Crossing To Paradise by Kevin Crossley-Holland Page B

Tilda was talking metrical nonsense in a completely reasonable voice. In the darkness, someone sighed. Someone sniffed. And then, somewhere up on the pantiles, a monastery dove cooed promises. Gatty fell asleep.
    Gatty’s Welsh cob, Syndod, needed fitting out with a new set of shoes, and she needed a poultice for the weeping sore on her girth. She needed grooming. And seasoned and hardy as she was, Gatty’s own body needed repairs and remedies: for her constipation, fennel tea; and for her bleeding gums, the bitter smoke of aloe and myrrh heated over beechwood and sucked through a straw. What with time to marvel at the shining basilica, time to drowse and rise again as the monks and nuns sang the six offices (pilgrims were excused two o’clock Matins on the grounds that God required them to rest and recuperate), time to see the cross where Saint Bernard stood and preached the second great crusade, and time to hear how Coeur-de-Lion and Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had both come topray at Vézelay, time to resume reading and singing lessons, while Emrys and Snout practiced their fighting skills, time to eat, time to sleep, Gatty had no time at all to talk to moon-pale Aenor during the next two days, and she wasn’t altogether sorry about it.
    The novice’s shadow at the stable door; her thin arm pressing against Gatty’s arm on their way into Vespers; her unblinking gaze across the refectory table: These moments left a stone in Gatty’s heart. She didn’t know what to do.
    At the Easter feast, the nuns and pilgrims ended their long Lenten fast. First they ate cheese and eggs.
    â€œBe wary how much you eat,” Lady Gwyneth counseled Gatty, Nest and Tilda. “Forty-six days! It’s a long time since your stomachs welcomed such a feast.”
    â€œMine didn’t last year,” Gatty said, and she pretended to throw up.
    â€œPlease, Gatty!” said Lady Gwyneth in a sharp voice, and she pursed her lips and frowned at her.
    â€œAnd now hare!” said Sister Hilda. “Caught three weeks ago. Right here, in the cloister.”
    â€œHow do you preserve it?” Lady Gwyneth asked.
    â€œI’ll spare you that,” the stout one said.
    â€œGo on, then!” Gatty urged her.
    Sister Hilda gave a grim smile. “Scalp it. Dig out its brains. Then fill its brain-box with salt. Sew the skin back on again, and hang it by the ears.”
    â€œUgh!” cried Nest, clutching her throat.
    â€œIt’s the only way to do it if you catch the beast during Lent,” Sister Hilda said.
    â€œAt Caldicot,” began Gatty, “where I used to live, there’s an Easter Hare in the manor house.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Sister Hilda asked.
    â€œNot like this,” said Gatty. “No one never sees him. He lays a nest of eggs…”
    â€œHares don’t lay eggs,” said Sister Hilda.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Lady Gwyneth asked.
    â€œAnd before that, we all go to Mass, and tell the story.”
    â€œWhat story?” asked Aenor.
    â€œThe Easter story, of course,” Gatty replied. “The three Marys and the angel and the soldiers and the stone. Everyone in the manor house has a part. Arthur—you don’t know him—he was a Roman soldier and on Easter morning he found out Jesus’s body had disappeared!
“ What? Gone? Not a sign? Not a trace?
Where’s the corpse that lay in this place?
…Er!…Um!…We’ll be in disgrace. ”
    Gatty frowned and clicked her tongue. “Er! Beast? Behest? No! I can’t remember the rest.”
    Gatty’s face was shining. She was more at Caldicot than Vézelay. More living than reliving.
    â€œI can see it,” said Aenor.
    â€œI can and all!” Gatty cried joyfully.
    On Easter afternoon, Gatty decided she must tell Lady Gwyneth about the conversation with the pale novice.
    â€œSo that’s where you