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It was warm in the Church of the Holy Blessed Virgin, apart from a brief gust of wind that blew in the open window Abigail had climbed in. Her nose flared at the smell of her own sweat and blood as she drew in heavy breaths.
She was a damn fool to rob another coach knowing full well that bounty men were after her just days before. And she was an even bigger fool not to realize she was robbing a Cornwall Kerosene and Tar convoy before the wagons went up in flames after the first few gunshots. Too hasty her poor mother called her. The mare she had borrowed from some unlucky fella, had bucked and ran at the commotion of being ambushed by a bunch of bastard bounty hunters on their way to Lakay.
That sort of nonsense was not totally out of the ordinary—but the bullet hole in Abigail’s shoulder was an unfortunate mishap in her usual routine of crashing and slashing through bounty men. She was confident that the bounty hunters had not followed her to the church but not certain.
So, she listened and waited, waited for another shoe to drop as she held her wound, all while hiding behind the church altar. She thought to herself how disappointed her mother would be to know this was the first time she stepped in a house of God in seven odd years. There was no point, if you couldn’t die. No heaven or hell to worry about. Not a few moments passed before Abigail heard a quiet footstep that echoed off the high cathedral walls. She could feel the sweat on her brow fall and the hesitation of the intruder through the silence.
Then, heels clicked against the stone floor, quickly, closer and closer. There was no time to think, Abigail needed the upper hand. She unholstered her revolver and flipped around the altar into sight. She was pointing her gun at a woman in white, who just so happened to be pointing her own gun. Abigail took stock of this woman, as she did anyone who was fool enough to pull a gun on her. She wore a white night down with a robe enclosing her shoulders. Abigail saw that her hair fell past her shoulders in black ringlets despite the lacy white veil covering her head. This was not a bounty hunter. It was a nun, she guessed. She also guessed this nun must be brave to confront a blooded up outlaw, but still—Abigail saw the gun shake in her hand.
“You here to rob us?” The nun questioned sternly. Abigail raised her empty palm in surrender and lowered her gun in the other hand.
“I must admit, the golden cups and no doubt tidings hiding somewhere are tempting— but no.” Abigail answered, while eyeing the ornate stained glass.
The nun kept her gaze, still wary. “I’ve come seeking salvation.” Abigail said with a quirked smile. The nun finally lowered her shotgun. “I’m sure.” the woman scoffed.
She had a Cajun draw to her airy voice that Abigail quite liked. Abigail lowered herself down to sit on the step up to the alter— finally giving into exhaustion, god knows how long she ran to get here. She held her blood soaked shoulder and sighed as the nun regarded her suspiciously.
“As you can see, I had a run in with some unsavory folks.” Abigail said through gritted teeth. “The law?” The woman questioned. “Not exactly…” Abigail answered before the nun moved to kneel in front of her. She could see the other woman’s face more clearly now, bathed in moonlight.
She had a beauty mark on her left cheek. Her eyebrows were crunched up in concern, and her brown eyes grew even bigger as Abigail finally admitted in a slurred voice, “‘S Bounty hunters.” The nun slightly withdrew. “You must have quite the price on your head.” she whispered more so to herself. “I won’t hurt you…” the outlaw chuckled, as long as you let me go, she almost finished, but decided not to.
“I don’t reckon you couldn’t in this state.” The nun replied. “You’re as pale as a water lily.” “I’m Irish, Sister. We look like this.” Abigail replied, amused at her own joke. It dawned on Abigail that her arm was going numb from the pain and her head began to swim. She laid back, roughly pinning her back to the cold stone. Abigail stared up to the ceiling to see fluffy white clouds painted on a bright sky blue background. Streams of light poured through the clouds, and in the middle of it all God outstretched his arms to her. Bastard. She thought. I’d pray for death but you wouldn’t take me. Soon, the darkness started to cloud her vision.
“Please…just…” Abigail begged although not sure who to. “C’mon!” She heard cut through clouded thoughts. Before she realized, she was on her feet again.
Another body was pressed into the side of hers with a supportive arm slung around her waist. Abigail threw a heavy arm around the nun’s shoulder. A helping hand was enough to shock her into silence.
“Slowly now— don’t want you fallin’” the woman said softly. Each guided step felt painfully careful to Abigail but soon they made their way down the church aisle, a blood trail following. The blue-black sky outside was fog covered, the only visibility being gained from the warm light of the Saint Denis street lanterns.
Abigail groaned along whatever foot path the nun was taking them down. The nun shushed at her like a spooked mare. She did feel like a spooked animal. Yet, as vulnerable and hunted she felt, the woman’s voice was steady and grounding. “We’re nearly there….” The nun’s room was scarcely decorated save for a wooden cross hung over a white sheeted bed in the corner. That white sheeted bed was extraordinarily soft and welcome on Abigail’s tired muscles. She watched through half lidded eyes as the nun rushed around the room like a moth looking for light. She was gathering gauze and bandages and more first aid Abigail assumed. The woman sat on the edge of the small bed, sitting her supplies down on the nightstand.
“Take your shirt off.” The nun curtly asked.
Abigail felt a cold sweat underneath her rough spun clothes and the start of delirium licking at the edges of her consciousness. “For free?” She replied with a giggle, as she reached to unbutton her flannel. The nun glared at her with those big brown eyes. “You’re already in my bed” she answered with a humorous glint in her eye. “But bleed out if you please.” She finished plainly.
Abigail was clearly not moving fast enough for the nun, as she took it upon herself to finish unbuttoning Abigail’s shirt. “I don’t even know your name, woman.” Abigail muttered. The nun hesitated before helping her arms out of the sleeves and answered “Camille” while maintaining eye contact that made Abigail’s cheeks feel warm. “Abigail O’Shea” she replied with a weak smile, before being pushed down on the bed. She bit down on her knuckles as Camille packed her wound with fresh gauze. “God is good. The bullet went clean through.” Camille said as she examined the exit wound on Abigail’s back. “God is good.”
Abigail echoed sarcastically. She sat back up for Camille to wrap her bandages tight. Abigail promptly collapsed on her back as soon as she finished. Camille gently pressed a glass lip to her mouth. “This’ll help.” she whispered. Abigail gulped down the vital eagerly without second thoughts of its contents. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was embarrassed by her own nakedness but she could not muster the energy to care nor cover herself. The last thing she remembered before a blissful darkness overcame her was the nun laying a blanket across her body and bear chest.
Abigail awoke with a jolt. She could have swore she was in the middle of falling off her horse— it always hurt no matter how often it happened— but when she opened her eyes she was in a nun’s tiny living quarters.Her eyes first focused on the fluttering orange flame of a lantern on the nightstand next to her. There was a sweet humming coming from the other side of the room. Abigail almost thought it was a trick of her mind, transporting her back to her and her mother’s little one room homestead in the mining town of Rivera. Her mom liked to sing the same old hymn.
“Ave, Ave, Ave Maria” she could hear now in the nun’s low purring.
Abigail joined, mindlessly humming the tune of, “We pray for our country, the land of our birth…” She turned her head to see Camille curled up in a chair with a moth-eaten blanket on her lap. She stopped humming abruptly when she heard Abigail.
“Hello.” Camille smiled.
The sky was still a blue-black hue dotted with stars, she must have only slept a few hours Abigail guessed. She was laying in sheets covered in her own dried blood. What a mess she has made of this poor Angel’s night. Abigail mustered her energy and began to push herself up from the bed.
“What are you doin’?” Camille asked in a scolding tone.
“Think I’ve overstayed my welcome, if I truly had one to begin with.” She answered wincing at her sore shoulder. “I’d give you some cash if I had any–” Abigail muttered but stopped once she saw a puzzled look wash over Camille’s face. She shook her head and stood from the chair.
“You’re in no state to go anywhere, Miss Abigail,” she replied. Camille patted over to a ceramic water basin and wetted a small cloth. She then came to the side of the bed, leaning in close to Abigail.
“I’ll have to change the bandaging in the mornin’.” She told Abigail, “But there’s no reason why you should be sittin’ in your own filth.”
The cold rag on her skin drew a soft gasp from Abigail as the nun pressed it to her bloody upper abdomen. Her stomach felt suddenly uneasy and something in her chest fluttered. Camille delicately padded at the dry blood as if the cloth would sting to the touch. The blood had managed to get all over her, but the nun was currently cleaning a smear of blood that sat underneath her bare breast, where her heart was. Maybe it was the sweetness of this woman that made Abigail's stomach nauseous, it was all too sweet, too warm, and she had to purge it somehow. It was becoming too much for her. She placed a hand over Camille’s who was still holding the cloth to her chest. Abigail could feel her own heart pounding in her chest through the other woman's hand.
“I can manage, really.” she spoke with a dry mouth.
The nun searched her eyes for a moment and said, “‘Course. Sorry…” and took her hand away.Abigail gazed down and began to wipe away dark crusted blood from her freckled skin.
She shook her head and said, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Angel.” When she looked back up, she spied a shy pinkness in the other women’s cheeks.
“I, uh, wasn’t really expectin’ this kind of help.” Abigail scoffed in amazement.
The nun signed and closed her eyes before reciting with a measured voice, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Abigail smirked at that. She might have laughed at that if it was coming from some holier- than-thou pompous priest. But this woman, Camille, was earnest– it made her feel ill again. Once she finished cleaning herself best she could she handed the cloth back to Camille. She planned to protest this charity and take her leave but Camille said, “Get to sleep. It’s important that you rest if you hope for a timely recovery” in a stern tone that left no room for arguments. She then sat herself back down on her cushioned armchair and curled up in it with a blanket and pillow.
Surely this girl is not real. Abigail thought to herself.
Abigail slept very well knowing there was someone else in the room with her. She must of managed to finally sleep without one eye open for once. Morning came with a palmy Lemoyne heat and sunlight pouring through the window of the small living quarters. The chair where Camille slept was empty and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
This left Abigail at a loss of what to do. In the middle of wondering if she should leave, the door creaked open to reveal the nun. Only, she truly the nun in her current get up. She was clothed in a long black dress with loose sleeves. A black veil and white cap covered her head and she wore a golden cross necklace around her neck. The only things that differentiated her as Camille, was her curly bangs poking out from the veil and a simple rope tied around her waist that accentuated her figure a bit.
Abigail stared at her from behind the sheets. “You look…” she started to mutter but was uncertain how to finish. A hundred words ran through her mind. Lovely. Graceful. Heavenly. But Camille answered, “...like a holy nun?” with a shy laugh.
“Yeah.” Abigail answered stiffly.
“I’m sorry to leave you by your lonesome. I had to tend to the chickens.” Camille said while rubbing her hands off. “I didn’t steal anything” Abigail blurted “While you were gone.”
Camille stared confused for a moment before answering, “I didn’t expect you would?”
Abigail felt stupid then, God, she was stupid. She was so used to distrust and shifty personalities and being…shifty.
“Anyways…are you going to let me change ya bandages?” the other woman questioned.
“By all means, nurse.”
Abigail sat at the nun’s small wooden dining table, covering her breasts up with a blanket. With gentle hands Camille cut away the used bloodied bandages that wrapped Abigail’s gunshot wound. When Abigail realized Camille intended to clean the wound she felt a bit panicked, not because of the pain, but because of the secret that was hidden underneath layers of dry blood.
She had no real clue how much her wound had healed. Usually it was a relatively slower process if she was malnourished or exhausted. She had been both for quite a while now. But no matter the case, the healing was too fast to explain. With a quick swipe of a wet cloth her wound was revealed, if you could call it a wound anymore.
Abigail shifted uncomfortably in her seat, watching Camille’s expression. Camille wiped the bullet hole again, then once more as though she was missing something. Last night, Abigail’s shoulder had been torn through making for a nice bloody cavity. Now, that carnage was nothing more than a pink scar. With utter disbelief, Camille met Abigail’s eyes.
“Good lord! How…?” She mumbled.
“I wish I could tell ya, trust.” Abigail answered with an exasperated sigh.
“That’s impossible.” Camille scoffed.
“You’re lookin’ at it right now, ain’t ya?” Abigail said.
The poor woman was stunned. Abigail couldn’t blame her one bit. It was an unfathomable gift to give such a sinner, if it was ever meant to be a gift. Abigail stood from the table and patted over to her discarded shirt. Camille gawked at the outlaw from the chair. The dark green shirt was newly washed, she noticed. Sweet Sister Camille. Abigail buttoned up her flannel, all too aware of the eyes of the nun’s cutting into her.
“I…” Abigail began. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“But when I was younger, my mother got sick.” She said with a sudden lump in her throat. “I went to our local church asking for money, asking for medicine, anything. Ain’t no generous soul came to our aid, despite the fact my mom was a true believer, she came to church every Sunday she could.”
“The pastor said…” Abigail almost choked on the words but continued anyway. “…I’ll pray for your whore mother.”
Camille’s eyes were turned glassy.
“She… only did what she could for us…to—to survive. But the bastard didn’t see it like that.” Abigail’s chest bubbled with hot rage all over again.
“She was branded a whore even before she became one! Just for being too beautiful for men to control em selves. Just for having me, just for being unmarried.” She ranted with a bitterness that could be tasted in the air. A silence followed where Abigail just stared out the window. She could see the pointed roof of the church of the Holy Blessed Virgin from here.
“Anyways.” Abigail sighed trying to rein her anger back. The nun was waiting and listening, wide eyed with her fingers nervously thumbing a rosary in her lap.
“I did somethin’ stupid. See— we were livin’ in a gold minin’ town out west. We weren’t looking for no gold, just work.” Abigail explained, with her eyes closed, smelling the smoke and metal of the old place in her memory.