The Nativity of St. Genevieve

By Christine Van Mater

When an accidental fire claims the life of both her parents, young Genevieve is apprenticed to the village midwife, the only person who is willing to take her in. But Goody has a reputation of being more than just an herb-woman; it's whispered that she's a witch, as well.
Before long, Genevieve realizes that Goody isn't the only one in the village who can do magic - she can too! Uncertain what this means, she turns to the adults around her for help. Goody, the midwife; Roland, the smith; and Father David, the village priest. All of them have different ideas about what she is and why she can do the things she can.
Genevieve must learn what she is, and how to control her powers. Not only that, but she must do it quickly, before the villagers decide for her . . . and take action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Van Mater
• Release date: Aug 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465757371

Christine Van Mater

Christine Van Mater writes alternate history novels because it is as yet the most practical use she has found for her MA in Medieval History. The Nativity of St. Genevieve is her first full-length novel,but she has plans for many, many more, both in Genevieve's world and in her pioneering sub-genre of Appalachian Steampunk. In her spare time she knits, roleplays, and serves as Dispenser-of-Manna-From-Above for a pair of not very bright parakeets. She can be found online on Twitter, Facebook, and her Blog, generally while she ought to be writing.

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The Nativity of St. Genevieve

Christine Van Mater

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Christine Van Mater

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

River Run (excerpt)

About the Author

Prologue: The Beginning and the End

The forest was calm and quiet, the stillness of a lovely spring morning broken only by birdsong, the jingle of harness, and the dull thud of horse hooves on the packed earthen trail. Another traveler, if there had been any, would have beheld a pair of fine bays, incongruously mounted by monks. Then again, such a traveler, unless he was from some heathen land far beyond the bounds of Christendom, would have recognized the monks by their blue robes as Beati, the most holy (and powerful) churchmen in the land, and well deserving of their steeds. Unfortunately for their Order's reputation, once his surprise at their mounts was overcome and explained away, our hypothetical tinker or tradesman would have been shocked again to behold these luminous men, these saints-on-earth, arguing like schoolboys. Fortunately, there was no one there to see.

There were two of them, both men, both young, in their early to mid twenties at the latest. One had dark hair and a serious face, the other, whose wavy blonde ringlets appeared only grudgingly to have submitted to tonsure, was singing. His sonorous tenor, clearly honed for years in a cathedral choir, soared through the forest. Its purity would have brought tears to the eye of any listener. The lyrics would have brought shock, disbelief, and then gales of laughter. The darker haired monk, who had clearly taken the role of leader and was riding a few lengths ahead, sighed, reining his horse back until the two of them were riding side by side. Beatus Jacob, he asked, in the voice of one whose patience has already been sorely tested, Are you certain that song is entirely appropriate for singing in public? His eyes widened at the refrain. Where did you even learn that, anyway?

Jacob broke off in mid-verse and grinned. My dear Sol, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean. I learned it from the Chorister himself! Just . . . not during choir practice. He chuckled. Besides, since when did two Beati, a couple of horses, and miles of trackless wilderness constitute a public performance? If I happen to offend any rabbits, I'll be sure to beg their pardon.

Solomon frowned. He was as happy to be out of the abbey for once as Jacob was, excited that they had been trusted with this mission, but he wished his companion shared his respect for its seriousness. Miles, perhaps, but we're due to arrive at that village this afternoon. I don't know if they're expecting us or not - though after that disturbance they should be - but they might have runners out at a distance watching for us, and we could run across one of them any time today.

Jacob shrugged, and reached up to tousle his hair in a nervous habit that he hadn't entirely shaken, even though it had been several months since both the young men had taken their final vows and received their tonsures. He touched his bald pate, sighed, and lowered his hand. All right, I'll sing something different. But are you sure they'll be expecting us? Or alternately, that there'll even be a village left? The local priest sent word that he needed someone tested months ago, but it was only the other day that they suddenly decided it was all-fired important to get it done as quickly as possible. All that Blessed Father Humbert could say was that he felt a strong Talent awakening. We might find smoking ruins, or we might find that nobody has noticed anything at all unusual.

That's exactly why I wish you were taking this more seriously, groused Solomon, waving his hand theatrically. "If there's been a big event, we need to earn the people's trust so that they'll feel safe again once we take the Talent and leave. If there hasn't been anything unusual, we'll still need to earn their trust so that they don't kick up a fuss when we identify the Talent and take it and leave. He eyed his friend sharply. Besides, weren't you listening? The priest's request identified the child in need of testing as an orphan, but also a girl. And I doubt that these peasants would be too happy to let one of their little girls ride off with a pair of men who came traipsing into town singing bawdy songs, even if they are wearing monk's robes. Or especially if they're wearing monk's robes, for that matter."

Jacob shrugged again, carelessly, and Solomon had to crush the momentary, uncharitable urge to strangle his fellow monk with the man's own belt cord. Oblivious, Jacob chattered on. Well, we won't know till we get there, anyway. It's a fine morning for a ride, don't you think? Let me see if I can dredge up a song that won't offend your modesty.

The young men rode off through the forest, Jacob still singing, and Solomon still fuming.

True to Solomon's prediction, they found the village about midday. It wasn't much, just a widening in the road where the trees had been cleared out to allow a few acres of arable fields. It couldn't have been a community of more than a hundred souls, with most of the houses clustered at one end of the dirt track, around a well. There were chickens and geese running in the streets, and from the smell of it, several of the families kept pigs and goats, but there was no room to graze cattle. There were a few people out and about in the streets, but they kept their eyes downcast, avoiding the gaze of the monks, and hurrying away when they were noticed. Towards the other end of the community there was a central unpaved square, a common area flanked by two larger houses and a small stone church with a cemetery, and it was here that the friars turned their horses. They passed a small, unkempt side-path leading up a hill into the forest, and Jacob reined in his horse to examine it for a moment. What do you think is up there? he asked Solomon.

Probably the house of the midwife, if they have one. You know most villages keep minor Talents around for healing and the like. I'm sure we'll hear about it soon enough. In fact . . . yes, I'm certain we will. Solomon nudged Jacob and nodded significantly towards the graveyard. They could just make out a single, tiny, fresh grave in the cemetery proper, but more importantly there were signs of digging and a hastily interred body on the outside of the low stone wall, placed ever so carefully just beyond the bounds of the sanctified ground.

Jacob followed Solomon's gaze, and his eyes widened. He swore under his breath. That complicates things. I hope that's not the one we were after. We'll have to be careful.

Solomon rolled his eyes. That's what I've been telling you all along, numbwit. Didn't the way everyone's acting tell you something's wrong? You know we'd normally be mobbed in a place like this. He shook his head. Don't stare, anyway. We've got company, and it's time to start getting some answers.

The two men rode up to edge of the churchyard, where Solomon had noticed that the parish priest was waiting for them. They nodded down at him, aware of the delicacy of the situation. They far outranked the priest, but he held the power to either make their investigation run smoothly, or to derail it entirely. Solomon devoutly hoped it would be the former, and judging from the slightly relieved look on the man's face, he felt his prayers might be answered.

My lords, began the priest, I am Father David. I serve several villages in this district, but this is the first time I've been honored with the presence of Beati such as yourselves. Please, allow me to stable your horses, and I will offer you what poor hospitality I can.

Solomon and Jacob dismounted, but kept the reins to their horses. Please, David, allow us to help, said Solomon. We are only young brothers ourselves, and used to meeting our own needs. I am Beatus Solomon, and my companion is Beatus Jacob. Jacob nodded at the priest and smiled, gesturing for him to lead them to the stables.

I . . . If you are certain, my lords. I must admit that I don't keep permanent staff in any of my villages, but I have arrangements with some of the wives to have quarters kept and meals cooked. In fact, dinner should be awaiting us as soon as the horses are seen to. David tried again timidly to take Jacob's reins, but the young man just grinned and slapped the priest on the back.

Lead on then, good David, and once we've seen to our horses' bellies, we can see to our own. Solomon winced at Jacob's overly familiar behavior, worried that it would only further disconcert the priest, but it seemed that he had actually hit on a way to set the Father more at his ease. They led their horses a little further down the street to the blacksmith's shop, David nervously explaining that horses were rare enough in the village that this was the only public stabling facility available. It was perhaps a little rough, but the horses didn't seem to mind, and they were soon settled in contentedly with David's mule, chewing away at the fresh hay in their ricks. The mule seemed unimpressed by his newfound and high-blooded company, and Solomon resolved to take a lesson from the animal's behavior. Oddly, the blacksmith himself was conspicuously absent, though the state of his tools and the heat of the fire told Solomon that the man had been there only shortly before. He shrugged to himself. Many smiths had more than a touch of the otherworldly about them, and it either made them eager to seek out priests or eager to avoid them. He decided this hamlet's smith must have been one of the latter.

There was a small rectory by the church where David made his home while he was in town. The men walked in, and were greeted by the smell of a savory pork casserole. As David bustled about getting plates and utensils, Solomon and Jacob took the excuse to look around the small cottage. There was a table, several chairs, and the cupboard from which David was extracting his dishware. The place was very spartan, looking as if it didn't see much use. There were no traces of personality, no personal possessions, nothing. It seemed that the priest was a man who took his vow of poverty seriously. A small fire was lit in the fireplace; oddly, it seemed to the visitors, because although the nights were still cool, it wasn't at all cold enough to call for artificial heat.

One of the alcoves by the fireplace was curtained off, seemingly to trap the warmth. Solomon, aware that he was prying, but overcome by curiosity, pushed aside the curtain to investigate. His cry of surprise brought Jacob immediately to his side, and David, sighing, put down the last of the plates to join him. Yes, said David glumly, she's why you're here. Her name is Genevieve.

Lying on a cot in the corner, Solomon had found a young girl, sleeping or unconscious. She was perhaps ten or eleven years old, but she had clearly experienced something to age her beyond her years. Even in sleep her face was pinched and unhappy looking, with dark circles under her eyes that were made all the more vivid by the paleness of her skin. Her long brown hair lay lank and dirty around her, full of sticks, twigs, and mud, looking like it hadn't been washed or combed in days or even weeks. It seemed to Solomon she had the potential to grow up into an attractive young woman, with a certain delicacy of feature uncommon among peasants, but at the moment she looked like she had been through the nine circles of Hell and back. A small gray kitten lay curled up protectively on her chest. It had awoken at Solomon's shout, and opened its tiny pink mouth in a noiseless hiss at the men.

Shaking his head, Solomon lowered the curtain again, screening the girl off from the rest of the room. He led Jacob and David back to the table, where they all sat down, food forgotten. Solomon looked over at David, where he was hunched miserably in his chair, clearly expecting the worst. Yes, said Solomon, his face grim. Yes, I expect you had better tell us what's happened. And I expect you should start at the beginning.

Chapter One

The fire began, as fires often do, in the middle of the night.

Gen woke up in her loft under the roof coughing from the smoke. She kicked off the small patchwork rag blanket that she had been sleeping under and crawled across the rough-hewn planks that formed the ceiling of the cottage's main room, over to the ladder hole that she used to get in and out of the semi-private attic. Her head bumped against strings of sausages hanging from the roof to cure; it was late fall, and the harvest had been good. It wasn't every year that her family could afford to keep much of the meat after slaughtering their hog, but the crops had done well enough this summer that her father had bartered some of their extra barley for the household necessities, and they had been able to keep the pork for themselves. Gen, who hated the pease porridge that was one of her family's staples, had been looking forward to a more varied diet this winter.

Opening the trapdoor down to the main room, Gen was blinded by a rushing cloud of heat and smoke. She felt around desperately for the top of the ladder, but couldn't find it. Realizing that she was trapped, she began to panic. She threw the trapdoor back down to cover the hole, but the smoke continued belching up from the blazing room below, wreathing through the cracks in the floor. She ran to the other end of the tiny attic, ducking her head to avoid hitting the low roof. There was a window at that end, but since only nobles and the Church could afford glass, its panes were lined with tough parchment made from the skin of one of the previous unlucky inhabitants of the pigsty.

Gen flailed against the window with her fists, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her throat was already raw and sore from the smoke, but she scarcely noticed, desperate as she was to escape. Finally the frame holding the parchment squares in place gave way, and the window tore open enough for her to climb up and push her way out into the clean, freezing night air, heedless of the height. She fell from under the eaves onto the ground with a thud that took her breath away, earning a nasty bump to the head; the ground was frost-covered but thankfully not yet frozen hard. She tried to crawl, to force her way away from the burning cottage, but her head felt thick and her limbs wouldn't cooperate, her arms and legs waving uselessly. Unable to catch her breath, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball, hacking and shivering, waiting for unconsciousness to claim her. Just before it swooped in on velvet wings, she saw a dark shape break off and move towards her from the crowd at the edge of her vision, the villagers who had gathered to watch the fire. She felt herself being lifted by strong arms, and then she remembered nothing more.

The next few days passed as a blur to Gen. She slept and woke, barely aware of her surroundings, only knowing that there was a thought trying to form at the back of her head, a thought that she didn't want to think. Sometimes she would wake up to find someone giving her a drink of something bitter, and she would sleep again, so deeply that not even the dreams could reach her.

Finally, Gen woke up clear-headed enough to understand where she was. Her head still ached dully, and her mouth felt dry and sticky, but as she blinked to clear her vision, she recognized the interior of Goody Hardin's house, the village herb-woman and midwife. She was lying in a pallet made up by the side of the bed. A table covered with bowls and bottles, dried herbs, pressed flowers, bits and pieces of animals that Gen didn't recognize, and even more exotic paraphernalia made up the only other furniture in the cottage, aside from a pair of chairs. Goody herself was kneeling at the fireplace,which was surmounted by a mantel covered with even more bunches of herbs