way.
The snow was dull, loose as salt and heavy round the feet. All sound became condensed to crunching and slushing. Entering the forests black-green gloom closed over their heads. Through trees, thick, thin, tall, bare, evergreen and those purple with blight they moved in single file. Once somebody muttered protestingly, âWeâve been this way a dozen times already. Have a heart.â He was silenced with a sharp, âShut up.â
In a coma of faith Josephine pressed close to Molly Conway. Her mind had left her body and whispered of Acts of Hope. The ways of men had failed and He had pointed the way. At that moment she could have endured martyrdom, her mind floated in such exaltation. She knew without doubt that they were walking towards her child. Molly Conway! Molly Conway! What she had to spare from her singing soul went into planning rewards for the village changeling. She would visit her in her affliction, and when she was dead she would have Masses said for her soul. Benedict would lay aside a few quintals of fish for the purpose.
The changeling walked on, undisturbed in her own world. Compensation for undeveloped faculties was apparent in the decision of her lead. The frequent dilation of a fleshy nose indicated she was smelling her way. When they came to a grove too thick for penetration, she walked to where the trees were better spaced. The evergreens were wearisome in their sameness. Variation lay on the ground, in a dip, a rise, or a granite rock. Several times they crossed a clearing where the snow undulated like a frozen sea. Once they had to jump a river. Its banks looked solid, but as they paused for a leap their feet sank to the pull of an icy current. Their recoil lent a sharp impetus to their springs. Molly Conway landed with the flat slap of a dory, Josephine with the inspired lightness of her mind,while the men splashed with the weight of their boots.
The walk went on until there was a discernible change in Molly Conway. Raising her head and dilating her nostrils, she had the appearance of a horse in sight of its stable. The increased speed of her walk diffused a herd quiver of excitement. Breath quickened as they stumbled towards another clearing. Breaking through, Molly Conway stood back on her heels with a cessation of motion. All followed her example, stilled to wild anticipation.
The sergeantâs eyes raked the snow and then contracted in disappointment. The clearing was the same as many others. Snow, rolling away like the frozen waves of the sea. Scattered single trees stood out in black relief.
Molly Conway gave a long strange cry, the cry of a mute trying to make joy form on her lips. Dropping her immobility she crashed forward in a lop-sided run. For a moment they watched, bewildered by the inadequacy of their eyes. Josephineâs dry sob beseeched Heaven for sight.
Molly Conway was stumbling, hindered by snow that sustained her on one leg and broke under the other. In her grotesque lop-sided strain every step seemed to threaten her with a fall on her face. There was no impediment in her determination or the line of her direction, leaving as she stumbled holes and footprints in the snow. As if she gave them sharper sight they saw what they had missed.
âGlory be to God!â sobbed Josephine.
âChrist!â ejaculated Benedict.
âGood woman, good woman!â exulted the sergeant, congratulating himself and Molly Conway.
The wind had drifted the snow, cresting it in waves and leaving an illusion of unbroken undulation. When they saw their mistake they sprang as one body. Molly Conway was almost there! She curved, knelt in the snow, raising her hands in habitual hovering.
Following, they found a half-dome of snow, sheltering what was left of Mary Immaculate. She lay like a child dead in a shell. The change in her shattered Josephineâs exaltation, making her grovel on the ground.
âMary Immaculate, are you dead, are you dead?â
The
The snow was dull, loose as salt and heavy round the feet. All sound became condensed to crunching and slushing. Entering the forests black-green gloom closed over their heads. Through trees, thick, thin, tall, bare, evergreen and those purple with blight they moved in single file. Once somebody muttered protestingly, âWeâve been this way a dozen times already. Have a heart.â He was silenced with a sharp, âShut up.â
In a coma of faith Josephine pressed close to Molly Conway. Her mind had left her body and whispered of Acts of Hope. The ways of men had failed and He had pointed the way. At that moment she could have endured martyrdom, her mind floated in such exaltation. She knew without doubt that they were walking towards her child. Molly Conway! Molly Conway! What she had to spare from her singing soul went into planning rewards for the village changeling. She would visit her in her affliction, and when she was dead she would have Masses said for her soul. Benedict would lay aside a few quintals of fish for the purpose.
The changeling walked on, undisturbed in her own world. Compensation for undeveloped faculties was apparent in the decision of her lead. The frequent dilation of a fleshy nose indicated she was smelling her way. When they came to a grove too thick for penetration, she walked to where the trees were better spaced. The evergreens were wearisome in their sameness. Variation lay on the ground, in a dip, a rise, or a granite rock. Several times they crossed a clearing where the snow undulated like a frozen sea. Once they had to jump a river. Its banks looked solid, but as they paused for a leap their feet sank to the pull of an icy current. Their recoil lent a sharp impetus to their springs. Molly Conway landed with the flat slap of a dory, Josephine with the inspired lightness of her mind,while the men splashed with the weight of their boots.
The walk went on until there was a discernible change in Molly Conway. Raising her head and dilating her nostrils, she had the appearance of a horse in sight of its stable. The increased speed of her walk diffused a herd quiver of excitement. Breath quickened as they stumbled towards another clearing. Breaking through, Molly Conway stood back on her heels with a cessation of motion. All followed her example, stilled to wild anticipation.
The sergeantâs eyes raked the snow and then contracted in disappointment. The clearing was the same as many others. Snow, rolling away like the frozen waves of the sea. Scattered single trees stood out in black relief.
Molly Conway gave a long strange cry, the cry of a mute trying to make joy form on her lips. Dropping her immobility she crashed forward in a lop-sided run. For a moment they watched, bewildered by the inadequacy of their eyes. Josephineâs dry sob beseeched Heaven for sight.
Molly Conway was stumbling, hindered by snow that sustained her on one leg and broke under the other. In her grotesque lop-sided strain every step seemed to threaten her with a fall on her face. There was no impediment in her determination or the line of her direction, leaving as she stumbled holes and footprints in the snow. As if she gave them sharper sight they saw what they had missed.
âGlory be to God!â sobbed Josephine.
âChrist!â ejaculated Benedict.
âGood woman, good woman!â exulted the sergeant, congratulating himself and Molly Conway.
The wind had drifted the snow, cresting it in waves and leaving an illusion of unbroken undulation. When they saw their mistake they sprang as one body. Molly Conway was almost there! She curved, knelt in the snow, raising her hands in habitual hovering.
Following, they found a half-dome of snow, sheltering what was left of Mary Immaculate. She lay like a child dead in a shell. The change in her shattered Josephineâs exaltation, making her grovel on the ground.
âMary Immaculate, are you dead, are you dead?â
The
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