catherine had never seen him angry with her before. Was he
already realizing the burden she represented? She still had enough
pride to refuse to become anyone's grudgingly borne cross. Enough
pride to hold her face stiff and blink back tears of hurt at being
attacked for her self-doubts.

        "We'll find a way. Don't you remember? You told me yourself
that I shouldn't let disappointed ambition ruin my life. I'm going to
ride ahead to Clentcombe so I can let Edgar know what kind of
provisions  we can expect to get." Unnecessarily, his conscience
reminded him. He had spoken more temperately, but Catherine was
grieved still by the cold look on his face.

        Before his mount had passed the first riders in their group he
was fighting a powerful urge to turn back and end their
misunderstanding. Catherine too readily blamed herself for things that
were not her fault. Edgar had hit upon the perfect approach to
separate them by using this weakness. His own reaction had only made
things worse. He should have directed his anger at Edgar, not poor
Catherine. But he couldn't afford to quarrel with Edgar right now.

        The future scared him too. He would be an outlaw for a while,
dependent on the Duke's support. Later his help could allow Martin to
be reinstated as a lawful citizen. The Duke wouldn't want to help
Catherine with that step, even if it could be done. Edgar agreed
with the Duke, and Sir William didn't want anything to do with him.

        If the Duke were willing to provide a place for Catherine to
live separately they might have to agree to it temporarily. The thought
of it plunged him into misery. How could he go back into a black cave
after knowing the joys of light and color? So if she was the light of
his world, why was he hurting her by staying away from her now? It
would have been so much better if he had told her of his fears, allowed
her to comfort him. Then he could have told her that her presence was
as necessary to him as the sun to the earth.
 

        If he hadn't already arrived at the bridge that led to
Clentcombe, he would have turned back. The village could be seen from
the bridge, so he continued on to find someone who was interested in
selling them supplies. The narrow streets seemed strangely empty of
people. When he reached the town center he saw why. A crowd surrounded
performers of some kind. As he drew nearer Martin froze as he
recognized the plaintive notes of 'The Black Rose' performed on the
tin whistle and harp. Sean and Padraic were supposed to be on their
way to Coventry. This was the wrong route for them. What else had they
lied about?

        Martin approached on horseback. He came close enough to catch
Sean's eye over the heads of the crowd as the song ended. Martin's
expression conveyed his question to Sean as eloquently as words.
Sean's wordless reply had the same clarity. He glanced up at the sun
and shook his head sadly. Then he gave a shrug and showed Martin a
rueful smile. He briefly touched the newly heavy leather purse at his
side to reassure himself that it was secure. Martin turned his horse
and raced back over the path he had just travelled. He promised
himself the pleasure of returning later and wringing the necks of
those traitorous Irish villains.

        When he came within sight of the bridge he saw their group had
already begun to cross. He was in time to witness their being ambushed
from both sides by a score of men. Martin recognized Dangelo at the
far side of the bridge by his bearing and his rich clothing. Martin
kept his horse to a gallop as he approached and tried to judge their
chances. They were only outnumbered by five, thanks to Edgar's
cautious planning. But most of their group was trapped on the bridge
between the attackers. Martin saw Edgar send one man over the side
almost immediately. He was carried downstream swiftly on the snow and
rain swollen river.

        Catherine was close to Edgar, but far from Martin. She barely
kept her seat as her horse tossed its head and frantically looked for
an escape from the confusion and smell of blood. No one was paying any
attention to her difficulty. The men required all their energy to
defend themselves. He thought Dru might be trying to cut a path to her
from the far bank, but he was making little progress. Just as Martin
reached the closest participants in the struggle, he looked again and
saw Catherine's riderless mount moving toward him. If she had fallen
under the horses' hooves...Oh, God, he should have been at her side
when this attack came. They had a good chance of winning, but someone
should have seen to it that she was safely removed from the fighting.

        Catherine had just caught sight of Martin approaching them
when the soldiers came out of hiding at each end of the bridge. The
incursion caught even Edgar by surprise. They had believed they were
beyond the reach of Dangelo. In any case an ambush rarely took place
so close to a village. The unpredictable activities of the populace
made it too difficult to plan effectively.

        Catherine's panicked mount immediately began seek escape. When
her rider tried to control her movements she bucked and finally rolled
to gain her freedom. Jumping and scrambling away from the chaos of men
and horses that surrounded her, Catherine shrank back against the low
stone wall of the bridge. She saw that the attackers had particularly
targeted Edgar and the newly arrived Martin. Each of them was dealing
with two soldiers. The effort required for defense kept them totally
occupied. Their only hope lay in the ability of Edgar's men to
overcome their single opponents and turn the fight around.

        As she pressed as close to the wall as possible, Dangelo
himself passed her. He was ready to attack from behind, adding his
sword to the two already pushing Edgar to the limits of his strength.
Edgar would certainly be killed. She grabbed the bridle of Dangelo's
warhorse from the side and dragged on it with all her strength, while
screaming a warning to Edgar. At the same time Dangelo caught hold of
the hand that held his bridle. She effectively destroyed Dangelo's
advantage of surprise, and momentarily disrupted his control of his
horse. One of Edgar's opponents was distracted enough to allow Edgar
to deal him a disabling blow.

        Dangelo regained his mastery over his steed, shifting his grip
to Catherine's wrist. Then he ended her interference by driving his
sword into her from above. It entered below her collarbone and went
deep. He withdrew it to administer a second blow. Instead he let go of
her wrist and she staggered backwards. Dangelo had to deal with Dru,
who was attacking with the savagery of a Berserker. His face was a
mask of grief and rage. Catherine supposed sorrowfully that someone
dear to him must have been hurt in the attack. She immediately thought
of Martin, but a look reassured her that he was defending himself
successfully. She hoped Martin had not seen what happened to her. He
needed all his concentration to deal with the fighting. Maybe she
could brace herself in a sitting position against the wall and draw
her knees up to her chin to hide the blood that already saturated her
shift and kirtle. The annihilating pain that began to pulse through
her caused her to misjudge her footing, and she toppled over the wall
into the rushing river.

        Martin had not been able to follow the activity on the ground,
but he caught the movement of Catherine's fall. He knew that her useless
left arm would make it impossible for her to gain the shore against the
powerful current. He would have to go in after her even if it
compromised their defense. He managed to fend off the two soldiers he had
been fighting while maneuvering his horse to the side of the bridge. As
he pivoted from his horse to the bridge wall, he felt a blow to his side
from a third figter. Ignoring the pain, he located Catherine struggling in
the water ten rods downstream. He jumped in with their relative positions
fixed in his head. When he surfaced he expected to be next to her. He was
surprised to see her still some five rods away. His head was spinning with
the effort of swimming, even though he was moving with the current. He
could not breathe deeply enough, but he reached Catherine on his next try.

        She was working too hard in her effort to keep her head above
the water to notice his approach. He called her name and showed her
how to rest her head on his shoulder so that she could stop
struggling. Then he saw the deep and wide gash in her chest spilling
blood steadily. He hoped it wasn't as bad as it looked. Catherine was
happy that Martin was out of the fighting. Unless Edgar lost the
struggle, and Dangelo found him, Martin would be safe.

        "I'm going to get us to shore," he told her, with more
confidence than he felt.

        When he tried to fight the racing stream directly he was left
gasping and powerless to combat it.

        "I can't seem to breathe enough," he panted. "I don't know if
I can get us to the river bank."

        He placed his left hand under Catherine's chin and began to
struggle ungracefully toward the bank, fighting hard for every breath.
This time he tried to use the current to add to their momentum, making
very slow progress away from the middle of the river. The broadening
of the river around the next bend worked for him, rather than against
him. The current was less powerful in the wider shallower bed. With
one last effort Martin managed to plant his feet in the muddy shallows
and stumble out of the water. He was able to float Catherine close to
the shore and drag her out until they lay together in the cold mud,
among the dry, dead reeds of the previous summer.

        With an awful sense of foreboding, Catherine painfully turned
herself to face him. She ran her hand around his body until she felt a
warm flow from his side. She gently explored with her fingers a wound
very much like her own.

        "You're bleeding," she said. Her sad face told him the rest.

        "I thought so."

        Her head once more rested on his shoulder. They had been
shivering in the water at first. Now, even though they lay in wet
clothes in the chilled air, the sensations of cold began to recede.
Martin found breathing increasingly difficult. Shallow breaths were
easier and less painful. Then he remembered there was something
important to say.

        "I'm sorry I got so angry. It was just that I was so afraid of
losing you."

        "Sssh, sssh, Martin," she soothed. "I'm sorry too for my
mistakes and cruelties. It's behind us now. We won't hurt each other
anymore."

        They lay looking up at the flat pale February sky for
immeasurable moments. The hurrying river gurgled by them, the only
sound within their hearing. At first Catherine thought that somehow
the sun was burning its way through the clouds. Then she realized that
all of her sensations were dissolving into light.

        "Martin, I love you so," she said, and strained to give him a
kiss on the cheek.

        The world bleached white before her, and she could not respond
to his answering words of love. That was all right, he thought. Let
her sleep. She had forgotten to shut her eyes, so he gently brushed
his fingertips over the lids. For a short time he held her close,
until the world faded from his vision too.

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

        There was script on the back of the last page. Someone had
pressed so hard that the lines of the sharply pointed and dramatically
slanted letters stood out in relief through the typewritten words.
Mulder turned the page over and read the short note.

        "November, 1994. I know who they are now. They're suffering so
much. Why did this idea seem so fascinating ten years ago? The reality
is horrible. I've been to the hospital. Dana is probably going to die.
This is where I once pictured myself, with my privileged information,
stepping in and saving the day. I would tell everyone what to do to
restore harmony to the Universe. Now I see it would be like trying to
use tree rings to help someone decide if they needed an umbrella that
day. Goddess help us all."

        So, Melissa hadn't been as self-assured as she appeared during
that awful time when Scully lay comatose. And how ironic that even
with what she considered the advantage of her "privileged information"
Melissa had become a victim of the tragedy that haunted them. Or had
Melissa known exactly what she was doing and offered herself willingly
as a substitute to save her sister's life? No, that was impossible.
There was no privileged information--only a romantic story that had its
hooks in his mind right now for no good reason.

        He needed action. That would quiet the nagging little voice
that invited him to analyze the evidence and learn from it. If felt as
though the story added details to a shape that already existed in his
mind, like aerial photographs of the countryside timed so that the
long rays of the setting sun highlight the slightest depression or
elevation. Historians bring back the long lost contours of an ancient
village using this technique. They work with tangible things. His
impressions weren't good enough. He knew how suggestible he was now
and he wasn't buying it.

        Why had Mrs. Scully pressed this dispiriting document on
Scully so urgently? It was Mrs. Scully who continued to be a refuge
and powerhouse of strength for her adult children in their times of
trouble. Even he had found her a source of comfort while Scully was
missing, clearly a topsy-turvy state of affairs. She was upset?
Something outside the contents of this manuscript had caused that
upset, and it must have been mind wrenching.

        Mulder paced the room, growing increasingly agitated. He
needed to figure out a way to pack a basketball when he went on these
field trips. It was already clear to him that he wouldn't be sleeping
tonight. As he passed the table by the bed for the hundredth time, one
of the pamphlets Scully had picked up caught his eye. Craters of the
Moon National Park. He'd always wanted to see that. The map on the
advertisement put it at 70 miles from here. Of course the roads
weren't highways, but how much traffic could there be in the middle of
the night to the Craters of the Moon? It was only 2 o'clock. He could
make it back by 6 o'clock.

        He started the layering routine with his shirts, and topped
them off with his sweater. Should he take his cell phone? No, he'd
just be tempted to call Scully and try to share obscure astronomical
facts at 4 in the morning. No need for a note. He'd be back long
before she'd be up to read it. He grabbed the car keys, turned out the
lights and headed out the door.

        The moon was almost full tonight. It was bright enough to
silver the distant mountain peaks, and to make the driving easy.
Something about being in motion made it easier to think about
threatening subjects. It was almost as if the winds of passage carried
his thoughts away as they took form.

        Mulder now agreed with Scully that Melissa hadn't written that
manuscript. She wouldn't perpetrate a hoax that was dedicated to
proving that her sister was doomed to an eternity of tragedy and
misery. And all because of him!

        He couldn't deny that Scully had suffered greatly as a direct
result of her work on the X-files. Yet it was her choice to remain
with him and continue to risk her health and life in pursuit of the
truth. He knew that in the beginning it was the excitement of the work
that drew her. Now loyalty was involved. Was pity a factor as well?
Surely Scully wouldn't let her life be consumed because she felt sorry
for him. He hoped it was because she was eager to expose the forces
that would destroy their world if left unchallenged. Whether it was
aliens or conscienceless people, someone was creating evil weapons
that would enslave the human population. Leaving the X-files wouldn't
save her from that. So what did their supposed shared karma have to do
with the threat of global conspiracy and its damage to Scully's life?
Nothing, he answered himself triumphantly! Case closed. He could
safely ignore Melissa's cursed document.

        He watched the white dashes that separated the lanes as they
flowed by at a respectable clip. The resulting alpha waves almost
caused him to miss his turn onto highway 26. By 3:30 A.M. he was
pulling up in front of the closed gates to the park. It seemed
ridiculous to try to lock up 85 square miles of barren countryside,
but everyone had gone home at 4:30 P.M. according to the posted hours.
He was sure he had cracked tougher security than a national park's
fences. He drove past the main gates until he came to what appeared to
be a one lane utility road. It ended conveniently at a small gate in a
chain link fence. Mulder required about ten seconds to scale it.

        The land around him was unlike anything else he had seen on
earth. Deserts were barren too, but the volcanic activity here had
produced countryside that belonged on the surface of another planet.
He remembered the paintings in the children's books on astronomy that
he checked out of the library while planning his career as an
astronaut. This was how the artists pictured the surfaces of the other
planets in our solar system--cratered, sharply peaked in places, or
rising in a series of surrealistically identical round hills. The
twisted pillars and bridges formed from piled up molten lava looked
like they belonged on the covers of science fiction stories set in
distant galaxies.

        The volcanic rock was gray and harsh, although the moonlight
softened the edges of distant cones and craters. He started to walk
toward a crater and realized the abrasive lava was cutting his shoes
to pieces. He found an alternative path of cinders that crunched under
his feet like the old cinder tracks behind his high school.

        This was a high desert climate, with a crystalline atmosphere
far from big cities. The brilliant moon ruined the night for
stargazing, but not for beauty. It diminished the number of stars in
half of the night sky, but hundreds more peppered the other half.

        As a child he had been fascinated by the idea that looking
into the night sky was like looking up into a time tunnel to the past.
The light rays that reached his eyes had begun their journey thousands
of years ago. Not long ago he believed someone out there had overcome
the distance that created our isolation in time. They were now in our
time--or so he had believed. Back then he had asked himself how they
had conceived of such a journey, only to behave like unimaginative,
third-rate technicians taking control of a colony of bacteria when
they arrived. Didn't they possess a sense of wonder at their encounter
with another world? Did they think it was enough to inventory, catalog
and biopsy its beings? Didn't they want to stand like this and marvel
at looking back into their own past? Kritschgau had answered those
questions definitively--we were still alone, and in grave danger from
our own kind.

        He came to the lip of a crater and stared down into its
darkness. The moon was low enough to cast a shadow across half of the
interior. Meteorites caused moon craters while these craters were
extinct volcanoes, but the resemblance was uncanny. He imagined
jumping down into it weighing less than thirty pounds, as he would on
the moon. He looked up and almost expected to see a glowing blue-
green earth in the sky.

        As barren as the rock looked at this time of the year,
according to the pamphlet it was carpeted with wild flowers every
spring and summer. Over thousands of years their roots, with the help
of wind and rain, would break the volcanic rock up into soil that
would support all kinds of vegetation. Time mended so many things.
Usually human beings didn't live long enough to see it.

        Volcanic activity had continued here for 13,000 years. The
volcanoes had already been dormant for a thousand years when Martin
and Catherine walked the paths of Derby.

        They did not, his left brain remonstrated. It was a story,
fiction. Get that through your right brain please. He walked more
quickly, as though he could distance himself from part of his own
mind. But he couldn't get away from the feeling that he had been part
of that story.

        You've always relied on your intuition to create profiles and
analyze evidence. Why are you afraid to think your thoughts and then
dismiss them if they're nonsense?

        Because if they are true it will be too complicated, he
answered himself. Allowing the existence of aliens makes life too
complicated for most people. The absence of dogma and absolute moral
laws makes life too complicated for most people. And believing that
this transmigration of souls took place will make my life too
complicated.

        He had ignored so much for so long in the effort to keep his
priorities simple. From the first moment he met Scully he hadn't been
able to maintain the customary barriers of distrust and secrecy that
he always needed to feel safe. He knew she was a spy, but he knew
simultaneously that it didn't matter. She could never be his enemy. At
first she surprised him by anticipating his moves, being there for
back up before he asked for it. Gradually he started taking it for
granted, congratulating himself on having such an intuitive as well as
intelligent partner. Then one day this growing sense of familiarity
culminated in a shocking moment of recognition that he had refused to
examine ever since. He had every excuse to dismiss it as a
hallucination brought on by extreme stress.

        They were approaching the solution to a series of grotesque
killings motivated by cannibalism, when the murderers took Scully. He
arrived just in time to prevent her decapitation. After freeing her,
he looked into her face and barely restrained himself from blurting
out "It's you! I've been waiting for you!" He even thought he saw a
confused flicker of recognition in Scully's eyes. Now he knew why the
shocking prospect of a beheading might have had the power to revive a
past life memory.

         At that moment of recognition, utter chaos surrounded them.
The miserable townspeople of Chaco were panicking and trampling each
other in their attempts to evade capture. Their duty was clear and
strenuous, leaving no time for private insights. As they took care of
official business the vividness of the moment dimmed. Hours of
paperwork with various law enforcement agencies used up their energy.
The right time to explore that apparent moment of remembrance passed.
He told himself that Scully would only have given him the short
lecture on the phenomenon of deja vu. In the end he had buried it
deeply along with an increasingly troublesome urge to take Scully in
his arms and do his best to become her lover.

        Mulder had long ago perfected the art of repressing his
feelings. He was more than equal to the challenge of concealing these
desires. His double-blind method blended punctiliously correct
behavior with boyish innuendos, designed to demonstrate how lightly he
took doing the 'wild thing.' In reality his attitude was more complex.
He knew from experience of the power sex had to wound or heal. If he
went to bed with Scully he would bring so much baggage there wouldn't
be room in the bed for it, much less the two of them. The whole story
most strained his credulity when he tried to picture himself as
Martin, the adept lover.

        Mulder remembered his first time. There hadn't been much
finesse or sensitivity involved. Phoebe and he had met about a week
before. She had cut him out of the herd of new undergraduates with all
the efficiency of a wolf in her prime. They were necking to the point
of spontaneous combustion at her apartment when she had simply climbed
on. It was over quickly for him--too quickly for Phoebe to catch up.
She didn't say a word. He had already learned that that was the worst
sign of all.

        The next time, just as she lowered herself onto him she drawled
carelessly: "I had a look at that paper in your desk for Psychological
Disorders. Don't you think it's awfully derivative and stale? That
fantastic memory of yours has impressed people up until now, but I
think you're about to be shown up for what you really are."

        As his eyes widened in shock and his erection softened, she
grinned a grin so canine he almost expected her tongue to loll out of
the side of her mouth.

        "Just kidding, but now there's plenty of time for me to enjoy
this too," she exulted, indicating their coupled bodies.

        She only had to perform a similar trick on one other occasion
to train him to the right response. He supposed that in their infinite
adaptability, human beings could develop a tolerance, even a taste, for
martyrdom. At the beginning of their affair she had told him he was the
best she'd ever had. At the end she told him she had faked most of her
orgasms. At times Mulder wondered idly if it were possible to have a
more screwed up start to a sex life, short of being sexually assaulted.

        What would he do if one night Scully invited him into her bed?
Would he take a running dive into it and make a fool of himself, or
would he make some witty but detached remark designed to freeze the
blood in her veins, and forever protect him from having to make such a
decision again? He didn't even know. Luckily it would never come up.

        He had always been a little suspicious of the motives behind
their impeccably professional behavior with each other. They carefully
observed the unofficial boundaries laid down for partners. Yet they
didn't let official policy limit them in their investigations. They had
the best of both worlds. Their "work" allowed them to have an intense
relationship with none of the bothersome issues of intimacy and
vulnerability. Each could push the other away at any time, and no
questions could be asked under the terms of their partnership. That
wouldn't be so easy if they shared a bed every night. If they really
had any eternal issues to resolve with each other they were probably
compounding them with their avoidance mechanisms. But why put off until
tomorrow what you could put off for 800 years?

        "Are you happy now?" he addressed his right brain. "I explored
the issue and concluded that reincarnation explains a lot of totally
subjective observations I've made of myself and Scully. Due to
circumstances we choose not to control, we are doomed again to
frustrated and unfulfilled lives. At least the circumstances beyond
our control will probably keep them short."

        Mulder looked around and realized that he had lost track of
where he was walking. Expanses of gray rock stretched away from him on
all sides, with no distinctive landmarks in view. At the same time he
felt that the cold had penetrated through his multiple layers of
clothing. He should go back to his car.

        Could he assume that he had kept the moon at his back the
whole time he walked? He wasn't sure. If he had he could start walking
back toward it. It was only 4:30 now; it hadn't travelled too far in
the sky to be a rough guide. Following it would at least bring him
back to the fence. He started jogging to warm up, and reached the
fence safely within a half an hour. There was no sign of a gate in the
fence at that point, and of course his car was not in sight. As he
stood and tried to decide which way to start walking, the faint sound
of a car engine came from his right. Lacking any other basis for a
decision, he started that way.

        Ten minutes of fast walking brought him to the gate he
remembered. A park ranger's vehicle sat running next to his car. The
occupant, a small, slender man in a khaki uniform and leather jacket,
got out and motioned him to the gate. Mulder sheepishly exited the park
through the now unlocked gate under the ranger's neutral gaze.

        "Sir, did you know the park is closed, and unauthorized
personnel aren't permitted inside?"

        "Uh, yes, but actually I stopped here in the course of a
federal investigation." Mulder dug his ID out of his innermost flannel
shirt pocket. "I'm a federal agent, and my partner and I are here to
investigate possible cult activities. I thought I saw something of a
ritual nature taking place out there." He gestured broadly at the
empty landscape. "I think the moonlight on some of those lava pillars
must have played tricks with my eyes."

        The ranger examined his ID in the headlights and continued to
look at him consideringly. If he were asked how he happened to be
driving aimlessly by here at 4 A.M., Mulder would have a hard time
finding an answer.

        "The next time please ask for assistance from a park ranger
before you enter the park when it's closed. I was worried about
whoever was out there. People shouldn't leave the paths without
notifying us. There are very few landmarks in this park. The volcanic
rock is so magnetized that compasses don't work. There are no natural
water sources in the entire area, and no shelter. An unprepared hiker
who got lost would probably die of hypothermia or thirst before we
could find him. You don't appear to be ready for this terrain," he
said, looking pointedly at the now shivering Mulder and his shredded
shoes."

        The ranger waited to make sure Mulder's car started, and then
drove away. Mulder checked his watch. It was now 5:15 A.M. He hoped
Scully had not planned to get up a little earlier than usual. He
concentrated hard on the driving now, trying to make the best time.
It was going very well until he caught up with a group of ranchers on
horseback who were in the process of carrying out a change of pasture
for hundreds of steers. The long column of animals filled the entire
road for what seemed like miles ahead in the early paling of the sky
that precedes dawn. He got close enough to one of the horsewomen to
look at her pleadingly. She smiled, but only gave him a 'what can you
do?' shrug before she rode off to nudge a reluctant steer back into
the herd.

        He fidgeted behind the maddeningly slow mini-cattle drive,
moving forward inch by inch, for more than an hour. He had plenty of
time to think about the implications of his thoughts among the
craters. What was Scully going to think after she read the manuscript?
Neither of them had talked about the possibility that it was true. If it
were, how could they maintain the working relationship they had? The
ghostly images of Martin and Catherine would overlay their familiar and
carefully constructed personas.

        In his heart Mulder knew it was too late for him. He couldn't
unsee the hidden picture. He had never thought he would be thankful for
his cold, silent upbringing, but he knew that its effects would enable
him to continue working with Scully without betraying his deeper
feelings. And people thought he was emotionally handicapped! You just had
to know how turn things to your advantage. Still, maybe he should give
her the opportunity to talk about her impressions of the manuscript. If
she confirmed his conclusions...what then?

        To have a love like that--wouldn't it be madness to refuse the
chance? No, Spooky, it would be madness to try to realize it in this
twisted lifetime. You have nothing to offer but pain. Apparently that
was nothing new.

        Finally he came up behind the last of the cattle as they
turned in at the gate of their new pasture. The ranchers waved him
goodbye cheerfully, while he noticed the clock on the dashboard and
groaned. It would be 8 o'clock before he got back to the Nighty-Nite.
Mulder cursed his miscalculation on the time it would take to do the
drive. There was an excellent chance that Scully had been looking for
him for some time. She was going to be very worried and then she was
going to be very angry.

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

        Scully sat up in bed with a start. Was that smoke she smelled?
She sniffed the air and listened, but there was nothing unusual to
smell or hear. Then she heard a car engine in front of the cabin. She
hopped to the window in time to see their rental car pull out of the
parking area. It was too dark to see who was inside.

        Her heart began to race as she mentally reviewed the
possibilities. Mulder had been known to go out jogging in the middle
of the night when he couldn't sleep. Car trips were usually not so
innocent. Could this be an emergency run for provisions? He might have
to go as far as Rexburg for an all night mini-mart.

        Get real, Dana. He's doing something he doesn't think you'll
approve of, or that is so risky he'll feel guilty if he takes you.
Scully flipped her lights on. He could have found a lead last night
that he wanted to follow up alone. It would have to be because his
source wouldn't trust her, because it was highly illegal and
compromising or downright dangerous. The worst possible case was that
he had been forced into the car against his will. She had no idea
which scenario came closest to the truth.

        Scully dressed quickly and went to knock on Mulder's door. As
she expected she received no answer. She reluctantly went to the
manager's office and spent twenty minutes knocking and calling before
he appeared at the door, flushed red with sleep and grumpiness. He
made no pretense of listening to a word she said.

        "Here, take the master key until you leave. Which I hope will
actually be today," he growled, tossing the key across the counter.

        He slammed the door to his living area so hard that the
picture of the biggest potato in the world fell down from the wall.

        Scully hurried to Mulder's cabin and entered cautiously. A
quick look around showed nothing unusual. No furniture was disturbed.
His gun was gone and most of his shirts, as she would have expected if
he planned to meet someone outdoors. She was dismayed to see his cell
phone on the bedside table. Under it were the pamphlets she remembered
picking up at the hamburger restaurant on the first night they were
here. There was no note, so if he left voluntarily he probably
expected to be back before she got up. Melissa's manuscript had been
placed on the bed in a slightly untidy bundle. He had brought no papers
besides the case file, which she examined meticulously. She was
looking for a pattern that might have suddenly clicked with Mulder and
sent him out into the night on a mission. She failed to find one.
Without a car or a clue, Scully was condemned to wait and agonize.

        Her imagination was more than equal to the task of working out
what might be happening to Mulder. She could picture the look of
disbelief on his face when a bullet slammed into his chest as he
approached someone who was supposed to give him a lead. If his plan
involved infiltrating some supersecret government installation, they
might simply make him a permanent, unacknowledged prisoner. She would
never see him again, never know what happened. Or he might be
searching for evidence in some lonely, wild place. If he were hurt he
could lie dying for days, hoping that she would somehow figure out
where he was. Meanwhile she would be waiting for reports from search
parties. When they finally found his car, they might find some of his
bones.

        Please, Mulder, please be OK, she prayed silently, you
irresponsible jerk. I know you think I'm deficient in imagination. I
only wish it were true. She wouldn't be able to interest anyone in
Mulder's disappearance until morning. There were too many innocuous
possibilities. He might still walk in the door with half a dozen bags
of sunflower seeds, she comforted herself. It was only 4:30 A.M. now.
She would try very hard to concentrate and finish this manuscript as
her mother had requested. Scully turned out the lights and returned to
her own cabin.

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

        When Scully looked up from the note at the end her eyes were
full of tears.

        Oh, Missy, I wish you were here to argue with, she thought.
Neither of us ever had all the answers, and I still don't. I'm so
confused-and this story you've collected doesn't help a bit. Even if I
believed it were true, I wouldn't know what to do about it. Every day
we get lost in the decisions about little things and then wonder how
we ended up where we are.

        I already know that I love him, Missy. That surprises you,
doesn't it? You always assumed that I didn't know how I felt because I
didn't always act on my feelings. It's poor Mulder whose feelings are
out of his reach. I'd love to invite him into my bed. What if he just
said, "Are you coming on to me Scully?" with that superior smirk, and
walked away? He might be saying it just to protect himself against
more heartbreak. But I'd never be able to forgive him, and that would
break my heart.

        "Is that all that's stopping you Dana?" she seemed to hear
Missy ask."What keeps you from hinting to him that advances would be
welcome? Didn't you see his face when he broke in on you and Eddie Van
Blundht?"

        Yes I did, and you didn't by the way, but we'll ignore that
for purposes of discussion. OK, there is something else. I'm worried
that if I give him all of me, I'll be lost to myself, like a planet
pulled from its own orbit to become the moon to another planet. I
would never be first with him, the way he's first with me.

        Her imaginary Missy had a comeback.

        "He's never really had a chance to be close to another person.
Give him that chance. You know he's totally dependent on you in almost
every possible way already."

        OK, I'm afraid. I'm afraid to lose control by letting emotions
take over. Are you happy now that we know why?

        "You're still scared after 800 years?"

        Now where did that come from, Scully asked herself with a
start? My Missy is a figment of my imagination, and she no longer
believes in that past lives nonsense.

        It seemed that even as a figment, Missy was strong-minded.

        "Haven't you felt it Dana? This is familiar ground and you're
with a person you've been with many times before."

        No, it's not true, Scully protested. What about evidence?

        "I think you know where to find the evidence. You have to look
inside yourself."

        Scully threw the papers against the closest wall, where they
cascaded down to the floor in a heap.

        There was independent evidence for Sullivan Biddle and Sarah
Kavanaugh. And it contradicts this story. If I'm supposed to believe
in this claptrap then shouldn't I also believe in Sarah, Mulder's
soulmate from the Civil War?

        "Ask him, Dana. Ask him," Missy answered, with a mildness that
Scully knew was out of character.

        Scully looked at the clock and realized with a jolt that it
was 8:00 A.M.

        I can't ask him if he's dead, she rejoined blankly.

        But the Missy of her imagination was gone. Scully jumped up
and ran to the bathroom as all the dire images from earlier assailed
her at once. Oh God, she thought, retching until it felt as though she
would turn inside out, I'm going to have to start organizing search
parties and wait for reports. It was her habit to negotiate with fate.
She would imagine the absolute worst that could happen, and then try
to use the ensuing pain as a bargaining chip against it actually
happening. It didn't always work. She rinsed her mouth and started a
mental list of numbers to call.

        At that moment she heard a car pull up in front. She was out
the front door before she had time to formulate any thoughts at all.

        "Mulder, are you all right?" she called, with a break in her
voice, as she came toward the car. "Where have you been? I woke up
about 2 o'clock and heard the car driving away. I knocked at your
door, and then got the manager to open your cabin and you weren't
there. I was afraid something had happened to you."

        "So you've been up waiting for me since then?" he asked,
putting off the inevitable confrontation by getting all the facts
straight. This was going to be worse than he had thought. He got out
of the car as slowly as possible.

        She nodded. Her eyes were circled, and reddened. The sight
made Mulder want to wrap his arms around her and stroke her hair as
her head rested on his chest. Of course he couldn't.

        "Scully, have you been crying?" he asked, knowing instantly
that he had said the wrong thing.

        "My eyes are tired. I'm fine. Where were you?" This time the
question was rapped out with an attitude.

        "I couldn't sleep so I went for a drive. Actually down to the
Craters of the Moon National Park. Did you know that NASA took some of
the astronauts there to get them ready to do geological studies on the
moon? It's an unbelievable place. There's no pollution or city light
near it. The sky is full of stars. It's so alien. It's like being on
the moon, or another planet, and looking into space. I had a lot of
things to think about, Scully. We should probably talk about some
things."

        He could see Scully's lips tighten and her eyebrows rise with
a mixture of shock and disapproval.

        "Sometimes I think you do live on the moon, Mulder, in spirit
if not in body. Do you have any idea of the things I've been thinking
for the last six hours? The last time we were here you ditched me and
got yourself taken into custody at a secret Air Force Base. They only
let you go because I went to get you out with a hostage. Are there any
secret Air Force Bases around here that you didn't think I needed to
know about? Or how about stashes of evidence that you found out about
last night, but you made the executive decision that it was too risky
for me to participate in looking for them? Or for all I knew one of
the numerous people you've pissed off in the course of your
investigations kidnapped you, and took you out to a field where they
shot you in the back of the head."

        Oh shit, he hadn't thought about the fact that he still hadn't
bothered to tell Scully about Debbie and the lead to possible evidence
against Bio-Gro. He had left her to tormented worries for six hours
and she wasn't fully informed on the investigation. This much guilt
made him defensive, not apologetic. Instead of acknowledging his
lapse, he let the sullen adolescent within him come up with the
response.

        "I don't have to account to you for everything I do! I'm
entitled to take my own risks." he retorted.

        Scully was tired. On top of that she was still disturbed over
the feelings stirred up by the manuscript she'd been reading. If she
didn't stay angry she'd burst into tears.

        "No, you're not. Why do I have to do all the before-the-fact
worrying in this partnership? You're always first in line to take on
the guilt after things fall apart, but I have to take the
responsibility for preventing things from falling apart. Do you have
any idea how much I worry that I'll miss something and fail to take
action when I should? That you'll die because I fail? Mulder haven't I
done enough to convince you that I value your life? What will it take?
Why can't I get through to you? Don't you feel any connections here?"
She laid her hand over her heart. "Try to understand, just because you
don't have normal feelings doesn't mean other people don't have them."

        There, that got him. His gaze fell to the ground.

        "You're so right Scully. I'm sorry I worried you." He turned
and headed for his cabin.

        "I'm going to drive into town to return the gun Sheriff
Reynolds loaned me. When I get back we can leave for the airport,"
Scully called to his retreating back.

        Scully could have had the gun sent to the sheriff by one of
the express delivery services at the airport. She just didn't want to
sit in her cabin doing nothing but regretting her part in this fight
until Mulder was ready to leave. He came back and handed her the car
keys without a word.

        Mulder entered his cabin wishing he could go back and live the
past six hours differently. He knew that her anger was a measure of
how worried Scully had been. Still her words hurt. Worst of all was
knowing that she had been right. No matter what happened between them
in some distant past life, he didn't have the capacity to experience
passion and intimacy in this one. Old news--nothing new to be depressed
about. So why did it feel worse than usual?

        He started to remove his extra layers of clothing.  It was
just as he had gotten down to his shirtsleeves that Mulder heard the
voice from his bathroom.

        "Stop moving. I've got you covered. Turn around. Kneel down.
Hands on your head."

        He recognized Hansen's voice. You're smooth today, Agent
Mulder, he told himself. Hansen frisked him thoroughly, removing his
gun from its holster.

        "Here," he said, handing Mulder the receiver of the old-
fashioned dial phone provided in the room. "I'm going to dial your
partner's room. Ask her to come over for a minute."

        "What's the occasion?"

        "Just do it."

        "No, we had a little fight. She's not in a good mood. I'd
rather let her cool off for a while."

        "OK," Hansen replied, unsurprised. "Hands back on your head.
How about if I call her and tell her step to outside right now and
throw her weapon where I can see it. Then she has to come in here.
Otherwise the next thing she'll hear is the shot that explodes your
skull. Is she so mad that she'll say 'Go ahead, shoot the bastard?'"

        Mulder swallowed uncertainly, but he replied, "Probably. She's
in a really bad mood. Besides, she's too smart to walk into a trap."

        "Sometimes our emotions get the better of our smarts," Hansen
commented knowingly.

        He thought he had these two figured out. His opinion had
changed after he heard the details of the jail fire, and saw what
happened at the Bar J. He paused a moment to relish the memory of
sitting in the tree blind watching with binoculars for the explosions.
Hearing about your creations later just didn't compare to the excitement
of witnessing them. He had waited and waited for Scully to give up and
flee for her life before the blast occurred. Even he didn't know exactly
when that would be. When they finally left the house together, he knew
there must have been enough gas inside to come close to causing
unconsciousness. These two were prepared to die for each other. If he had
one of them, for all practical purposes he had both.

        Then he heard the car out front start. Hansen went to the
front window, carefully keeping Mulder covered.

        "She's driving away. Well I guess it can't be helped. I'll
figure out another way. At least there's no chance she'll be warned by
hearing the shot. Put your hands behind your back, slowly." He cuffed
Mulder's hands behind him.

        "Where's she going?" Hansen asked.

        "To Idaho Falls, to catch a plan back home. She didn't even
want to fly on the same plane with me," Mulder said, making an unhappy
face.

        "But you've got the plane tickets. I've had plenty of time to
search this place. Don't you people ever sleep? I started watching
your cabins at midnight. You're up 'til 2 o'clock, then you take off
for God knows where. One minute later her lights go on, she rouses the
manager. Comes in here. Leaves, but keeps the lights on in her cabin.
I broke in here, figuring I'd take you by surprise when you got back.
I got pretty tired of sitting on the toilet waiting."

        "If you're looking for sympathy, I'm the wrong guy to ask. I
assume you're planning to kill us. Why now? You had every chance last
night."

        "I didn't have any instructions to do it then. Your deaths
would just have been a by-product of my actual assignment. Personally
I thought you were pretty harmless. Without evidence you didn't have
anything. But things happened the next day that changed the picture.
They put me on the trail of one Deborah Greenfield, disgruntled
employee turned spy. After I questioned her for a while she eventually
told me where she had sent all those chips. Except one. Unfortunately
it turned out she had a heart condition and I must have been a little
too aggressive in the interrogation. We did get as far as her
admission that she came across you and was greatly impressed by your
integrity, as compared to the corporation's. We need that chip or the
information on where to find it," Hansen ended menacingly.

        Mulder tried to turn his thoughts away from the scene of
Debbie's final interrogation. He imagined her telling him that she
knew she wouldn't be very good if she had to handle something like
that.

        "Sorry, I didn't hear anything about any chips. I just grabbed
her and questioned her. She gave me some half-baked story about
wanting to explore one of the old ranches. I didn't believe her, but
she didn't give me any information I could use."

        "So why didn't you arrest her and take her in for questioning?
She gave you something. I figured you wouldn't be scared into giving
it to me very easily. But ask yourself this. Agent Scully will return
eventually. How long can you hold out against my persuasive techniques
when you experience them second hand?"

        Mulder lost control of his expression for only a few seconds,
but Hansen saw enough to make him regret the brevity of the time
available. It would have been very interesting to determine how much
damage the agent would allow him to inflict on his partner before he
conceded the struggle.

        "I can't take the time to extort your cooperation," Hansen
said, with evident disappointment. "This area is getting pretty hot
for me to keep on hanging around. I found out you're famous in some
circles for being a loner. I'm sure you haven't told anyone but your
partner. If I kill you two, no one else will ever get it."

        'Well, actually I didn't get around to telling Scully about
Greenfield. So there's no need to kill her."

        "I could say I didn't believe you, but I do. I have to kill
her anyway just in case my instincts aren't right. Besides I don't
want to leave someone who might make the revenge of your murder her
obsession. Maybe I can make it look like a murder-suicide after a
lover's quarrel." Hansen grinned. "The FBI would be glad to bury that
story."

        Hansen took up a position where he had a clear shot at the
back of Mulder's head, but was not close enough to be spattered by
blood or brains.

        "I think that kind of shooting is called 'execution style,'
not 'apparent murder-suicide,'" Mulder suggested helpfully.

        "Be quiet. I'm trying to decide how to set this up."

        Mulder had held a gun to his own head more than once. The
feelings were the antithesis of what he felt now. Holding the gun on
himself meant being in control. Then he was in charge of the suffering
in his life. He could bear almost anything, knowing that he had the
power to stop it when it became unbearable.

        This was atrocious. All he could think of were reasons to
live. One reason was to take Hansen by the throat and beat his head
against the wall for all the suffering he had caused them. Another was
his work. Now that he had learned the truth about the UFO hoaxes, he
was that much closer to exposing the whole conspiracy. And then there
was his partner.

        He knew that she was already regretting some of the things she
had said earlier. Bitter regret would be his eternal legacy to Scully.
When she returned it would be her added punishment to find his semi-
headless corpse. Would her reactions be slowed enough by that
discovery to make her easy prey for Hansen? He would never know.
Suddenly that ignorance seemed to be the hardest thing to bear. My
God, she wouldn't even have a gun. There was nothing he could do
except leave as many warning indicators as he could to alert her at
the earliest possible moment. Shouting, multiple shots and blood on
the walls might be the extent of it. If only that sluglike manager
weren't so likely to miss all the auditory clues.

        "Get up slowly and walk into the bathroom," Hansen's voice
interrupted his plans.

        Apparently Hansen had finished strategizing. He would be shot
in the bathroom so Scully could be surprised after she entered, as he
had been. Mulder recognized his cue to die as messily and noisily as
possible.

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

        Scully had barely turned around to re-enter her cabin when she
felt the need to mend the misunderstanding between them. Did that feel
as good as kicking the cane out of a blind man's hands, Dana? Yes,
just about that good, she answered herself. She was ashamed of
throwing Mulder's inadequacies in his face, as though he weren't
already well aware of them. The night before she had indulged in a
self-satisfied comparison between herself and other important people
in Mulder's life who had hurt or exploited him. Where had her vaunted
compassion and understanding gone? She hurriedly combed her hair and
holstered the borrowed gun. After one more glance at Mulder's cabin
she started the car and drove out of the parking lot.

        She most hated herself for ripping into him about lacking
feelings when he was actually in the middle of trying to share some
with her. He had taken refuge in a bleak landscape, probably because
of bad dreams or insomnia, and had come away enthusiastic about its
beauty and uniqueness. Instead of picking up on this opportunity to
share some good feelings, she had focused on her anxieties and
worries. Of course he had been outrageously inconsiderate of her--but
that was just Mulder, wasn't it?

        If she hadn't already arrived at the turn off that led to
Digger....Scully swung the car into a 180 degree turn in the middle of
the intersection instead of making her left turn. She didn't even try
to rationalize what she was doing. If Mulder wanted to twit her about
woman's intuition she would just have to take it. Within two minutes
she was back at the Nighty-Nite.

        Instead of pulling into the parking lot she left the car on
the shoulder of the road outside it. She took the gun from her
holster. Approaching Mulder's cabin silently she took out the key the
manager had given her last night. It was the daylight entering through
the open door that alerted the men to her presence rather than any
noise she made. The sun shining in from behind her gave Scully the
advantage of a second or two in reaction time. Hansen had to squint at
her while his eyes adjusted. Mulder continued in the awkward motion of
rising from his knees to his feet with his hands cuffed behind him. He
looked as though he were waking from a trance.

        Scully had Hansen covered before he realized who was at the
door.

        "Drop it," Scully ordered.

        Hansen recognized a ruthlessness equal to his own in Scully's
face and voice. He dropped it. She would have killed him instantly to
protect her partner. It wasn't much comfort, but he was pleased to
find his assessment of their relationship confirmed.

        "Are you two telepathic?" he asked curiously.

        "Back away from it."

        Scully picked up his gun.

        "You get down on your knees now, Hansen. Right now! Put your
hands on your head. Where's your gun Mulder?" she asked, glancing over
to where he stood, swaying slightly.

        "In his right jacket pocket."

        Scully noticed that Mulder was having a little difficulty
staying on his feet. He had tremors in his arms and legs as though
he'd been carrying a heavy weight a long way.

        "Why don't you sit on the bed a minute, until I can get the
cuffs off?" she suggested.

        Scully approached Hansen with great care and extracted
Mulder's gun, which she put in her own pocket. Hoping that Hansen was
a creature of habit she fished around in the same pocket and came up
with the key to the handcuffs. Backing away from Hansen she kept him
covered while Mulder turned sideways on the bed so she could unfasten
the cuffs.

        "Thanks, Scully."

        She took the cuffs and put them on their prisoner.

        "Lie flat on the floor, " she now instructed him. "Mulder, can
you call the sheriff?"

        "It would be my pleasure," he replied, and he proceeded to
call Sheriff Reynolds at home. He was happy that at least Reynolds
would have the satisfaction of bringing Hansen in himself.

        "Mulder are you sure you're all right?" Scully asked after he
completed the call. She had put her hand on his shoulder and felt him
still shaking.

        "I'm fine, but my blood is probably about fifty percent
adrenaline. When you came through that door, I was getting ready to
jump him."

        "While you were cuffed? That would have been suicide!"

        "He was going to shoot me anyway. What did I have to lose?"

        "Time, during which something might happen to save your life.
What if I'd been a minute later?"

        "Why did you come back so soon? Not that I'm complaining."

        Scully remained silent, lifting her chin and keeping her eyes
on their prisoner.

        "Scully so help me, I won't make a joke even if you tell me
you were touched by an angel," Mulder assured her, making the childish
'cross my heart' gesture on his chest. "In fact to me you looked a lot
like one yourself when you came in that door."

        "I don't know," she admitted. "I'd gotten to the turnoff to
Digger, and I had to come back. I just knew everything would go wrong
if I didn't."

        "So you've given us another chance, Scully," he observed.

        "Us?" she inquired.

        Mulder looked down at his hands, which still hadn't stopped
shaking. There were two ways to interpret the phrase he had let slip
and he didn't really want to discuss either. He chose the less
controversial one.

        "He was going to set up an ambush for you, too."

        Of course, Scully thought. She would have gone in looking for
Mulder after returning her only gun to the sheriff. Probably she would
have been distracted by her aggravation that he wasn't answering his
door after already pulling one disappearing stunt. She would have
opened the unlocked door and started to search the room. She'd probably
never have known what hit her.

        "That's why you were going to rush him. Jesus, Mulder."

        Scully's own knees felt a little weak. She sat beside him on
the bed, but kept watching Hansen for any sign of movement. Her
nearness triggered a reaction that took Mulder by surprise. He was
suddenly seized by a powerful urge to roll over and press Scully down
onto the bed with the length of his body. He needed to lose himself in
making love to her. He felt such a famished hunger for this woman; it
had been so long....No it hasn't, Mulder told himself, his reason
ruthlessly breaking in on his passions. You've never had her and you
never will. At that thought he felt such a renewed longing that he
didn't even trust the presence of a dangerous criminal under their
guard to keep his behavior appropriate. Proximity was going to cause
more frustration than he had counted on. He stood up.

        "Sheriff Reynolds should be here in about fifteen minutes.
Shall we search Hansen for evidence first?" he asked brightly.

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

        As it turned out, Hansen the man was as thoroughly sanitized
as any of his sites after his work was done. He carried nothing that
pointed to bank accounts, alternate identities or credit card trails.
Mulder wouldn't have to worry about concealing any evidence from
Sheriff Reynolds. If Hansen had any sense of self-preservation at all,
he would simply refuse to talk without a lawyer, who would undoubtedly
be chosen and bankrolled by Bio-Gro through some arcane corporate
smoke screen.

        Scully called the airport and rescheduled their flight for the
next day. She made Mulder go and break the news to the manager of the
Nighty-Nite. Not only was his cabin a crime scene, but they were
staying one more night. He didn't respond well to Mulder's cheery
observation that it could have been a lot worse. He could have found
himself needing one of those crime scene clean up services that
specialize in removing blood from walls and brains from the carpet.

        The rest of the day consisted of making and reading
depositions to be used in bringing charges of murder, attempted
murder, arson and numerous lesser charges against Hansen.  Debbie
Greenfield's name and story never came up. As bad as he had felt at
keeping Scully in the dark about that earlier, he was glad once again
that she didn't have to wrestle with her conscience over keeping the
information from Sheriff Reynolds. Mulder did hurry to call the Lone
Gunman at the earliest opportunity and tell them how to get the
promised key from his box. He hoped Bio-Gro and its hired gunmen would
anticipate his enlisting allies. Now they couldn't be sure who, if
anyone, had gotten the chip. This should lower his murder on their
list of priorities. When he called Skinner to fill him in on the
latest developments, the AD was surprisingly low key in his response.
Mulder was relieved to think that for once there would be no major
reprimand to face when they returned.

         After confirming the date his agents would be returning to
their office, Skinner turned to his PC and selected the Training icon.
It was a smiley face wearing a mortarboard. Skinner smiled back
grimly. He double-clicked to the training page and scanned the current
offerings. When he saw one that might meet his needs he double-clicked
on it with unnecessary force. The workshop that fulfilled all of his
criteria finally popped up in front of him. He copied the details into
an e-mail to Kim, which he instantly dispatched as having High
Importance. There, Skinner thought. Even they won't be able to turn a
Teamwork Seminar into an X-file. Unless they try to tackle the mystery
of how anyone manages to stay awake at one.

        The FBI team from Boise arrived that morning to examine the
Bar J. From there they went to the Nighty-Nite and viewed the only
crime scene that hadn't been incinerated--Mulder's cabin. When they
decided not to release it yet, Scully suggested that Mulder bunk down
on the floor of her cabin that night. He instantly decided that the
backlog of work in D.C. required them to fly back that evening, despite
the fact that the next day was Sunday. He lobbied successfully for
permission to take the seven o'clock flight out of Idaho Falls, and he
called the airline to reschedule their flight. At three o'clock they
fortified themselves with lots of coffee from Marge's and started
south. As the person most able to function with no sleep, Mulder was
driving. However, Scully still felt wide-awake from coffee and the
stress of the past few days.

        "I made some phone calls this afternoon before we left. I
called Mullins at the lab, and then I called Mom," she informed her
partner.

        Mulder's heart accelerated into a harder, faster beat. He both
dreaded and welcomed the chance to talk about the meaning of the story
they had read.

        "What's the verdict?" he asked with apparent casualness.

        "The manuscript tested as totally genuine according to its
representation. The paper and ink were manufactured in the twenties.
The typeface matched that of several typewriters manufactured from
1918 through 1925."

        Mulder remained silent.

        "Well, what do you think now?" Scully asked.

        "I decided last night from internal evidence that Melissa
didn't write that document. I'm sure that's all we'll ever be able to
prove."

        "Prove, yes, but what do you think?" Scully questioned, with
the emphasis on the 'think'.

        "What did your mother have to say?

        "I'm worried about her, Mulder. She told me a very strange story
about why she sent me the manuscript. She brought home a box of papers
and sorted through it. The papers we've been reading were in a box for
the trash. Mom said she got a phone call that woke her up in the middle
of the night. The caller told her to take Aunt Kate's manuscript and
give it to me. She got up, took it out of the trash pile and then went
back to bed. That morning was the morning Mom called me."

        "Who was the caller, Scully?"

        "She said it was a woman," Scully answered reluctantly. "She
said it was Missy."

        Scully looked over at Mulder, who remained impassive.

        "Don't tell me you aren't surprised," Scully continued
uneasily.

        "I know your mother. I knew it would take more than a
questionable family history to shake her up."

        "Do you think she's OK? Should I take her to someone to have
her evaluated?"

        Mulder allowed himself a laugh at that.

        "Scully, you're asking that question of a guy who's
participated in an exorcism, stalked a werewolf, and witnessed a
massacre caused by black magic. Among other things. What does your Mom
think about her sanity?"

        "She thinks maybe she dreamed the call, but that it was a true
message from Missy."

        "A very sensible woman, your mother. Did you fill her in on
everything that's happened here?"

        "Well, not all the details. Just the big picture. The original
investigation was inconclusive, but a murder was committed in the
course of it that led to an arrest. The accused has also been charged
with destroying evidence and obstructing our investigation."

        "That masterfully boring report on our week goes a long way
toward convincing me that good sense is determined by our genes."

        There was silence for a while. Neither one said a word as they
passed a sign notifying drivers of the upcoming turnoff for the
Craters of the Moon National Park.

        "So what do you think about the document now?" Scully
persisted.

        Mulder could picture her senior entry in the high school
yearbook: "Dana 'Pit Bull' Scully." He gave up.

        "I think it's valid."

        "By valid you mean--" Scully prompted.

        Scully was puzzled. With her Mulder was usually pretty open
about his theories. This time he was holding out as though she were
trying to pry personal information out of him. Did this theory have
personal meaning for him?

        "Mulder, do you mean you think that the whole package is
literally true?" Scully suddenly exclaimed.

        The two lane road they were on had no shoulder to speak of at
this point. Mulder found a gate to a field with an area in front of it
that was wide enough to park the car. He pulled into it and turned off
the motor. Then he turned and looked Scully in the eye.

        "How about it? Do you remember Athens?" His voice aimed for
playful but missed. He hoped--he didn't know what he hoped.

        As she stared into his eyes, for a dizzying moment she thought
she recalled seeing them under dazzling blue skies. The raucous bustle
of the market place went on around her and the taste of resinous wine
was in her mouth. Even more confusing was the almost-memory of hearing
that same question while lying under the bright gaze of those eyes in a
firelit, smoky room.

        No, I'm Dana Scully and no one else. She brought her wandering
thoughts back into proper order.

        Mulder had followed the play of emotions across her face--
reflection followed by surprise, succeeded by a slightly panicky
expression. Then he saw her square her jaw and press her lips together
with the effort of banishing images that couldn't be true, no matter
how true they felt. He had his answer no matter what she said.

        "People are very suggestible. What hard evidence do we
have...?"

        Mulder cut her off.

        "I don't want to argue about it. I already said we couldn't
prove anything except that Melissa didn't produce the manuscript. This
isn't a case. We don't have to prove anything. As we almost always do,
we see two different truths."

        He checked for traffic and pulled the car back onto the road.
Scully was taken aback at the deep disappointment in his voice. He
didn't usually take her challenges to his ideas so hard. He wasn't
even trying to convince her. Then Scully remembered the question she
wanted to ask.

        "Mulder I've been thinking about the Vernon Ephesian case."

        "Oh, yeah, we had a disagreement about reincarnation during
that one," he said listlessly.

        "What do you think now about the results of that hypnotic
regression?"

        "I think using hypnotic regression to get at a memory is kind
of like using a Berlitz phrase book to translate 'War and Peace'.
You're not only going to lose the fine details, you'd need tremendous
luck even to recognize the big picture.'

        "That's a lovely but content-free simile, Mulder. Not an
answer." Scully persevered with a determined smile.

        "Some truth came out of it. I was Sullivan Biddle. I was
engaged to Sarah Kavanaugh in that life, and Melissa Ephesian was she.
I'd say the therapist didn't keep very good control of that
regression, wouldn't you agree? She didn't do orderly questions to
establish dates. She let me rant and rave without using the proper
distancing techniques. The timeline I talked about during the
regression doesn't gibe with historical dates as we know them.
Cancerman would have been a young man in the U.S. when I saw him as a
Gestapo guard in the regression. And who and when was Sidney, and how
did he fit in with a life for Melissa in Germany in the 1940's? You
probably thought of all those things at the time, Scully."

        Mulder glanced over at her questioningly, and she nodded
thoughtfully.

        "I wasn't being very rational, Scully."

        At the expected smile on her face, he grinned back.

        "Yeah, laugh, but you know what I mean. The truth is I was
drowning in guilt. I remembered believing I loved her, telling her I
loved her. At the same time, from the perspective of this life, I
realized I hadn't known what I was talking about. All that was left
now was this hideous guilt for not returning her feelings and for
landing her in the lousy life she was in with Ephesian and that crew.
I think I must have tried to repeat the role of lover in the life in
Germany, but failed miserably. That one is pretty much a jumble to me.
Maybe I was trying to lay some of the blame that belonged on me at
Cancerman's door."

        "When I talked to her later, I felt so sorry for her, so
responsible, but....I think Melissa sensed how I really felt and
that's why she went back to Ephesian. She finally realized what was
important to me even back then, when I was writing Sarah poems, and
taking her to dinner on Sundays at the hotel."

        Scully was baffled as to where this was going. Leave it to
Mulder to figure out a way to carry guilt several lifetimes beyond the
grave.

        "Sullivan had a boyhood friend named Billy. We grew up
together in Apison. That was a beautiful town, before the War. We had
good lives as children. Our families loved us and took care of us. We
shared everything, including a dream for the future. We read the
classics with Billy's father. He was a minister and a quiet man. He
didn't fit in too well with the lively Methodist preachers in that part
of the country, but the people in the town liked him. They were used to
him.

        He taught us to respect the law, and we decided that someday
we'd open a law practice together. Our practice would be the noblest one
in the South. No one would go without a defense, even if they couldn't
pay for it up front. We'd read our Edgar Allan Poe, too. We were
convinced that we could solve questions about guilt and innocence by
simple observation and deductive reasoning. We were so naive. We were
going to move to Murfreesboro to read law with Billy's uncle. Then the
War started."

        "I couldn't wait to sign up. It seemed so romantic to fight
for my hearth and home. Billy enlisted with me, of course. He didn't
really want to fight, but he wanted to be with me. He helped me to
write a farewell poem for Sarah when we left in 1861."

        "The funny part was that Billy did a lot better in the army than
I did. I always seemed to be at odds with my commanding officers. You
got to be a sergeant almost right away--promotion by casualty list. We
learned about the reality of war during the next two years. By 1863,
when we heard about the Yankees advancing into Tennessee, there wasn't
any romance left in the war."

        "We ended up outside that farmhouse under heavy enemy fire. I
can't remember if we considered surrendering. It was such a confusion
of noise with enemies all around us. You saw a sharpshooter taking aim
at me, and pushed me down. He got you square in the side between the
ribs. I held you and watched you leave me, so quickly, I couldn't
believe it, even with all the death I'd seen. No time for more than
one look, one terrified look while you choked on blood. How could my
whole life be gone just like that? I went crazy. I started across the
field shooting. It took five shots to bring me all the way down."

        Mulder paused and worked on slowing down his breathing. He
realized he had slipped and started talking about Billy in the second
person. That was bad--it made his account too personal, and it would
scare Scully.

        "That's what I meant about the drawback of the regression
method. I knew this story when I was Sullivan. But nobody asked me the
right questions. Not that I wanted to blurt it out in front of her.
Sarah was going to be my wife, but everything important I shared with
Billy. That's how Sullivan thought it always had to be between men and
women."

        And there was a lot to be said for the simplicity of that
arrangement, Mulder said to himself, as he waited for Scully's
reaction to his answer. He sneaked a look at her and saw that she was
staring off into the distance and apparently thinking hard.

        Scully didn't know what she thought. From the scientific
viewpoint, all of this was a grand illusion spun out of moonbeams,
worthy of submission to the "Journal of Irreproducible Results." It
would be so easy to tell Mulder, gently of course, that it was all in
his head. She sighed, remembering that when they first started reading
the papers Mulder was adamant that it was a fraud. How had this turn
around happened?

        Something had created emotional connections for Mulder with
the stories of Martin and Sullivan. He had trouble with the simple
emotions in day to day life. Did that somehow clear the way for him to
relate to past lives? Or did it just make the idea of previous lives
too appealing to reject? The odd thing was that she thought she
remembered starting to feel some emotional resonance with these
stories also. Her mind just wouldn't bring back those feelings, even
from five minutes ago. But Mulder was always braver, or more reckless,
than she in letting dangerous influences into his head.

        "Mulder, why didn't you say anything about those details
before now?"

        "I didn't want to believe them, Scully. It was simpler to go
with the taped session." Mulder wanted to be honest but he didn't want
to go too far. "See, I already had these feelings of recognizing you
from a past time when we were very close. I was trying to ignore
them."

        "I don't...." Scully began. "I can't remember anything,
Mulder. Sometimes it feels like I almost do. I don't know what it
means."

        "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

        Mulder told himself it was better this way. They didn't need
the monumental problems that would result from mixing the volatile
elements of sex and romance into their relationship. He knew he could
introduce these elements with no recourse to past life feelings, but
he'd never have the nerve. Underneath the conscious reasoning was a
simple longing that expressed itself in silent pleas to Scully. Don't
wait too long to remember me. Please don't wait until we're dying in
some field.

        Scully felt as though she were all the way through the
Looking-glass and observing the room she just left. Mulder had almost
told her that he loved her, hundreds of years ago. Conspicuously
absent were references to present day feelings. On the other hand she
knew quite well that she loved Mulder right now, even though she would
never act on it. But she had no recollection of previous life
relationships. As always, Mulder preferred to focus on the paranormal
phenomena rather than the reality under his nose. She suspected that
he thought all difficulties would be resolved like magic, if she just
let herself remember. Well, she couldn't do that. Reincarnation was
physically and spiritually impossible.

        Perhaps if Mulder would open up a little, get some counseling,
he could get in touch with his emotions in this life. That would
probably happen about the same time she learned to relax the control
she needed to have over her own feelings and totally cut loose. That's
OK, she told herself. Not everyone wants or needs the unchecked
passion of Grand Opera in her life.

        "Do you think I'll see red in my next life, Scully?" Mulder
asked as they approached the airport road.

        "What? What do you mean?"

        "You know--I'm red/green color blind. Do you think that stays
with me from life to life?"

        Scully considered the question as a whimsical distraction
intended to lighten the mood. She responded in kind.

        "It's a sex-linked genetic deficiency. If you're female next
time you probably won't suffer from it," she said mischievously.

        "We couldn't have the same DNA in every life. I could be male
and still not be color blind," he protested. "I'll always be sorry I
missed your hair, though."

        Scully waited for a punchline about hair dyes, but none came.
He didn't take his eyes from the road.

        "There are a lot of things about me that might be fixed next
time around. Be sure and look me up, Scully. You're so well acquainted
with my faults, you'd really be in a position to appreciate the
overhaul."

        She knew he meant to be funny, but there was a hint of
wistfulness that undercut the humor.

        They pulled up in front of the door to the car rental office,
and switched their psyches to business/professional mode.

        After checking the car in, they ran separate errands. Mulder
scanned the magazine and newspaper racks, while Scully looked for a
suitable card for Jerry Hodge's Over-the-Hill birthday celebration.
After he made his purchases at the newstand, Mulder entered the gift
shop in search of Scully. He approached her from behind and noticed
that her shoulders were shaking.

        "Do they have some really hilarious ones about prostate
problems?" he inquired, picking up a card at random beside her.

        When she didn't answer he looked over and saw that she was not
laughing, she was weeping silently. At the same moment he recognized
the melody playing throughout the shop. That in itself was a neat
trick, since he couldn't usually remember a tune and its name until he
had heard it a hundred times. He didn't remember hearing it--he just
knew it, the way a sheltered house pet knows the nature of a snake
with no tutoring required. The shop had a display of CDs incorporating
a stereo system. Customers could hear the music before buying. The CDs
were the popular New Age/World/Mood types, and the current selection
was Celtic music.

        He hurried over to the counter and asked Aggie, as her
identification pin urged.

        "Ma'am, could you play something else right now? My friend has
some bad associations with Celtic music. And please let me know the
name of that song."

        "Of course. I know what you mean," she continued as she went
to the display and switched to the next CD. "My husband can't bear to
hear 'Danny Boy', because it was his mother's favorite song. That
selection was on 'The Song of the Irish Whistle.' It's called
'The Black Rose.'

        "I'd like to buy a copy."

        The saleslady's smile faded and she eyed him suspiciously.

        "You're not going to use it to tease that poor little thing?"
she asked with narrowed eyes.

        "Of course not," Mulder answered, a bit flustered at the
unexpected challenge.

        That was rich. He'd have to be sure to share that with Scully
later--poor little thing indeed. His eyes followed the saleslady's
glance in Scully's direction. She was standing unseeingly in front of
a display of birth announcements, her shoulders braced for whatever
new blows came her way. Mulder realized that something about his
perceptions was changing. He had the odd sensation of feeling his
understanding expand into previously closed off compartments. It made
the difference between seeing one thing focused in the hot beam of his
obsession and seeing a whole landscape in the light of day.

        In this light he saw right through the confident Scully facade
to the bewildered, lonely woman behind it. She could not admit to her
confusion and distress. Usually he was happy to leave these
inconvenient emotions walled up behind her pretense of total self-
sufficiency because it served his purposes. And of course she sensed
how little he wanted to hear about any insecurities or fears.
Invariably, whenever he looked at her and asked, "Are you sure you're
all right?" every muscle in his body was tensed with readiness to walk
away and get on with the investigation. It didn't take a Ph.D in body
language to figure it out.

        Day after day she followed him into situations that were
terrifying, and encountered things that challenged her most cherished
assumptions about the world. And under these conditions she was brave,
utterly trustworthy, and always ready to offer comfort to him. Was it
any wonder that after the past four years of loss and horror her
unconscious mind tried to protect her from more emotional devastation?
He needed to keep the awareness he had in the hospital of the fragility
and brevity of their lives. That perspective would teach him how to get
over the barriers they both threw up to protect their wounded souls.

        He needed to be patient with himself and with her. She wasn't a
poor little thing. She was, like everyone else, vulnerable to a myriad
of hurts from the world around her. Why did he always insist on adding
to them, instead of protecting her to the best of his ability? He could
change. If he changed, so would she. Remembering some shadowy past really
didn't matter.

        "Did you want to pay with a credit card?"

        Mulder took out his credit card silently. Already the
impression was fading. He no longer felt connected to the wisdom and
compassion that he had somehow pulled from deep within him. He
wondered if the music had triggered some usually inaccessible part of
his--what?--his soul? He felt a brief but overwhelming moment of
dejection. Had he experienced the person he had once been, could have
been again? His parents had a lot to answer for. As he was now, any
gift shop clerk had more insight into his partner's vulnerabilities
than he did.

        After completing his purchase, Mulder went back to the card
display where Scully still stood. To his amazement, she held out her
arms for a reassuring hug. He wondered if she had also experienced
some insight into the person she had been. But it didn't work out too
well. She seemed to sense the possessiveness he couldn't help
expressing in his return embrace. She gently pushed him away with the
slightly panicky look he had seen in the car. His optimism dimmed as
he recognized the potential for reliving old mistakes. This was going
to be like inhabiting two worlds at the same time. He was going to
have to maintain more distance, literally, between them, to avoid
making a big mistake. The frustration was going to be exceptional.

        This was certainly what he needed in his life. A revelation to
stir up its smooth, uneventful course and add another layer of
complexity to his most important work relationship. Of course he had
to admit that Melissa's document had probably saved their lives. Its
influence on Scully's unconscious mind as she started for Digger that
morning had been the only thing between them and death.

        "Do you want to know the name of the song that was playing?"
he asked conversationally.

        She shook her head.

        "I think the extreme adrenalin levels we've been experiencing
the last few days have made us overly emotional," she told him. "I'm
sorry for the teariness."

        She had thoughtfully provided him with an excuse for his
"overly emotional" hug, he noticed. He wondered how many times she
would be ambushed by her own inexplicable reactions before she
discerned a pattern that made sense only when she accepted the
possibility of past life memories. He had managed to explain away
quite a few of his own.

        Scully was probably right. The extreme stress of the last week
had made them more susceptible to buried memories. As time passed the
vividness of their impressions on reading the manuscript would fade.
Their old personas would regain a firm grip on their behavior.

        "Maybe Melissa's document affected me more than I thought. It
was touching even if it was fiction," Scully remarked, as they
approached the waiting area for their flight. "I felt so bad for them,
dying like that, after they struggled so desperately to survive and be
together." Scully thought she remembered getting a lump in her throat.
Had she felt something more? She didn't remember anything now.

        "It was goddamn tragic, Scully," he replied shortly.

        His reply didn't encourage further conversation, so Scully sat
in silence, catching up on the news in the "Post." Mulder sat
similarly concealed behind the "Times." Instead of reading he was
mulling over a problem. How could he reveal to Scully the possible lead
from Greenfield without catching too much flack for keeping the secret
until now? He decided to put it off until they were back in D.C.
Airports and airplanes were too public to risk some of the observations
he wanted to make.

        After the tension of the take-off, Scully was immediately
overcome by the accumulated sleepiness of three wakeful nights. Her
head bobbed as she failed to find a secure sleeping position. Before
the well-meaning but overworked flight attendant could offer a pillow,
Mulder put his arm behind Scully's neck and let her head rest on his
shoulder. Now his arm was pinned in addition to his legs being folded
up unnaturally in the too small seat. Instead of dwelling on the
discomfort, he found himself caught up in the sensation of his lips in
Scully's hair. He also realized that he should never again put himself
in this position unless something had changed. All he could think of
was her tantalizing physical presence, and it was driving him to
distraction. He made a mental note to start keeping all of these good
resolutions about putting more distance between them.

         Scully woke up once and realized her position. She could make
a fuss and rearrange them both, or she could pretend she had never
actually waked up in the middle of the flight. She hadn't really woken
up all the way. Not enough to analyze why she felt so much like she
had come home.
 

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned,
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

"The Stare's Nest by My Window" W.B. Yeats