was clear who ‘the buggers’ were.”
Rachel’s father was still alive, in his fifties, but her mother was dead. “Just wore out, my dad says. But does he ever miss her. We all do.”
“I miss my dad, too. I was just hitting puberty when he died. It was like everything changed, you know, everything. Sometimes I wonder if I really remember him, or if it’s a fantasy I’ve constructed to take his place.”
“That’s what all memories are,” said Rachel. “They’re stories we tell ourselves to keep the past alive. I remember my mamma differently every day.”
“Wanna go for a swim?” said Miranda.
“Skinny dip?”
“Sure. It’s dark enough; and it’s cool enough that the mosquitoes are pretty well gone, and the water’s gonna feel warmer. Georgian Bay is notoriously cold, you know.”
They edged their way down the smooth stone to the rocks by the shore, stood up in the light of the moon, stripped off their shorts and tops, giggled like girls, and slipped out of their underwear. Each lowered herself carefully into the frigid water, quietly so as not to attract attention. They could hear voices and see several campfires glowing against the dark landscape, and the water rippled with dazzling striations of moonlight. They swam away from shore in companionable silence until they couldn’t make out what people were saying, then floated on their backs, sculling with fingers at their sides, so that only their faces and breasts and their toes broke the shimmering surface, and the rest of their bodies were swallowed in the impenetrable black of the water beneath them. Sometimes as they arched, their pubic hair caught tangles of moonlight, and in the cold their nipples stood proud. Each looked at the other sideways from time to time, lifting her head so that her body sank into the darkness, admiring the gleam of wet skin. After fifteen minutes or so, without exchanging a word, they began manoeuvring back to the rocky shore.
The air was cold when they stood up, but the smooth stone by the tent still glowed with the residual warmth of the sun. They lay down side by side on towels, shivering from the air, their backs warmed by the stone. Rachel reached over and clasped Miranda’s hand and together they stared into the depths of the night. The moon washed the sky clean of all but the most brilliant stars as it shone through a thin veneer of cloud covering. Tomorrow would be rain.
Shortly after midnight, the rain began, waking them both from sound sleep, beating on the tent fly in a sustained fusillade as wind whipped against the flimsy dome structure that had seemed snug and secure when they dowsed their flashlights and settled into their sleeping bags only hours before. They sat up together, surrounded by shuddering darkness and the crackling shriek of the thin yellow membrane that shielded them from the fury of the elements.
“Oh, my God!” Rachel shouted over the din. “We’re gonna be blown away.”
“Or the tent’s gonna tear into ribbons.”
“Or we’re going to float into the lake. My God, can you feel the water flowing beneath us? No wonder no one else pitched a tent here. Pine needles in a depression on the rock. Great place for a tent, you said. It’s a pool — we’re practically floating.”
“Look on the good side,” Miranda shouted. “It’s not leaking.”
“Not yet. Is it guaranteed?”
“It’s a North Face, guaranteed for a lifetime.”
“Against acts of God?”
“It’s in the fine print.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I’ve gotta pee, all this water swirling around — ”
“Pee in a cup.”
“We don’t have a cup. Kitchen gear’s outside, probably washed away. I’m gonna batten down the tent lines, anyway. Rather drown than be airborne.”
The words were swept from her mouth as she crawled across Rachel and unzipped the inner door, then extended her upper body out into the tiny vestibule and slid the zipper on the outer door open. The material flapped violently against her face as she crawled out into the wild night. She stood up, the wind and the rain beating against her, plastering her pyjamas instantly to her skin in a clammy embrace. Diffused moonlight filled the sheeting air with a sublime evanescence and the whitecaps on the sound rolled gloriously against the shore, smashing in waves of thunder. She stood tall, and felt her skin burn in the furious onslaught, and grinned, catching rain-laden wind in her teeth.
She leaned down and shouted into the tent, which Rachel had zipped tight behind her. “You gotta come out here! It’s beautiful.” The outer zipper lowered a palm’s width and fingers appeared in the slit, wiggling it wide enough for a voice to pass through.
“You’re nuts. No way.”
“Rachel, it’s magnificent. Come out here.”
Slowly, the zipper edged downwards, then with a sudden movement Rachel leaped from the tent, grabbed Miranda, and hugged her, shivering against the storm, shocked by her own audacity. Then she released her hold and they stood side by side, pyjamas drenched, facing the luminescent lake, addressing the storm with silent grace as it swarmed roaring around them. They looked at each other and grinned, water streaming over their features, disguising them as sea nymphs. Miranda reached for Rachel’s hand and clasped it in hers. It was a magical human moment in the midst of natural chaos.
When they began shivering too vigorously to endure, they gathered small boulders and placed them against the sides of the tent and on top of the pegs anchoring the guy lines. Miranda walked shyly to the side and as the wind whipped strings of rain against her she squatted and peed. Then they crawled back into the tent, pushed their sleeping bags into a corner while they stripped off their sopping pyjamas and dried off with beach towels. The floor of the tent was spongy from the water pooled underneath, but only damp; there was no seepage. Next, time, Miranda thought, I’ll bring a sleeping mat like the guy was trying to sell me.
Miranda tossed their wet pyjamas out into the vestibule and when she zipped up the door, there was a momentary hush in the storm, then it picked up with renewed fury. They wriggled into their clammy sleeping bags. Before either zipped up, Miranda leaned over and kissed Rachel on the lips. They held the embrace for a long time, then Miranda slipped back into her own space. Both of them knew this was a turning point — that somehow they were destined never to be more intimate than at this moment, and that morning would bring with it an enduring friendship. Miranda smiled to herself, feeling strangely relieved. She turned her head to look at her friend. The wind howled wildly outside and the rain rattled against the shuddering walls, and in the diffused light of the hidden moon she was surprised to see that Rachel had fallen asleep.
When they pulled up in front of the Beausoleil church, they were taken aback to find that Alexander’s van was not there. The front doors were locked but they walked around the side to go in through the sacristy. There was an imposing padlock on the sacristy door, but Miranda knew that a bit of a shake would open it. She had watched the pilgrims come in and out the back way, and clearly Alexander was content to provide them access, although he had explained on the phone that none had returned since not long after the discovery of Shelagh Hubbard in Sister Marie’s crypt. He was mildly complaining, since now he had to clean up after himself.
“They will be back,” he had assured her. “They’re waiting for the publicity to die down. The curiosity seekers and the desperate, false pilgrims, they’re gone for good. But the true believers, when they see my pictures again, they’ll realize their beloved saint is still here. Her burial niche was desecrated, but the entire building stands as a testament to her enduring presence as a mediator between them and their God. One or two will come, then more and more. The true pilgrims will come back, I’m sure of it.”
Miranda had listened, pleased by his confidence although perturbed by his proprietorial description of the frescoes as his. She agreed with the implication, in any case, that the pilgrims were the lifeblood of the place — the living manifestation of the story’s vitality, if not its veracity.
“Where do you think he is?” Rachel asked, gazing around from their vantage beside the open grave in the floor. “This place is eerie. It gives me the creeps.”
Miranda grimaced. This was where the altar would have been, she thought. Instead, there’s a hole. She followed Rachel’s gaze and saw a vast empty vault of grey stone and white plaster, with light washing through narrow windows, catching myriad dust motes hovering in the air. There was a strong smell of solvents, and a hint of
