snapped and a figure stepped out of the shadows and halted next to them. Georgette saw the tall, quiet boy who always covered his head in a dark hood and prayed in fluent, mellifluous Latin. Staring not at her but at the leader, he stood rooted. His eyes were those of a much older man, serious, steady, aware.
Georgette’s trance-like state popped like a soap bubble. Wrenching her wrist from the leader’s grasp, she stumbled away, lifted her skirts, and ran through the woods, back to the safety of little children singing hymns around the fire. Her face burned as with fever, and she couldn’t stop trembling.
In the forest, Stephen cursed violently, took a step closer to Robert, and raised his clenched fists, his face contorted. But Robert stood perfectly still, his eyes coldly contemptuous under his hood.
Stephen dropped his hands, spat on the ground and stomped away into the woods. If he had glanced behind him, he would have seen Robert drop weakly to his knees in the forest, place his palms together and bend his head in grateful prayer.
He removed his blanket and pack from the circle around Stephen and returned to his old group.
Georgette slept little that night, and when she did, she had nightmare after nightmare. The only fragment she could remember the next morning made her shudder. She was kneeling in the little church in her village and, when she raised her eyes to the beloved statue of Mother Mary in her blue gown, the hair that emerged from beneath the Madonna’s head covering suddenly seemed to move, as if in a breeze, and looking more closely, she thought she saw tiny little serpents hiding among the locks, unseen by the good Mother.
That day, and the ones after, Georgette’s spirits were heavy. The religious songs sounded like questions in her ears; the bread donated by enthusiastic villagers who heard the preaching of Prophet Stephen stuck in her throat. She took great care not to venture near the leader, staying near the back of the procession. And she avoided Patrice, shuddering at the thought of the girl’s rough worldliness about such matters. But she did try to thank the Abbé. Twice she saw him and walked in his direction, but he seemed to melt away into the crowd. Eventually, she understood that he was reluctant to talk with her and she left him alone.
She longed for the old prickly reassuring presence of Gregor, and sometimes spoke to him in her mind, telling him of the questions that tormented her, in a way she could never have done when he was alive. The terrible encounter in the forest was something she could not bring her mind close enough to think about.
From the beginning, there had been a worm of discomfort that occasionally made her uneasy. Now it gnawed at her constantly. Had she left home for Jesus or for her own glory? Was she guilty of abandoning her father and her beloved old priest, proclaiming in her vanity a higher purpose for her little life?
And was Gregor’s death only the beginning of her punishment?
Chapter Twelve
Georgette noticed, without really seeing, tall buildings and crowds of people in a town called Limoges. Her perception was disoriented, as if she had been spun in a circle until she no longer knew who or where she was. Her lips moved constantly as she prayed the same Latin prayers over and over again.
Limoges marked the point at which the trees began to thin out and, for the first time, hot weather became a problem. The travellers felt as if they had emerged from a darkness to which they had grown accustomed into a bright light that burned their eyes. This southern part of France was different from any landscape they had seen before. The soil was so crumbly that they saw men working it alone without the help of neighbours or animals. But the dryness of the soil meant that the crops were thinly planted over large areas, and the land spread hot and wide between neighbours.
Now there was no easy source of meat as in the forests, and even though the boys
Georgette’s trance-like state popped like a soap bubble. Wrenching her wrist from the leader’s grasp, she stumbled away, lifted her skirts, and ran through the woods, back to the safety of little children singing hymns around the fire. Her face burned as with fever, and she couldn’t stop trembling.
In the forest, Stephen cursed violently, took a step closer to Robert, and raised his clenched fists, his face contorted. But Robert stood perfectly still, his eyes coldly contemptuous under his hood.
Stephen dropped his hands, spat on the ground and stomped away into the woods. If he had glanced behind him, he would have seen Robert drop weakly to his knees in the forest, place his palms together and bend his head in grateful prayer.
He removed his blanket and pack from the circle around Stephen and returned to his old group.
Georgette slept little that night, and when she did, she had nightmare after nightmare. The only fragment she could remember the next morning made her shudder. She was kneeling in the little church in her village and, when she raised her eyes to the beloved statue of Mother Mary in her blue gown, the hair that emerged from beneath the Madonna’s head covering suddenly seemed to move, as if in a breeze, and looking more closely, she thought she saw tiny little serpents hiding among the locks, unseen by the good Mother.
That day, and the ones after, Georgette’s spirits were heavy. The religious songs sounded like questions in her ears; the bread donated by enthusiastic villagers who heard the preaching of Prophet Stephen stuck in her throat. She took great care not to venture near the leader, staying near the back of the procession. And she avoided Patrice, shuddering at the thought of the girl’s rough worldliness about such matters. But she did try to thank the Abbé. Twice she saw him and walked in his direction, but he seemed to melt away into the crowd. Eventually, she understood that he was reluctant to talk with her and she left him alone.
She longed for the old prickly reassuring presence of Gregor, and sometimes spoke to him in her mind, telling him of the questions that tormented her, in a way she could never have done when he was alive. The terrible encounter in the forest was something she could not bring her mind close enough to think about.
From the beginning, there had been a worm of discomfort that occasionally made her uneasy. Now it gnawed at her constantly. Had she left home for Jesus or for her own glory? Was she guilty of abandoning her father and her beloved old priest, proclaiming in her vanity a higher purpose for her little life?
And was Gregor’s death only the beginning of her punishment?
Chapter Twelve
Georgette noticed, without really seeing, tall buildings and crowds of people in a town called Limoges. Her perception was disoriented, as if she had been spun in a circle until she no longer knew who or where she was. Her lips moved constantly as she prayed the same Latin prayers over and over again.
Limoges marked the point at which the trees began to thin out and, for the first time, hot weather became a problem. The travellers felt as if they had emerged from a darkness to which they had grown accustomed into a bright light that burned their eyes. This southern part of France was different from any landscape they had seen before. The soil was so crumbly that they saw men working it alone without the help of neighbours or animals. But the dryness of the soil meant that the crops were thinly planted over large areas, and the land spread hot and wide between neighbours.
Now there was no easy source of meat as in the forests, and even though the boys
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