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Authors: Emma Donoghue
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your hearts. If ye be not pure and holy yet," she tells them, "ye will be like imperfect clay jars that explode in the furnace."
The next day the constables come back with another warrant. This time Hugh lets them in at once, to stop the noise of the pounding. They take away two more children, Thomas Bradley and his sister Mary, who is very weak and raves of goblins as the constables carry her out.
Then Katherine Gardner arrives with an angry knot of Nithsdalers and claims to be with child by Andrew Innes, at which there is a great groaning among the Buchanites. Hugh peers into the young man's face, but cannot decide whether the claim is true or a mere trick. Katherine Gardner demands that they deliver Andrew up to her, lest he die of hunger, and her baby have no father. Friend Mother, blank-faced, inclines her head at last. So the fellow goes off with Katherine and the constables, long-faced, in somebody's jacket that is too small for him.
Hugh suspects Andrew of feeling relieved; rescued. It is a sad fact that weakness lies like a maggot in the hearts of most of the Buchanites. Only Hugh loves Friend Mother as she should be loved.
The next day, when the constables bang on the doors of Buchan Ha, it is with a warrant to seek out
any corpses of man or woman or infant who might have been starved or otherwise foully put to death,
but though they search in every dusty corner of the building, they find nothing. Hugh stands with his fingers pressed together like a church. "See, there is no more death," he tells them; "now will ye not believe?"
That night when they are private together in the little room, Friend Mother touches Hugh but he is unmanned, soft as a child. He lies between her legs, his head pillowed on her thigh. The hairs are coarse as mountain grass. This is where he came from, Hugh thinks, dizzy with revelation. All life, all salvation comes out of this cave. A scent drifts up like sharp cheddar, like something baking.
"Take. Eat. This is my body," she whispers. "I am the Bread of Life, and he who eats this bread shall live forever." Her hand on his head. She gives him to feed.
One evening, Friend Mother comes into the long dim hall where the Buchanites lie in a waking sleep, too weak to brush away the flies that occasionally light on their faces. She claps her hands, and the sound is like gunshot. "Are ye ready?" she cries out. "Are ye prepared to be translated from flesh to spirit, as a word is translated from a foul gibberish into a holy tongue?"
They are startled, roused from torpor. Hugh stares up at her; she has given him no warning of this.
"Are ye ready for translation?"
"Aye!" they answer in a jagged chorus.
"But the forty days are not over," says Hugh confusedly.
She throws him an impatient look. "Christ's days are not measured like ours. I say again, are ye ready?"
"Aye!" goes the general roar.
"If ye are truly ready, Christ will come."
And suddenly Hugh knows it is true. The spark lights in his chest and flames up. He leads the roar: "Come, Christ!"
"Soon ye will be eating from the Tree of Paradise," she tells them, her voice almost singing.
"How soon?"
"Very soon. Watch and wait," she says, sitting down and lighting her pipe with composure.
Hugh sits at her feet, staring up at her, tense with excitement. "See," he whispers to the others, "Friend Mothers face shines with the glory of Christ." She is so sure, she is so radiant, how can he ever have doubted?
"Come, now," Friend Mother says at midnight, clapping her hands again to wake them. "Time to shed your trinkets. Ye won't need them on the journey."
There is a clattering like rain as the Buchanites fumble at their watches, rings, and lockets, hurling them onto the floor. John Gibson stamps on the crystal face of his grandfather's watch.
"Take your shoes off," she says now; "wear your old slippers for lightness, or bare feet would be best." On an impulse, Hugh runs over to the clothing chest. Time to put on his minister's gown,
The next day the constables come back with another warrant. This time Hugh lets them in at once, to stop the noise of the pounding. They take away two more children, Thomas Bradley and his sister Mary, who is very weak and raves of goblins as the constables carry her out.
Then Katherine Gardner arrives with an angry knot of Nithsdalers and claims to be with child by Andrew Innes, at which there is a great groaning among the Buchanites. Hugh peers into the young man's face, but cannot decide whether the claim is true or a mere trick. Katherine Gardner demands that they deliver Andrew up to her, lest he die of hunger, and her baby have no father. Friend Mother, blank-faced, inclines her head at last. So the fellow goes off with Katherine and the constables, long-faced, in somebody's jacket that is too small for him.
Hugh suspects Andrew of feeling relieved; rescued. It is a sad fact that weakness lies like a maggot in the hearts of most of the Buchanites. Only Hugh loves Friend Mother as she should be loved.
The next day, when the constables bang on the doors of Buchan Ha, it is with a warrant to seek out
any corpses of man or woman or infant who might have been starved or otherwise foully put to death,
but though they search in every dusty corner of the building, they find nothing. Hugh stands with his fingers pressed together like a church. "See, there is no more death," he tells them; "now will ye not believe?"
That night when they are private together in the little room, Friend Mother touches Hugh but he is unmanned, soft as a child. He lies between her legs, his head pillowed on her thigh. The hairs are coarse as mountain grass. This is where he came from, Hugh thinks, dizzy with revelation. All life, all salvation comes out of this cave. A scent drifts up like sharp cheddar, like something baking.
"Take. Eat. This is my body," she whispers. "I am the Bread of Life, and he who eats this bread shall live forever." Her hand on his head. She gives him to feed.
One evening, Friend Mother comes into the long dim hall where the Buchanites lie in a waking sleep, too weak to brush away the flies that occasionally light on their faces. She claps her hands, and the sound is like gunshot. "Are ye ready?" she cries out. "Are ye prepared to be translated from flesh to spirit, as a word is translated from a foul gibberish into a holy tongue?"
They are startled, roused from torpor. Hugh stares up at her; she has given him no warning of this.
"Are ye ready for translation?"
"Aye!" they answer in a jagged chorus.
"But the forty days are not over," says Hugh confusedly.
She throws him an impatient look. "Christ's days are not measured like ours. I say again, are ye ready?"
"Aye!" goes the general roar.
"If ye are truly ready, Christ will come."
And suddenly Hugh knows it is true. The spark lights in his chest and flames up. He leads the roar: "Come, Christ!"
"Soon ye will be eating from the Tree of Paradise," she tells them, her voice almost singing.
"How soon?"
"Very soon. Watch and wait," she says, sitting down and lighting her pipe with composure.
Hugh sits at her feet, staring up at her, tense with excitement. "See," he whispers to the others, "Friend Mothers face shines with the glory of Christ." She is so sure, she is so radiant, how can he ever have doubted?
"Come, now," Friend Mother says at midnight, clapping her hands again to wake them. "Time to shed your trinkets. Ye won't need them on the journey."
There is a clattering like rain as the Buchanites fumble at their watches, rings, and lockets, hurling them onto the floor. John Gibson stamps on the crystal face of his grandfather's watch.
"Take your shoes off," she says now; "wear your old slippers for lightness, or bare feet would be best." On an impulse, Hugh runs over to the clothing chest. Time to put on his minister's gown,
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