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"She's my sister. She wasn't always like you saw her. Time was, when she was real full of life."- Josiah, in "Penance".
-o-
Up the road, there was a village of low adobe homes, and Josiah looked toward them with frustration. He had hoped to be farther along by now, past this small town and nearly to the next, but December afternoons are short. It was getting late, growing dark, and was time to make camp. Swallowing disappointment, he turned to Hannah and spoke gently. "We'll stop here."
The road they were on had begun to slope upward in small swells, but here, before the next rise, the ground dipped low enough that a modest campfire would be hidden from view of the town. Josiah turned the mules and drove their small canvas topped wagon a little farther, bumping along over lank yellow grass until he felt they'd gone far enough from the road.
For hours, Hannah had sat stiffly by his side, ever wary, watchful, turning her head from one side to the other as they traveled. Now, she climbed silently from the wagon seat and walked up the rise to gaze curiously at the cluster of buildings a mere half mile away. There was a certain thing about Hannah. She could not stay in a town. But she couldn't camp far out in the countryside either. She carried too much fear. Fear of the dark, and of being alone. Fear of animals, fear of men. So each evening as night fell, she and Josiah camped close to a town – far enough away that few, if any, would notice their presence. Near enough that Hannah could see lights, sometimes even hear music, and know that they were not alone in the vast, dark night.
Josiah first cared for the mules, then brought firewood from the wagon, and also a box that held food and utensils. He wasn't much of a cook, but Hannah never complained. Tonight they'd have rewarmed beans and tortillas he'd bought from a cantina passed along their way. As he laid the fire, he glanced up at Hannah now and then. She stood utterly still on the little knoll, observing the town, and as the dusk deepened, wrapping itself around her, it encroached so gradually that Josiah barely noticed until a time came when he looked up and the darkness had nearly swallowed her. "Hannah!" he called sharply. She turned, so that her pale face showed like a beacon. For a split second, Josiah saw her as lovely.
So lovely, he thought of his sister. She was seven years younger than him. Hannah had been a pretty child, with delicate features, a ready smile and dancing eyes. She grew into an outgoing young woman, possessed of a teasing nature. She loved to sing. The woman before him now was not lovely. When seen in the stark light of day, her face was haggard. She was tense, and never sang. Where did that girl go?
He, unfortunately, knew.
Hannah walked down the hill and sat on the ground beside him. She pulled her woolen shawl close, huddling into it. "Is it Christmas?"
"Not yet."
"Oh." Her voice was low, wistful. "It's cold and I saw a bright star. I thought, maybe..."
"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," he said.
Both of them held their hands toward the fire. The food warmed quickly and a tin pot of water began to boil for tea. They ate in silence, watching as deep dusk turned to black night, and more and more stars shone out until the sky was brilliant with them. The December air was brisk, though not yet freezing, but Josiah suspected tomorrow may be cold enough to snow. The two sat quietly, drinking their tea, listening to the snapping of the fire as the embers died down. Like every night, they would sit like this until it was time for Hannah to retire to her straw filled mattress in the wagon. Later, Josiah would clean up the campsite and bed down under the wagon. He would lie in his blankets and ponder things. If only he could go back in time, change things, he would. But he couldn't, and would spend the rest of his days cursing himself for abandoning Hannah.
Long ago, as a young man, Josiah had left home on a spiritual journey. His travels took him far away – as far as India and Tibet. When after many years he returned, he found that his mother was three years dead. His father, who had never been an easy man, was angry and bitter. His sister's bright laughter and charm were gone, her fragile features drawn, eyes wide with constant fear. Something had happened that no one would speak of, and their father, who blamed Hannah for her own victimization, made her a prisoner in their own home. His punishments only made things worse. Hannah alternated between withdrawn behavior and manic outbursts. Josiah and his father had words. The old man defended his harsh ways. In the end, Josiah took his sister away.
But they led an unstable life. Josiah eked out a living as a carpenter wherever he could find work, and Hannah could not deal with life in the bustling frontier towns. Again and again, they moved on, always with the hope that the next place would work out better, but it never did. Now, it was just the two of them and the mules, making their steady way west.
Turning his face from the fire, Josiah gazed up at the stars and whispered a quiet "thank you", that throughout this journey, he'd been able to keep Hannah away from large crowds of people. Although his faith was shaky at best, he clung to the habit of prayer he'd grown up with. What could it hurt, after all? Every day, he prayed for safe travel, and that what little money he had would last. But more than that, he prayed they would reach Vista City by Christmas Eve.
Suddenly, Hannah perked up, alert, with a sharp turn of her head. "I hear people." She leaped to her feet, backed away from the fire, furtive, cloaked in darkness. Then Josiah saw her run back up the hill. She was a silhouette against the sky. He rose and climbed to join her.
Across the plain, in town, lantern lights bobbed in the street. From the countryside came more people, some walking, some riding. An occasional shout of laughter was heard. In time, the lights came together. At the edge of town a bonfire was lit, and Josiah could clearly make out that the building nearest it had a bell tower. A church.
"Tomorrow is Christmas," Hannah murmured, and in sudden excitement exclaimed, "It's Las Posadas!" With a quick movement, she whirled to face her brother, one bony hand reaching to grasp his sleeve. "We have to go."
Josiah stared at her in surprise. Hannah didn't speak much, and when she did it was not always with clarity of thought. Narrowing his eyes, he crooked his neck to look past her toward the scene before them. Even at a distance, he could tell that nearly the whole village had turned out for this, the eighth night of the novena. "Too crowded," he said. "Too much noise. We'll watch from here."
But she insisted. "No. Please. Do you remember?"
Of course he remembered.
Hannah was eight that year. They were living in Texas where their father, who adhered to a strict form of Protestantism, had started a church. Hannah and Josiah were not supposed to associate with the Spanish speaking Catholics whose families had lived there for generations. But they did. Josiah was fifteen. He rebelled against his upbringing by spending time with the local priest, absorbing Catholic theology, questioning his own faith, and wondering if priesthood in this different religion could be his path.
Hannah learned enough Spanish to play with other children, and as Christmas neared that year, her friends told her of an old tradition. Las Posadas would last for nine nights. On each of those nights, the villagers would reenact in song, the Christmas story of Mary and Joseph's search for shelter. On Christmas Eve, the ninth and final night, all would crowd into the church for midnight Mass, food and festivity. There would be a piñata, laughter, and sweets. Hannah's friends, excited to have her join them, taught her the traditional song.
She was, of course, forbidden to attend. In their home, Josiah sat with his sister as she wept. They could see the lights of the procession, hear the singing in the street, and Hannah tearfully sang along.
Josiah was brought back to the present by her voice. "Music." Men around the bonfire had begun strumming guitars. Ever so faintly, from their perch on the hill, the pair could hear it. Soon the pageant would begin. But people were still arriving from the countryside. The procession would not yet start.
Peevishly, Hannah plucked at Josiah's sleeve. "There's still time."
He weighed the risks. Long ago, their father had denied his sister this pleasure. Now, she may never again have the chance. But Hannah handled crowds poorly. She might become agitated, even scream, try to run away. "It's not a good idea," he said.
"Please. That other time. I never got to." Hannah said it so softly, like a young child, and when her voice broke, Josiah knew he couldn't say no. He had no other gift to give her.
-o-
Josiah readied one of the mules, then led on foot as Hannah rode, and the mule clopped rhythmically along on the hard-packed road. The night grew colder. The light of the bonfire beckoned ahead. When they reached town, the reenactment had already begun. The young man portraying Joseph led a burro on which Mary rode. To the music of guitars, villagers shuffled behind, bearing lanterns or candles. Josiah hung far back with Hannah. They were here only to watch.
The procession stopped at a house. "Joseph" knocked on the door and a man opened it. As the guitars played, the people in the street began to sing. Josiah recalled the words to the lilting tune instantly. "En el nombre del cielo..." In the name of Heaven... The singers asked for lodging. "Yo os pido posada." From inside, the response came. "Aquí no es mesón, sigan adelante". This is not an inn. Be on your way!
At a small sound from Hannah, Josiah turned to her. "The houses send them away," she whispered. Her eyes held an odd sheen, and Josiah reacted. Afraid of an emotional outburst and the kind of spectacle Hannah could create, he said quickly, "We have to leave." He tightened his hold on the mule's lead, ready to turn the animal, get away, out of this town, far from the crowd.
But Hannah reached to place a hand lightly on his shoulder, and when she spoke it was only to explain the story. "Don't worry. At the last house the people say, 'enter, holy pilgrims, into this haven'."
The villagers had reached a second house, were singing again, and faintly, in a small rusty, out of tune voice, Hannah scratched out, "Mi esposa es María, es reina del cielo..." She turned to her brother, and he realized that the shine in her eyes was not one of insanity, but instead of child-like wonder and joy. "Remember the words?" she said. "It's Christmas, Josiah. Sing with us."
He could not. His throat was choked with tears.
-o-
At the fourth house, as Hannah promised, the villagers were granted entry. People crowded into the small home where there would be more singing, prayer, and refreshments. One man waved to Josiah from the open doorway. He called out a welcome, even though the two were strangers there.
Hannah stiffened. Josiah sensed it, and when he looked toward her, found that her face held a grimace of fear. The light he had seen in her eyes was gone. He shook his head sadly. "Gracias, pero, no."
-o-
Late into the night, Hannah cried, reliving the past. "Why, Father? Why can't I go with my friends?" Josiah soothed her. He brushed her long thick hair, then sang "Silent Night" as she sank onto her mattress.
"Sleep in heavenly peace, little sister," he murmured, and covered her with layers of quilts. This would be their last night together. Hannah was so unstable, they could no longer live in any town. When they had tried to, Josiah worked all day long. Alone while he was out, Hannah wailed and paced the floors. The women who ran the boarding houses were unsympathetic, too overworked to tolerate her behavior. They were evicted from one place after another. In desperation, Josiah had turned to a priest.
Father Martens had listened solemnly as Josiah told him what little he knew of the assault Hannah had suffered. How their father blamed Hannah herself, called her a harlot, a Jezebel, and kept her locked away. Her eventual descent into madness.
When Josiah finished and fell silent, the priest offered a small, cheerless smile. "There is a place," he said kindly, "though it's far away. A convent. The nuns there, the Sisters of Dymphna are dedicated to the care of women like your sister. Women who have borne suffering at the hands of men, and thus become... lost."
Josiah's brow furrowed. "Dymphna? A saint?"
"Yes. Martyred at only fifteen years of age," the priest replied. "Her father was a deranged and jealous man who wanted Dymphna for his own wife. She fled Ireland to escape him, but was found, and when she refused to return home, he murdered her."
"Why was she canonized?"
"Saint Dymphna is venerated as the patroness of those afflicted with–" Here the priest paused out of sympathy for Josiah. Insanity was such a harsh word. "Mental anguish," he said, and added, "Over the centuries, miraculous cures have been credited to her."
Josiah didn't believe in miracles, but he saw a way forward.
Now, readjusting the quilts, he gazed sadly at his sleeping sister. Tonight in the village, Hannah's eyes had been bright as the sparks that flew up from the bonfire. For only a brief time, though. Tomorrow she would be the same as before, and Josiah could not continue to care for her. He couldn't work. Their life was impoverished, nomadic.
Their destination was the convent in a remote area of New Mexico territory. Josiah struggled with the decision he'd made. Father Martens had gone on to caution him: "Your sister will be well taken care of, but I must warn you, Josiah. Because of the circumstances of these women, no man is welcome there. If they take Hannah in, it's possible you'll never see her again."
Laying out his bedding, Josiah swept aside the regret that washed through him, and promised himself he would leave Hannah only if the nuns showed true compassion. He loved his sister too much to do otherwise. He was so tired, but his thoughts focused on what he was depending on, what he had prayed for, what must happen, when late tomorrow they reached Vista City. Finally, he slipped into sleep.
-o-
He woke to a colorless dawn. The sun rose behind cover of clouds and there it stayed, casting weak flat light, and refusing to share its warmth. In mid afternoon, the dreary sky released snow, tiny flakes that at first seemed invisible against the tawny ground. Gradually, though, white dusted the land. The wind came up; the wagon cover billowed and flapped. Hannah huddled inside, whimpering, bundled in her quilts. On the wagon seat, Josiah hunched forward, shivered, and tried to remember if he'd known a more bleak Christmas.
By the time they reached Vista City at twilight, they were traveling through a world of swirling snow. The town they found was tiny, certainly no city. Josiah readily located the unmistakable mission-style convent, not far from a livery where he left the wagon and the tired, hungry mules. Outside the stable, he took Hannah's hand, and they trudged forward, pressed into the bluster of wind. They entered a courtyard through an unlocked gate. Josiah's serape whipped about him. Hannah, silent, was a mere wisp of presence at his side when they reached the oaken door.
Josiah lifted an iron knocker and let it fall. They waited. They waited, and at last, the heavy door opened a crack. Faint light seeped out, flickering with the draft. The nun at the door raised her candle higher to illuminate the pilgrims. She tipped her head and stared out with a look of fierce curiosity. In the meager light, Hannah looked like an angel. Glistening crystals of snow adorned her hair where her scarf had slipped away.
Josiah was a man in a place where men were not welcome. He feared they'd be turned away. "Please, Sister." He nearly whispered the words. "In the name of Heaven...I ask of you shelter."
It was Christmas Eve, the final night of Las Posadas. The door opened farther, the crack of light widened, and the prayed-for answer came. "Come in, weary travelers. You are welcome."
End