Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(79)

“Peace be with you, Archdeacon,” she said.

“And also with you,” he returned. “Have you been well?”

“Yes, Archdeacon. I did not expect to see you today.”

“I have just come from discussions with the bishop. He is concerned that you are alone in this place.”

Joyce blinked in surprise, then said, “I didn’t think the bishop even knew my name.”

“He does,” the archdeacon assured her. “We have often spoken about you.”

“Yes, but I’m not alone. There are others. There are other brothers and sisters that work on the farm. We gather together and pray every morning before the wind. Many of them come here in the evening to eat the stew I sell.”

“It is good to have the community of other Penitents, that is true, but this is not the same as having someone to hold and cherish you.”

“Hold and cherish,” the words rolled through her. “But I...”

“We know the dangers you face,” the archdeacon told her.

“And the dangers faced by the entire community. You are without a guide.”

“That is true, but we know that we are not forgotten,” she assured the archdeacon.

“Indeed, you are not,” the archdeacon said. His usually grim visage was lit with a paternal smile. Joyce thought that this must be what it is like when the sun peeks through the clouds. “We have decided that you shall have permission to marry and we have a man that will make you a good husband.”

Joyce felt suddenly numb. She did not know what to say but her look must have said enough. The archdeacon said, “There is no need to worry, Sister. He is a fine man. I have picked him for you myself. He will come to see you tomorrow evening but I wanted to tell you today so that you could prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself?”

The archdeacon made an oddly indefinite motion with his hand that seemed to take in all of her. “Perhaps if you combed your hair and washed your face. He will value your earnest faith but if you showed some of your other fine qualities…”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Sister, you need only agree.”

“I knew this day would come,” she said, “but so soon? I don’t need a husband.”

“You need him more than you know and he needs a wife. He has been sent here as the local priest. He has no wife and it would be best if he married a local woman. You have courage and youth. You will make him a good wife. Please consider it. This marriage will be a great service to our cause and you may learn to love him.”

“I will be here tomorrow night. I have to be. If he comes to the tent, I will speak to him,” she assured the archdeacon.

“Excellent,” he said, satisfied that she had agreed to that much. “I will return to Vancouver with the news but I would like to travel with a full stomach. When will the stew be ready?”

Joyce smiled as earnestly as she could and told him. When the archdeacon walked away with a promise to return for dinner, Joyce went back to her cooking but now her hands were guided only by long habit. Her mind was elsewhere. A husband. She did not want any man, not those that the dowager would force upon her nor some stern protector hard as the nails he wore. Life offered her little enough freedom. Necessity dictated most everything she did. What would she have if she had a husband?

Would he make her give up what she had? As the stew simmered and she made meat pies, Joyce tried to think it through. The archdeacon was a stern but fair man. He might have chosen well for her. Perhaps she should be glad of it. It was a hard world. To have the help and comfort of another was no small thing. Still, she should be the one to choose. The choice should not be made for her. But if she turned her suitor away, what would that mean? Would it drive her out of the Convocation and leave her truly alone? Perhaps the dowager would win after all. That was the most bitter thought of all.

Most people had little choice. Women had least of all, but Joyce had fought for her place in the world. Her little empire might be no more than a stew pot and a table, but at least she owed it to no one and she ruled it alone. Alone. For better or for worse.

All day and into the night her thoughts ran in circles. She did her business in silence and she did not hear the honey voice of the hurdy-gurdy man as he sang. By the time the lanterns were turned down and the last customers shuffled from the tent, there was more resignation than resolution in her. She hung her pot from a line outside the tent, ready to be scoured by the grit of the morning wind, and then went to bed. Her troubles would not be as easily worn away.

By this time tomorrow she might be betrothed.

That thought was a poor pillow and, as Joyce curled up on her bedroll beneath the table, sleep was elusive. Her mind conjured up images of her intended. He would be serious and unbending. She had met enough of the priests and the deacons to know the type. They were harsh and joyless men with hard eyes, stalwart protectors but exacting masters. He would uncover her every fault and chastise her for each. There in the dark, she began to enumerate her sins and shortcomings, the chief of which was pride.

By dawn, sleep seemed further away than ever and it was time for prayers. Joyce rose to prepare herself. She needed the water ration for cooking and so scrubbed with pulped leaves, hidden from view beneath the coverings of her table. Then she pulled her hair back and tied it in place. Her smock was only slightly stained. It would do for another day. She pulled it on and dragged the coat over it. Thus prepared, Joyce crawled out into public view and straightened to stretch the soreness from her back.