The conductor inquired after Lucy’s destination and Lucy asked if his coin would take him to the ocean. “It will, just,” the man replied, and Lucy settled into an empty compartment. An hour passed, and it grew darker. The strain of his recent adventures had worn him down; he felt so weak, and that he might sleep for days. He gave in to fatigue, his dreams little more than static black curtains and certain colder temperatures. Sleeping through the night, he awoke to a surprising fact, which was that his old friend Father Raymond was sitting across from him, an eager look on his face. The moment Lucy opened his eyes, then did the priest rejoice, reaching over and clasping Lucy’s hands in his own. “I didn’t want to disturb your slumber, boy,” he said, “but it was sheer torture not to, I can assure you.”
“Hello, Father. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just come from Listen. I’ve a sister there, perhaps I’ve mentioned it before.”
“You never have, no. Was it a pleasant visit?”
“It was not. In truth I couldn’t get away from her fast enough. What was I thinking in traveling all that way to see the likes of her? She of the dying dogs and loamy aromas?”
“I don’t know what.”
“She doesn’t cook, boy—she scalds.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“At any rate, I’m heading back to Bury, now, and that suits me well enough. But what of you, I wonder? Will you tell me your news? How are things at the castle? You must be living very fine these days, I would think.”
“No, I’m not. Actually, I’ve just come away from there.”
“Come away? Not permanently, I hope?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And why is that?”
“Any number of reasons.”
“Possibly you’ll tell me one of the reasons, or two?”
Lucy didn’t know where to begin. He said, “I found it to be an unhealthy environment.”
“Unhealthy?”
“Unhealthy and somewhat dangerous, yes.”
Father Raymond shook his head. “That’ll never do, boy,” he said. “But don’t you worry, we’ll get you some other, better position back home.”
“No, I’ll not be returning to Bury.”
“What? And why not?”
“As it happens, I’m chasing after a girl, Father. For it has come to pass that I’ve fallen in love.”
Father Raymond leaned in. “In love, you say?”
“Just so.”
“And what is that like? I’ve often wondered about it.”
Lucy said, “It is a glory and a torment.”
“Really? Would you not recommend it, then?”
“I would recommend it highly. Just to say it’s not for the faint of heart.”
Father Raymond thought awhile. A troubled look came over him and Lucy asked if something was the matter. Said the priest, “Not to besmear your quest, boy, but I find myself curious as to why you’re forced to chase after the lass. That is, why is she not stationary? In other words: does this young lady not love you also?”
“Oh, yes, she does. She’s only run off because she believes me dead.”
“Dead!” said Father Raymond, and he slapped his knee. “That’s a good one.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it is you’ll show her otherwise, eh?”
“I hope to, Father. If I can locate her, that is.”
“Surely you will.”
They spoke through the morning, and both were happy to be reunited. Father Raymond deduced Lucy was penniless and so slipped him some coins, that he might not go hungry. When the train pulled into the station at Bury, Lucy looked out at the town. All was as it had been, but he was not comforted by the familiar sights, and there was no part of him that wished to detrain.
He noticed a beggar kneeling on the platform. The man’s head was bowed, his hands held out before him. A body passed and dropped a coin into the man’s palms; when he peered up to judge the coin’s value, Lucy saw that this person was the man in burlap, a realization which prompted him to gasp.
“What is it?” asked Father Raymond, working to free his satchel from the overhead.
“The beggar on the platform. He’s the same man who came to me when I was so ill. Do you recall it?”
“What, the marauder you told me about?” Father Raymond studied the beggar, then shook his head. “You’re mistaken, boy. That’s only Frederick.”
“You know him?”
“So much as one can know a simpleton. Frederick sweeps out the refectory once in a while for a scrap of bread or sip of wine. He was knocked on his head when he was a child, they say, and he’s been that way ever since. You may take my word for it, he possesses no powers, supernatural or otherwise.”
Lucy stared. “I’m certain it’s the same man,” he said.
“More than likely you half-noticed him about before you took ill, then simply imagined his visit. You were delirious from fever, after all. I saw it myself, remember.”
The conductor was calling for all Bury passengers to disembark. Father Raymond told Lucy, “I do wish you’d stay awhile. You’re certain I can’t persuade you?”
“I’m sorry, Father, but no.”
“Love is so urgent as all that, eh?”
“It is.”
“Perhaps I’m better off without it, then. I never did like to rush. Well, I’m pleased to have seen you, Lucy. Take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“I’ll do that,” Lucy said.
Father Raymond left, and Lucy resumed his study of the man in burlap, who now was sitting back, stacking and counting all that he’d gathered. This was the person indirectly responsible for Lucy’s departure from Bury, and all that had happened to him since. When a string of drool slipped from the man’s lip, he hurriedly sucked it back up into his mouth, as though it were precious to him, and he didn’t dare lose it. The train lurched, and eased free of the station, and Lucy was again in motion.
He had never been west of Bury, and he watched the flatland scenery unfold with an active interest. Here there were no trees, no mountains, only pastures of level green, and it was so very quiet and peaceful for Lucy in the padded, red-velvet compartment. He imagined how it would be when he located Klara, and composed scenarios of surprising her on the seashore, and now in the lobby of a grand coastal hotel. These exercises pleased and excited him profoundly, but in time he grew tired and set them aside. He closed his window shade and sat awhile in the partial darkness. The conductor passed in the corridor and Lucy called after him, asking to borrow paper and pencil. Using his valise as a drafting board, then, he drew an upside-down U shape. Under the dome of this line he wrote some words for the future, the faraway future he hoped. But whether they were needed sooner or later, he knew it was good to get them down:
LUCIEN MINOR
His heart was a church of his own choosing,
and the lights came through
the colorful windows.