I Remember Nobody

By Kaine Thompson

In this second FemCorps mystery, I Remember Nobody, Hannah Ward, known as Pilgrim VII, returns to active duty. She is eager to prove herself after the previous disruptive emanation of her Talent that almost cost her a career and her life. Cyn Beda sends her to France to investigate the cover-up of the murder of Leslie Fournier, a lonely old woman whose 18-year secret can put a young woman’s life in danger--a secret that could change the world. Hannah's investigation sends her on the trail of a royal heir who is unaware of her birthright and the assassins who pursue her. Using her intuition and Cloaking Talent, Hannah stays one step ahead of the killers until she meets a deadly foe who outmaneuvers her at every turn, killing everyone connected to the secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaine Thompson
• Release date: Apr 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985695613

Kaine Thompson

Kaine Thompson has been writing since she was five, composing her first poem about the moon, which developed into a lifelong passion for writing and all things celestial. Born with a rich feminist legacy, she has a passion to empower women. Her great grandmother was a suffragette, her great aunt, at the age of 77, set up her lawn chair under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris to protest the Vietnam War, and her grandmother and mother taught her that she could do anything a man could do and was of equal value to God. She lived for several years in Holland where she worked for an import/export company and traveled extensively in Europe, including a covert trip into Romania during the Cold War, which she has chronicled in a memoir. She holds a Master’s degree in writing from California State University Northridge and a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Oregon. She earned her livelihood as a communications professional in higher education and through her own writing business, E-maginative Writing. Her greatest passion is to pass on her family’s legacy to her children and grandchildren in hopes that some day the world will embrace the power of women.

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FEMCORPS TIMELINE

2020 – Equal Rights Amendment passes

2020 – English monarchy abolished

2026 – Monarchy returned

2025 – End of Muslim War

2025 – New Arabia established (comprised of Saudi Arabia, Iraq, UAE, Ramistan, Oman, Yemen, Kuwait and Qatar)

2038 – FemCorps established under Homeland Security

2039 – Hannah Ward hired by FemCorps

2043 – Sheik of Ramistan case causes public furor

2044 – Keenan Administration comes to power

2045 – FemCorps goes underground

2046 – Craven Affair exposed – Full Disclosure Policy instituted

2047 – Hannah’s case with Pilgrim XX

2048 – Case closed. Hannah goes on active leave

2049 – Hannah reinstated to active duty

GLOSSARY

a-chip – American currency, in white, blue, red and yellow, a bit or memory – transfers financial credits -government regulated bit coin

airstation – center for air travel (on and off-world)

autonomobile or autono or tono– driverless car

autosynthnosis – a device that enhances psychic energy to make someone compliant

biosix – music receiver

boredriller – drill for mountain boring

Box – virtual reality gaming system

CommLink – wrist computer (phone, Net access, data storage)

Cyn Beda – combined form, female ruler - executive branch of FemCorps

e-chip – European currency

digiCom – wireless wrist phone

digimog – wealthy investor in music industry

DataSource – primary data library

elec – old model electric car

Genza – popular herbal liquid refreshment

halo – a circle of LEDs that emits holographic images

hovabed – a hovering gurney with bio monitors, used in hospitals

locator – global positioning system

low-ride – one-seater car powered by solar energy

FemNet – secure, wireless data stream for FemCorps

pad – tablet computer

pod – small handheld computer

patch – human-machine interface implanted at the wrist

petals – platform body scan (internal and external scanning)

pushnews – electronic news that is pushed to all communication devices

scrip – any prescription drugs

shiv – slang, scared, intuitive shiver

sim-ads – simulations that provide scent and vibrations to the viewer, modern advertisements.

skinplant – bio-engineered skin that provides false fingerprints

skrill – slang, denoting the worst of the worst, lowest of the low

splinter – a human-machine interface that goes under the skin (usually used with skinplants) to obtain protected electronic data, i.e. keypads and passwords, and interacts with the brain’s neurotransmitters to alter behavior and to receive electronic impulses

sunoculars – sunglasses fitted with microchip vision enhanced lenses

synth – synthetic fuel

tase-E – taser-like gun, older model of tase-M

tase-M – taser-like gun, adjusts to emit electric shock or needle projectiles.

translator – head and ear piece simultaneously translates all known languages

Truthtalker – religious code to never tell a lie, a person without guile

vidfone – videophone

VidNet – pop culture

vidimogs – wealthy investor in video industry

vid-screen – computer screen

zips – zip ties used as handcuffs

PROLOGUE

Genevieve Benoit yawned as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, balancing the breakfast tray with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other. It was early, but Madame Fournier demanded her breakfast at the first light of dawn. Genevieve didn’t begrudge the fact that she had to get up early to prepare breakfast for the occupant of #12, because if it wasn’t for Madame Fournier, La Belle Fleur would have closed years ago.

Genevieve had worked at the hostelry for thirty-two years, and for the last eighteen, Madame Fournier had been their year-round tenant. She always kept to herself, rarely went out, and had few, if any, visitors. It was only recently that she had a number of visitors. There was that proper gentleman from England and then those men who were not gentlemen at all. She was glad Madame had sent them away. Genevieve did not like the way they looked. What they wanted from Madame was a mystery.

Of course, Madame was the biggest mystery of all. She could only guess what the old woman did every day up there in #12. In all that time, Genevieve had conversed with her in only short sentences of acquiescence or inquiry. In the last few months she had mailed a number of letters for Madame, and even had to register one that went all the way to London, England. it wasn’t her place to know the business of the La Belle Fleur’s guests. Her job was to feed them, and when needed, bring their breakfast tray.

Stopping on the third floor landing to catch her breath, Genevieve examined the tray one more time: porridge, fresh cream, unbuttered dark toast, coffee, and the single rose. There was no explanation about the rose, but Genevieve was responsible for going to the market every week to get a fresh supply of roses for Madame’s breakfast tray. The woman had quirks, but again, not her business. The tray was perfect and she proceeded down the hallway and rapped on the last door.

"Madame? Bonjour. Breakfast."

There was no answer.

She rapped again, this time a little harder.

Madame. Breakfast.

Still no answer. She tried the door handle. It was locked. Odd that she didn’t respond. Could it be that at last Madame had slept through the night? Sometimes, behind the door, Genevieve could hear her moaning and crying at night. Her restless pacing often annoyed the guest below her in #8, so Genevieve knew that the poor woman had insomnia. It would do her good to get a good night’s sleep. Deciding that she would not disturb her, she went back down the stairs.

Monsieur Henrí Renault became alarmed after three more attempts to rouse Madame Fournier had been unsuccessful. He climbed the stairs with Genevieve at his heels and stopped at the door of #12. He banged on it.

Madame! Madame Fournier! Is everything all right? I am coming in!

He swiped the key card and opened the door. Genevieve screamed in his ear at the sight of Madame Fournier on the floor, blood pooling around her head. He grabbed Genevieve’s wrists and slapped her quick across the face. She stopped screaming and began to sniff, turning away from the terrible sight.

Get my ComLink. I must call Monsieur Laurent. Don’t touch anything.

Is she dead?

I’m quite sure.

"Mon Dieu! Murdered!"

Shhh. Do you think I want the other guests to know? We must do this quietly. And don’t say anything to anybody! Do you understand?

Genevieve nodded and ran down the stairs.

Monsieur Renault made a quick survey of the room, shaking his head. Someone had killed Madame Fournier. What was he going to do? His patroness was dead, murdered, and tourist season was just beginning. He hoped that his friend, Monsieur Laurent, the coroner, would help him keep this as discreet as possible. Once the police were called in, which they would be, the chance of keeping it quiet would be a miracle. He closed the door, wondering how he would weather this terrible turn of events.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER ONE

FYEO FYEO FYEO

As I entered the house after an invigorating hour of weed-whacking, I could see the alert flashing red and yellow on the kitchen screen. For your eyes only. I quickly pulled off my grass-stained gloves and soil-encrusted boots, washed my hands, and ran into my study. I spoke the password and waited with bated breath. A case! At last!

For the past year, I had been on medical leave, visiting regularly with Dr. DasGupta and attending training sessions to control my new Talent. My unique Talent had manifested unexpectedly during my last case and had nearly cost me my freedom and my life. I was ready six months ago, but Cyn Beda have their own ideas about things. They were keeping me under close wraps until they were sure I was under control. I thought I would go stir-crazy, but I have to admit my training sessions have been worthwhile.

The screen swirled in a vortex of colors as I entered the portal to FemNet. I gave my identification and my file opened. I couldn’t believe it! Finally, I had orders. I was to fly to Lyon and meet with Raina Veilleux, the prioress of the Order of Pious Sisters, our new client. She had made contact with FemCorps via the ComLink regarding the murder of her friend, Leslie Fournier. This was the break I had been waiting for. It was not just a case; it was an international case. This could mean only one thing: Cyn Beda had deemed me fit for duty and had granted me Master of Talent. I let out a whoop of joy and danced around the room.

My name’s Hannah Ward, Seventh Pilgrim of FemCorps, a global, covert investigation agency, conceived before the Equal Rights Amendment passed. Our operatives are throughout the world in a tightly woven network. We are well hidden and well-funded. Once a branch of Homeland Security, FemCorps investigates crimes against women, using proven investigative and psychic techniques and unique feminine Talents. I was one of their first recruits and became Pilgrim VII in '39.

Then it all went south in '43 after our first big international case involving the Sheik of Ramistan and Miss America. Everyone knows that story. To this day, some believe that as a result of that fiasco, the ultra-right Keenan Administration came to power. FemCorps was cut from Homeland Security and publicly vilified. It wasn’t just that there was an anti-feminist climate in the country, but public opinion was swayed to fear us and our methods. That’s when the Corps' ruling body, Cyn Beda, took us underground.

There is no other investigative agency that can do what we do, and we do it very well. The government disavows our existence, but I believe we are still getting directives from that sector. Only Cyn Beda know. As FemCorps agents we are sworn to obey the rules, be thorough, get the evidence, and channel it correctly into the public domain. We hold to one purpose – justice for all, using our highly developed and unique feminine power and Talents such as intuition, empathy, dreams, precognition, psychometry, etc.

I booked a shuttle to France and called a taxi. I left food outside for Cady Stanton (she wasn’t my cat, but she visited often), put away my gardening tools in the shed, and shut down all my electronics. I pulled down my small suitcase from the closet and threw in one dress, a pair of pants, two shirts, sweater, underwear, socks, shoes, my new cloaking outfit and international translator. I had learned that for overseas travel the best thing to do was to pack light and buy what you needed when you got there. I was to meet my contact at 1500 hours at the Cathédrale Saint-Jean in front of an astronomical clock. That would give me just enough time to rent a car and find a department store to purchase my toiletries. When I think back on this time, I marvel that such trivialities were on my mind. I was about to enter a case that would have devastating implications worldwide. If I was more of a precog, I might not have been dancing with joy.

I boarded the shuttle in Boston and was to arrive at Saint-Exupéry International Airport at 1300 hours. Lyon was the third largest city in France, between Paris and Marseille, and founded in 43 AD by one of Caesar’s lieutenants. That's more than 2000 years ago. How’s that for history! As we descended over the city, I was surprised to see how much it had withstood the pressures of time by preserving centuries of impressive architecture. It was a bustling, modern city where high-tech commerce took place within buildings from the 12th century. It was also home to Interpol, an organization that did not have the same prejudice against FemCorps as the CIA or FBI.

Once I had collected my suitcase, I picked up my rental vehicle (ecstatic to find it was an older model elec-Rinault and not one of those blasted autonomobiles that was practically mandated in America) and mapped in my destination to Marché Lyon, the largest department store in the city. It didn’t take long for me to find what I needed, including a gaudy jeweled belt that I couldn’t resist; but I had to wait in a long line to purchase them.

While I waited, I pondered on what I had read about Lyon on the shuttle. In addition to its reputation as a center of French cuisine (a fact that I intended to fully investigate), Lyon was the location of two of France's best known wine-growing regions: the Beaujolais to the north, and the Côtes du Rhône to the south (another fact that I intended to verify). I also learned to my surprise and joy, that the Priory of Pious Sisters boasted its own vineyard and award-winning product.

With an hour to spare, I drove as fast as I could to my second destination. I didn’t dare miss my contact by getting lost. I only marginally trusted the satellite mapping. Too often I had been led astray by man’s need to redirect himself; especially in Europe where detours were common.

As I entered the last street on the grid, my eye gravitated to the Basilica Notre Dame above St. Jean Cathedral. It looked like a shining white monolith, eclectic and elegant sitting high on the hill compared to the solid, rather squat-looking St. Jean that pre-dated it. Nevertheless, I was not deceived by St. Jean’s lack of aesthetic beauty, knowing that it had weathered time, revolution, and war. I loved old buildings!

St. Jean-Baptiste Cathedral was a combination of Romanesque and Gothic styles, built over several centuries, beginning in the 12th and completed in the 15th. The wing of the cathedral that housed the treasury had preserved the beauty of its 12th-century Romanesque facade. One of the fun facts I had learned about it was that in 1600 King Henri IV came to Lyon to meet his Italian fiancée, Marie de' Medici. She must have been extremely beautiful or had some strong charismatic feminine power, because the instant he saw her, he married her on the spot in that cathedral.

I found a place to park along the River Saône and walked down the street and across to the church. As I entered, I was awed into reverence by the magnificent 13th-century stained-glass windows, and the window tracery and vaulting in the side chapels. It was an architectural wonder and I felt the centuries weighing down on me. The vibrations of history stimulated my senses. The walls were talking to me – I could feel the presence of people long gone throughout the ages. Christian saints and satyrs alike–only God knew which–had gathered there. Whisperings, faint shouts and screams tickled my mind. I shivered.

I was a little early so I happily played the tourist. I wandered around until I came to the flamboyant Gothic chapel of the Bourbons. On the front portals were medallions depicting the signs of the zodiac, the Creation, and the life of St. John the Baptist. I stared at this for a long time and was none the wiser when my alarm dinged and I headed over to the astronomical clock, on the other side of the cross-shaped cathedral. As I neared, I could hear it chime. Three o’clock. I got as close to it as the fence that surrounded it would allow. It was a marvel of technology and exquisite beauty. Angels and roosters joined the heralding of the advent of the Christ. I leaned in and tried to read the tiny scrollwork on the large dials.

"Excusez-moi. As-tu le temps de parler?"

Do you have time to talk. I turned and greeted my contact with my return password in English. I’m sorry. I don’t have a watch.

She was tall with dark blond hair, not too pretty. Her steel blue eyes appraised me as if I was a disappointment. She was dressed in a long woolen skirt and a woolen poncho. Her feet were cast in boots with very spiked heels. She didn’t smile in response to my welcoming grin, but whirled and click-clacked her way across the polished floor. I clopped after her back the way I came until we exited the cathedral. I joined her on the sidewalk in front of a sky blue Mercedes-elec.

Pilgrim Seven. I said and held out my hand to shake hers. She ignored it and pressed the Patch on her wrist. The trunk lid popped open. She pulled out a black cloth bag and handed it to me. It was heavy. Without another word, she closed the trunk, got into her car and drove away. So much for international relations. I slung the bag over my shoulder and made a beeline for my little gray Rinault-elec. I popped the trunk and placed the bag inside next to my suitcase. I unzipped it and did a brief scan of the contents. It was filled with the latest technology in surveillance and weaponry. I was more than satisfied–and more than prepared for whatever came my way. Cyn Beda was taking no chances with this one. I hoped they were wrong and I wouldn’t need any of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CHAPTER TWO

The Priory of the Holy Order of Pious Sisters was not easy to find even with the car’s locator or my ComLink. It was fifty kilometers northwest of Lyon, in wine country, which should have made it easier since the sisters were well-known winemakers; but as it happened, much to my dismay, their winemaking enterprise was not connected to the priory. I had driven an hour out of the way before I discovered I was heading in the wrong direction. I got cursory instructions from a man at the vineyard, and had been driving for another hour; but still had no sign of it.

I was fuming, but not because I was lost. I was mad at myself for leaving the earpiece to my international translator. I could have sworn I put it in my suitcase. I unloaded and repacked everything to no avail. One of those rotten baggage handlers must have swiped it. I was at a severe disadvantage. I would have to rely on my ComLink to translate speech, but that wasn't the same as hearing the speech in English in real time.

I saw a boy wearing shorts walking with his dog along the side of the road. At least I had the main headpiece with the probe and amplifier that fit into my mouth. I put it on and pulled over. I got out of the car and asked the boy in perfect amplified electronic French if he could give me directions to the priory. He looked at me with awe. He said something in French that I couldn’t understand it since I didn’t have the earpiece, but from the shake of his head and his hand gestures, I could tell that he had never heard of the priory. He was quick to discern I was English. He was impressed with the headpiece.

"Oh, mademoiselle, what is that?" He said in English.

It’s an international translator. I don’t speak French.

"Oh. But I speak English. Very good English, oui?"

I took off the headpiece, since I could see he was distracted by it. I’m looking for the Priory of Pious Sisters?

Sisters? I do not know. We do not see them here. Do you know Max Freeze?

Who’s that?

Max Freeze? On VidNet. He’s very famous in America, no?

I hated to disappoint the kid but I had never heard of Max Freeze. I said, Oh, sure, Max Freeze. Sorry. Don’t see him much because he’s well . . . so famous.

This seemed to satisfy him, and he smiled broadly. A store is on this road. They will tell you sisters where you are.

"Mercí," I said, patting his dog before I got back into the car and drove another ten kilometers to a small food/synth station. The only other vehicle nearby was a black boxy eco-lorry. Time to fill up and relieve my bladder. On the lorry was a painting of a fat, happy man wearing a baker’s hat and apron dancing with a happy cow. The words Bon Pain et Vache were in an arch above the dancing figures. Bread and Cow.

When I came out of the restroom, I found a strapping young man cleaning my windshield. Dressed in overalls without a shirt, my heart skipped to see his muscles rippling across his well-formed back and arms as he scrubbed off the bugs. He turned towards me and spoiled the effect with his severely pock-marked face and two missing teeth. I followed him into the store and paid for the synth. I tried to ask him about the sisters, but at the sound of my English he waved his hand at me. I put on my translator. His eyes went even wider, and he scurried away.

Take that thing off. You’re scaring the locals, a voice in English came from the back of the store. I was surprised to see a man in his 40’s with a round face and a big red nose, coming toward me with his arms full of French bread. "Pardon moi, you lost?"

I nodded.

I heard you asking about the Priory, he continued, unloading his bread on the counter. You’re close, but it’s not too easy to find. It’s way up in the Alps. I’m heading that way with a delivery if you’d like to follow me.

Fantastic. My locator sent me to the winery, but the Priory doesn’t appear to be in the satellite data base.

Doesn’t surprise me. They’re not of this world. Name’s Rod McLeesh.

Hannah. Hannah Ward. You’re English?

Aussie. Let me get rid of this bread and we can go.

He loaded the long, golden rods of French bread into a plexi-bin, stacking them so customers could easily pull them out. Just as he finished, a woman appeared from the back room. She was also wearing overalls–with a red blouse underneath, thank the Creator–and bustled behind the counter. She spoke to him in rapid-fire French of which I caught only the gist. She was flirting with him and complementing him on his cheese. I think she said cheese. She smiled and handed over a blue e-chip. Rod plugged it into his pad. When he was finished, he pulled her hand across the counter and kissed it. The woman blushed and was speechless.

We can go now, he said to me.

I set my locator and followed him. At fifteen kilometers, he turned off onto another road. We drove across a wine grove, down a rut-filled, tree-lined, one-lane road, over a rusty-looking bridge across a swiftly moving river, and up the mountainside. Up, up, up we went. At each successive turn, I paid less and less attention to the road because the view commanded my attention. It was gorgeous and awe-inspiring. We wound our way deeper and deeper into the forest around the mountain. At one point, the locator went blank. I would have to remember the route without it. I continued to follow the slow moving eco-lorry. But I didn’t mind. In fact, the further we drove up the mountain, the more serene and complacent I became. My thoughts went along the lines of I could get used to living here or this is where I’d like to live and die.

As the truck pulled suddenly to the left, I had my first glimpse of the Priory of Pious Sisters. Constructed of hewn granite stones, embedded into the mountainside, it was rumored to have been built on the foundations of an early church from 386 AD. It was ancient and it did not disappoint. My arms tingled and I felt a slow burn rise up to my neck. It was a forbidding, imposing structure. You knew that if you went into it, you might never come out. It would require your soul. It was already calling to me. Rest my weary daughter. Come into my womb and be at peace. Stop struggling and sleep.

I shook myself. Overload on the sensitivity. I took a deep breath and focused my mind on Leslie Fournier. I would find her killer. I would not be distracted by an unformed Talent. With Dr. DasGupta’s help, I had learned how to filter my feminine power and control my Talent. Instead of being ruled by them, I now had them under my control. At least, I hoped I did. Once I had learned to accept my power, I was hyper-sensitive to its influence. Since I had always had a strong affinity to structures, particularly old ones, it was not surprising that this Priory of Pious Sisters affected me with sympathetic vibrations.

Rod was pulling out a shipment of his bread and cheese. He not only had four dozen loaves of bread, he hauled in five 30-inch rounds of cheese. It looked like he also delivered three or four crates of yogurt or flan. I pulled my car ahead of him into the courtyard to what looked like a front door. I stepped out on white crushed gravel. Rod was still bringing in his goods. The sisters must really put away the food.

From the file I knew that there were about fifty sisters living at one time at the priory. Their chief source of income was from their vineyard. If you weren’t working in the vineyard you were contemplating the attributes of Mary.

According to my file on the case, Prioress Raina Veilleux had contacted FemCorps via the Net. One of her parishioners, Madame Fournier, had been murdered and no one had done anything about it. It was as if the authorities were deliberately hiding the fact. She asked for our help.

This case was a huge break for me. It meant that I was the primary investigator in a murder case. It was amazing that I was even still in the Corps after all that had happened the year before. It only confirmed what I always believed (except for that last time); that FemCorps was the best organization in the world to work for and that what I did made a difference to the women we helped. I would bring justice for Leslie Fournier.

Rod gave me a wave as he climbed into his lorry and drove away. I examined the imposing structure to see if there was a promising front door. It all looked the same; not really even any windows to speak of–just slits in the wall. I chose a brick pathway on the left because I saw what appeared to be a sign. As I got closer, I could see it was written in French. I hoped it said, knock and the door shall be opened to you. I rapped my knuckles on the heavy wooden door. It barely made a sound. I tried the flat of my hand. Not so much as a thud; more like a slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. I looked around and found a pull cord among the vines and gave it a tug. I heard a rather loud chime outside.

Before long, I saw a woman dressed in a long scarlet robe approaching me with determination.

"Bon jour. Puis-je vous aider?

I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.

Ahh! You are Hannah Ward, the American!"

"Oui. I followed Bon Pain et Vache. Your bread man. Rod McLeesh."

"Ah, bien. I am Sister Aimée. I can speak ang-leesh. She beamed at me. I take you to Prioress Veilleux."

Lead on, Sister Amy.

We skirted the front of the priory and then turned at the corner to face the looming presence of the mountain, which appeared to be an extension of the priory itself. Looking up at it, I experienced vertigo. I kept my sensations under control and matched my pace with the long, purposeful stride of Sister Aimée. We passed at least five large doors in the priory's rock wall on my right, all vine covered and ancient, until we were stopped by another granite wall. My guide turned to the right and we followed this wall until we came to an archway that revealed a large open courtyard. This was primarily a vegetable garden–row upon row of various vegetables.

We quickly crossed the garden and turned left onto a path under arched porticos, mostly crumbling in decay, with tiled patios on either side. The curling vines above us and down the columned sides were somehow tidy in the midst of all the neglect. To the right of us I noticed rows of wooden doors, seemingly installed into the mountain itself. Ahead of us I observed that there was another row of wooden doors. Midway along this row of doors was a granite arch inset with an ornate wooden door. Sister Aimée turned off from the path and headed for the door. She depressed the latch and gave it a good shove with her shoulder, pushing it open. I followed her into a cold anteroom of polished marble slabs. I was growing more and more impressed with the priory. What stories this place could tell. I hugged my goose-pimply arms.

We crossed the anteroom and stopped in front of an etched glass enclosed office.

Will you wait here, Hannah Ward?

"Oui."

She opened the door and disappeared, leaving me to wander the area and pick up the smells and sounds of this ancient place. The smell was indescribable–damp, earthy, pungent and comforting. The sounds were of bees, crickets, birds, a shout or two far in the distance, a door opening.

Hannah Ward. You may go in now. The prioress is waiting.

She shut the door behind me. I faced Prioress Raina Veilleux.

She was standing behind an old, intricately carved wooden desk. Sunlight filtered through the latticed windows some twelve feet above us, casting three shafts of light in front of her and on her desk. She was a tiny woman, about 4'10", wearing a dark purple robe. Embroidered symbols ran down a white stole around her neck. Her face was opaque, a slit of a mouth, two slits for eyes, a nose that was insignificant. Her hair was bound in a long gray braid which hung over one shoulder. She wore no other adornments. As I looked at her, she appeared to shimmer in the light. Ethereal, that's what she was. I was