Colin had said, “Apocalyptic!” when Dunworthy had told him Kivrin was in the Middle Ages. He pulled down
No one in their right mind would come out in this. Last year the weather had been dry, and the church was still only half-full. Kivrin had gone with him. She had stayed up for the vac to study, and he had found her in the Bodleian and insisted on her coming to his sherry party and then to church.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she’d said on the way to the church. “I should be doing research.”
“You can do it at St. Mary the Virgin. Built in 1139 and all just as it was in the Middle Ages, including the heating system.”
“The ecumenical service is authentic, too, I suppose,” she’d said.
“I have no doubt that in spirit it is as well-meant and as fraught with foolishness as any medieval mass,” he had said.
He hurried down the narrow path next to Brasenose and opened the door of St. Mary’s to a blast of hot air. His spectacles steamed up. He stopped in the narthex and wiped them on the tail of his muffler, but they clouded up again immediately.
“The vicar’s looking for you,” Colin said. He was wearing a jacket and shirt, and his hair was combed. He handed Dunworthy an order of service from a large stack he was holding.
“I thought you were going to stay at home,” Dunworthy said.
“With Mrs. Gaddson? What a necrotic idea! Even church is better than that, so I told Ms. Taylor I’d help carry the bells over.”
“And the vicar put you to work,” Dunworthy said, still trying to get his spectacles clear. “Have you had any business?”
“Are you joking? The church is jammed.”
Dunworthy peered into the nave. The pews were already full, and folding chairs were being set up at the back.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” the vicar said, bustling over with an armful of hymnals. “Sorry about the heat. It’s the furnace. The National Trust won’t let us put in a new fused-air, but it’s nearly impossible to get parts for a fossil-fuel. At the moment it’s the thermostat that’s gone wrong. The heat’s either on or off.” He fished two slips of paper out of his cassock pocket and looked at them. “You haven’t seen Mr. Latimer yet, have you? He’s supposed to read the benediction.”
“No,” Dunworthy said. “I reminded him of the time.”
“Yes, well, last year he muddled things and arrived an hour early.” He handed Dunworthy one of the slips of paper. “Here’s your Scripture. It’s from the King James this year. The Church of the Millennium insisted on it, but at least it’s not the People’s Common like last year. The King James may be archaic, but at least it’s not criminal.”
The outside door opened and a knot of people, all taking down umbrellas and shaking out hats, came in, were order-of– serviced by Colin, and went into the nave.
“I knew we should have used Christ Church,” the vicar said.
“What are they all doing here?” Dunworthy said. “Don’t they realize we’re in the midst of an epidemic?”
“It’s always this way,” the vicar said. “I remember the beginning of the Pandemic. Largest collections ever taken. Later on you won’t be able to get them out of their houses, but just now they want to huddle together for comfort.”
“And it’s exciting,” the priest from Holy Re-Formed said. He was wearing a black turtleneck, bags, and a red and green plaid alb. “One sees the same sort of thing during wartime. They come for the drama of the thing.”
“And spread the infection twice as fast, I should think,” Dunworthy said. “Hasn’t anyone told them the virus is contagious?”
“I intend to,” the vicar said. “Your Scripture comes directly after the bellringers. It’s been changed. Church of the Millennium again. Luke 2:1-19.” He went off to distribute hymnals.
“Where is your pupil, Kivrin Engle?” the priest asked. “I missed her at the Latin mass this afternoon.”
“She’s in 1320, hopefully in the village of Skendgate, hopefully in out of the rain.”
“Oh, good,” the priest said. “She so wanted to go. And how lucky she’s missing all this.”
“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I suppose I should read through the Scripture at least once.”
He went into the nave. It was even hotter in there, and it smelled strongly of damp wool and damp stone. Laser candles flickered wanly in the windows and on the altar. The bellringers were setting up two large tables in front of the altar and covering them with heavy red wool covers. Dunworthy stepped up into the lectern and opened the Bible to Luke.
“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed,” he read.
Archaic, he thought. And where Kivrin is, it hasn’t been written yet.
