Martin & Marcella

Thirteen

Their struggles were minimal for many days, and this was a great benefit to both the boy and the girl. During the times they were not training in arms or lying in wait in their camps across the land, Martin would take his sister to a secret place and supply the extra practice she was in need of. The two were aware that such support was not permitted; every man was expected to do his work alone. Yet Martin knew Marcella could not succeed as a warrior without assistance. It was by miracle that she had come thus far without giving away her true nature. He was not going to fail her by denying her the help she needed.

Ever harder they prepared themselves, strengthening not only their bodies but also their courage, for they sensed in the recesses of their hearts that She was not through following them. Neither would admit the trembling beyond their daily thoughts. Neither could bring themselves to speak of Her. Yet both knew that She was not gone from their lives. She was still searching for them, and She always would be. For they could delay Her, but they could not cease Her quest.

During a biology lesson almost a week after Joel's encounter with the vision in the hallway, the boy was summoned out of class to speak with Fr. Kavanaugh. It was another student who came to pull him from the room--a senior with a special permission slip that only the science professor saw. Joel saw his teacher mouth the name of the priest, then rose from his seat as he was pointed to and asked to take his belongings with him. He followed the senior out of the room.

Once in the quiet hall, Joel asked what he wanted to know. "Why does Fr. Kavanaugh want to see me?"

Rather than act phased at the fact that Joel had known where he was being taken, the senior shrugged. "I don't know. He's teaching class this hour. He just asked me to come get you."

"You're in his class?"

"Sure am."

Joel was filled with a sudden wonder. "What's he like? As a teacher, I mean."

The senior shrugged again. "I think he's great. Depends on what you're looking for in a teacher, I suppose. Doesn't give much homework, but when he does, it's heavy. You'd be surprised . . . the things he comes up with. Just last month he had us doing a thesis on the impact of immigration on the modern Christian faith. He can get pretty tough, but he's great to listen to in class. You don't get bored so easily."

"Why would he want to talk to me in the middle of your lesson?"

"That, I don't know."

They carried on in silence a ways, moving quickly through the halls of in-session classes, heading toward the upperclassmen's halls. Little was different in this part of the school, except that the boys in the rooms looked a bit older. Also, the pennants and banners on the walls in full display were from championships of past St. Raphael's classes. Academic Honors from years ago, athletics awards from graduated students. Something about seeing those displays made Joel feel a sudden emptiness about his own area of the building, which held far fewer decorations.

A thought struck him. "What are you studying in Fr. Kavanaugh's class?"

"The Romanticists. He's having us do stuff with art. He's into tying art and music and literature with the historical aspects of things."

Immediately, Joel felt a sickening desire to turn around and return to his biology class. Fr. Kavanaugh was talking about artists in the same time period as Etienne Barcleaux, the Frenchman who built the statues of--

"Here," the senior was saying, and before Joel could run, he had been ushered into the classroom and come under the gaze of Fr. Kavanaugh. There was no way out now.