Title: Condemned to Repeat It

Author: Branwell

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: 188KB

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

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

Classification: Story with Humor, Angst, Romance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sister Adrian quietly entered the cell.

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

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

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

Sister Adrian considered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that bag Sister Dorothea's?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does your mother live near here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He continued without responding to her comment.

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

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

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

"But what about Father Martin?"

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

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

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

My God, the woman was relentless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How does that look to you, Mulder?"

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

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

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

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

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

"There, she sees us!" Scully exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, but I snagged her, Tom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Last time you went first."

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

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

They both laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom confidently answered "Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you walk?" she asked urgently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********

They looked at each other and laughed in silent hysteria.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sister Catherine followed his gaze and reddened in turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sheriff leafed through the pictures, and sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zeb examined them with an increasingly quizzical expression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, what do you think? Pretty impressive?"

"Yes, Mr. Smith, these are much more interesting than the ones
in our file. Where were these bodies found?" Scully asked.

Zeb indicated a hand drawn map he had included with his photos
and descriptions.

"I see you've labeled each location where a carcass was
found with the date. That's very helpful. You've found six of these
over the past year and a half. Is this an unusual rate of deaths?"

"Not so much the deaths as the way it happens. I lose maybe
fifteen, eighteen full grown steers a year to cold, trampling,
calving. Only one or two to predators."

"There were three in the northeast corner of your ranch, the
other three were spread out to the west and center," Scully observed.
"What borders your ranch to the northeast?"

"To the north is the national forest, with the mountains
starting up within a few miles. There are no roads in that area. To
the east is the Bar J ranch."

"Have they reported any incidents like this?"

Zeb looked sheepish.

"They won't talk to me. Think I'm a crackpot. But Deputy
Hansen told me they didn't have anything they consider unusual. A few
scavenged cattle. They didn't bother to report it."

"Who are they anyway?"

"Some company that does high tech breeding. You know--they're
always trying to design a better cow, leaner, more disease resistant.
Too bad they don't pay more attention to taste."

"What about to the west?"

"That's the Circle C. He, that's Timothy Hargity, won't talk to
anybody, not just me. Well, I guess he talked to the deputy through
the door. Hansen told me he didn't have anything to report."

"Well, Mr. Smith, let me talk to my partner here a minute and
we'll decide what our next step should be," Mulder interjected.

Zeb took the hint and disappeared into the kitchen

"If I'd seen all these photos my curiosity would have been
piqued. As it was I told Skinner that this looked like a worthless
case and that I didn't want to waste our time on it."

"What did he say to that?" Scully asked, imagining cartoon
steam pouring out of Skinner's ears.

"Stuff it up your nose, or words to that effect. I'm fairly
sure he didn't know about those extra photos. He would have shown them
to me to convince me the case was worthwhile. Conversely, he wouldn't
have sent us if he thought the case was substantive enough to become
high profile."

"So we should also trace the path of the packet from Mr. Smith
to the AD's office. I think we should find out more about the adjacent
properties."

"I was going to ask you to take on the neighbors while I
question Mr. Smith about other things he may have seen or heard. Also,
Scully, I'd like to take a look in his box for 1973," Mulder added.

"That's all right with me, Mulder. I won't feel deprived if I
miss digging through years of National Enquirer articles."

"Mr. Smith," Mulder called, "Can you give us directions to
your neighbor's places?"

Scully wrote them down in detail and started to put on her
coat and gloves.

"Excuse me, sir," Zeb protested mildly, "You're not going to
let her go alone, are you?"

Both the question and its phraseology screamed out to Mulder
that here was a man who hadn't dealt with women since 1962. Zeb was
lucky that his partner subscribed to the pragmatic approach, and
didn't let herself get distracted by the politics of language.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't?" Scully asked reasonably.

"It's awful lonely out here, and things are so far apart. I
hate to think of a little city lady out there alone. What if you have
car trouble?"

Scully smiled, reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out
her cell phone.

"I'm covered," she said.

Zeb stood and chewed his lower lip, looking unconvinced.

"Don't worry. She's a trained agent. She knows how to take
care of herself," Mulder added.

"Happy hunting," Scully said in farewell, as she left the
house.

It hadn't occurred to Mulder that there would be any danger in
visiting a ranch and asking about cattle mutilations. Now he felt a
nagging worry that he was missing something that made the occupation
dangerous in these circumstances.

"You don't happen to have any unemployed mercenaries living in
the woods around here, do you?" he asked half humorously.

"What? I don't understand," Zeb replied in a puzzled voice.

"Never mind. Let's talk about the night before the first body
was found. Did you see or hear anything unusual?"

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

Scully enjoyed the drive to the Bar J. The sun was high. The
snow on the mountain peaks dazzled her. They were not far from the
Continental Divide in Digger. This trip was already redeemed somewhat
in her eyes. Zeb was right--the neighbors were far apart here. She
took the correct turn and soon found herself on a paved driveway that
ran for about a mile up to an old ranch house. The drive had high
security chain link fencing along its entire length. Razor wire topped
it and signs warned that it carried an electric current. The only ways
into the ranch itself were through the house, or the large gate across
the adjacent driveway.

When she knocked the door was answered by an armed security
guard. He was young and had a marine style haircut. He gestured for
her to enter a small outer office.

"How can I help you, ma'am?"

"I'm Agent Scully, from the FBI, she answered, presenting her
badge. "I need to ask some questions about unexplained deaths in your
herds."

"Just a moment, I'll see if Dr. Anthony is free."

He left her in the anteroom and went into an adjoining room to
pick up a phone. There was a window between the rooms to allow him to
observe her while he talked. She noted that there was an
electromagnetic lock on the door leading into the ranch house proper.

"Dr. Anthony can see you for about fifteen minutes."

The guard punched in a four character code card to open the
door and led her into a living area furnished with overstuffed
couches, beautifully finished tables and stainless steel framed
chairs. Dr. Anthony entered almost immediately. She was a tall, rangy
woman of about sixty, whose long gray hair pulled back into a no
nonsense ponytail. She wore a jumpsuit which looked as though it would
be extremely practical in the laboratory. Her air was cordial but
preoccupied.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Anthony. I'm Dr. Dana Scully, from the
FBI. My partner and I are here to investigate a report of cattle
mutilations that may be attributable to a cult of some kind."

"Well at least you're not looking for little green men, like
our neighbor."

"I understand the sheriff's deputy, Bob Hansen, questioned you
at the time Mr. Smith reported his finding."

"It wasn't me personally. I've just arrived. I'm here to
oversee a special activity. The person whom I replaced, Dr. Francis
Howard, talked to the deputy."

"Since you've arrived have there been any incidents of
unexplained deaths among your animals, or the discovery of any corpses
with unusual features?

"No, there haven't. And I would have been informed. We keep
closer track than most ranchers of the whereabouts of each animal in
the herd. We have to due to the nature of our work. But you'll find
most serious ranchers keep pretty close tabs on their steers."

"I coudn't help noticing the high level of security you
maintain. Surely that isn't typical."

Dr. Anthony smiled and replied, "I'm sure you're familiar with
both international and domestic industrial espionage. There's more at
risk here than steak on the hoof. We develop breeding techniques,
processes, you understand. Our company is Bio-Gro. The equipment alone
here is worth millions of dollars. The real money is in the
intellectual property. Bio-gro has used money to accumulate an
unrivaled staff here, but other companies have money too. Enough to
buy someone's soul, much less their loyalty and whatever they could
steal from us."

"Is there a chance I could meet other workers here and
question them about anything they may have seen or heard?"

"Not without a warrant, Dr. Scully. You don't seem to realize
the scale of the investment involved here. No one should be given the
opportunity to earn that kind of money by simply sacrificing their
integrity."

Dr. Anthony stood up and Scully followed her back out the door
to the anteroom. From there the guard walked her back to her car.
Scully had seen the surveillance screens in the guard's area. She knew
that her progress down the drive was broadcast from a series of
cameras.

That will be a short report, Scully thought. She couldn't
conclude anything from the statements Dr. Anthony made except that
Bio-Gro believed that they had things thoroughly under control, and
they feared espionage far more that cults or aliens.

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

It was another long drive back past the Bar J to the Circle C,
but there was no traffic to distract her from the grandeur of the
scenery. The Circle C had a modest sign to mark the turn onto an
unpaved driveway. It circled to the left behind a stand of pines, so
that the house was not visible from the road.
Before her car had reached the ranch house two Rottweilers ran from a
large shed and stood at the gate in the fence. A hand painted sign
hung by the gate advising the visitor to honk his horn.

Scully honked briefly at half-minute intervals. The dogs bayed