Her eyes smarted; tears were close. But no, she would not cry! More urgent by far was to review that bizarre conversation, try to construct a footing, if not a foundation, upon which to base the talks sure to come. It was indeed true that northern England was the breeding ground of all kinds of peculiar religious sects, and clearly Father Dominus and his Children of Jesus fitted into that mould. Nothing he had said revealed a theology, but no doubt that would come, if he meant to write his beliefs down in the form of a religious text. His name for himself and the name he had given her smacked of Roman Catholicism, but he had denied that strenuously. Perhaps as a child he had been exposed to Papism? “Children of Jesus” had rather a puritanical ring; some of these sects were so heavily concentrated upon Jesus that God hardly ever got a mention, so perhaps there was some of that in it too. But were there actually any children? She had seen none, heard none. And what kind of cures did he practise? To speak of a swelling of the brain with such authority argued a medical background. And the statement about their being refugees was illogical; if he had taken his children from mill and factory owners, those men were more likely to seize upon new children than search for escapees. The source of children was almost limitless, so Argus said; having borne them, their parents were only too happy to sell them into labour, especially if they had no parishes.
“Hello?” said a little girl’s voice.
Mary lifted her head to see a small figure clad in a heath-brown, cowled robe staring at her through the bars of her cage.
“Hello,” said Mary, smiling.
The smile was returned. “I have something for you, Sister Mary. Father Dominus said you would be pleased.”
“I would be more pleased to know your name.”
“Sister Therese. I am the oldest of the girls.”
“Do you know the number of your years, Therese?”
“Thirteen.”
“And what do you have for me that will please me?”
The child didn’t look her age, but nor did she appear poorly nourished or weighed down by fear. When she attained full maturity her nose and chin would be too large for prettiness, but she had a certain charm of colouring, this being light brown of eye, skin and hair. Two small hands clasped a tripod stand which they put on the shelf; a kettle with steam curling out of its spout stood upon the ground next to her, and was lifted up in its turn. Then came a small china teapot, a cup and a saucer, and a little jug of milk.
“If you take the chimney off one of your lamps and put it under the stand, it will bring the kettle to the boil, and then you may make a pot of tea,” said Sister Therese, producing a tin of tea leaves. “Father Dominus says tea will do you no harm, but you are not to ask for coffee.”
“Therese, that is wonderful!” Mary cried, setting a lamp beneath the tripod and putting the kettle on its top. “Tea! So refreshing! Thank Father Dominus for me too, please.”
Therese turned to go. “I will be back later with your clean sheets, and will collect the kettle then. You can empty the leaves down the privy and keep the pot and stand.”
“Wait!” Mary called, but the little brown-robed girl was gone. “I will talk to her when she comes back,” she said, and went about making herself a much needed cup of tea.
Is this the carrot for the donkey? she asked herself as she sat sipping the scalding liquid. “Oh, this is so good! Father Dominus keeps an excellent sort of tea.”
Therese returned some time later; Mary gave her the kettle, but dallied about it, eager to learn what she could from this little member of the sect.
“How many children does Father have?” she asked, making a show of wiping the outside of the kettle.
The wide eyes looked into hers trustfully. “He says, fifty, Sister Mary. Thirty boys and twenty girls.” A shadow crossed her face, of grief or fear, but she squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath of resolution. “Yes, fifty.”
“Do you remember your bad master?”
Bewilderment! Sister Therese frowned. “No, but Father says that is usual. Brother Ignatius and I were the first, you see. We have been with Father a long time.”
“Do you like your life with Father?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, but automatically; it was not a question aroused emotion in her. “Please, may I have the kettle?”
Mary handed it over. Hasten slowly, she thought. I have a strong feeling that there will be more than enough time to quiz her.
Not a prisoner in the way she, Mary, was a prisoner, she was forced to conclude. Therese had the run of wherever they were, so much was sure. Nor was she inclined to escape. Her life seemed to be the only one she knew, which set Mary to wondering. Mill and factory owners didn’t enslave very young children, who were too much trouble; they might take on an eight-year-old, but Argus said nine or ten was the ideal age for a child to commence a life of unpaid labour, existing for the food scraps and sordid shelter offered in return. Therefore Therese should recollect a life before being rescued: why didn’t she?
The need for exercise had driven her to pacing her cell-four double steps encompassed its dimensions. By walking thus for what she judged to be at least two hours, Mary tired herself out sufficiently to sleep when her eyelids grew heavy. When she woke she ate-the bread was always fresh, she noted-and sat down with John Donne to pass this dreadful inertia.
Which didn’t last very long; Father Dominus appeared.
“Are you ready to start work?” he asked, seating himself.
“In return for the answers to some questions, yes.”
“Then ask.”
“Describe my situation when you took me more fully, Father. Where exactly was I? With whom was I?”
“I know not the identity of your captor,” he said readily, “but he was big enough to suffer from some glandular anomaly, I concluded.” He tittered. “He had a bellyache, and set you down to relieve it. I happened to be gathering medicinal herbs in the vicinity, and had Brother Jerome and our handcart with me-the water in a spring nearby is unique, and I intended to fill my jars there. But you were fitting, and any fool could see you were not epileptic by nature. Brother Jerome put you on the handcart and-away we went! That is all.”
“Are you a physician, Father?”
“No. I am a druggist-an apothecary. The finest in the world,” he announced in ringing tones. “I cannot cure epilepsy, but I can keep it in abeyance, and that is more than anyone else can say. Some of my children are epileptic, but I dose them and they do not fit. Just as some of my children have been riddled with worms, parasites, flukes. But no more! I can cure almost anything, and what I cannot cure I can keep controlled.”
“From what did Therese suffer?”
“Begin what, precisely?”
“The story of my life. The story of the Children of Jesus. The fruits of my labours as an apothecary.”
“I am sure I will be consumed with interest.”
“It matters not, Sister Mary. Your task is to take down my dictation with a pencil on this cheap paper,” he said, producting a thick wad of it that went down on the shelf with a faint clang.
“My pencils will blunt,” she said.
“And you would like a knife upon which to sharpen them, you imply. But I have a better idea, Sister Mary. Each day I will give you five sharpened pencils in exchange for blunted ones.”
“I would appreciate a shelf for the books,” she riposted. “This table is not overly large, Father, and I would like to move it closer to the bars to take dictation. Books should not lie on a floor to get damp and mildewy.”
“As you wish,” he said indifferently, watching her transfer the books to the ground and move the table closer to him.
“Is your new bible also an autobiography, then, Father?”
“Of course. Just as the Old Testament is the story of the doings of God among men, and the New Testament the story of the doings of Jesus among men, so the Bible of the Children of Jesus is the story of God’s younger son- I-among men and the children of men,” Father Dominus explained.
