Title: Condemned to Repeat It (Part 1 of 3 )

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: R (Language, Violence, 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, Jo-Anne Lassiter, Vicki Moseley, Rebecca 
Rusnak, Kipler, Analise, Nascent 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
like canine lunatics every time. After five minutes of this she leaned on
the horn. The ranch house door opened to reveal the barrel of a shotgun.
Then a stocky redheaded man in a quasi-military uniform warily emerged. He
kept the gun pointed at her as he approached. Scully got out of the car
keeping her hands within sight of the man, whom she assumed was Timothy
Hargity. 

        "Mr. Hargity, I'm an agent of the FBI. Let me show you my
identification". 

        "Oh, I believe you have ID from the FBI. What I want to see is
your carrying card from the U.N." 

        "I don't have any credentials from the U.N., Mr. Hargity." 

        "Yeah, right," he replied with a humorless smile. "Are you here to
measure the barrels on my shotguns?" 

        "No, I wanted to ask you if you've been having any problems
similar to your neighbor Mr. Smith. He's found six dead steers on his
property over the past year and a half. The bodies show signs of
purposeful mutilation. " 

        This answer appeared to surprise Hargity. He stood in silence for
several moments. 

        "I didn't think the feds wanted to call any attention to that kind
of thing. Zeb is right about some things. The UFO activity is real--it
just isn't aliens. But I can't keep track of it all. There are so many
parts to the conspiracy. How do you guys keep it all straight?" 

        He looked at Scully almost as if in genuine appeal for an
explanation. Scully thought that he and Mulder might have had an
interesting conversation. She thought she should stick to the subject.
Hargity was armed, and controversial topics might lead to unpredictable
behavior. 

        "Mr. Hargity we know the cattle died and something was done to the
bodies. My partner and I are interested in finding out the truth about
what happened to them." 

        "Boy do you work for the wrong organization! If you're telling me
the truth you better watch your backs. Your own people will stop you cold,
however they can." 

        "I don't think this is a matter that would get anyone in
Washington excited, Mr. Hargity." 

        "Washington! This conspiracy is global. It's all connected-The
U.N., the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Masons, SWAT teams,
Special Forces, multinational corporations, UPC codes to inventory all of
us...." 

        Scully shivered at his mention of the UPC code as part of the
conspiracy. He could have no idea of how personally disturbing she found
that thought. Her vivid memory of the supermarket bar code reader going
crazy when presented with Duane Barry's implanted chip was the prelude to
a time that had no memories for her. No conscious memories anyway. Not
that she wanted them. She hoped that they would stay decently confined
behind figurative cellar doors way down deep in her mind. What would be
Mr. Hargity's reaction if she told him he was right, that she herself had
been abducted by persons unknown? That they had done unspeakable things to
her and left her with terminal cancer. 

        "Are you OK, miss? 

        Scully focused on Hargity and found him looking at her with
concern. 

        "I'm fine. I'm just feeling the cold a little." 

        "I guess you can come in and warm up for a minute. You don't look
that dangerous. Besides you wouldn't make more than a mouthful for Moby
and Dick here," he added, with a gesture toward the eager dogs. 

        He unfastened the padlock on the gate with a key from his pocket.
After Scully entered he locked it behind her. She couldn't help thinking
what a perfect hostage she would make if Mr. Hargity turned out to be even
more unbalanced than he appeared. She hoped that the BATF wouldn't be
called, and that Skinner would direct the FBI rescue operation. 

        Mr. Hargity's house was small and well kept. Inside someone had
furnished it in a cozy and traditional fashion. The two dogs sat, alert
but peaceable, on each side of the front door. Hargity positioned himself
between Scully and the passage to the rear of the house. 

        "This is a comfortable place you've got here," Scully remarked. 

        "Yeah, my girlfriend, that is my ex-girlfriend, picked out the
furniture. This place is well stocked too. I've got an extra basement with
a year's worth of food and water filters," he said proudly. "And I've got
a few special items for bartering." He raised his eyebrows significantly. 

        Scully noticed a PC in the far corner of the room. 

        Hargity followed the direction of her glance and boasted "You have
to be on the Net these days to know what's going on. You wouldn't believe
how much forbidden information you can find out there." 

        Since her job sometimes required her to monitor sites like this,
she was well aware of the tons of misinformation e-mailed far and wide,
and linked to from other dubious sources. She walked over to the PC and
picked up some of the diskettes scattered in front of it.  The labels read
"Black Helicopters Over Hometown USA," "The New World Order in Your
Child's School," and "Your Guns: Use'em or Lose'em." If poor Timothy
Hargity had any sense, she was the last sort of person he should be
allowing into his defensible area. Maybe he had really been concerned for
her. Or maybe he was too lonely to resist sharing his expertise with a
seemingly harmless woman. Of course he might not be intending for her to
leave at all. 

         "I understand Deputy Hansen questioned you about the bodies, Mr.
Hargity." 

        "Yeah, old Bob is OK. He and Sheriff Reynolds know the people
around here. They haven't installed any SWAT teams in our county yet. Bob
came out and we talked through the fence. But as much suspicious stuff as
I've seen and heard about, I never found any dead animals that looked
peculiar. They just look picked over, depending on how long they been
laying out in the open." 

        Clearly he wished he had more inside information on this new
manifestation of the conspiracy. 

        "Have you ever seen unusual lights or activity in the area?" 

        Hargity shook his head vigorously. 

        "That's why I moved out here, you know. I like being solitary and
controlling what goes on around me. Heather couldn't stand it out here,
away from everything. That's my ex-girlfriend." Then he looked up at
Scully from his armchair with a sly smile. "Sometimes, though, I think I'd
like a woman to live here with me." 

        Scully held her breath, watching for him to telegraph a move, or
send a signal to the dogs. 

        She spoke to break the silence that followed. 

        "Your dogs are Moby and Dick. Are you a fan of the novel?" 

        "Yeah, that Captain Ahab was something, wasn't he? He went on and
on, no matter what other people said about him. Of course I guess they
were right--he was crazy. People call me crazy too." 

        Scully thought that this was not a good theme to explore. 

        "My father loved that novel. I used to call him Ahab, and he
called me Starbuck." 

        "Was your father a redhead like you?" 

        "He was then. His hair went white later." 

        "I guess us redheads have some things in common. Did you ever
think about living out in some lonely beautiful place with hardly any
people in it to ruin it?" he asked with a wistful air. 

        Scully thought a moment and answered, "No, I have family and a
partner who depends on me. I couldn't leave them. In fact my partner will
be expecting me back from your place any minute now." 

        "Well, if you ever change your mind be sure and give Tim Hargity a
call," he joked and signaled to the dogs to heel as he opened the door. 

        He escorted Scully back to her car and waved good-bye from behind
the fence. She stopped at the end of the drive and took several deep
breaths, feeling like Alice after the tea party. Had the drama been all in
her head? Probably. Tim Hargity was a crackpot who was all talk. Mulder's
suspicious nature had rubbed off on her. The bottom line was that she
still had nothing to report on the case they were investigating. 

        When she pulled up in front of Zeb's house, Mulder came out to
meet her looking even more enthused than when she had left. 

        "Guess what, Scully. Zeb's ranch hand found another body this
morning. You're just in time to come with us and see it." 

        Zeb came out of the house talking to a wiry, leather-skinned man
who appeared to be in his fifties. 

        "Miss Scully, Mr. Mulder, this is Jack Chambers, who's worked on
this ranch for twenty years. Jack says that steer was OK the day before
yesterday." 

        Jack nodded. 

        "We'll go out and see it and then you can decide what you want to
do," Zeb continued. 

        "What have you been doing with these bodies Mr. Smith?" Scully
asked. 

        "Deputy Hansen told me to burn them right away to avoid any chance
of disease spreading. I get Doc Sharp to incinerate them in his
crematorium." 

        "A doctor lets you dispose of barnyard animals in his
crematorium?" Scully inquired incredulously. 

        "No, no, he's a vet. He has the incinerator to get rid of animal
corpses that are infectious." 

        "A vet. Hmmm," Mulder murmured thoughtfully. "Does he do autopsies
on animals that die for some unknown reason?" 

        "I don't know. I think maybe he checked some dead coyotes for
poison once." 

        "Scully, let's see if he has the equipment and you can do an
autopsy on this steer." 

        She shook her head. "I'm not trained in animal pathology, Mulder.
And I'm sure the equipment wouldn't be adequate." 

        "Scully," he began, in that matter of fact tone that made the most
outrageous propositions sound judiciously reasoned. "We can send tissue
and fluids to the regional lab for analysis and you can take a quick look
inside for gross abnormalities." 

        A quick look indeed. Did Mulder have any idea what it would be
like trying to look inside a half a ton of steer? But the more she thought
about it, the fewer alternatives she saw. Maybe Doc Sharp would assist
her. Maybe she would require Mulder to assist also. 

        "All right, Mulder. We'll see what's available," she said
resignedly. 

        They all climbed into Jack's jeep and took an off-road drive that
felt just as rough and unsprung as it looked. Mulder anchored himself to
the side of the jeep with his left arm, but Scully bounced up and down
painfully between him and Zeb. Mulder encircled Scully's shoulders with
his long right arm and drew her close. 

        "Sorry about the rough ride, Scully," he said. 

        She relaxed against him and wondered if either of them were really
very sorry. 

        Mulder kept his arm around her a few seconds longer than strictly
necessary when they pulled up beside the steer carcass. They had reached
the far north boundary of Zeb's property. Fir trees grew sparsely in the
pasture, becoming more numerous toward the fence marking his property
line. Jack had come across the body while riding the fences. It was clear
that he wouldn't have had to be close enough to see it to know it was
there. 

        "Are you sure this animal was alive the day before yesterday?" 
Mulder asked skeptically. 

        Jack nodded. 

        "This looks--and smells--like it's been dead for at least a week,"
Scully agreed. 

        There were pieces of flesh, large and small, missing from the
carcass, particularly around the nose and underbelly. If a predator had
attacked, or a carrion species had fed, there should have been large
chunks of meat missing. The shallowness of the tears had been less obvious
in the photos. 

        "Have all the bodies shown this much decomposition in such a short
time?" Scully asked. 

        Except for Jack they were all covering their noses with
handkerchiefs and stepping away frequently to escape the stench of rotting
flesh. 

        Jack nodded again. He alone stood stoically, not turning away even
when the breeze changed direction and he was downwind of the corpse.
Mulder thought he must have watched too many Westerns with unflinching
laconic heroes. 

        "The temperature hasn't risen above forty degrees in the last two
days." Mulder remarked. "Could the body have been inside somewhere for
part of that time?" 

        "Where?" Zeb asked, gesturing at the miles of empty pastureland
around them. 

        The hard turf showed no tire tracks, not even their own. 

        "Zeb, can you get this body to Doc Sharp's place?" 

        "Sure, he's only half an hour's drive south from here. We got a
truck and lifting equipment. But I need to get hold of him first and let
him know we're coming." 

        "You can use my cell phone," Mulder said, offering it to Zeb. 
"Agent Scully will need to speak to him too, about doing an autopsy." 

        Mulder walked away from the animal carcass in widening concentric
circles, but found no suggestive debris or prints. 

        Ten minutes later Zeb and Scully walked out to him and reported on
their phone call. 

        "Doctor Sharp wasn't anxious to provide us with facilities.  Zeb
persuaded Sheriff Reynolds to call him and tell him to co-operate with us.
The Doctor still doesn't want us to do anything until he can be there and
that won't be until tomorrow morning. He's sitting up with a sick horse
tonight. " 

        "Why does that sound so much like saying he has to stay home and
wash his hair?" Mulder said shaking his head. 

        "Doc is going to let us use one of his outbuildings, and he said
Miss Scully can use his equipment, but he won't get involved in it. Miss
Scully says that means you'll have to help her with lifting and sawing
bones, since Doc doesn't have electric cutting tools," Zeb offered
enthusiastically. 

        Mulder paled slightly at this news. With all of the things he had
seen and done since re-opening the X-files, he still found it hard to
witness some of the most stomach churning moments during post- mortems.
He'd have to skip breakfast and make sure he had a clear path to the door
during this one. 

        "Zeb, can you and Jack and I stay out here tonight? I've seen too
much evidence disappear in these cases. You can go on back and interview
Deputy Hansen, Scully. And stay the night at the motor court. Three of us
will be enough here. Get directions to Doc Sharp's and you can meet us
there in the morning. Is that OK with you, Zeb?" 

        "This is pretty exciting, Mr. Mulder. Guarding the evidence.  Do
you think a UFO might land here tonight?" 

        "No, more likely a truck full of men in berets. This is just a
precaution." 

        Scully felt guilty about having a bed to sleep in tonight, and a
chance at getting dinner at the cafe. But she didn't really think this
vigil was necessary. She agreed to Mulder's plan. Jack drove her back to
ranch. There was no relief from the bone-shakingly rough ride this time.
When she arrived at their car, Scully saw that she would just have time to
make their appointment with Deputy Hansen. Dinner would have to be
forgotten. It was pitch black by the time she drove back into Digger. She
would never have made it without the detailed directions from Sheriff
Reynolds, which she consulted frequently by flashlight. 

        Deputy Hansen had been waiting five minutes when she entered the
office. He was not as heavy as the sheriff, but he was a big man. He had
light brown hair and grey eyes. His skin was reddened by exposure to sun
and wind. 

        "Good evening Deputy Hansen. I'm Agent Dana Scully. Sheriff
Reynolds has probably told you why we're here." 

        Deputy Hansen smiled back at her with a look of shrewd appraisal. 

        "Now don't take this personally, Agent Scully. I've got to tell
you that your presence here doesn't raise local opinion of the FBI. You
know, people haven't forgotten Ruby Ridge around here. They've heard
you're here to find a cult and are taking evidence from a UFO nut....you
know." He waved his hand dismissively. 

        "Yes, Mr. Hargity made it clear that there's a lot of doubt about
federal agents around here. He's got quite a diskette collection based on
our involvement in the New World Order conspiracy." 

        This observation appeared to shock Deputy Hansen considerably. 

        "He never let federal agents into his house! You can't be
serious." 

        "Well it was just me actually. My partner was interviewing Mr. 
Smith." 

        At this Deputy Hansen looked thoughtful. 

        "I still find that pretty hard to believe. So he let you in and
showed you around, hmmm?" Hansen said. "Did you find out anything relevant
to your investigation? I certainly didn't." 

        "He just seemed rather lonely. I thought maybe that's why he let
me in. He had no disturbances or cattle mutilations to report." 

        "That's probably because he doesn't have any cattle. He can't
afford to ranch. He owns the land but he has no capital. His income is
family handouts. It's sad, but he's not really the independent lone wolf
he likes to think he is." 

        "Tim told me that company that owns the Bar J made him an offer
for the ranch. I don't think he'll take it because he won't be able to
live with less than ten miles between him and every other living soul,"
Sheriff Reynolds volunteered. 

        "I also visited the Bar J, where they had plenty of cattle-- and
nothing to report," Scully informed him. 

        "Yeah, that outfit Bio-Gro. They got their own police force too.
They don't need us, do they, sheriff?" 

        The sheriff shook his head absentmindedly. 

        Scully continued, "Up until shortly before I left we hadn't come
up with anything. Then Mr. Smith's hand reported in. He found a dead steer
today with the same type of mutilations as before. We've made arrangements
for me to do an autopsy on the corpse at Doctor Sharp's tomorrow morning." 

        "What? FBI agents aren't qualified to do autopsies," he snapped.
"Sheriff, did you know about this nonsense?" 

        Sheriff Reynolds made a noncomittal noise. 

        "Well, it's only a steer, so anyone would have a right to dispose
of the corpse as they wished, with Mr. Smith's permission. As it happens,
I'm a doctor with a specialty in forensic medicine. I've taught the
subject at Quantico. Although I'm not well versed in animal pathology,
there are universal principles that can be applied. In addition, we plan
to send fluid and tissue samples to the Boise regional office," Scully
explained in her most authoritative, let's- have-no-nonsense doctor voice. 

        "I've never heard of such a thing. Autopsies on cows mutilated by
aliens," he snorted. 

        He wasn't laughing. He was angry but trying to appear calm. 

        Scully was suddenly very tired and hungry, and got up rather
abruptly to leave. 

        "I think I'll get back to my room for the night. Good night
Sheriff Reynolds, Deputy Hansen. Thank you for your help." 

        They both muttered good night. Reynolds barely seemed to register
her departure, while Hansen watched her out the door. 

        As she had feared the diner was closed. Scully had a long, cold,
dark drive back to the motor court. She missed her partner's
stream-of-consciousness smart aleck remarks more than she would have
predicted. By the time she arrived her blood sugar level had plunged so
low she was shaking. At the airport she had stocked up on a few chocolate
bars and thankfully ate one now. It wasn't good nutrition, but it was
comforting. It gave her the energy she needed to write up her field report
for that day. Then she washed and brushed and fell into bed. 

        The alarm woke her at seven and she proceeded to dress way down
for the messy ordeal ahead. Casual Day didn't begin to fulfill her
requirements. She needed a Wear and Burn outfit for this. She had just
dressed when she was surprised to hear another car pull into the otherwise
deserted parking area. She was alarmed to find it was the Sheriff's
vehicle parking beside their rental car. Her first thought was that Mulder
had come to grief during last night's camp out at Zeb's. What if someone,
or something, had attacked them? 

        Hansen left the sheriff's car and knelt behind the back wheels of
the rental. Scully ran outside and went to the passenger side of the car. 

        "Sheriff, is my partner all right?" 

        "As far as we know he is," Reynolds replied shortly. 

        "They're a match, Sheriff," Deputy Hansen called, with triumph in
his voice. 

        Sheriff Reynolds opened the car door and got out. 

        "Dana Scully, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of
Timothy Hargity..." the Sheriff began. Later Scully remembered that he had
duly Mirandized her. Events had taken her by total surprise and she was at
a loss to make sense of them. 

        "Bob, go check her room for guns." 

        Reynolds quickly patted her down, but she hadn't yet put on her
shoulder holster. 

        Fifteen minutes later the deputy appeared in the doorway with her
Smith and Wesson in a plastic bag. 

        "This is the only one I found." 

        "Sheriff you can't possibly think...." Scully started to speak. 

        "Timothy Hargity was shot in the head through the fence yesterday.
His dogs were shot the same way. I know he had to have died before the
dogs because he would have had time to shoot back otherwise. Then someone
cut the padlock on the gate and rifled his place. The gunshot wounds
indicate a weapon very much like yours. You're the last person known to
have seen him alive. I faxed a copy of fingerprints we lifted from the
diskettes inside his place to Boise and they came up with a match to
yours," Sheriff Reynolds interrupted. 

        "But I never denied being inside...." Scully tried again. 

        "I knew that claim was a lie when I first heard it. Hargity never
let anybody in. And there weren't any tire tracks over yours at his
place," Hansen said harshly. "I went out there last night to check out
your story, and that's when I found the body." 

        "Have you made the arrangements to do residue testing, and to send
my gun to the FBI regional office for ballistics tests?" Scully asked. 

        "Yep. It's going off to Boise as soon as I deputize a driver.  And
if they live up to their reputation for taking care of their own, they'll
have results for us in twenty four hours," the sheriff answered. 

        "How about my phone call?" 

        "You'll get one. Over the jail phone line." 

        "How about things I'll need in jail?" 

        "What kind of things?" 

        "Personal things, like toothpaste. Or do you provide it?" 

        "The truth is we don't have much use for our cells. They aren't
what I'd call state of the art. I guess you might as well get some things.
Deputy Hansen, supervise Agent Scully here while she gets some items from
her room." 

        Scully noticed that Hansen was not too concerned with what she put
in a plastic bag for her use. She slipped her field notebook into it. Last
night she had entered her notes in a more readable form into her laptop.
She wanted to be able to re-read them in the light of these new events,
and to record new observations. She asked Hansen to take her cell phone.
At least she would be able to inform Mulder when they released her. On the
ride back to Digger she sat in silence in the back of the sheriff's car
and tried to figure out what in the hell was going on. 

        When they arrived, the sheriff settled Scully at a table with a
phone. 

        "OK, make your phone call." 

        "I need the number for Dr. Sharp's veterinary clinic," Scully
informed them. 

        Deputy Hansen checked a slim telephone directory and wrote a
number down on a yellow pad. He pushed it wordlessly across the table at
Scully. She hoped that the group bringing the carcass to the clinic had
arrived. 

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


        Scully's call was answered by Doctor Sharp's receptionist, who put
the call through to Doctor Sharp's office. He aggrievedly sent one of his
employees out to find Mulder, who was supervising the transfer of the
overripe body to the shed provided. 

        "Agent Mulder, Doc says your partner is on the phone. She says
she's in jail in Digger." 

        "You must have misunderstood. She's at the jail for some reason." 

        The young man shrugged agreeably. 

        In the office Mulder picked up the phone and Doctor Sharp listened
curiously to his end of the conversation. 

        "What's your excuse, the alarm didn't go off?" 

        Then he listened for a long time, his smile fading, to be replaced
by puzzlement, then anger and frustration. 

        "Damn it, Scully, they must be out of their minds. Why would you
shoot him over evidence? That's just no motive at all." 

        He listened for moment with a look of exasperation. 

        "I know they don't have to have a motive but don't they want to
solve this case? Their perp isn't going to turn out to be an FBI agent
with a good record who suddenly snaps and blows a witness away for no
reason. They're wasting time detaining you, while he's getting all the
head start he needs. They better get off their...." 

        He was listening again with a set jaw and a determined glint in
his eye. 

        "Right, I'll get the machinery moving. Don't worry, we'll save the
corpse for you. I can't see you being in there more than twenty- four
hours. That is if you didn't do it. Those little talks we had about
keeping our tempers and refraining from wasting innocent bystanders have
been paying off, haven't they?" 

        He winced and held the phone slightly away from his ear. His smile
was back, but it had an edge. 

        Mulder then called everyone he could think of from A.D.  Skinner
on down through the head of the regional lab in Boise. Skinner said much
less than usual about how following proper procedures would prevent agents
from requiring the legal department so frequently. He seemed stunned to
find that a case handpicked by him to avoid controversy had resulted in
his most conscientious agent being locked in a county jail accused of
murder. The woman who directed the lab in Boise reassured Mulder that they
would speed their analysis up and that she did indeed understand how he
felt. His usual contacts on legal matters and patterns in rural homicides
were at a loss to explain what the sheriff might be thinking. They all
ended up hinting that there might simply be a lot of bitterness toward
federal officers in that area. 

        After the calls Mulder returned to the shed where the steer now
lay wrapped in a tarpaulin. He explained Scully's predicament to Zeb, who
expressed mild surprise at developments. 

        "You don't suppose she got scared and shot him in what she thought
was self-defense, do you Mr. Mulder?" 

        "No, not Scully. She wouldn't shoot him through a fence; she'd
take cover and call for back up. And if she did have to shoot someone,
she'd report it immediately." 

        "Mr. Mulder, I'm sorry but I can't wait all day. I've got to get
back to my ranch and it doesn't sound like we know when this autopsy might
happen." 

        Mulder considered his options. He didn't want to leave the body
unguarded, but he needed to have transportation. 

        "Zeb, I'm sorry to take you our of your way, but could you drop me
off at our motor court? I need to get the rental car." 

        "No problem, just another sixty miles of driving," he replied,
seeming eager to please. 

        Mulder looked at him sharply and realized he wasn't being
sarcastic--that kind of distance meant nothing to him. Nothing was close
to anything else in this country. 

        During the ride Mulder remembered to ask Zeb how he had sent his
original packet of photos and evidence to the FBI. 

        "I gave it to Aaron, my son, to mail in Idaho Falls. Our post
office service can be a little unchancy here." 

        Then he explained that Aaron worked the second shift as a police
office in Pocatello, and Mulder recorded the phone number where Aaron
could be reached. 

        When he reached the motor court he searched out the manager, who
looked as puffy and sleepy as he had the night they checked in. Mulder
convinced the man to let him into Scully's room, where he found the keys
to the rental car on the nightstand next to the bed. Good old Scully. He
was pretty sure that if he were arrested unexpectedly in the early morning
he wouldn't have the presence of mind to leave the keys to the car for his
partner. He'd probably take a couple of swings at the arresting officers
as well. He did a quick inspection for signs of a break-in to plant
evidence and found none. This whole charade must be sheer cussedness on
the part of the sheriff. He had to stay focused on the importance of
continuing their investigation. This was just an annoying distraction. 

        Mulder knew that he was being immature, but he couldn't help
enjoying, just a little, the thought of Scully cooling her heels in a jail
cell. Perhaps she would have more sympathy for him in the future if he
should happen to land in a similar situation again. Oh, he knew she had
spent time in a federal prison for refusing to answer a question during a
congressional investigation. But there was nothing like the indignities
and disorganized small miseries of a city or county lock- up to increase
your appreciation for freedom. He would bet that the next time she showed
up to bail him out, he would see understanding and commiseration on her
face instead of the slightly superior and long-suffering look he usually
got. 

        He took off for Doctor Sharp's clinic as fast as he could, pulling
up outside the shed about five minutes before Deputy Hansen arrived. He
was checking the door when the deputy accosted him. 

        "I took Agent Scully's statement this morning and heard that she
was meeting you here. We can't have potentially diseased animal carcasses
kept where they might be a danger." 

        "It's locked up safely." Mulder pointed out the padlock on the
door and patted his back pocket. "I'll be right here to make sure nobody's
exposed to anything." 

        "I thought you might be out working to get your partner cleared." 

        "Will you let me examine the murder site and the evidence you
collected? Can I go through your files for information on Hargity, to help
me identify who his real enemies were? Can I scan your records of all
homicides in this area for the last twenty years to look for patterns? 

        "You know I can't let you touch that stuff. You have a conflict of
interest." 

        "Then I'm better off letting the Boise office do their stuff. 
They won't have any trouble clearing her because she didn't do it." 

        "So you're going to sit here doing nothing while your partner sits
in jail?" 

        "Sometimes sitting and thinking is the path to enlightenment," 
Mulder deadpanned. 

        It might be, he thought. This would be one of the few instances
where he tried that approach. 

        "I need you to come into the town this afternoon and give us a
statement as a witness," Hansen persisted. 

        "Send someone out and I'll make a statement, but I'm not going to
leave here until this autopsy gets done. I talked to our legal people this
morning, and you can't prevent me from performing my duties. I'm not at
your disposal until you have a reason to jail me or I'm relieved. And to
be frank, the Assistant Director is not eager to send another agent out
here since he thinks you have such a flimsy case against Scully that it's
going to fall apart like wet toilet paper in the next twenty-four hours." 

        Hansen reddened in anger at this remark, but kept his temper in
check. He turned and walked away. 

        Too late Mulder hoped that outburst didn't sound like a dare to
Hansen. What was that all about anyway? It seemed as though Hansen was
trying to make him feel like a traitor for pursuing the investigation
instead of hanging around the jail and harassing the sheriff. Maybe the
Code of the West required that kind of primitive loyalty from a partner. 

        He went into the clinic and talked to Dr. Sharp, who stared in
disbelief when Mulder explained that he'd be there until Scully was
released from jail. The doctor grudgingly agreed to let him stay in the
clinic building that night. Mulder congratulated himself on his
comfortable stakeout. He would have a coffee maker, bathroom and light to
read by--all of the amenities. Then he called all of his contacts on
Scully's behalf again. When he judged that they had all been nagged almost
to the point of perversely wanting to obstruct her release, he knew it was
time to call it quits. 

        He offered a twenty to one of the high school boys who cleaned
stalls and exercised animals to keep an eye on the shed while he tried to
sleep a little. The previous freezing night on the ground in a sleeping
bag about ten yards from a putrid animal carcass had not included sleep at
all. He located a cot in a disused room and asked Jay to wake him before
he left for the day. When Jay came to get him he was surprised to find he
had slept the five hours until dark. For no extra consideration Jay
offered the rest of his lunch to Mulder. It consisted of an apple, banana
and cookies. They weren't very filling, but a lot better than nothing. 

        He prowled around a little, opening refrigerators hopefully and
browsing through waiting room magazines. Several refrigerators held
medicine and nasty specimens. One contained an advanced brand of animal
feed that was so glowingly described on its packaging that he started to
seriously consider eating it. The magazines featured articles on hunting,
fishing or animal diseases. Having exhausted the entertainment
possibilities of the clinic, Mulder resigned himself to his fate with a
sigh. He went out to the car and dug out Melissa's puzzling document. He
still thought Clifford Irving had nothing on Melissa Scully. 

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

        The flurry of interest in the convent, and Sister Catherine in
particular, subsided in the press of work. Sheep shearing and hay harvest
required almost continuous effort from the community. At St. Ursula's the
lay nuns and hired laborers did the heaviest, dirtiest jobs, but the rest
had to pitch in doing the everyday tasks. When this season ended Father
Martin and Sister Catherine made plans to return to their routine. 

        Father Martin showed up in sister's workroom in the late morning
of the Morrow of St. John the Baptist's feast

        "Are you ready to get back to Galen, Sister Catherine? You've
probably forgotten all you ever knew." 

        "Yes, I'll need your primer again to remember alpha, beta, chi,"
she agreed laughingly. 

        Her initial efforts at translation proved that the situation
wasn't that bad, but she had to interrupt Father Martin's reading several
times to ask the meaning of new idiomatic phrases. 

        "Father, this can't mean what I think it does!" She pointed in
feigned shock at the page. 

        Father Martin went over beside her and bent over the page.  Their
shoulders touched and Father Martin was dismayed to realize that his
thoughts and feelings about Sister Catherine were once more beyond the
boundaries. He couldn't take his eyes from her softly rounded cheeks and
full pink lips. He imagined how it would feel to touch her skin with his
fingertips. If he couldn't take her face in his hands and cover her lips
with his own, he felt he would die of longing where he stood. 

        "Well does it?" she inquired, cocking her head to look up into his
face. 

        "Yes, it does actually," he mumbled, and hurriedly walked over to
the other side of the room. He gazed out of the window, needing time to
regain his equilibrium. He paced up and down and thought about his
difficulty. 

        That day in the forest his view of her had changed irrevocably. 
It was like some trick pictures he had seen in Italy that played with
perspective. You might look at one of these puzzles in the same way for
years before you suddenly saw the other picture concealed by the artist.
Then you could never unsee it. Events had changed his perspective. When he
noticed his surroundings again, Sister Catherine was giving him a puzzled
look. 

        "Are you all right?" 

        "Yes, I'm fine. Just a sudden pain." 

         At her look of concern he added quickly, "It's gone now," and
gestured toward his chest. The bruise he had gotten there had long since
healed, but what would heal this deeper damage? For the rest of their
study time he was careful to keep the table between them, asking Sister
Catherine to slide the book across to him instead of standing beside her. 

        After supper that night he sat with Father Walter and thought
about his past ignorance of the emotions that ruled him now. He had always
laughed to himself over the extravagant songs about unrequited love his
mother had enjoyed at the great dinners they had attended. She liked to
sit and hold his hand as they listened, sometimes sharing a smile with him
at some particularly affecting part. Now, from the perspective of a
sufferer, he felt that the minstrels had understated the case. He also
understood enough to ask himself what those songs about Lancelot's and
Guinevere's agonies meant to his mother. They certainly had nothing to do
with his father. She barely acknowledged his existence by the time Father
Martin left for the University at Paris. 

        There had been a few women who had offered themselves to him at
the right time and place. He had given in to what he then regarded as sin.
Afterwards he confessed and never gave the incidents much more thought.
Reviewing his memories of these events, he thought he could seduce Sister
Catherine if he wished. She trusted him. That's what would make it
possible and impossible. He couldn't take advantage of her trust. Nor
could he bear to contemplate the shame and ridicule that would be heaped
on her if they were discovered to be lovers. The randy priest and
insatiable nun were two stock figures in comical tavern songs and bawdy
jokes. He already knew what it felt like to have your world come crashing
down around your ears. How could he inflict that on her? He would have to
improve his self-discipline. And look to the Bible, specifically the
strategy Onan employed, to strengthen his resolve. 

        "You either have a lot to think about tonight, Martin, or you are
very sleepy." 

        "I was just wondering how often they get lightning strikes around
here. Good night, Father." 

        Father Walter smiled at the curious reply and congratulated
himself on how well his assistant was doing. Father Martin no longer
seemed to brood about Rome and conspiracies. He had taken his place in the
routine of the church and town. One small worry crossed his mind when he
saw Father Martin and Sister Catherine together. Should he caution the
younger priest about the snares of the flesh in regard to their
association? There was something about their bond that bothered him. It
seemed too...elemental, as though it would override practical, even
spiritual considerations, if a conflict occurred. He couldn't imagine how
to put it into sensible words for a lecture. He would have to hope that
they were too smart and cared too much for each other to ruin their lives
for a fleeting gratification. 

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

        Two months later Father Martin was enjoying the soft warmth and
blue twilight of an August evening, as he swung down the lane that ran
from the outskirts of town through the outer fields, to the convent of St.
Ursula. Farmers and their families still worked side by side with their
hired labor in the fields. Only the oldest inhabitants of the town could
remember a harvest as bountiful as this one. 

        One of the workers hailed the priest as he passed. 

        "Father Martin, hey, stop over by here a minute." 

        When he strolled over to them he saw that one child of the group
had been sent speeding away. As he drew close he recognized Timothy and
his three middle sons. Farmer Timothy was a peasant, but he was also the
proud owner of a stone barn as well as four plow horses and enough pigs to
spare one for the rectory at Christmas time. His harrow with iron teeth
was the object of universal envy. 

        "Father, my Martha has a treat she wants to share with you and
Father Walter. She calls it a compotey, or some such thing. It's fruit she
dried and cooked, and then soaked in our own honey. Sometimes I think
Martha gets close to sinful pride in her cooking," Tim said, with a broad
smile that made light of the accusation. 

        Timothy was famous for his hives and the delicately flavored honey
his bees produced. His wife Martha regularly sent excellent dishes to the
rectory. Father Martin didn't object to waiting. They discussed the
unprecedented prospects for this year's harvest and exchanged hopes that
the weather would stay fair. Young John came racing back with a crock of
the promised compotey. 

        "Please thank your good wife for thinking of us. We've enjoyed
everything she's sent us from her kitchen." 

        Father Martin thanked him with unfeigned enthusiasm and continued
his walk. Harvest time was a period of feverish work for everyone, and he
had not been able to visit the convent for several days now. Sister
Catherine had no time for study. She was pressed into doing household
work. He justified his late visit by supposing that she would use the
evening for her reading or writing. Perhaps he could help. 

        When he arrived he went directly to her workroom. There he found
her at work over a fire and several steaming pots. The familiar room
looked different lit only by the light of the candles and firelight. There
were mysterious dark corners, and shadows jumped about the room as the
flames leaped up and subsided. The heat was oppressive. Sister Catherine
had wound her veil up around her head to allow the air to reach her face
and neck. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. Father Martin was
sharply reminded of the night they met. He could still see the scene, but
it looked so different to him now. Time had overlaid it with powerful
emotions and the infinite shadings of experience. 

        "Good evening, Father," she said in some surprise. "I've been too
busy during the days to do my own work, so I try to get something done in
the evening. What are you doing here?" 

        The truthful answer was "I wanted to see you." 

        He gave the prudent answer. 

        "I wanted to ask you to visit a woman of the parish. She feels
weak and is short of breath. She says she's not bleeding, but she's very
pale. Can we do something for her?" 

        "She probably needs better food. I'll come by tomorrow morning and
you can show me where she lives." 

        "I'll meet you at the church toward the end of Terce," Father
Martin said rather thickly through a mouthful of honeyed fruit. 

        "What are you eating?" 

        "Timothy's wife gave us a crock of sweets. Here, try some." 

        She hesitated, but answered, "I'm hungry and I know she's famous
for her cooking, but I have to get this done. It's so late." 

        It was very late for people used to rising with the sun and going
to bed soon after sundown. Their fatigue and the unfamiliarity of being
together in the evening added a dreamlike quality to the dusk. 

        "It's fruit soaked in Timothy's own honey," Father Martin said
wheedlingly. 

        Sister Catherine was in the process of raking out the ashes in
preparation for building a slower fire. She looked at her blackened hands
and shook her head. 

        "I can't stop now to wash my hands." 

        Without thinking he replied "Here, I'll feed you," and scooped up
a bite of the messy concoction. 

        Sister Catherine wordlessly opened her mouth and Father Martin
immediately realized his mistake. In thought he admonished himself, "You
can do this. It's just food." 

        Her open pink mouth dominated his attention, but he placed the bit
of fruit more or less inside it. She laughed at the messiness. Then she
stuck her tongue way out and licked her lips and chin where the honey was
smeared. 

        She opened her mouth for another bite. In his nervousness Father
Martin had gotten a bite that was dripping honey all over his fingers.
This time, to prevent too much dripping down her chin she licked his
fingertips when he placed the food in her mouth. Then she noticed a stray
trickle of honey rolling down his index finger on the palm side. She swept
the length of it with her tongue, seeming to enjoy the sensation. He could
not read her expression now.  She was turned inward, trying to interpret
some interior dilemma. 

        When she opened her mouth again Father Martin knew that something
awful was going to happen, but he couldn't stop now. He scooped up another
supremely messy bite and inserted it a little farther than before into her
mouth. He allowed the sensation of her warm wet tongue sliding like silk
across his fingers and the feel of her lips closing briefly around his
fingertips to overwhelm him. She swallowed. His arms went around her, with
as little thought as though he were extending them to catch himself during
a fall. He placed one hand on the back of her head to turn her face up to
his and pulled her close. Then he kissed her as he had imagined a hundred
times. Reality was much more compelling. He was both wildly elated and
frightened when she opened her mouth to his kiss. His whole body ached for
more pressure, a closer embrace. 

        Sister Catherine had instinctively thrown her sooty hands out from
her sides to avoid dirtying Father Martin's clothes. For what seemed like
minutes she stood frozen, as lost in irresistible passion as he. Then she
forgot cleanliness and fiercely began pushing him away. She was breathing
fast ragged breaths to match his. She began to flush scarlet from her
collarbones to her forehead. 

        "Oh God! I'm so sorry! Why did I do that? Oh, Jesus," she gasped. 

        She stepped back to get farther away from him. The she hid her
face with her hands and tried to think. When she brought her hands down
and started speaking she looked away from Father Martin steadily, refusing
to meet his eyes. 

        "Something is the matter with me. I think something happened to me
when I was out the woods. Those men, they terrified me. I think they
spoiled me somehow, the way I feel. I can't control my feelings anymore. I
have feelings for you I didn't have before. How I think about you, it
changed after that. I don't understand how they did that, but I'm
spoiled." 

        "Sister, they ..." he began, with some relief. He could explain
his own change of heart and reassure her that she was not under some evil
influence. 

        "No, don't say anything," she interrupted him. "I can't bear to
hear what you think of me for leading you into this. I'm so ashamed.
Please believe me. I'll never do that to you again. Now, please, leave so
I can start to forget this."  She glanced over at the table."And take that
crock!" she added on a rising note of hysteria. 

        Father Martin hardly knew where he was in the jumble of his
emotions. Every time he tried to say something Sister Catherine said "No!"
in a louder, higher tone of voice. Although he hated to leave her like
this, he didn't want to make a public scene that would shame her.
Reluctantly he prepared to go. 

        "Good night, I'll see you tomorrow morning." 

        She heard that, and she looked directly at him. 

        "Remember, the woman I asked you to visit," he prompted gently. 

        "Yes, I'll be there. Good night." 
        
        Her voice had returned to its normal register, but her eyes were
staring off into some other reality again. After he left Sister stood in
the middle of the room trembling, until the candles had sputtered out. She
was asking herself what had happened to her life since she had met the
priest from Rome, and been ruined in the woods. 

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

        The next morning Sister Catherine arrived at the rectory as
promised, with an impassive face firmly in place. When Father Martin
noticed that she cringed slightly if he came near her, he was careful to
keep his distance. As they walked he tried to open a conversation about
their disastrous encounter in her workroom. 

        "Sister, last night you said you were spoiled. There's nothing
wrong with you. Something happened between us, but it wasn't...." 

        "Father, we can't continue to work together if you insist on
referring to something which shames me to my soul," she retorted coldly. 

        He accepted her ultimatum against his better judgment. The threat
of being completely cut off from her quieted him. He hoped she dreaded
that prospect as much as he did. But deep down he was wounded that she
felt so dirtied and dishonored by her passion for him that she couldn't
even speak of it. The vehemence of her rejection added to his pain. 

        For the rest of the day it seemed as though they spoke written
lines to one another. 

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

        A month later Father Martin sat on the bed in his room and gazed
unseeingly at the books before him. After weeks of pretending to talk to
Sister Catherine and pretending to receive real responses from her, he
felt lonelier than he could ever remember feeling before.  Perhaps he had
been this isolated when he first came to Derby. Now there was a past time
of sweet companionship to contrast with his present solitude. Heaped on
that was his desire for physical solace, an ache that had not ceased since
that August evening. 

        As she always did, Alison knocked on his door to see if he needed
anything before she left for her lodgings. This time he hesitated before
answering, "No."  Sensing his uncertainty Alison advanced farther into the
room with an eager look. Putting a hand on each of his shoulders she
looked down at him. 

        "Are you sure there isn't some little thing I can do to make you
more comfortable?" 

        Father Martin gave in to his instincts. 

        "I, I've got a knot in my hose that I don't seem clever enough to
undo. I don't want to have to cut the laces," he almost stuttered. 

        Alison knelt down in front of him and lifted his tunic. The
evidence of his real need was clear to her immediately. She rested her
hands on his thigh while she slowly untied the laces on his hose-all of
which were innocent of knots. Then she moved her hand to his hard penis
and stroked it deliberately. He pulled her up onto him while he lay back
on the bed. She lifted her skirts and he struggled with his breeches.
Within seconds their bodies were locked together in silent convulsive
motion. They reached mutual satiety in minutes. She let herself fall on
top of him, and moved to kiss him. He realized he could not do so. Turning
his head away slightly, he placed her head on his chest, loosely embracing
her shoulders. 

        He already knew he had made a serious mistake. The feeling
reminded him of biting into a ripe whole pear and getting a mouthful of
earthy tasting mold. Alison didn't answer his needs in any way except the
most primitive. Her presence made him feel lonelier than before. She felt
wrong, sounded wrong, smelled wrong, here in his bed. What could he say to
her? 

        "You had me convinced for a long time that you weren't interested
in women, dear. But you're well made and more than ready to present arms.
We're good together. Maybe next time we'll be able to get all our clothes
off first," she said with a laugh. 

        Father Martin's depression deepened. Next time. What had he gotten
himself into? 

        "I'm afraid you'll have to go now," he told her. "I don't want
Father Walter to know." 

        He knew his words were ungracious, but he couldn't think of
anything else he wanted to say. 

        "Don't be foolish. I know he hired me because he thought I could
take care of all your needs." 

        Father Martin thought he would be surprised and annoyed by this
development. 

        "Nevertheless he wouldn't want a scandal. Since it's so late I'll
walk you back to Anne's." 

        He rolled Alison off gently and began to dress himself. She rose
from the bed and began straightening her own clothes. She had been with
many men who felt disgust after abandoning themselves to the mindless
indulgence of their lusts. Most preferred to feel disgust at her rather
than at themselves. She was the occasion of sin, in the flesh. She had to
admit that Father Martin concealed his aversion better than most, but her
disappointment went deep. She was not prepared to give up. Perhaps she
could do something to remove at least one obstacle between them. 

        "I'm sure Father Martin would be better pleased by you and me as
lovers than by you and the saintly Sister Catherine. I noticed all of
those long red hairs on your tunic after you supposedly ran into those
terrible men in the forest." 

        "They pulled her head back by her hair while they held a knife to
her throat," Father Martin explained. "I held her afterwards when she
cried." 

        He tried to speak in neutral tones, but his expression betrayed
the horror he felt when he visualized the scene again. 

        She accepted this explanation in silence and did not speak again
until he had seen her safely to the home where she boarded.  He had
confirmed her belief in a rival. Now she could form a plan. 

        "Good night, Father Martin," she said graciously. 

        To his relief the next day Alison treated him just as before.  He
stayed on his guard and avoided her company. 

        Shortly after that night, on the Eve of St. Jerome, Father Walter
received a letter from Bishop Thomas ordering him to welcome a
representative of the papal legate to his parish. The priest, a Monsignor
Dangelo, was to deliver a message from the pope at the Sunday Mass. The
monsignor would be staying at the manor of Baron Philip. 

        Father Walter was disappointed that Father Martin's strange fears
reappeared under these circumstances. He refused to meet the papal
representative and stayed away from the church during his sermon. He heard
about the event from Father Walter. By then Father Walter was more
disturbed by Monsignor Dangelo's message than his assistant's obsession
with hierarchical conspiracies. In fact, Father Walter had to admit that
the divisive and interfering nature of the message tended to reinforce,
not rebut, the young priest's accusations. 

        "He's got a face that's too girlish for my taste, and he's
young--probably younger than you. I'd have respected an experienced, less
aggressive spokesman more. He instructed the congregation to think about
it and then come to him at the manor house with any suspicions they had
about wrong doing by their neighbors. They were to ignore the position of
the person they charged--they would be protected even if it was the parish
priest! His actual words! Most people would do a lot better to keep their
blame for their own examination of conscience. They should mend their own
ways before worrying about their neighbor's conscience. There's too much
maliciousness and envy to allow secret accusations to be made." 

        This news confirmed every fear Father Martin had entertained in
the past year. He would be taken off at the instigation of some angry
parishioner and imprisoned until the crack of doom. 

        The arrest which actually took place stunned him and most of the
town as well. Four days after the Sunday sermon, Monsignor Dangelo sent
his men to the Convent of St. Ursula to arrest Sister Catherine for
witchcraft. 

        Dame Agnes sent for Father Walter immediately after this happened,
and Father Martin accompanied him without discussion. Dame Agnes was
worried, but confident that it was all a mistake that could be corrected.
The monsignor had told her that Joseph Thornapple had accused Sister
Catherine of causing his wife's death in childbed. According to him she
had advocated that he and his wife avoid childbearing by using magic
practices. When they had refused, she had taken revenge by causing his
wife to lose the baby and her life. 

        Father Martin winced at hearing the confused account. Sister
Catherine had tried to explain safe and unsafe times. They had interpreted
the explanation as a magic spell. He remembered the fight Sister Catherine
carried on to save Lettice's life a month ago. She battled the fever and
infection following the still birth for five days, barely taking time to
sleep or eat. He had been able to help some. She had explained to him what
to do and why in the remote voice she always used with him these days.
When it was over she had turned away from him with the stone face he saw
now when she grieved. She would never trust herself to take comfort from
him again. 
        
        The Church Court was making the accusation, but where the death
penalty might be the sentence, the King's justices made the final
decision. The Royal Court would sit in Baron Philip's territory within two
months. There would be time to look for other witnesses and to convince
Joseph to reconsider his accusation. In the meantime they made plans to
ensure that Sister Catherine would be safe in the prison cells of the
manor house. 

        "I've already sent Old Matthew with a cart load of things.  Wool
blankets, sheets and wood for a fire. Her room might have a fireplace,
mightn't it?" Dame Agnes asked, looking anxiously at Father Walter. "Some
nights are quite cold now. Every other day Matthew can deliver milk, eggs,
and bread, and every week I'll send wine, cheese, vegetables, fruit and a
chicken." 

        "I'll have someone visit the manor to ask after her every day,"
Father Walter reassured her. 

        "I'll do that," Father Martin volunteered. He was heartsick at the
thought of Sister Catherine in prison, but thought that daily contact
would bring him some peace of mind. "I can offer to hear her confession
and bring her communion." 

        His hopes were not entirely realized. The next day he made the
hour walk to the manor house and was admitted to see Sister Catherine.
They met in the outer room of the cell area. He was heartened to see that
she looked well enough. Of course one night would not make too much
difference, he reminded himself. His spirits were raised farther when he
found that she looked at him as she used to do. Her expression was open
and sympathetic to his feelings at seeing her here. She asked the guards
to step farther away so that she could make her confession. She had never
gone to confession to him before. Their close friendship would have made
it embarrassing. Now she only seemed anxious to talk to him. 

        "Father, I've been mean of spirit and uncharitable. I wronged a
good friend by punishing him for my own faults," she whispered hurriedly,
looking at him with worried eyes. 

        "Your sins are forgiven, Sister, if you committed any. What you've
confessed wasn't sinful. You were confused and needed time to think. Your
friend understands. There's no penance." he answered firmly. 

        Encouraged by his forgiveness, Sister Catherine went on talking
softly. 

        "Now I need to explain something to you Father, that you won't
like, but I hope you'll forgive this too. I won't accept any more visits
from you or Father Walter or anyone else. Anyone I'm close to is at risk
of being accused along with me." 

        "But the King's court won't sit for two months! We need to know
you're all right while we wait. We're sure you'll be found innocent, but
in the meantime...." His voice failed him at the look on her face. She was
scared to be here, but determined to avoid endangering anyone else. "We're
already working on challenging the testimony against you," he said
encouragingly. "I'll come every day and ask if you want to see me. If you
feel like you have to, you can refuse." He concealed his own dread at
being kept from her, to avoid burdening her further. 

        When he returned to the rectory Alison had already heard the news
about Sister Catherine. She wondered if it was too soon to renew her
attentions to Father Martin. In the rectory hallway she came up behind him
and bade him good day. When he didn't answer she walked around him and
looked at his face. She recoiled at the anguish she saw there. He scared
her because he looked like a man in hell. A man in hell might do anything
at all because he had nothing left to lose. She had better stay out of his
way. 

        For three weeks Father Martin walked every morning to the manor,
where the guards told him that Sister Catherine didn't wish to see anyone.
He inquired if she needed anything and heard every morning that all her
needs were met. Father Walter spoke frequently with Joseph Thornapple to
give him spiritual advice. Father Walter confided in Father Martin that
getting a new idea across to Joseph was like trying to stuff a pillowcase
with a wagon full of down. There just wasn't room for all of it. Still, he
thought he was shaking Joseph's conviction that deliberate harm had been
done to Lettice. 

        This was not enough for Father Martin, who felt that he must take
the ultimate step for Sister Catherine's sake. He feared the consequences,
but sent a letter to Edgar begging for his intervention in the case of a
nun from St. Ursula's Convent unjustly accused of witchcraft. He deferred
to Edgar's judgment on the question of whether force, bribery or threats
seemed most appropriate in resolving the situation. He shamelessly played
on Edgar's memories of favors done for him by Father Martin. Finally he
wrote that if all else failed he felt obligated to act as Sister
Catherine's champion in a trial by combat, no matter what the danger to
his own life. This was stretching truth to the breaking point, since there
had not been a trial by combat in this area for fifty years. He asked
Edgar to keep the request from both his and Edgar's father. 

        Was Edgar still the same ingenuous fellow he had grown up with?
Did he have the power to fulfill his request? This was the only way to
find out. He paid Young Matthew generously for undertaking the weeklong
trip to carry the letter to Exeter castle. Matthew was instructed to hand
the letter to no one but the Duke's son, Edgar.  Then Father Martin could
truly think of nothing more to do than wait.