The Devil in the Details

7. Holy Waters

After their spare breakfast, Isabel spent the morning meandering the forest south of where they had searched the previous day. On this day, though, her traveling companion was Reverend Ainsley.

Deirdre had woken that morning looking fit as a fiddle, if only a little sleepy-eyed, and Mother Ignatia had insisted that when they conducted their search that morning that she should be paired with the Surrey lass. None had protested, least of all the broadly smiling Deirdre. The young woman had taken to the tall nun in the sweetest sort of way.

So, Isabel had the chance to spend the morning with the good reverend. It was such a delight. Moorcroft Ainsley was kind, thoughtful, and learned, and he had this incomparable gift when it came to listening to her with the greatest care, giving her every question the sincerest regard.

What a heavenly man. She and Moorcroft whiled away the day, walking and talking, discussing all manner of things. They spoke of science, philosophy, and religion, and much of what he said soothed the worries and doubts that had grown inside Isabel these last months as they traveled in search of the Glaive, a holy relic that they had found and recovered in the distant north. Her time alone with him, brief few hours that they were, was a tonic to her.

And the things he told her! His every word was so simple yet so profound. They stilled her heart and left her feeling steady and grounded for the first time since she could remember.

"How could you possibly say that?" asked a shocked Isabel as she and the reverend rested at a clear spring. They were talking about her recent perilous adventures in Proxima Thule. "Isn't that your business?"

"Dear child, I didn't suggest that you not believe in the Walking God and his angels. All I'm saying is that you'd be well advised not to take religion too seriously."

The clergyman had a lovely accent, and he spoke with a buttery lisp that Isabel had come to identify with the minor gentry who wished to sound citified. It was elegant and learned at the same time.

"What's the difference?" she asked.

"Oh, the Church is such a feeble thing," said Moorcroft. "What chance does anything forged of mere man have of encompassing the divine?!" He lifted his battered right foot from the water of the pool and gave it a half-hearted look. "Trust your heart and the compassion of the Walking God in all things. He will speak to you, and you will know."

Such words thoroughly took her aback. The reverent was such a bookish man. He seemed to have a tract, tome, or treatise tucked in every pocket of his frock coat and britches. But several times she'd heard him speak of this world's deity, the Walking God, as if the god was the reverend's close personal friend and dearest intimate.

It wasn't like that with other clergymen that she'd met in this benighted land. The lovely nun, Mother Ignacia, was the closest that she so far had met. What tremendous companions they were.

"But how do I know whether any of the visions that I had on our trip were real?" she asked. "They felt that way then ... but the more I think of it, the more I'm certain Sir Alexis was right. I wasn't having any sort of prophetic visions this last month. It was just the aftereffects of my illness and the fever that came with it."

"Did you not say that many of the things you imagined later came to pass?" asked the clergyman with the greatest care.

"Yes ... but maybe those were just coincidence ... or déjà vu of some sort. Or maybe they were both. I don't know."

"Why do those thoughts trouble you so?" asked the reverend.

"I just ... I don't ...." She wasn't certain what to say. "I don't want to think that I'm going crazy."