Young Warriors (24 page)

When the editors of this anthology approached Rosemary about doing a story, she immediately thought of the mythological Amazons. New research done in the Black Sea area (where her story is set) indicates that, oddly enough, the theories of the long-discredited anthropologist J. J. Bachofen may be a more accurate model of the culture of 5000 BCE than we ever thought possible: he theorized that the ancient world was run as a utopian matriarchy at one time. But in times of great catastrophe—such as a great flood—things always change. Rosemary knows a good story when she sees one. There's not much drama in perfection. But there's a great story to tell in a changing society, and in the young heroes who see the need for change.

ACTS OF FAITH

Lesley McBain

MY NAME IS BRIDGET RILEY.
I did not come here to waste away
and die.

Bridget bent her head, knees throbbing as she scrubbed the tiled floor furiously. Sodding nuns, working her worse than her ma had before she'd been sent away as a charity case. And they called this a school? Workhouse, more like.

Her auburn braid dipped low over her chest, swinging dangerously near the wet floor. Before she could toss it back over her shoulders, another young, roughened hand did it for her.

“Bridey,” her friend Maire said, “almost time for lights-out. Sister Fiona sent me to tell you. Punishment duty
again
?”

“Sodding Sister Margaret,” Bridget growled, sitting back on her heels and looking up.

Maire grimaced. Sister Margaret had called her narrow-boned face devilish when she did that; Bridget didn't think so. Maire was just smart, that was all.

Bridget studied her more intently. Her friend's blue eyes shone with a conspiratorial light she recognized. “All right, let's have it. You didn't come just to tell me it's almost time for lights-out.”

“Sister Fiona
did
send me, but . . . I heard her and Sister Maureen and Sister Cecily talking. There's a new girl in our room.” Maire looked down the long, dim, empty corridor. “Let's get your wash water dumped. Terrible heavy, this bucket is. Going to take two of us to carry it.” She winked.

“So it is,” Bridget agreed as she got up, stretching her aching back. She was fourteen. She felt forty. “Come on, then. Let's be about it.” She picked up the scrub brush and stuck it into her deep apron pocket. “Wouldn't want to be late for lights-out, would we now? Jerry might get us. Or the Brits.”

The two girls lugged the sloshing bucket to the main building's back door. Only knowing the hallway by heart kept them from tripping; the knowledge had been paid for in bruises.

As they eased open the door, a sliver of moon greeted them, along with the familiar smells of night air and peat smoke. The Irish city was battened down for the night. With coal rationed—along with everything else—peat was what made the trains run. When the trains ran, that was. Rationing had taken its toll . . . even on
tea.

“The name they're giving her is Anne Smith,” Maire whispered as the two walked a little way down the alley behind the main building to dump the dirty water into the convent school's tiny garden. “But Sister Maureen was telling Sister Cecily it's not her real name. And that she'd have to be taught the prayers.”

“What, is she a bloody Protestant?” Bridget asked in surprise.

“Shhh, not so loud!” Maire stopped. As the two upended the bucket, taking care not to muddy their shoes, she whispered, “She's from abroad. The nuns are hiding her.”

Bridget shook her head. “I don't believe you.”

“ 'Tis true, Bridey. When have I ever lied to you?”

Bridget paused. Maire never lied, but she had a fey, fanciful streak to go with all her book learning, so Bridget took everything her friend said with a grain of salt.

“Sister Margaret wouldn't allow it. She'd rather see Hitler win the war than the bloody Brits.”

“Sister Fiona said what Sister Margaret didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Sister Maureen and Sister Cecily agreed.”

“Have they gone daft?”

Maire shrugged. “Sister Fiona said other convents took in refugees. I think those were Catholic girls, though. She said it was a holy cause.”

Bridget shook her head. “Grand. If they
are
breaking the law, we'll all be in gaol together soon. Not that we're not already.”

My real name is Miriam Cohen. I came here so I might live.

Miriam sat on the narrow bed, waiting for the other girls—her new roommates, Sister Fiona had told her as she'd whisked Miriam upstairs and down the hallway lined with closed doors.

There were no mirrors in the room. Sister Fiona had said there were mirrors aplenty in the shared lavatory down the hall. Just three beds with thin blankets, a small washbasin with stand tucked into the corner, and crucifixes hung over each cot. The Glimmer Man, Sister Fiona had explained, patrolled nightly, checking for blackout violations, so only candles were used at night. The lone candle burning on the washstand cast an eerie, flickering light. It made the crucifixes look almost as if they were sneering at Miriam.

She didn't mind the dark. And the spartan accommodations were a luxury compared to what she'd gone through to arrive here.

Shema Yisroel, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai ekhod,
she thought defiantly, staring at one crucifix.

I may have to hide here and pass as a Gentile, but I will not
forget who I am.

Miriam closed her eyes and remembered her mother's face: dark eyes, dark hair, new lines on her forehead . . . holding back tears as she kissed Miriam's cheek. “Go, my little Miriam. You speak English better than the rest of us. The money will get only one of us out, so it must be you. But don't worry, my darling. We will be together when the war is over . . . and you'll tell us of your travels.”

Miriam prayed her mother's words would come true, even though part of her knew her mother had been lying. She was the oldest daughter—fourteen, a woman already. Her mother had sent her away so that
one
Cohen female would survive to carry on.

She bit her lip. She couldn't, mustn't think of it. Even here in this so-called neutral Ireland. Sister Fiona had warned her only moments ago: “Our leader has said he'd turn Jews over to Germany,” she had whispered in Miriam's ear. “The government will imprison anyone threatening our neutrality. You must be careful . . . for
all
of our sakes.”

“Then why did you take me in?” Miriam had whispered furiously in return, unable to help herself.

Sister Fiona had reached out as if to hug her, then drawn back. “My child, we serve God, not the government.” She drew herself upright. “And though I'm a loyal Irishwoman and a loyal Catholic, I won't be consenting to what's going on in the world without a fight. Let them imprison me if they like. After all,” she said with an unexpected scapegrace smile, gesturing at their surroundings, “a gaol cell and a nun's cell aren't furnished that dissimilarly, are they now?”

Miriam shook her head at the recollection. Her name was Anne Smith, she recited silently. Her father's cousin was Sister Fiona. After her family died of influenza, she had remembered Sister Fiona and had made her way by bribes, by stowing away—at least
that
part was true enough—to this convent school.

The door creaked open. Two girls near Miriam's age stood in the doorway. One of them was tall, buxom even in her loose gray dress and apron, with red hair tied back in a braid. The other was small and pale, with wavy black hair escaping from her braid.

Miriam rose. Sweat ran down her back. The tall girl's shoulders and arms were broad and muscular. If Miriam had to fight, she'd have to cheat. She didn't reach for the knife hidden in her dress pocket. Yet.

The smaller girl smiled. “I'm Maire; this is Bridget. And you're the new girl?”

“Anne,” Miriam said, after a moment of deciphering the accent. “Pleased to meet you.”

Bridget didn't answer. Instead, she shut the door and walked to the bed closest to the window. She fished two candles and saucers out from under the mattress and set them on the nightstand, lighting the candles from the already burning candle. “The blackout curtains'll hide this.” Her contralto was melodious, and Miriam wished suddenly for her long-gone piano. “Let's have a proper look at you.”

Miriam brought her chin up. “Excuse me?” She pivoted to face Bridget. The innocent, sheltered girl she'd been was long gone. She'd seen things, done things—she pushed the thought aside to focus on Bridget.

The two stared at each other, not quite challenging.

“We haven't had a new girl for a while,” Maire said to appease them. “The war and all.”

“Sister Fiona saw us downstairs. She says you're kin to her.” Bridget's tone was neutral. Miriam didn't show her sudden fear. Was her cover story
that
flimsy? Or was Bridget just a bully?

“My father's cousin,” Miriam lied. She hadn't been told what the connection was that had brought her
here,
of all places. Sister Fiona's desire to help seemed sincere, but Miriam didn't dare trust sincerity very far.

“Ah, then you'll be Sister's pet,” Bridget said tonelessly, then sat down on her bed. “Maire, blow out the candles. The morrow'll come soon enough for me to see Sister's pet by daylight.”

“Good night,” Miriam ventured as Maire did Bridget's bidding. Neither girl answered.

O Brigid, hear me now, Maire prayed. Give me strength to fol
low your path.

She had been orphaned and taken in by the convent school last year. Her mother had believed in the
old
ways, not the Church's ways. So did she.

The bed to her left creaked. The new girl was restless. Maire wasn't surprised.

They try not to tell us of the world, but the world tells us
things.

One day, she would break free to see the world for herself. But where could a sixteen-year-old girl with no money or family, but more education than was good for a girl in the eyes of the world and the Church, go? While there was a war on, no less?

O Brigid, Maire prayed before sinking into her own restless sleep,
please, show me the way.

She dreamed of a featureless gray plain where she walked hand in hand with a tall woman wrapped in a blue cloak. Maire couldn't see the woman's face, but the long auburn hair streaming from under a white veil reminded her of her mother's hair.

“Where am I?” she asked softly.

The woman squeezed Maire's hand; the contact was reassuring. “No matter, my daughter. Look within, not without. See your way.”

“See my . . . I don't understand.”

The woman let go of her hand. “You have the Sight. See your way clear.” She gestured at the plain in front of them, then vanished abruptly.

Left alone, Maire turned in a circle to stare fearfully out at the plain. Then she shook herself.
Look within, whoever it
was said. So I'll look within.

She closed her eyes and stood very still, emptying her mind of thought. The image that surfaced in response was double: an old, tattered book, and a building filled with hurrying people that didn't look like anything she'd ever seen.

Just as she thought she could see the book's title clearly, a hand shook her. Her eyes opened wide.

“Time to get up, Maire.” It was Bridey; her auburn hair fell loose around her shoulders just as the woman's in the dream had, and Maire blinked.

Bridey. Brigid.

Goddess, if this was Your answer to my prayer, please let me
be worthy of interpreting it.

The ruler smashed across the backs of Bridget's hands. “Insolent girl!”

Bridget's back stiffened. She blinked hard, her gaze downcast, to keep the tears of pain from showing. Then she mentally damned Sister Margaret for a sodding cow.
She's no
true servant of God—just a bully in nun's clothing.

Silence was the only way to win. So she kept quiet, head bowed in apparent acquiescence. And eventually Sister Margaret sniffed. “Learned your lesson, have you then? Good.” With a swish of her habit, she turned away. “Lunchtime, girls.”

Bridget's hands hurt, but she forced herself to ignore the pain. Sister Margaret had taken the ruler to them before for the “insolence” of asking questions. The scars on Bridget's knuckles testified to that.

Maire and the new girl, Anne, caught up with her as they left the classroom and began the walk downstairs to the refectory. The other girls looked curiously at Anne. Inspecting her by daylight, Bridget saw a faint resemblance to Sister Fiona in the shape of the girl's dark brown eyes and wide mouth, enough to make the story passable. The girl's nose was larger and higher-arched than Sister Fiona's, and her wavy chestnut hair didn't resemble the dark hair Bridget had seen once when a wind gust had disarranged Sister Fiona's head-covering.

So much for Sister Margaret knowing everything,
Bridget thought in irreverent satisfaction.

“Are you all right?” Anne asked quietly.

“Fine, thank you.” The question surprised her, but she didn't let it show.

“Sister Margaret,” Maire said in an undertone, “has the heaviest hand with a ruler.”

Anne's dark eyes narrowed. Bridget recognized anger held in check—and suddenly began to like the girl despite herself.

“Thank you for telling me,” Anne said.

“Shhh,” Maire whispered. “No more now.”

They filed into the refectory in silence, took seats at the long trestle table, and bowed their heads. Sister Maureen— a round-faced, bright-eyed nun all the girls liked, even Bridget—presided over the table.

As Sister Maureen began to lead the pre-meal prayer, Bridget glanced surreptitiously at Anne, who sat between her and Maire at the end of the table farthest from the nun. The girl only mouthed the prayers. Her sign of the Cross was fumbled.

It's
true, Bridget thought in mingled excitement and wonder at the confirmation of Maire's information.
And if she
got
here, maybe she knows how to get
out
of here.

Miriam scrubbed the floor hard enough to wear away the tiles, out of pent-up frustration. Her fingers hurt from gripping the scrub brush. Backbreaking chores and rigid discipline she could stand; it was better than being dead. She bore the unceasing worry about her family silently.

The overwhelming dread of exposure had lessened to a muted, constant presence after several weeks of adapting to the environment. Maire—and Bridget, which had surprised Miriam—had coached her after lights-out on the words and gestures of the Catholics' prayer rituals. She knew the other two were bursting with curiosity but were smart enough not to ask questions. She appreciated it. Given that she'd grown to cautiously like them, she didn't want to lie to them more than she could help.