(Author's Note: I'm SO sorry. I had to republish this chapter. In the process of copying and pasting the story into doc manager, I accidentally left out several paragraphs!)
By this time, at this hour of the night, most of the lights in the Abbey had been extinguished, and the halls were empty, as all of the other creatures, save for the Friar, Marianne, and those who were in the infirmary, had retired to their sleeping quarters.
Salome and Muryet made their way down the hall that led to the Library. Salome had discovered how to propel the wheeled-chair herself. Her vision was somewhat blurred - an aftereffect of the blow she had suffered - and so Muryet continued to push the wheelchair for her, guiding it through the dark.
Muryet halted abruptly, causing Salome to flinch and the little vehicle to shake. She had meant to turn a corner, but had attempted the turn too roughly and clumsily, nearly sending Salome crashing into the wall.
Muryet released the back of the wheelchair.
"I . . . I'm sorry."
Though she had opened her eyes hours before even Salome had become aware of it, the squirrelmaid still seemed as though she were slowly, gradually awakening, becoming fully aware of the world outside of the realm of dreams, remembering all that she had known before. Now she was visibly trembling. Was it excitement that she felt? Nervousness? Something else entirely?
"It wasn't anythin' . . .but yore shaking."
Salome reached over, somewhat timidly, to offer a comforting touch on the paw, but Muryet moved so that she was out of reach.
"Please . . . I'm fine."
A deep breath, a slow, shaky exhalation, and the wheelchair was moving once again.
"Sister Jane's blown out 'er lantern," Salome observed, as they drew near the room, "but it looks as if she's lit a candle or somethin.'" She paused. "Do you remember anythin' more about th' dream - with Fainlie in it? If you thought 'ard . . .could you guess where she is?"
Salome regretted her words when Muryet's eyes began to fill. "I've been thinking of this dream for hours - if I knew anything more than what I told you, all of the Abbey would know!"
Salome averted her gaze. "I . . . I'm sorry."
As they were a few yards' distance from the door of the Library, Muryet stopped the wheelchair.
Stepping out from behind, she knelt down so that she was facing Salome, who could do nothing less than to look into her eyes.
"Why did you want me to eat that thing, Salome?"
Salome could not speak. It was a simple thing, to confess her foolishness and petulance and pride to Marianne; to explain to this frail little Abbeymaid, beseeching her with her too-large eyes, that she had made her ill because she had been foolish, petulant and prideful was another matter, and Salome's tongue refused to rise to the task.
Muryet's tears began to flow. "Please, I'll believe anything that you say. Only tell me why you made me eat it!"
A lump was rising in Salome's throat, but she forced herself to respond.
"I - I did it 'cos I was . . . jealous o' you."
"You made me . . .foggy-minded . . .because you were envious? But whatever for?"
The tears were blurring Salome's vision so that she could no longer see Muryet's face. Oh, thank God for that!
"I don't know . . . 'cos you were queer an' said . . .queer, interestin' things . . .an' Samuel paid more mind t' you than me, I s'pose."
She could hear the sliding of Muryet's body to the floor; perhaps she had sunk to her knees. God forbid she should faint or collapse upon her back.
"Only that? You did that to me because I was . . .queer . . .and interesting?" A shuddering little intake of breath. "Oh . . . Salome!"
"No - no! I - I - I never meant . . .t' make you ill . . .not really. Honest, Muryet, I -"
"Then why did you have to tempt me?"
Salome had no answer for that challenge- no answer, at least, that she was willing to give. And so, the two young maids remained there for some time, one wheelchair-bound and struggling not to succumb to the aching of her head or the itching beneath her fur, the other one kneeling at her feet, trying to stem the flow of her tears.
Marianne entered upon the scene first, carrying a lantern. Immediately she recognized the scrawny, huddled little figure upon the floor, but it took a moment for her to make out the face of the occupant of the wheelchair. Setting her lantern aside, she hurried over to crouch between them, embracing Muryet with one arm, resting the other paw upon that of Salome.
"Oh, Muryet, Salome," she murmured. "Wot in th' world is Muryet doing up an' about like this? Sister Bethelle will 'ave a fit if she 'ears of this! Oh, look at you two. Wot 'appened?"
Salome wiped her eyes. She blinked, troubled by the glare of the lantern. "Nothin' 'appened."
Muryet attempted to draw away, but Marianne held her closer. "I'm fine, Marianne. Please, I only want to see Sister Jane."
"No, you ain't fine," Marianne said, with a bluntness that she rarely used with Muryet. "Yore still in a bad state, Muryet - can't you see? Weak as you both are, you've no business tryin' t' wheel Salome about, either! Why didn't you wait for me, Salome? I told you I'd 'elp you talk t' Samuel."
Muryet wiped her eyes. "But I want to see Sister Jane!"
"It's too late t' go botherin' Sister Jane; she'll want t' be left alone! We've got t' come back t'morrow, an' I'll take Salome then, not you!" Both Muryet and Salome flinched. "You both know if th' elders 'ear of this, they'll be mad as th' devil! They'll either be lightin' into you, Salome, for bein' stupid, blame you for Muryet's leavin' th' infirmary, or both!"
Her voice returned to its former softness. "Come along, both o' you. Let's talk in Great Hall. I'll show you 'ow t' wheel yoreself about, Salome; I've seen these chairs before."
Salome allowed Marianne to guide her paw, followed her instructions. It was all the better that Marianne was teaching her to use the strange chair. This would free her to go where she wished - and she would see Sister Jane and Samuel tonight, accompanied or unaccompanied.
"Talk about wot in Great Hall? You said you'd help me t' talk t' Samuel."
Marianne stepped back to give Salome berth. "There you are - you've got it now. Yore brother wouldn't come out no matter how I knocked an' called. You've got t' tell me why you an' Muryet were cryin' out 'ere. Come on or Sister Jane will 'ear us and come out t' see what in th' world we're up to."
The three young creatures made their way towards Great Hall in a fashion that reminded Salome of her quarrel with Marianne out in the Woods. On one side of Marianne, she propelled the wheelchair, while, on the other, Muryet plodded along, eyes straight ahead and off in some other world. Little did they know that Sister Jane had, indeed, overheard them and had emerged from the Library, silently, to trail them and "see what in the world they were up to."
"How many hours, Marianne, till tomorrow?" Muryet demanded.
"I don't know 'ow many, Muryet," Marianne told her gently. "But I s'pose it's still a good many hours off. You'll just 'ave t' go t' sleep after we talk t'gether. It will make th' time go faster."
Salome kept silent and raked at a patch of fleas bites, knowing the argument that would ensue should she mention her true intentions to Marianne.
"But I can't sleep - especially in that dreadful infirmary."
"Muryet!" Marianne's voice was laden with reproach. "'ow could you say a thing like that, after Sister Bethelle wore herself out lookin' after you? She didn't try t' starve you on broth an' medicine again."
"I want to sleep in my gatehouse." Muryet lunged without warning, as if to dash off, but Marianne was swift enough to intercept her. She gripped her by the paw.
"Muryet . . .won't you stay an' talk t' me an' Salome - about wotever 'appened? Please?"
Muryet gave up struggling after only a moment or two, aware of her physical weakness.
"There's nothing to talk about. I was poisoned - poisoned because I . . .Salome . . . I . . . I . . . it was nothing. I shan't say any more. Please, let me go. If I must fall asleep, I'll fall asleep with my books, my poor, lonesome books, and tomorrow I'll look through Sister Jane's."
Salome mustered the nerve to address Muryet. "But . . . there's a 'eap o' books in there. They can't be lonesome. Don't YOU get lonesome in there? Don't you want anybeast t' talk to?"
"No." Muryet, sensing the loosening of Marianne's grip, seized the opportunity to wrench free.
"Muryet!" Marianne flew after the fleeing squirrelmaid, followed by Salome.
"Muryet, wait!" Salome cried. "You needn't talk t' Marianne - if you don't want to. Please, please don't try an' go outdoors. There are rat's fleas out there - 'oppin' all through th' grass!"
Muryet paused. "Fleas? . . . Well . . .what of them? I'm not afraid of any silly fleas, or flies, or ants, or - or -"
Salome shook her head. Muryet had been awake for hours, but had she been aware of a single thing?
"They're filled with disease, Muryet. If'n you get bit by them . . .you'd get th' black death."
Muryet's voice was tiny. "Black death?"
Marianne placed a tentative paw upon her arm.
"So many of th' Abbeybeasts are very ill, Muryet. Salome - is very ill. Th' cure for th' sickness is wherever yore sister, Fainlie, is. We're goin' t' 'elp Sister Jane t' find th' answers. But you can't go out t' th' gate'ouse with yore - lonesome books. Please, Muryet."
Muryet was silent, had grown ashen-faced.
"Muryet?" Salome left off scratching her bites long enough to nudge the squirrelmaid. "Muryet. We'll find th' cure an' yore sister - cross my 'eart." Another nudge, to which Muryet did not respond. "Martin said t' me that I'd find Fainlie - or somethin' like it. You said so yoreself before."
Muryet shook her head.
"No . . .no. You're going to die - you . . .and Marianne . . .and then Master Samuel. It was my fault - I KNOW that it was my fault; you needn't try to tell me it wasn't." She covered her face with her paws. "You'll die, somehow - you, the only creatures of whom - of whom I'm not afraid."
"But why are you afraid?" Salome pleaded. "You've never seemed t' be afraid."
"I don't know, really. It's nothing that I can explain. Never mind it."
"Oh, Muryet." Marianne's arm encircled her. "Come with us t' Great Hall. Nobeast is goin' t' die. You've just got t' believe. We'll sort this out. Here - I'll - I'll sing you a song."
Muryet grew quiet for a moment at the offer of a song.
Then: "What sort of a song?"
"It's one that th' Friar taught me - 'praise be to God.'" Marianne held out a paw. "Give me yore paw an' start t' walk, an' I'll start t' sing."
Muryet obeyed, and Marianne began to steer her in the direction of Great Hall.
"Praise be to God from the mountains to the ocean
Down from the sky, and the knolls into the plains.
Greater is His will than all my grandest notions
Let Him amaze me again and again!
Praised is the Lord of the earth and of the heavens
He who gives water by blackening the sky
Frightening with lightning the bad and the craven
Turning the earth to a green placid haven!
So praise the Lord, Who alone shall be worshipped
Greatest of gods and benevolent king!
When He prevails, for our own jubilation
Light shall be cast over our land and our nation
And when He smiles upon all His creation.
Then we may heartily sing!"
Marianne hummed a few notes, and Salome and Muryet joined in, as, paw in paw, they came into the light of the candles in Great Hall.
Salome's feelings of awe at the sight of the tapestry had lessened somewhat, as she had grown more accustomed to and comfortable with it. And it WAS comforting, reassuring, to see the warm, radiant smile that never changed or faltered.
Marianne brought Muryet to stand before the tapestry.
"Praise be to God, Who alone shall be worshipped
Greatest of gods and benevolent king!
When He prevails, for our own jubilation
Light shall be cast over our land and our nation
Let Him amaze us, and guide us forever!
Never forsake us, our shepherd and tether,
Our Almighty God!"
The last verses rang out as beautifully and clearly, in Salome's opinion, as the Abbey bells, bouncing off of the walls, echoing, then fading away.
Marianne groaned. "I might 'ave been quieter. Now somebeast is sure t' over'ear us an' come t' see what all o' this was about!"
"I thought it was beautiful," Salome remarked quietly.
"Don't be a goose; it was a lot o' shrill caterwaulin' an' we'll all be in trouble for it."
"It WAS beautiful. It was th' prettiest singin' I've 'eard before. Wasn't it, Muryet?"
Salome said this with the hope of drawing Muryet into conversation. It was a futile effort, for Muryet's focus was upon the tapestry.
Her two companions followed her eyes. Salome was the first to see what had captured her attention.
"Marianne, it's Martin!" she cried. "His eyes - why, they're alight!"
Marianne stared hard at the face of the Warriormouse, scarcely believing her eyes. Yes - there was a beam of light in each grey eye, near its corner - a tiny, round beam of pale light. This was a detail that the weavers had not added, nor had they been painted there - the light was far too soft, far too bright.
Marianne took a step back. "Good God! Wot does it mean?"
Salome struggled to remain upright. The effects of Sister Bethelle's pain-lessening herbs were wearing off. Her head was beginning to torment her once more; her vision was dimming, blurring slightly.
"He's. . .he's lookin' at somethin,' I'll wager. Wot is it? Follow his eyes, I can't see!"