Seven Days Of Halloween - Day 4

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Napoleon fished the bleating communicator from his inner pocket. “Solo here.”

“Did you get thyself to a nunnery?” Wanda asked.

“Still on route. You know, it’s really very beautiful up here. Perfect for a romantic weekend.”

“At a convent? That’s not my idea of romance.”

“How about a castle, then? They’ve got Gothic hotels up here right out of a fairy tale.”

“With no television and a boiler that goes out like clockwork. No thanks. Besides, we might be spending this night together…on your long drive back. The sisters occasionally provide aid and comfort to wayward hikers, but no one’s allowed to stay after nine.”

“Why? What happens at nine?”

“If you were here, I’d show you.”

Directed by a small sign, Napoleon turned off the state road onto a dirt drive. A canopy of trees created a premature twilight. “You doubt my powers of persuasion?”

“Not at all. I’ve seen them in action.” Her voice crackled.

Napoleon shook the communicator and answered, “I have a way with nuns. Sister Mary Aquinas once told me I was her favorite pupil.”

Wanda’s response was lost in a hail of static.

“Hello. Open Channel D.”

He received no response. With a grimace, Napoleon closed the antenna on his knee and slid the communicator into his pocket.

After a few miles, a stone wall signaled the border of the convent property. Napoleon pulled the convertible up to a wrought iron gate. The trees overhead erupted into squawking confusion as the brass bell broke the heavy arboreal silence. Minutes passed with no answer. He yanked the bell pull again. He had begun to eye the silver case at his feet speculatively when movement beyond the gate drew his attention. A tall, black-robed figure glided toward him.

“Good evening, Sister. I hope I haven’t disturbed your prayers.”

Deep-set eyes peered out from a gaunt, sallow face. “Not at all, Mr. Solo. His Presence is always with me.”

“You know me?” he asked. At her solemn nod, he pointed upwards. “Did, ah, He tell you I was coming?”

“If by ‘He’ you mean our Bishop, then yes.”

She unlocked the gate and hauled its creaking mass inward with the gnarled, raw-boned hands of a bare-knuckle boxer. Napoleon followed her along a path that wound through the trees. The woods ended abruptly, unveiling an expansive view of the surrounding hills. He leaned over a stone balustrade and looked down the precipice at the narrow glacial lake far below. Its crystal waters reflected the deep blue of the evening sky.

“You certainly have a beautiful setting,” he said. “And fresh fish on Fridays.”

The Sister did not look down. “There are no fish, Mr. Solo. It is a dead lake.”

To his left, a house entwined with ivy projected from the cliff top as if sculpted from the rock itself. The Sister led him to an entrance at its rear. The name Dumont Cottage was carved into the lintel.

“Dumont? As in railroads and oil wells Dumont?”

“A younger son. He wished to enjoy the resort’s amenities from a more private vantage.”

“Where the rich rich could retreat from the poor rich.”

He smiled at the thought of sharing this with Wanda on his return. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ she would say, to which he would reply, ‘And such a lovely mouth too.’ Then he thought of her lost signal and frowned.

The Sister opened the door. “And now it is home to those who have taken a vow of poverty. Truly ‘God resisteth the proud, but to the humble he giveth grace.’”

In the foyer, she paused. “Wait here, please,” she said and rounded the corner.

Napoleon assessed his surroundings. Whitewash and simple furnishings could not entirely obscure the cottage’s elegant bones. Grainy photographs hung on the wall beside him, a collection of images from the resort’s scholastic past. Rows of uniformed boys of various ages, stiff and unsmiling, peered from the frames. Some were labeled with white ink. One name jumped out: Wagman.

“You may come this way.” The Sister stood across the foyer, gesturing to an open door. As Napoleon entered the room, a voice said, “…and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Three sisters sat in the parlor. Two looked up from their game of checkers. The third closed the book she had been reading aloud. His usual suave assurance abandoned him under their somber regard.

“This is Mr. Napoleon Solo of the U.N.C.L.E.”

The pretty novice in the white habit tittered behind her fingers, then quailed under the disapproving gazes of her fellow Sisters.

“I am Sister John,” the tall nun said severely. Napoleon nodded, massaging the knuckles that Sister Mary Aquinas had rapped with her ruler so long ago. He put the hand in his pocket.

“This is Sister Paul.” The nun, as petite as the first was tall, clutched her book tightly. A long nose protruded from her pale, oval face, and its pink tip quivered.

“Sister George.” Sharp eyes, raven-black, met his briefly, then resumed their intense appraisal of the checkerboard.

“And Sister Ringo.”

The charming smile he directed at the novice froze, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Sister Ringo,” the novice said slowly, her expression stern. Then her shoulders shook. Her mouth contorted with the effort of maintaining her frown. “Oh, Mr. Solo, you should see your face.” Dropping her head onto her arm, she dissolved into giggles.

Napoleon looked around and met three smiles of more reserved but equally genuine amusement.

“Please excuse Sister Cecile. She is very fond of that joke.” Sister John’s grin softened her harsh features. “Sometimes I think if not for that, she would have chosen the Dominicans.”

Napoleon laughed weakly. “May I be properly introduced?”

“Oh, you have been, except for Sister Cecile, of course. She has not yet taken her new name, and alas, there is no Saint Ringo.”

Napoleon scoured his memory. “There was a Saint Rigobert, I think.”

Sister Cecile pulled a face. “Yes, but it’s just not the same.”

Sister John sat down behind an embroidery stand, and Napoleon took the adjacent chair. Her bony hands stabbed a needle in and out of the cloth, leaving a trail of surprisingly exquisite stitches. He cocked his head and realized the threads were tracing the shape of a skull. “You do, ah, lovely work.”

“Memento mori, Mr. Solo. There is great spiritual benefit in meditating on one’s death.”

“Well, everyone should have a hobby.” He smoothed his tie. “That brings me to the reason I’ve come. I need to speak to your Reverend Mother.”

“That is a very irregular request. Ours is a cloistered, contemplative Order.”

“But you permitted me to enter.”

She smiled patiently. “Only this far. We are extern Sisters. Our service to the Community includes engagement with the outside world. But no one else may enter the Enclosure except under the direst emergency.”

Napoleon fought the urge to raise his voice. “This is a matter of life and death.”

“Even in such circumstances, the Sisters would remain in their cells, unseen. I will, however, take a message to the Reverend Mother on your behalf.”

Napoleon scribbled a note on the pad Sister Cecile brought him. “Please tell her it’s urgent.”

Sister John took the paper. “You are hungry and tired. Sister Paul and Sister George will tend to your needs.”

Sensing his dismissal, Napoleon followed Sister Paul into the hallway. She led him to a door marked Infirmary. “We tend to injured hikers here. Despite the warning signs, many do stray from the trails.”

The small room held a table, chair and narrow cot. A framed embroidery hung between the supply cabinet and the open window. Napoleon recognized the workmanship. “Sister John?”

“Yes. It’s an inscription from St. Paul's Monastery on Mount Athos.”

“What does it say?”

Sister Paul’s nose twitched like a white rat’s. “If you die before you die, then you won’t die when you die.”

Sister George arrived with a supper tray laden with vegetable soup, rolls, and a glass of red wine. The two nuns left him to his meal.

Napoleon drained the last drop from the glass having received no word from Sister John. Wishing the nuns had brought him the whole bottle, he moved from the uncomfortable wooden chair to the cot. A soft breeze blew in through the window. Crickets chirped. He rested his head back against the wall.

“Mr. Solo, wake up.”

Napoleon opened his eyes. He was lying on the cot. The window was dark. “I must have dozed off,” he said, sitting up and smoothing his hair.

Sister Cecile stood in the hall, a lantern in hand. “Quick. Follow me.”

Napoleon looked over her shoulder. Another Sister stood farther down the hall, her face shadowed. “Has the Reverend Mother agreed to see me?”

“Hurry, please. It is almost time for the Great Silence.”

He grabbed the case and followed her. She led him down a flight of stairs and out a door. They emerged onto a narrow ledge in the cliff face. A thick fog bank rolled up from the lake.

“Unusual weather,” he remarked. “Look, what’s all this about?”

She held out the lantern. “The answers you seek are down there.”

Napoleon frowned at the narrow flight of stairs descending into the fog. He looked at the novice questioningly. She nodded. Their fingers brushed as he took the lamp. Hers were as cold as ice.

With a sigh, he started cautiously down the wet steps. Tendrils of heavy mist curled around his ankles.

“Mr. Solo.”

He turned to look back at Sister Cecile.

“Only the dead can understand the dead.”

A powerful blow struck his back. His feet slipped on the slick stone. He pitched forward and fell headlong over the edge. It had to be a dream. The wind whistled in his ears as he plummeted toward the lake. At any moment he would wake up back in the Infirmary.

“Wake up,” he yelled, the wind tearing the words from his mouth.

As he struck the icy water, everything went black.