Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(82)

When they were done, he stood over her like a conquering hero all red-faced and expecting praise.

“I hate you,” she spat. Suddenly she was angry. All the pain and the fear and the guilt were gone in one white-hot flash. She was not to blame. She had always tried to do the right thing. She was humble, austere and generous as the deacons had taught her. All this grief was the doing of others. It had been done to her and one of her tormentors stood before her now. She picked up a stone and warned, “Get away from me.”

“It is okay,” the young man said. He had retrieved his hat and was wringing it in his hands. “I spoke to the others and they understand.”

“Understand what?” She threw the stone at him, missing by a good margin. She picked up two more. “Get away. You know how wrong that was. To hold me like that.” She let a second stone fly. This one found its mark, striking the young man on the left arm. It stung. He put a hand to the wounded spot and straightened, suddenly looking much sterner.

“This is not proper behavior.”

“Proper?” Joyce threw the other stone. “Proper?” She bent down and picked up additional ammunition. “I am a promised woman.” Another stone flew. “I told you that.” The next stone struck the middle of his chest. “And still you… you handled me.” She knew the others must surely be watching this scene as well but all care had been burned away by the rage. It was at least satisfying to see the stiffness go out of the young man as he retreated before the stoning. Beaten, he stood aside in silence at a safe distance as Joyce recovered her basket and stormed down the hill. The tears were back but there was something triumphant about them now.

If she was to be married, then so be it, but she would not be crushed by it. To be the wife of the priest was to hold a position of respect. She would have influence in the Convocation. Then that blond satyr would learn his place.

Safely back in the tent and bent over her table, that thought propelled Joyce Collingwood through the afternoon. She scarcely heard the hubbub of the other merchants as her cleaver fell again and again like judgment, true and resolute. Even the dowager passed unnoticed as Joyce poured all her energy into the production of another dog stew. She knew it was not right to dislike someone so. God was love even when he corrected his people in wrath. But she could not shake the feeling of his arm around her shoulder and the comforting pressure of his chest. It was not right for a man to embrace a woman like that unless they were joined by blood or vow. If the others had seen anything, they had seen that he had embraced her unasked. Then Joyce faltered. She had pressed herself into him, so very grateful to be held in a moment of despair. She had been complicit.

The realization struck her suddenly, the memory rising up without warning to extinguish her righteous fury. In that moment, the tent flap parted and a severe figure stepped through. Her heart sank.

There was no mistaking a priest of the Convocation Penitent. His bearing alone marked him, the iron collar and scourge of correction being mere confirmation. He took in the interior of the tent in a single, sweeping gaze before striding directly to where Joyce worked. This man was made of the same stuff as his collar and was as ancient as the hills. A lump formed in her throat as she watched him approach.

“You are Joyce Collingwood?” he asked, though it was not entirely a question. She was the only Penitent selling food in the tent and the only woman of her age in the local Convocation. He knew who she was.

“Yes,” she managed.

“I have come to discuss the arrangements for the wedding.”

Joyce could only lower her gaze and nod.

“Please, do not let me interrupt your work,” he said. “I will tell you how it is to be. You will be honoured to know that the bishop himself will be conducting the service.”

“Yes, Father,” Joyce said. There was a slight quaver in her voice. She was slicing onions and doing it badly. She sniffed. Her eyes watered.

“There is no need to fear this, child.”

Joyce looked up into the priest’s face. She wanted to tell him that she was not afraid, that it was only the onions that made her cry, but that was not true and she could not lie. Not to him. Especially not to him. She managed a weak nod.

“It will be a happy marriage,” he told her.

Joyce wanted to believe that with all her heart. No words could express how she felt.

“You think that because I am old, I have forgotten the ways of a young woman’s heart. I have not. I know what is in yours. I know that you are afraid now but I also know that in the years to come you will find that this is a good match.”

Joyce was finding it hard to breathe. Something had her by the throat and all she wanted to do was run. She kept her eyes on the work table, trying to think, but all thought and, indeed, all feeling seemed to have drained from her. All she managed was to mutter, “Water.”

“What was that, child?” the old priest asked.

“I need to get water to make the stew.”

“Ah. Perhaps I can help?”

“No,” she said, more forcefully than she intended, and the priest raised an eyebrow. Joyce cowered slightly and amended her tone. “I meant that I am used to getting it myself, Father. It will only take me a few minutes.”

“Of course, child.”

Joyce lifted two buckets from the table and started toward the flap.