Chapter 4

Emily drifted deeper and deeper to sleep. The darkness of her shut eyes turned to shadow and fog. She stood between the two towers of the Tower Bridge and peered into the water, then looked up at the walkways directly above. She gazed down at the Thames River directly below. She thought the distance wasn't enough. She would have to exhale and allow the water to fill her lungs while it emptied her life. The fall was short. Her lifeless body reached the bottom of the river. She let the water fill her lungs and the darkness filled her eyes.

Soon, she found herself inside a wooden box. She punched through the wood; her limbs crashed through to grasp at the soil. Her branches surfaced toward the fresh air as she found herself stretched out under the moon and stars. Tombstones surrounded her in rows upon rows. From the dark corner of the graveyard she saw the shadowy figure again; it uttered the incomprehensible until it turned into an adder and slithered in between the tombstones as it approached her. It's mouth didn't move but as its tongue protruded she heard the words, "You are to blame." She shivered as the snake slithered away into the cracks of earth and stone.

Dawn approached with an orange and red glow magnified by the London fog. The bark shed first. Her limbs and trunk shifted its shape into four limbs and a torso. Her dress emerged wrinkled and stained. Her head, with a full head of hair and brown eyes slowly opened to discover another day of dread.

Sight and sound of reality invaded her wakening. She cried out a silent scream and wondered if she'd ever experience a good dream again. Her cry seemed endless until she slowly regained a scrap of dignity and whispered, "When?" she wavered while the Apothecary's back room provided little comfort, but she remained reclined nonetheless and exhaled as if to exhaust the darkness.

Dr. Wren leaned against the counter of his shop motionless for over an hour and stared out of the front window. Normally boredom would've enticed anyone to explore old avenues – even if in the imagination. Just when he was about to yield to failure, the bell above the door rung.

"Good morning," the voice of a kind lady, mature in her years peeked through the door as it cracked open. She was bold in her stature despite a slight limp as she stepped over the threshold in her habit where her hands regained their concealment after closing the door. Her eyes were mahogany brown; it was difficult to determine the border between her iris and her pupil. Her skin nearly blended in with the white of her head dressing. A pinnacle in the community – an honor she earned by her humility and diligence of service.

"Mother Catherine," he addressed her with the respect he learned as a boy, shook her hand then added a slight bow of his head. He motioned a single index finger over his lips, "A patient. She is sleeping. Well she is," he reassigned the same finger to point toward the back room, "It's a relief you stopped by."

"Good. I must confess, I bumped into your friend at the pub who encouraged my visit – said your head was in the clouds yesterday."

"Good ole Sean," he smiled, "And that is an understatement," he glanced toward the back room, "His assessment – and of course his good nature."

"Will she recover?" her concern clearly seen amongst his own, yet confused state.

"Tea?" he asked, "I have some right here."

"Delighted," she arched her head back to take in the current aroma in the room.

"It's from Darjeeling – India."

She agreed.

While he poured her tea he reminded her of his oath as a physician, "I pride myself in my ability to diagnose and prescribe, but her circumstances and the events I witnessed are more incredible than any description. Perhaps when she wakes I can introduce you and gain her permission."

From the back room, "I heard another voice," they both heard the young lady just before she entered. Her eyes opened wider to reveal more clearly the Apothecary's new guest, "No," she locked her hands over her chest as if to check the concealment of her heart. She made every attempt to control her physical agitation but with minimal success.

They both looked at her quizzically, but the Mother deduced soon enough the displeasure on the young woman's face – she had experienced it before, "Come—"

"No!" Emily repeated with increased vigor as it echoed into every corner and lingered until it faded into a sad silence like the morning fog had creeped back into the river.

"Perhaps I can help," the Mother tenderly offered.

Emily searched for an escape then bolted out the front door and back out onto the walkway and down the street. Her eyes filled with tears. Her vision blurred. Her breath could barely keep up with her feet as she zig-zagged down the street until she found herself in a garden – then bellied-over over a rock and iron fence which surrounded the garden. Red exterior walls of an indistinguishable building reached toward the blue sky as she fell to the ground and smashed a row of hyacinth and cried and felt the soil of the garden which absorbed her tears.

The Apothecary was the first to arrive followed shortly by a hobbling Mother Catherine who wrapped Emily in a portion of her habit while Dr. Wren propped her up. Aside from the faded weeping she was motionless, nearly lifeless, while he dabbed her face with a handkerchief. Her dress draped into the soil.

When her eyesight cleared, she gasped at the sight of the church adjacent to the garden. She wanted to flee again but she felt weak; and after an examination of the garden she found comfort among the rows of geraniums and gladiolus. A Sister passed and stopped to offer help.

Mother Catherine smiled at Emily, "It seems you were meant to be here."

In her fragile state she reluctantly responded, "Perhaps," she fought the battle of apprehension as she pressed her fist on her heart in an effort to account for its presence. Satisfaction of an odd sort reached her lips when she felt the beat vibrate into her hand.

Mother Catherine asked with great care, "It's the church; is it not?"

Emily nodded as she looked up at her, then to the nearby Sister.

"Perhaps the warmth of a wood-burning fire—?" she asked incompletely yet sufficiently. For it was a start, "Sister Elisabet," the Mother motioned for her to assist Dr. Wren.

The two helped Emily to her feet; she looked at the Apothecary for assurance.

"Mother Catherine is unlike any person I've ever known," Dr. Wren said, then added, "and she has a perspective—" he interrupted himself and provided a nod of confirmation without any revelation of belief on his part, "Allow us to take you inside. Yes?"

Emily yielded to their offer. She felt surrender take hold.

Emily sat next to the fire in a chair as inviting as Mother Catherine was gracious. A dress was provided from the donation box – although she felt it was new to her. The room was plain – a cross on the wall above the fireplace; an artist's rendering of Mary, the mother of Jesus; on another wall above a small bookcase which housed a small picture of the Mother with several Indians in front of St. Luke's of New Delhi – as the sign read above their heads within the photo. Dr. Wren sat in an adjacent corner while Mother Catherine was opposite of her guest.

"It's a little early but would you care for lunch?" Mother Catherine asked.

"Not hungry," Emily replied over the affirmative response of Dr. Wren.

"But you must be famished!"

Emily held onto her secrets for many years. Voluntary, yet incomplete, information had been provided to the Apothecary, her first host of Rotherhithe Street – of London for that matter. She looked into the eyes of Mother Catherine. Dr. Wren was correct. There was something about the Mother; she couldn't explain it, but she felt she could trust her.

Mother Catherine sensed there was more to her testimony – to say the least. First, she wasn't about to forego hospitality, "Osian," she took pleasure in the use of his first name, "you remember where the kitchen is. Would you be so kind and bring us a few plates of the cucumber sandwiches in the icebox? – and there are a few apples." Like being in his old classroom, Dr. Wren was out of his seat midway through their hostess' request.

Emily clutched the pocket of her dress and its contents. The thought of the upcoming meal put her off, but the kindness reflected in Mother Catherine distracted her attention. She looked at the cross; with an understanding of the Mother's Order she asked, "Shouldn't it be a crucifix?"

The Mother smiled her infectious smile, "I prefer to picture the victory our Lord had over death."

Through the continued sensations of sadness and jolts of violence she felt in the present world, Emily thought for a moment or two about that statement. She had had defeat rule her existence for so long, anything else seemed foreign. She imagined an account in her journal. Fear gripped her when the thought to share it surfaced. But just as quickly as the urge to run flooded her veins, she exhaled in surrender – a sensation which grew like the fruit of a tree. A tree. She thought of the tree once used as an instrument of execution, "Man is cruel. But this – I never saw such horror."

This statement startled the Mother, but years of discipline provided her control of her expression.

Yet, Emily sensed a rise in pressure within the room. Before the Mother responded Emily retreated as she leaned back in her chair and cradled her knees into her chest; her toes reached for the space between the cushions – like the sensation of roots as they reached deeper for water. She yearned for the water within the earth – it was the only source which truly replenished her.

The Mother sympathized with Emily's current retraction, "My dear, there is nothing here which should frighten you," she paused momentarily, then she proceeded with the current line of conversation, "When one learns of the methods of Roman torture, one is all the more grateful for his sacrifice," she paused, "But you speak as if you were there," she waited for a response.

The desire to sink further was overwhelming but she mustered an affirming nod followed by a rock forward then back again as if courage surfaced then retreated and surfaced again, "Yes," she nodded in confession, and divulged further, "I have it written."

Quite curious, the Mother asked, "Where?"

"Journals. I write in journals," she began to grow from her planted position to something which closely resembled the posture of a lady.

"Where? May I see?

Emily thought for a moment, "It's not in this one, but—" she stopped, then reached into the folds of her dress and revealed her journal. With a mixture of courage and the numbness of her night-terrors, she handed it to Mother Catherine.

The Mother received the open page of Emily. She read and skimmed and turned to various pages within the book which not only provided Emily's thoughts and experiences but an historical account, "It is written in multiple languages – various forms of English of course, as well as Gaelic to name a couple," she said in astonishment, "and one I do not recognize," a different kind of astonishment now mixed with a sadness filled her expression as she continued. She read the recent poem – still unfinished. A tear welled up in her own eye. She appeared to shine with grace and mercy; they were her abiding gifts. But a weakness crept over her; she had seen the strange in her life as a missionary, but this unfamiliar territory required a plea for help as she briefly closed her eyes in prayer. Finally she asked Emily, "How long have you been writing?" she gently placed her hand on top of the book as she closed it.

Emily gulped, "not long after the bound book was invented."

"But this one doesn't seem to start until the 16th century," the Mother stated with the tone of a question.

Emily was hesitant in her answer, but again she reminded herself of the distance she had travelled in this conversation and the trust Mother Catherine had continued to earn, "There are others."

"Others?" she quickly recalled a previous statement from Emily, "You did mention 'journals'."

"They are hidden," Emily noticed the Mother's increased curiosity, then added, "throughout Europe and the Middle East," she paused to recall, "one in India and another in Ethiopia."

"But how—?" the Mother asked in amazement, "—how many?" trepidation filled her voice when she asked, "May I ask," she paused, "how old are you?"

Emily thought long and hard about her response as if her roots struggled to crack rock and stone. She ignored the question and looked away.

"You are a young lady," the Mother countered the non-response.

Although tormented, experience persuaded Emily to allow her audience to derive her own conclusions.

"How can this be?" the Mother said in a mixture of disbelief and the contrary, "But that would make you—" she refused to admit the inevitable response.

Finally, Emily broke free from the surface of her chair. Her story expanded in an effort to relieve the Mother from her own inquisitive anxiety "Older than you think," she completed the Mother's sentence.

"Child!" the Mother blurted, then retreated to her previous collected demeanor, "who are you?"

A montage of images invaded Emily's mind with her most recent dreams – the pain, the darkness, the snake's words. The weight of her guilt pressed against Emily all the more. She determined it was a distraction. At the same, further trust grew toward the Mother. Something she had not felt for a long time. She stared into the Mother's eyes, "I must thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"With much less information, by now I'd be in prison or dragged to the stake," she waited for the reaction from her hostess, "You have been nothing but kind. I will tell you. But promise me one thing," she added.

Mother Catherine smiled with a nod, "Of course, my child."

"Tell no one," she provided firmly.

The Mother agreed just as Dr. Wren entered the room with the sandwiches and fruit previously ordered. The window of opportunity seemed to have passed, but Emily desired to share the information with the Apothecary as well, she only preferred to inform the Mother first. Nonetheless, she had traveled this far in the conversation, "I was in the Garden."

"The Garden of Gethsemane?" the Mother asked in disbelief as the question emerged from her own mouth.

Dr. Wren slowly sat in the adjacent sofa to Emily. His eyes wide from the previously fantastic statement.

"Yes, but—" she pondered the Mother's question and concluded it was sufficient for now, and allowed the misunderstanding, "I saw him cry that night," Emily stated with confidence.

"Who?" the doctor asked but was ignored.

"It was heart-wrenching to see the blood drip from his eyes," Emily continued as she began to weep, "I knew then—" the sadness grew in her into a tear, "Then – I saw him on that tree." She hunch forward in the chair flushed from the memory.

Mother Catherine spoke with such compassion it was difficult to refuse her suggestion, "Perhaps a rest?" she quietly stood with her arms open to supplement the invitation as she pointed at a nearby chest, "Dr. Wren, please provide Emily with a blanket."

Her sob retreated back into her eyes. The Mother assisted her to the sofa where Dr. Wren had been seated and draped the blanket over her guest. Dr. Wren politely excused himself as the Mother placed her hand on Emily's shoulder and prayed, "May the great Comforter be with you." She left Emily to rest.

Calm came to Emily as if a storm had abruptly passed. She fell asleep and drifted further into the recesses of her mind. She stood in the middle of a garden – a sea of green in the late evening. Flowers surrounded her, but she couldn't decipher their variety. Day turned to night. Her toes grasped the soil and soon her leaves were full and green on outstretched branches. One dark red fruit emerged then ripened. It hung like a jewel sparkling in the moonlight. Off in the distance she saw a small light; it grew more and more as it approached her. It had a face and wings. It grabbed the fruit, twisted it from its stem and plucked it; and before it flew away into the night it provided her with a concerning yet loving nod. She felt sad. But soon thereafter a gentle wind intertwined with her leaves as a word was secretly brought to her, she caught a whisper of it, "Home." A gentle sleep without dream of nightmare brought a bliss she had not experienced in ages.