The Mystic Rose (43 page)

At these words, a hush descended like a heavy curtain over the room. Cait sensed a quickening in her spirit, and felt a thrill of excitement ripple through the room. Some understood, but others did not. “What is he saying?” someone whispered. “What is this?” asked another. “He thinks the bread is his flesh?”

Taking up the cup once more, he held it out before him and said, “This is my blood which is shed for you, my beloved friends. Henceforth, let all who drink from this cup, do so in memory of me until I return.”

A dissenting voice called out from among those at the table. It was Shimeon. “Lord and Master! This is a hard thing you are saying; who can understand it? Tell us that you speak in jest.”

“I tell you the truth, anyone who will not eat the flesh of the Son of Man, nor drink his blood, shall not see the Kingdom of God. But anyone who eats my flesh, and drinks my blood will have life everlasting, for I will live in him and he will live in me.”

So saying, He passed the cup to the young man sitting at his right hand. The man accepted it, but did not raise it to his lips. Yeshua saw his reluctance. “Do not be afraid, Yochanan. It is for you. Drink.”

At this, the man drank from the cup, and hurriedly passed it back. “I wish you would not talk so, Master,” he said. “You know the Temple priests are like hounds baying for your blood.”

Yeshua, his face alight with the glory to come, placed his hand over the top of the cup. “Behold, I am making a new covenant in my blood. Rejoice! Again I say, rejoice! For the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”

A few of his followers cheered, but most remained silent as the veiled meaning of the Master's words awakened a dark apprehension. Taking the cup, Yeshua began to move among
the groups of people; he served them all, men and women alike from the same cup, and then, as he passed by the place where Caitríona was standing, he paused, and turned. “There you are,” he said, as if he had been searching for her. “Why hide in the shadows when you could rejoice in the light?”

Cait's breath caught in her throat. She was discovered. She gazed at him, her heart pounding in her ears, unable to speak.

“O, small of faith,” he chided gently, “the bridegroom himself summons you to his feast. Put aside your doubts and fears and enter into the celebration.”

Unable to bear his scrutiny, she bent her head and looked away. Someone called out from the other side of the room, but Cait could not make out the words. Then she felt the Master's touch as he put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his.

“Woman, why do you hide?”

“Please, Master, I do not belong here,” Cait said, scarcely aware that she had spoken. The words seemed to come of themselves. “I am not worthy of your regard.”

“Daughter,” he said gently, “my own dear child, do you not know that the day of salvation is near? Behold, the Lord has prepared a banquet; he has consecrated those he has invited.” He offered her the cup; when she hesitated, he placed it in her grasp and covered her hand with his own saying, “This is my blood which is shed for you. Drink all of it.”

Cait raised the cup and drank the wine. It was raw in her mouth, but she drained all that remained. Yeshua smiled; removing his dove-gray cloak, He placed it on her shoulders. “Blessed are you, beloved, for though you were barren, yet would your children be more numerous than stars.”

He raised his hand to her cheek, smiled, and kissed her on the forehead. Just then, one of the men who had been sitting at the table rose and hurried out. Yeshua turned. “Go your way, Y'hudah,” he called as swift footsteps descended the stair. “Do what you must, but do it quickly!”

Cait heard a door bang shut in the room below, and then footsteps outside in the street. Shimeon was on his feet.
“Yochanan! Ya'akov! Come with me, we will go and bring him back.”

“No, stay,” said Yeshua. “Stay. I will be with you only a little longer. Let us rejoice while it is light, for the darkness is coming when no man can rejoice.”

These words were spoken to a stunned silence. Yeshua returned to his place at the table amidst a low rumble of murmuring which grew to fill the room as questions gave way to anxious shouting, and calling on the Master to explain the meaning of his worrying remarks.

The sound filled her ears as a meaningless babble, and Cait looked down at the cup in her hand, and clutched it to her breast.
This I will keep and treasure to the end of my life,
she thought. She pulled the dove-gray cloak around her shoulders, and gazed with bittersweet longing at the Master, now surrounded by his closest followers who were demanding to know what he meant. She closed her eyes again, and clung to her blessing:

Children more numerous than stars.

C
AIT SLOWLY BECAME
aware that she was lying on the floor before the altar, her cheek cradled on her arm. The cavern sanctuary was silent save for the faint
plip…plip…plip
which sounded nearby. She raised her head. One of the altar candles had gone out; the other was burning low, and molten wax was splashed steadily onto the bare stone. She rose and glanced around guiltily, as if afraid she had been observed and would now be punished for her presumption. The sanctuary was empty. She was alone.

Then she saw the cup, and the memory of her vision struck her with a force that rocked her back on her heels. She swayed on her feet and clutched the side of the altar to steady herself.

She had been there. She had seen the Savior. She, Cait, had touched him, and he had touched her. She lifted her fingertips to her forehead where he had kissed her—the place now burned with a tingling sensation as though flames of fire danced there. Inside, she was filled with a strange quivery airiness, as if she had been scoured hollow, poured out, and the newly emptied void filled with effervescent light.

“Lord and Master,” she whispered to herself. “I want to walk in the True Path once more. Guide me with your Holy Light.”

She stood before the altar, gazing at the cup. Her search for the relic had ended; she had found the Mystic Rose. What is more, having experienced something of the vessel's
sacred and mystic power, she knew she stood in the presence of true holiness and was far from worthy. Her hard-hearted, unthinking pursuit of the Mystic Rose was corrupted by ambition and unholy revenge, and she felt the weight of her sin clinging to her, dragging her down like a filthy, bedraggled garment. All she wanted was to be free of it and clean once more.

“Forgive me, Lord,” she sighed, and bent her head. Breathing out a prayer of humble confession, and breathing in the Master's forgiveness, she picked up the Holy Relic and carefully, and with all reverence, replaced it in the hollow at the base of the cross. Closing the little door, she took up the remaining candle and, with a last look around, hurried from the rock-cut sanctuary, through the connecting corridor and the outer passage, quickly retracing her steps from the cave.

The courtyard was dark still, although the cloud-filled sky was blushing pink in the east and all but the brightest stars had faded away. Flitting out from behind the refectory like a shadow, she made her way to the guest lodge and slipped back into her room. With a last look behind her, she closed the door quietly and, removing her boots, crept back into bed, pulling the bedclothes around her to take away the chill.

She lay in bed and shivered—half with the cold, and half with the excitement still tingling through her. She had drunk from the Holy Chalice and a mystical communion had taken place. She had met with God.

This knowledge produced an almost frightening ferment in her soul. It filled her to bursting with an elation that fizzed and burned and threatened to overflow at any moment in wild laughter, or wilder song, or dazzling miracles. Her heart raced; the palms of her hands were hot and dry; her fingers tingled.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she relived the vision of the upper room, remembering the touch of the Lord Jesu as he placed the cup in her hands. It was all she could do to keep from crying out with the ferocious exuberance of her joy.

In a little while, the bell rang and presently she heard the
sisters stirring in the yard outside. There came a soft rapping at her door and Sister Besa entered. “My lady, it is time for morning prayers,” she said. “If you would like to join us, you would be most welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Cait. “Of course I will join you. I would like nothing better.” Throwing back the bedclothes, she quickly slipped her feet back into her boots, and followed the nun out into the courtyard where they fell into place behind the other sisters making their way to the refectory.

During the winter, morning prayers were held in the long, oven-warmed hall. As Cait entered she heard a shrill squeal and was instantly enfolded in a fierce embrace. “Thea!” she gasped before the air was squeezed from her lungs.

“Oh, Cait!” Alethea clasped her tightly, as if she would obliterate the days of their separation through physical force. “The abbess told me you were here. I wanted to see you right away.” She thrust Cait at arm's length. “You look well, Cait. You do.”

“And you, Thea,” replied Cait. Her eyes traveled to her sister's shaven pate.

Suddenly mindful of her shorn locks, Thea released her sister and raised a hand to her head. “I am a nun now,” she said, smiling self-consciously. She paused, reflecting on the wonder of it, and then raced on once more. “But Cait, there is so much to tell you. There was a ceremony last night. I wish you had been there. It was wonderful. I wish you could have seen it.”

“She did.” Abbess Annora was standing not two paces away, regarding Cait with a stern expression. “Did you not?”

“Truly?” asked Alethea. “You saw the ceremony?”

“It is true,” Cait admitted with genuine contrition. “I heard the bell and followed the sisters into the cavern. I saw it all.”

“And you have drunk from the Holy Cup,” the abbess said, stepping close.

“Cait!” gasped Thea, her dark eyes growing wide.

“It is true,” Cait admitted. To the abbess she said, “I meant no disrespect. Indeed, I did not know it was against the rule of the order. I merely thought to—”

The abbess cut short her explanation. “It is nothing so simple as a rule of the order. There are far more serious implications.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “Truly, I am. But how did you know?”

“Do you think someone so long in the service of the chalice would not know in the instant I saw you?” The abbess frowned with sharp displeasure. “Come with me—both of you. Sister Besa, you come, too.”

Leaving one of the other nuns to lead prayers, Sister Annora led them to her room at the end of the hall, sat them down on the bed, and closed the door. Sister Besa, uncertain about what had happened, took her place before the door.

“Please,” began Cait, “you have every right to be angry. I do not blame you in the least. I would not have interfered in the ceremony—only, I was that desperate to see Alethea at long last. I beg your forgiveness. I meant no harm.”

“That is a matter of small consequence.” The abbess crossed her arms over her narrow chest, and regarded Cait with a hawk-like stare. “Tell me, did you see anything when you drank from the cup?”

“I did, abbess,” answered Cait.

“What did you see?”

Cait lowered her eyes. The vision was so perfect, so beautiful, she did not want to spoil it by putting inferior words to it.

“The truth now,” demanded the abbess. “What did you see?”

“Tell her, Cait,” urged Alethea. “Abbess Annora is very fair; the punishment will not be harsh.”

Cait shook her head. “If I hesitate it is not for fear of punishment. It is because I do not trust myself to speak of wonders beyond my understanding.”

At these words, the abbess softened. “Tell me. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I had a vision,” Cait began. “I have never known any
thing like it, for it seemed as if everything was happening all around me and I was there.”

“Where were you?” asked the abbess.

“I was in the upper room with Jesu and his disciples. It was the night of the Passover feast.”

At this revelation the abbess's face blanched pale. Both Thea and Cait saw the blood drain from her features. “Abbess?” said Thea, rising to offer her seat on the edge of the bed. “Are you well?”

“Sit you down, Abbess,” said Besa, moving to her superior's aid. She took her elbow. “Rest a little, and I will fetch you some water.”

Annora waved her aside; holding up a hand to forestall any more offers of aid, she gazed at Caitríona for a long moment as she struggled to regain her composure. Slowly, her expression of startled distress gave way to acceptance. “So,” she said softly, “it has happened at last.”

Cait and Alethea stared at the abbess, but said nothing. A long moment passed. Annora drew a breath and motioned Cait to stand. “Daughter, give me your hands.”

Cait stretched out her hands. The abbess took them and turned them over, pushing up the sleeves. To Cait's amazement there appeared deep red welts on both wrists. She stared in disbelief at the blood-red marks.

“Holy Jesu be praised,” gasped Sister Besa, turning wide eyes to the abbess. She made the sign of the cross, and folded her hands beneath her chin and began to pray.

Bending down, the abbess lifted Cait's gown away from her feet. “Remove your shoes,” she said.

Cait did as she was told, withdrawing first one foot and then the other. Each instep was marked by welts similar to those on her wrists. Rising, the abbess said, “Now your mantle.”

Cait hesitated.

“There will be another mark on your side,” Annora told her, “in imitation of the spear wound Christ suffered on the cross. I must see it to be certain. Please.”

Untying the laces at her neck, Cait removed her cloak and loosened the top of her mantle; she pulled her arms from the
sleeves, and pushed the mantle down over her breasts to her waist. She glanced down her torso, hardly daring to look.

There below her ribs on the right side was another ugly blood-red welt, larger than the others; shaped like a ragged gash, it did appear as if she had been stabbed and the blade had left a thin oblong slash in her flesh. She touched it gingerly, but though the skin was raised she felt no discomfort, only the slightest tenderness.

“There is no mistake,” concluded the abbess.

“Oh, Cait,” whispered Alethea, “what have you done?”

“Nothing.” A quiver of astonishment touched her voice.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not in the least,” answered Cait in a daze of wonder. “I feel nothing.” She pulled her mantle up over her shoulders once more. “What has happened to me?” she asked, retying the laces.

“They are the Stigmata of Christ,” the abbess told her. “See here,” she held out her arm and drew the long sleeve of her robe away from her wrists. The blotches were faded to a pale pink hue, and looked like scars from old wounds. “Behold,” she said, “the Mark of the Rose.”

It was true, the marks did look something like miniature roses—especially compared to Cait's, which looked like fresh lacerations. Cait shook her head in disbelief. “What does it mean?”

The elderly abbess traced the marks lightly with a thin fingertip. “It means, dear child,” she replied, lifting a hand to Cait's face, “that you are to be the next Guardian of the Chalice.”