Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino Page B

rambled through the town and the fields around it, becoming, day by day, a familiar figure to the village folk.
    The days warmed. Spring was taking hold for certain, the fields greening with crops, the forest shining with new leaves, the meadows bright with flowers. But Miriam paid little attention. Arms folded inside the sleeves of one of Charity's gowns, she kept her eyes on the ground as she wandered. Her mind was far away, searching for a path that would lead her to a certain large man.
    She had made some inquiries and had found that no one in the town knew him. Indeed, his accent had been of the north. She might have thought him a common wanderer, but for his hands: they were not those of a vagabond or a soldier. Something else . . .
    She was treated well by the people of the village. There was an openheartedness about them, and they seemed to forgive Miriam her dark looks and her scowls, but their kindness made the healer reflect bitterly upon the irony of her circumstances. Hunted, pursued, tormented for most of her adult life, she had come now to a place of love and safety. And she would have to leave. And it was not the Church that would drive her away: it was herself. Full now to the brim with impotent rage, she could not accept any haven, no matter how inviting.
    And it was indeed inviting. The village folk accepted her as family, and Charity treated her like a sister. Miriam had not been in town a week before the girl had taken her off to visit friends, relations, people who were dear to her. What time Charity had to herself, she spent with Miriam, trying in whatever way she could to lighten the cloud that hung over the healer.
    “Charity,” Miriam said once as the girl gleefully tugged at her sleeve. “I need to be alone.”
    “No, you don't,” said Charity, her blue eyes bright. “You've been alone too much. You need to play.”
    “Play? Dear God . . .”
    “Come on.”
    They gathered flowers for the statue of the Lady in the church. They listened to the roar of the river to the north of the town as it bounded over boulders and under the stone bridge. They climbed along the rocks of the foothills of the Aleser Mountains.
    There was a depth to Charity. Miriam had seen it before, but it manifested itself most strongly when the girl was engaged in frivolity. It was as though Charity had long ago realized how precious and transient her youth was and had determined that while she could, she would drain that cup, refill it, and drink again.
    But even in those hours Charity gave her, the obsession burned in the back of Miriam's mind. She wanted the man dead. She wanted him dead by her own hand. She wanted to feel the impact of sword on flesh, see the living man cleft by cold steel, and know it was her arm that guided the blade. Despite the townsfolk, despite Charity, Miriam's rage and anger drove her through the lengthening days.
    One morning, near the middle of April, Kay asked her gently if perhaps she brooded a little too much.
    She glared at him across the breakfast table. “What am I suppose to do, dammit? Laugh? Sing about it? Tra-la-la, I've been raped, and the man's off having a fine time.”
    Kay flushed with embarrassment. “I only meant to help.”
    Miriam caught herself and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Kay. I've no reason to be cruel to you.”
    “Maybe if you got your mind off it?”
    “Charity's been trying. I'm not sure I want my mind off it. Somehow, I'm going to kill him. That's what I want.”
    “I was thinking of some other distractions.”
    “What do you suggest?” She stared sullenly at the table.
    “Would you like to learn to read and write?”
    She lifted her eyes.
    Kay shrugged uncomfortably. “After Bishop Cranby, I can't blame you for having no great love for such as me. But—by Our Lady, Miriam, I'm a priest. I'm here to help. I'm supposed to bring aid and comfort.” His eyes were moist.
    She stared at him. “Why are you all doing this?” she demanded suddenly.