PAST LIVES SERIES

• Languedoc and the Cathars


• Series Synopsis



• The Wandering Sea: Crusade


• The Garden House (COMING SOON)


• Remembered Sins: The Ritual


• Incarnations: A Listing of Souls



• eBooks by Marilyn M Schulz

Languedoc,
a brief history of the Cathars:

A religious sect known as Cathars (from a Greek term katharos, which means unpolluted or pure) are noted in Europe as early as the eleventh century, though where they came from or even how their sect started remains uncertain. In any case, the Catholic power hierarchy then debated whether the Cathars were really Christian at all.

Cathars, also called Albigenses as some were thought to be from the village of Albi, believed in Good and Evil. To them, earth itself was corrupt. Since salvation was in the heart and soul of each individual, only by giving up worldly possessions could a person ascend to their former state of angel and reside in Heaven again with God, the creator. Otherwise, a person was doomed to keep returning to their earthly existence, trying to become perfect again. . . and again. . . and again.

But they rejected the notion of a Catholic priesthood, dividing instead into ordinary believers and a reflective group known as the Perfecti. The Perfecti were thought to live an ascetic existence, denouncing ownership of worldly goods in order to be closer to God. To be Perfect was to be furthest on the path to final salvation.

Languedoc region of France

Cathars also considered men and women to be equals, a further divide with the Catholic Church, who did not allow women in the clergy and thought of women as daughters of Eve, and therefore responsible for man's fall from Eden. Cathars were non-violent and would not take oaths. Languedoc, where many Cathars settled, became known as a place of tolerance and culture, and by the thirteenth century, Catharism was quite prevalent in the region.

Cathars did not have a high opinion of Catholics, and by then the Catholic Church considered the sect to be the Great Heresy. In the early thirteenth century, Pope Innocent III excommunicates members of the sect and invoked Crusade against its followers. Cathars in Languedoc were attacked, their property confiscated, many imprisoned, tortured, hanged, even burned, all on the command of the Pope, whose orders were carried out by an Abbot turned warrior named Arnaud Amaury who is credited with the notion, "Kill them all. God will know his own."

This lead to further cleansing in the Catholic Church as well, the start of a concept that would become known as the Inquisitions. The Crusade against the Cathars lastest two generations, with France annexing much of the provincial lands of Languedoc. Hundreds of thousands of people in the region were exterminated along with the Cathars, including non-Cathars, Jews and other minorities too.

In 1244, the last of the Cathars were thought to be martyred at the Château of Montségur, where hundreds of the sect and their supporters surrendered and were collectively burned in a bonfire at the foot of the fortress mount. Some non-Cathar defenders of the stronghold were said to have been so moved by those of the Cathar faith that they joined them in their fate.

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An early Christian sect, known as the Cathari (the Pure Ones), believed the earth was corrupt and that by giving up earthly possessions, the soul could be redeemed and ascend into Heaven. If you did not become Perfect in this life, you would be given another until you could. But this was only one of the reasons the Holy Roman Church branded the movement heretical.

After decades of Crusade against them, in 1244, armies of the Pope allied with the French king laid siege to the fortress at Montségur in the Langue d'Oc region of what is now southern France.

The last remnants of the Cathar sect had taken refuge here, but the Cathari defenders were eventually forced to surrender. Hundreds of Cathars were burned alive in a bonfire at the foot of the fortress mount. Some of the non-Cathar defenders were said to have been so moved by their faith that they joined the Cathari in their fate.

Resemblance to anyone now-living with anyone long-dead is not coincidental. If the past is playing out once again, will it turn out better for the players this time. . . or the victims?

Genre: Historical Mystery/Suspense

Montsegur, photo by User:Gerbil from de.Wikipedia in August 2006

Crusade
Langue d'Oc region of southern France, circa 1243-44:

Renata, a healer, along with Cebille, her friend and helper, lead a small group of girls—who have been training in the use of herbal remedies—from a village near the coast through the mountains. They seek out their families who have already fled toward Montségur and shelter from the rampaging Crusaders. Unexpectedly, they are helped by a knight of the Crusade, Sir Simon, (on a secret quest of his own) and his brother, Perilla, a priest (who has doubts as to their eventual salvation).

The heroic Charlotte la Cordé, upon her trial, from painting 1793 by James Gillray (1757-1815)

The Garden House
A neighborhood on the river in southern Paris, 1794

Riada runs an apothecary shop in the midst of the French Revolution and the turmoil that comes after. But this city is old and holds many secrets.

The French Revolution is a confused and bloody time. Ideology fights religion, while others just try to survive. Accusations might be justified or not, but the guillotine is most unforgiving. Servants of nobility fare no better, and often are imprisoned, even killed just for being in the wrong place and time.

Oregon coastline looking south from Ecola State Park. Photo by Cacophony

Remembered Sins: The Perpetual Wandering
Carroll City, Oregon, mid-1970s

Detective Sergeant Susan Hannah is the first female police officer in this small city. It's only one of the changes happening here. But when a young woman staggers into a local clinic and dies, Susan discovers a series of rapes and a police cover-up that has gone on for years. But her progress is confused: She has too many suspects, including the cops themselves—all local boys she grew up with. Then there's the men of the local college, which happens to be a seminary with roots back to the old religion. The victims themselves are little help, but this whole case feels like. . . it has happened before. Rape is a crime of violence and power, not of passion, but what kind of secret could make a man sacrifice women on an altar like that?

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Cal Xandera, Angoustrine-Villeneuve-des-Escaldes, Pyrénées-Orientales,Languedoc-Roussillon (France)
Source: Toprural

THE WANDERING SEA: CRUSADE

The Herbal Gardens
   In the hills above the village of Beaux,
   near the River Aude,
   Langue d'Oc region of France,
   Late Summer, 1243

        Renata smiled fondly as the little girls wondered in the herb garden. There were seven, truly more than a handful, and much more interested in the flowers and the occasional butterfly than the healing properties of the plants. That was not unusual, these things still seemed magical to her as well.
        A large bumbling honey bee hovered in front of Abella's face. The little girl screamed and ran the other way. Abella was the youngest child, the smallest too, but she was also the smartest. What followed was inevitable: All the others did the same thing as Abella.
        One of the girls fell in the milieu, painfully twisting her knee. Jagged little rocks from the path were now embedded in the skin, and it was bleeding profusely. She was a brave little thing, Celine, daughter of the tanners on the far side of the village.
        It was a smelly trade, tanning, set aside from the normal bustle of the other merchants. The tanner's large family was so used to semi-isolation and constant taunting—Smelly Celly—none of them complained anymore.
        Renata rushed over and pushed up the little girl's hem to examine, then dabbed at the blood with her own apron. She called for someone to bring water, then she gently washed the wound and began to pry out the rocks. Celine muffled her cries, as the pain must have been fierce.
        Meanwhile, the little girls gathered around, fascinated.
        Renata tried to shame them away, but with no success at all.
        One pronounced sagely, "Letalis." Mortal.
        The little girls were learning Latin, partly in naming the plants, but also from other things. Bibles were only available to the clergy or the rich, but Latin was the language of the Gospels. It was not uncommon for the Credentes here to discuss those topics in a family setting, with girls as well as boys.
        Deals of trade was mostly verbal, sealed by oath in other places, but not around here. Most people in the area didn't take oaths. Writing and reading were more common ways of conducting their commerce instead. Hence, teaching and learning were treated as expectations, a form of respect and enlightenment, and therefore as gifts from God.
        Renata found that children were like drying-cloths: They soaked up many things from all around them—whether you wanted them too or not.
        Another little girl agreed that it would be the death of Celine, and that they would have to bury the girl in the nettles to keep the wild pigs from digging up the grave.
        But the others were not so sure. Nettles stung, after all. What would keep out the pigs would also hurt them in the digging. They decided she would not die after all, which would save them the trouble of burying her smelly corpse.
        One said, "Look at all the blood. It will ruin her dress."
        Another offered, "Will they have to cut off her leg like they did with my Uncle Gervais?"
        Her uncle from the north had been a Crusader in the Holy Land. Renata doubted that his wound had come from ministering or learning, more probably a consequence of combat.
        One said, "Her clothes will fit me—if she dies, I mean."
        The sentiment was all too hopeful. An argument then arose as to which of Celine's meager possessions would go to whom. It was a tragedy, their fellow student's impending doom, but the little girls saw no reason for the items to go to waste, particularly since she didn't have any younger sisters. All the clothes would need is a good washing, and didn't they all know how to do that as well?
        But it was enough to press the issue in the wounded girl's mind. Celine rose bravely and tried to walk, but could not. This would not do, harvest was coming soon enough, and everyone in the village had to help out.
        Renata said, "Girls, who can find me arnica and basil? We might as well learn something from this minor calamity Do not fear, Celine, it may not be mortal after all."
        Provided it didn't get infected. There were plenty of droppings from the animals that traveled up and down this path to the mountains here and villages further inland.
        The girls groaned, and some even seemed disappointed. But then Cebille, Renata's friend and helper, called them away to gather up what was needed. The young woman looked to Renata because she knew the danger too.
        Renata nodded and whispered under her breath, "Dei gratia."
        By the grace of God.
        Renata settled Celine back to the ground, then laid one hand on her forehead, the other on the little girl's hurt knee. She breathed deeply, evenly, and told Celine to do the same thing. In a moment, skin-to-skin contact grew overly warm.
        The little girl relaxed, then grew very sleepy. Renata stroked the child gently between her closed eyes with a thumb while her hands were still in place. Gradually, the little girl nodded off to sleep.
        Renata closed her eyes, the sounds of the girls arguing over leaves and stems versus flowers—prettier must be more healing—droned into a gentle buzzing like the honey bees. The whispered words came unbidden to her lips. Renata didn't know what they meant anyway. She had no understanding and no way of stopping it—they just came.
        Angel-speaking, her grandmother called it. It came on with the healing. Her father had it too, this gift, but he hadn't used it since he was a boy. It made most people uneasy, and worse.
        Devil's-tongue, others had called it instead. It was enough to get you burned as a witch. That's why Renata's father had stopped, and that's why she did this in secret.
        A deep tingling began, first at the top of her head, then washing down her body and out through her arms like she was lying down in warm bubbling water rushing over.
        Renata took a deep breath, then let it out with a great sense of joy. She knew that Celine was now healing, and felt herself laugh in gentle relief. It had always seemed like a miracle to her, but this feat was not uncommon for people from her father's village.
        But it was something that was not common knowledge, as many people were still superstitious, even here. Especially since the northern knights and Dominican Inquisitors had come to the region, and the Crusades had begun against the Perfecti and now the Credentes, the ordinary Believers, as well.
        In a moment, someone spoke quite near and quite loud: "Is she dead?"
        Of course, it was Abella. Renata opened her eyes.
        "No," said another. "I think she just fainted from the pain. She really is quite a baby."
        Celine woke then. The little girl blinked and slowly bent her hurt knee. It did not hurt so much, and the swelling was down. She didn't even flinch when the girls clumsily tended her wounds.
        When she rose, the little girl gingerly tested the limb. It seemed sound enough, and even the bruising was fading.
        Renata said, "Good, we can get on with our lessons." When she rose, her own knee was painful now. That was part of the healing, taking the other's pain. Cebille put a hand to her shoulder in silent sympathy, but the smile they shared between them was comforting.
        Few knew of this gift, Renata's mother and grandmother, and Cebille. As such, she could not usually explain her sudden pain or weakness, and many in the village mistook her for a weakling. It was a small price to pay for not being burned, but at least she was useful.
        The herb garden was nestled uphill between the cliffs and the village. Trees had been cut to build terraces into the hillside for the garden plots and so allowed for more mid-day sun with more heat and brightness than anywhere else. It made the garden here come to life earlier in the spring and stay warm longer in the autumn.
        It was perfect for the herbal garden that served the healing and culinary purposes of their entire village. Renata and her mother tended the plants, and now Cebille was here to help as well.
        Cebille was a widow, but had been a friend since Renata first came here as a child. Years ago, when Cebille left with her new husband to live in a nearby fishing village, they even passed letters via troubadours and traders who constantly went through.
        Now Cebille was back with her daughter, Abella, to live with her parents again, whose family trade had always been weavers. She was Renata's best friend, and Abella was the best in her class of all the little girls in the village who had been summoned to work in the gardens. It was an honor really, learning such a trade, but not everyone saw it that way.
        Healing was discouraged for women these days, given over to Holy Brothers instead. But there were few monks around here, they came and went sporadically. The village had a church with a bell, a gift from a liege-lord crusader long ago. But it held no regular priest as the village was poor and often the people did not pay their tithes anymore.
        Renata called the girls back to their work. Today, they were only weeding. In mid-day summer, the cliffs became too hot, so they had to finish up before long into the day. She heard the call of a falcon then, and shaded her eyes to the sun as she looked up to see the beautiful bird.
        If you climbed on some of the rocky crags behind them, you could see the river far down in the valley below. Climb high enough, and it got cooler up there, but Renata didn't know anyone who had done that, except Cebille when she was eleven or twelve. Cebille knew these cliffs like the back of her hand—she had always been more adventurous than Renata.
        There were vineyards and groves of olive trees and cypress here, and small fields of grain too. Most people had gardens, though with vegetables and herbs for seasoning, not many with healing herbs like these. This was quite the most lovely place that Renata could imagine. This village was her home now and had been for many years.
        Renata called to Cebille, "We need to gather pennyroyal and nettle."
        The little girls groaned. Pennyroyal discouraged fleas in their sleeping mats. Nettle had many uses once dried, though long sleeves and gloves or covering clothes were required in the picking. It was hot work on a good day, and this day was hotter than most.
        She couldn't blame them, but harvesting nettles was a necessary evil, and secretly, she was glad of all the help.
        Renata had come here when she was not much older than her charges now. She had learned herbal healing from her mother, who learned it from her mother before. They had been mountain people then, until her father died. His meager lands had been granted to him for his life, but not beyond—also his title, given for heroic service in the Holy Land, was now gone.
        Her mother had been granted leave to stay in the house for the rest of her life. It was a kindness, but the lands and income reverted back to their liege lord. With little income to upkeep and feed them, they had few options.
        Besides, Renata's grandmother did not take the high-mountain winters so well anymore, and so they returned here to her family's village instead. It was a lovely place that hadn't changed much in the generation since her mother had left. The whole area caught lovely warm winds sometimes from the wide mouth of the river and the great southern sea beyond.
        After a few years, her mother married a well-to-do man in the village and bore him a son and a daughter. The son died before becoming a man, and the father not long after that. They had great comfort here all the same, with friends and relations, and people of like mind. And a living from the herbal gardens above the orchards, which were all her stepfather's lands, but shared freely with the villagers, if they helped with the harvest.
        Giggling erupted, disrupting her thoughts and their work. The little girls had become distracted by some of the village cats who had discovered the catnip patch.
        Renata laughed, calling, "Come Cebille, help me round up the strays." She called them all to her—the little girls, not the cats—and started to explain about dandelions.
        "There are uses for all parts of the plants: the flowers, the roots, the leaves and stems. Each is part is different, like your fingers are all different from one another, and as they are from your toes."
        One of the girls added, "And your heads are different from your—"
        The little girls started to giggle uncontrollably.
        Renata spoke more loudly, "They must be collected and preserved separately, because each has a purpose—"
        Someone screamed.
        Nearby, but not one of these. Another bee? Another game? I really must get through these lessons, she thought. When harvest time comes to the valley and then here, there will be no more time.
        But more screams came, not the merrily-frightened cries of a child in summer, but these were frantic and severe.
        Cries and groans came from men as well.
        Pain, fear, desperation.
        Something was terribly wrong down in the village.
        They couldn't see from here, only the tops of some of the buildings scattered amongst the tree tops.
        Suddenly, the church bell began to toll.
        Renata said, "Cebille, continue with the lesson, I fear someone has gotten into the honey bees and needs some tending for the stings."
        She knew it was not true, but the lie was justified if it kept the little girls calm. After all, hadn't they just been scared the same way? Better to think of such innocent things than the rumors that had been running through the villages lately. Renata only heard them because she traveled in her healing, delivering poultices, unguents and pastilles.
        She mounted onto the mule and meant to make her way quickly down to the village, but she saw from the first bend and rise such a horrible sight, she had the aforethought to turn the beast aside.
        From shelter of a grove, she saw more soldiers ride by in a terrible frenzy. Their livery was not known to her, they were not from the houses of any lords around here. The orders thrown out by unknown commanders sounded foreign and hostile: They were from a northern language.
        She climbed into a tree, and from there saw that her village was being overrun by Crusaders. Women and children were being rounded up, men were killed wherever they might stand, or worse, even when they fell on their knees to beg for mercy or pray.
        Renata knew it was true then.
        The soldiers of the Pope and the French king had come to kill them. Heretics. That's what the invaders called the people here, and Renata knew that she would be accused of witchcraft too. No sword for her, not even hanging. They would listen to how she helped people in pain, then pronounce her evil for thwarting God's plan.
        Such balms were against ‘Deo favente,' God's favor. Suffering was a punishment that must be born as God's punishment for earthly sins.
        They would burn her, and maybe her mother and grandmother too. Maybe even Cebille, and worse, the little girls. Thought of harm to the little ones was too much to consider, but their potential screams came unbidden. She closed her eyes and pushed those horrible thoughts away.
        She had to do something.
        Renata made her way down the tree and back on the mule, then hurried back to the herb garden—back to the little girls. She called aside Cebille and told her the absolute truth. They agreed the least said about the reason was best for now, but they had to get the girls to safety.
        Cebille said, "Let us make it a sort of game then. Find a particular plant found only on the upward side of the cliffs. It will seem like reason enough to travel so far from here."
        Renata had only a moment to consider. "Yes, that would be well, shall we try it then? Perhaps it would be best if you were to say it, I fear my own voice is shaking."
        Cebille squeezed her hand tightly, then led the little girls away. As usual, there were stragglers, and Renata tried hard not to be frantic as she took up the rear.
        To her horror, but not unexpected, one or two of them began to ask questions:
        "What is that noise, are those people in pain? Should we not give them a tonic or something?"
        "I smell smoke, something is burning!"
        "I want to see Mama, she said to be home by the first bell, I have to help with the churning today."
        Renata didn't quite know what to say. She decided on the truth after all. "Some soldiers are attacking the village, we must hide until they go away."
        The little girls gathered around her.
        "Mama! Will Mama be all right?"
        "They will hurt my dog, I know it. And my brother, what of him?"
        "Papa well turn them away!"
        Renata and Cebille exchanged glances. Cebille moved over and spoke lowly, "We will never make it all the way to the top, I fear. I know a cave on the way. There is water near and berries from an old hermit's attempt at the Garden of Eden. His lean-to-hovel burnt down long ago, but there are still remnants of his farm and orchard. I have groats in my bag as well. We can stay there for a while, even days if we must."
        Renata agreed, but she said, "I must go back, see if I can help."
        Cebille cried, "No please. . ."
        But she knew it must be so, she wanted to know of her family and friends as well.
        They hugged, and Renata kissed each of the little girls, telling them they must be brave, and above all, be very quiet until she got back. Then she rode the mule back toward the village, taking care to stay in the cover of the trees on the sides of the path leading toward the village from the bottom of the herb garden.

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Rodez - Aveyron-France Photo prise par moi-meme (Alain Pauzies)

The Garden House: 2012

   A neighborhood on the river just south of Paris, France
   Late Summer, 1794

COMING SOON

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Cape Meares (aerial view) Source: http://www.fws.gov/pacific/oregoncoast/capemeares/CMaerial.jpg

REMEMBERED SINS: THE RITUAL

Chapter 01 - The Clinic
Campus Clinic, Carroll, Oregon
Early Spring, mid-1970s

        The small clinic was not challenged with late night emergencies—an occasional fender-bender, a ball game mishap, sometimes there was a mistimed birth. Hazel Dupont, the graying night nurse, was taking tea with her lifetime friend and co-worker, Ruby Belfair.
        The clinic door was open. A breeze blew through the cool spring night as they hummed over their card game. Ruby wrapped her sweater around tighter. A touch of winter was still in the air here in Carroll, a small city on the Oregon coast.
        The young woman staggered in without a word. She just leaned against the doorway, damaged and staring straight ahead. Her body was a mess of red and gray from all the blood and cold.
        Hazel glanced up, then gave a startled cry.
        She rushed to the woman.
        Ruby ran outside to assist the ambulance. But there was nothing there. No flashing lights, no paramedics, no worried relatives.
        Hazel spared no time to find the doctor. He was watching the ball game with Elroy Bremerton. Elroy came here often, mostly because he had no where else to go. This was his second home, now that his elder sister had passed away.
        Probably been drinking too, she figured, and worthless. She helped the young woman to the little room reserved for emergencies.
        "Come this way, dear."
        The young woman collapsed before they reached the bed. As she slid to her knees, she left a trail of blood on Hazel's pristine uniform.
        Hazel oozed the young woman onto the gurney, but then could only fuss about. Hazel was overwrought and confused. It had been years since she had done this kind of thing. The best she could do now was to comfort.
        "You'll be all right, dear. We'll take good care of you here."
        Hazel could do simple things. Disinfect and bandage. She could fit crutches and take out stitches too. Once they had to pry a pit-bull off a prowler. Never seen such a nasty mutt. Used a pork chop in the end. It left the man's leg looking like raw meat too. He deserved it, sneaking into somebody's house that way.
        Wandering. . .
        Her mind was wandering.
        Hazel shook her head to clear it. Then she stared down at the young woman. Helpless. Hazel didn't know where to start.
        "Oh, my dear. . ."
        Hazel swallowed down the painful dryness. Was she really so useless now? Her mind blurred back to those other times.
        Blood and noise and trauma all around.
        She could hear it all again, even though it was years ago:
        "Incoming wounded! Clear the tarmac."
        "Nurse, help me here! Hold this. We're losing him, hold tighter!"
        "Start the IV, stat! The cord is twisted, hold it higher."
        And the worst: "He's gone, don't bother."
        She didn't dare close her eyes. She didn't want to see it again. It was bad enough to think about, see the flashbacks as she blinked. But somehow, it all helped.
        Hazel took a deep breath and let those long-buried instincts take hold.
        The woman was cold. Warm the patient.
        Hazel slapped the sheet full out in the air, and let it drape over the grubby body on the gurney.
        The woman was bloody. Clean the patient.
        Hazel couldn't bear to see the battered face, so she started at the shoes. There was blood, dirt, and scrapes on the back of the legs.
        She frowned and reached up for further inspection.
        The woman was bare. No underwear.
        And sticky with an unfamiliar smell. But she knew it, even at her age and her lack of experience. Hazel pulled a lamp closer. A deep gash ran up the inside of the young woman's leg.
        It must have caught an artery. But somehow, the bleeding had stopped. A miracle, perhaps.
        But there was more bruising, more dirt. And too much blood. Hazel took a deep breath. It helped the dizziness. She forced herself to breath deeply, slowly.
        She had been in the field hospitals of the big war. She had seen bodies in violation before, from bullets and shrapnel to bar brawls and practical jokes.
        This was something else.
        This young woman was beaten. Most probably raped.
        Hazel spared the young woman a quick look of sympathy and tried a slight smile of reassurance. It was only a practice of false serenity for the patients. Her heart was still racing, but the patients shouldn't see such a thing.
        She was about to say it would be all right, that it looked worse than it was, but her hands froze like the smile on her face.
        It was already over.
        Strange she didn't notice before.
        Such a pretty face. Young. Sweet. The young woman's face had a trail of wetness running down her temple from one eye. Hazel's stomach twisted with an overwhelming sadness.
        Would she cry too?
        Would a tear slide out as her soul slipped away?
        Where did this young woman come from?
        And how did she get her this way?
        Didn't anyone notice?
        Didn't anyone help?
        They would never know. Hazel pulled the sheet over the woman's head. Too much blood loss, she knew, and too much damage. It had been years since she had done this. The last time had been an old man whose time had naturally come. The time before, a soldier in a field hospital in the Pacific.
        This time, Hazel couldn't quite do it. She couldn't treat the body as only mortal remains. The young woman was not something to be covered, hidden away.
        Her hands dropped, and her shoulders heaved. Hazel Dupont started to cry. She reached to the once lovely face. She meant to close the eyes, but noticed the slight wound, and the hair.
        The young woman's face was clear except for a shallow slash across the smooth forehead. It oozed in red, leaving a fragile trail like a deep, neat paper cut.
        Hazel touched the bit of hair shorn short to only a stubble. Snipped off like a souvenir. Hazel left the eyes open and backed away.
        She bumped into the lamp. It crashed down.
        She didn't notice.
        She walked to the waiting room. Her old friend was chatting on the phone. Ruby's tone was relaxed, jovial. Hazel frowned. How could Ruby know? Ruby thought it was over for the both of them too.
        The blood, the pain, the horror.
        They talked about it sometimes over drinks. Talked about the day they last stepped out of their nation's uniform. Now it all came flooding back, and Hazel couldn't stop the memories.
        She slumped into a chair.
        The sound of whistling drifted down the hall. An indifferent doctor followed. Nothing much ever happened on the night shift. He was inattentive, tossing a tennis ball into the air as he walked.
        Ruby started waving in agitation. He stopped whistling and lifted a brow in question. Ruby was bending over the nurse, and he could hear the distressed mumbling.
        "What gives?" he said and put his hands in his pockets.
        They didn't answer. He rolled his eyes and dropped into a nearby chair.
        "What is it, Hazel? Bremerton won't eat his peas and carrots again?"
        Ruby moved aside. He saw Hazel's uniform then. Her face was just as pale. But that wasn't what made his flesh creep. It was the red slash that was such an alarming distraction. It marked her ample bosom like a wound.
        She turned his way. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. He rose in alarm, then relaxed. This was Carroll, Oregon. Nothing happened here. Probably a problem with the plumbing, he thought.
        Hazel looked into the callous face. He wasn't concerned, he was barely tolerant. She thought of the dead woman so violated and cold in the other room.
        He leaned over her. She could smell the beer on his breath. Hazel slapped him across the face.
        Ruby jumped back as if the blast caught her too.
        "Hazel, are you all right?" Ruby said. "What is it, honey? Is she. . ."
        Ruby knew then. It was the worst news. She had been there, too. In the war, in the remains of people's lives. She nodded toward the examining room.
        The doctor retreated, rubbing his face as he went. Ruby put an arm around her friend.
        "Did you notice the tears?" Hazel whispered, "Big lonely tears sliding down her face. Do you think she knew she was dying? There was nothing I could do. I couldn't hold onto her. She just slipped away without a word."
        "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. I should have—"
        "I wonder if I will cry when I die?" Hazel said, "Do you think we'll know when it's time?"
        All those young men, all those civilians—none of them went naturally. Even in war, you don't know. . .
        Ruby knelt near her friend. They stayed that way for a long moment without saying a word. Hazel sighed, Ruby blinked away her own tears.
        They both watched the doctor return. His face was now a clammy shade of gray, like he'd been walking in the cold for a long time. He didn't spare them a glance as he reached for the phone.
        "I need to report a death," he said. "Unnatural causes. . . What?"
        His pencil tapped at the counter as he listened.
        "Then where is she? Never mind, I think I know where."
        He slammed the phone down and immediately picked it up again. He twisted the dial viciously, the call seemed to have more than the usual numbers.
        The clock in the cathedral tower started to chime. It kept chiming as he began to talk. Then he stopped. They watched him listen. He noticed them, and turned away from their stares. They watched the red creep up his neck.
        The clock stopped chiming.
        Midnight was past, a new day had begun.
        For some.

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