ST. FREDA

A story...

Photo by Louis Mornaud on Unsplash

"When I left that night, it was with a feeling of reluctance that seemed to wash over me. I wanted to stay near her, and feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from her. I felt cleansed beside her, as if all of my sins over the past years were forgiven, and I was reborn.

"No sooner did I wake up than I heard people saying Freda came to see them in their tents last night. They said her hands were dripping with blood, and the droplets smelled sweet, like the first scents of spring flowers—like cherry blossoms, and wild flowers, lilac or lotus blossom—while others were saying they saw a crown of blood on her forehead that looked like a halo, all shimmery and misty. Lin said it was impossible, because Freda was asleep beside him through the whole night. But the people insisted, and swore it was the truth; they saw her in their tents—all of them, looking like she needed their help. I wondered why she didn't come to  me—or why I hadn't seen her if this was supposed to be some sort of collective vision? And then I thought that maybe I wasn't as clean as I thought I was; maybe sitting beside her and feeling I’d been forgiven was a lot different than asking for forgiveness—or being forgiven.

"Have you ever felt so bad about something, you wanted to ask God's forgiveness?" Rudi asked suddenly, opening his eyes and looking at me closely, carefully, trying to assess whether or not I was willing to believe something like it was even possible for a man like him; as if a man like him could even think of letting God into his life—or ever did.

"Like wanting to go to Confession?" I asked.

He nodded slowly.

"I'm not Catholic," I said, regretting it almost as soon as I said it.

I'd always wanted to understand the draw religion has; I mean the hold it has over people. My Dad came back from the Great War a changed man, letting himself drift away from his idea of God so much so, that he insisted we not go to Church. I didn't think I'd ever understand how a man can lose touch with God like that—especially on the front lines during the First World War—but war has a way of making you see things differently, doesn't it? It was something my mother would never understand. They would sometimes have terrible fights, and finally reached a compromise of sorts. My brother and I would watch her walking down the street with our younger brother and sister to the Baptist Church, and all the while I was wishing I could go with them just this once. My brother didn't seem to mind missing Church, and when my younger brother and sister were old enough, they chose not to go to Church either. I'd still wake up Sunday mornings and watch my mother walking down the street to the other side of town in her Sunday best. Her hair was always fixed up perfectly, with a light scarf over her hair in case a gust of wind came up from the river. I was eighteen years old before I finally got up the nerve to walk my mother into Church and sit beside her. It was one of the happiest days of her life—and mine.

"I think I can understand it, though," I said after a moment "The part about asking God's forgiveness, I mean." And I thought I believed it, too.

"How about another drink?" Rudi said after some consideration, and I nodded slowly, calling the waiter over.

After the waiter put the drinks on the table I waited for Rudi to go on with his story. A few new customers came into the bar—soldiers who immediately sat away from us, at the bar, talking loudly, arrogantly, the way soldiers do sometimes, talking a language civilians don't recognize—and I remembered thinking to myself that my first hunch about this place was right, as they leaned across the bar to talk to the waiter. I looked at them thoughtfully. A man can't be too careful, I told myself, and then turned my attention back to Rudi, ignoring them. Rudi was staring at his beer, watching the water droplets slipping down the side of the glass, as if he was trying to avoid making eye contact with the soldiers. His eyes narrowed somewhat when he looked at me, and I wondered if maybe he was mixed up in the whole thing. It was possible, I told myself. I remembered him saying that he’d gonet to see the Warlord about opium in the first place. I told myself I was looking for a connection here, and that it was a mistake on my part—it was just a coincidence, a chance encounter and nothing more—and he was looking away from the soldiers to distract himself. I wondered what he saw in that fogged mind's eye of his; perhaps he was still back in Manchuria, re-living the ordeal over again even as he told it to me—perhaps he told the story to himself constantly, looking for answers he couldn't find? I was hoping he didn't think I’d have an explanation.

"Do you think you'll ever have God's forgiveness?" I asked at last, and he looked at me slowly, forcing a smile.

"I gave up asking for forgiveness a long time ago," he said.

"Does that mean you believed in Him enough to have asked in the first place?"

He laughed gently—a warm laugh that came from somewhere deep down inside—muted, soft, almost tender in its easiness, and he began talking again.

"Freda was an amazing girl," he said as he reached for a cigarette. "I think I learned to accept that the first night I met her. The fact that almost everyone in the compound dreamed about her that night was something I didn't think anyone of us could understand—but I think I was wrong. I know that Alex looked at her differently after that though, and Lin, too. We all did. But like I said, I thought it was simply because no one really understood what was happening. I know I didn't. Of course, Alex did; but he had his own interpretation of it. He said it was a message from God to him. He said that we should follow her devotedly, unconditionally I think was the word he used, and he started quoting from the Bible again, only this time, the people were listening. They all wanted to believe in her. And why shouldn't they? Look at what they'd given up. They'd lost everything they had. And here she was, Alex said, standing in front of them as a new kind of saviour—not a redeemer, or a deliverer—but certainly a message from God, and a sign of hope for the future, he said. I guess everybody needs some sort of hope for the future," he added dreamily, lighting his cigarette.

"I don't think she wanted to be what Alex wanted her to be, though—or what he said he thought she was. Maybe he recognized what was in her first though? Who knows? He was certainly closer to God than I was, or anyone else there. Freda said that she wanted to devote herself to God; but as a saviour and the people's hope for the future? I don't think it crossed her mind in that respect," he said shaking his head.

"I knew she needed direction, and a purpose in her life—just like everyone else does, I suppose—but not like that. Not the way Alex was looking at it. People were coming to her like she was some sort of object to be worshipped; they were treating her like she was something that should be revered, or even exalted. I don’t know, maybe it was a way for them to get closer to God? But she didn't like it; not like that. I think they wanted to believe in her; they wanted her talk to God for them so they could all be a part of it; they wanted to touch her, and to let her love wash over them—like it was something she could hand over, or parcel out to them a little bit at a time.

"She just wanted them to leave her alone; but it was too late for that, wasn’t it? It was too late for a lot of things, and for a lot of different reasons, but it all started when a mother brought her daughter to see her. The child was sick, convulsing, and with no medication to give her, I don't think the girl would have lived for more than a night or two—at most a week, but then, only if she'd had the proper medical care. Freda took the girl in her arms and held her to herself, rocking her back and forth and humming a gentle melody that Alex later said came to her from God. She draped her hair over top of the girl and shut the world away. It was just the child and herself.

"The girl was feverish, but almost as soon as Freda held her in her arms, the girl started to settle down. Her convulsions gave way to a gentle slumber, and the fever dropped. Freda sat with her eyes closed, rocking her, still humming to herself, kissing the girl's forehead once in a while because she was like that: she loved children. There was a crowd gathering around her while Freda sat, her eyes closed, praying for the girl. There was a gasp that seemed to come out of the crowd all at the same time when she finally looked up; people fell to their knees and some of the women wept openly because they could see a small trace of blood on Freda's forehead. It came out of her like sweat, and if I hadn't seen it for myself, I would've never believed it. Her hands started to bleed, and the girl was covered in Freda's blood. Her mother started to wail insanely—probably thinking Freda killed the girl or something, I don't know—but the girl opened her eyes and looked up at her mother, smiling awkwardly when she saw the crowd around her. She looked up at Freda who just as suddenly opened her own eyes—I suppose the vision was finished—and saw the people around her. She saw the blood on her hands and looked down at herself, and began to weep softly.

"I think Su-mei thought it would be for the best if she took Freda into the tent, thinking Freda needed to be alone. The people would have followed her in there too, but Lin stood up and barred the entrance as Alex rose up among them and started preaching the word of God. I don't think it took long for word of the miracle to spread around the camp either—and that was exactly what they were calling it—a miracle, I mean—because it wasn't long before Feng-shih and his son came out to see what was going on. He saw the child and the blood her mother was frantically trying to wipe off her face, and he went to see Freda. Lin let him pass reluctantly—I could see that he wanted to follow Feng-shih and his son into the small tent—so I stepped in behind them quickly, before Alex understood what was happening and came thundering over with his fire and brimstone threats.

"We had to crawl in on our hands and knees. It was close and cramped inside the tent; the heat was stifling, almost overbearing, and I could feel sweat beading on my face right away. My shirt was sticking to my body and my heart racing through my shirt. I looked at Feng-shih and his son. They looked confused by everything they'd heard and saw, concerned and baffled that they were losing control—speechless.

"There was an odour in the closeness of the tent—not just the opium that hung on Feng-shih and myself like tobacco does a smoker—but something that was sweet and fragrant, distinct in its nostalgia—and at the same time something distant, and out of the past. Somehow it reminded me of the world I’d left behind a lifetime ago. I could feel myself strolling through the dusky Vienna Woods, the dead twigs breaking under my boots as I trekked over a mossy carpet of sweet, smelling leaves. I could smell the freshness of the flowers and newly mowed grass—as if the reapers had just sliced it down and their scythes were still flashing in the late afternoon light—I could taste it on the breeze as it came down through the hills. It was a scent that reached into my very being. I can't explain it—I doubt if anyone could—because it made me feel safe, and secure, like I was home and there was someone there to take care of me, and I knew I was loved. It was like all the memories of childhood suddenly came back at me in that one, brief, recognizable moment, and I couldn't escape it. And why would I want to?” he asked.

  "Feng-shih was no fool. He may have been delusional because of the opium he constantly smoked, but he knew enough to step back and let circumstances take off by themselves. He knew to look at things from the outside, expanding on every possible scene, good and bad. He looked at Su-mei wiping the blood off Freda's face—she still looked like she was in a daze—but I think she was overcome with emotion. He looked at Wei curled up in a corner, cold, vacant, unblinking eyes staring at Freda.

"I think it's possible that she recognized in herself what everyone else wanted to see in her. Still, it was the one thing everyone denied because it was too fantastic to believe. There was only one thing she knew it could be. Th`ere were voices. Feng-shih could see it, and he recognized it too; he knew he would have to use it, exploit it—I could see it on him as clearly as Freda could. He was too obvious, his insincerity honeyed in a gentle, somber tone. He looked around the small tent, looking at Su-mei huddled beside Freda, Wei, that silent, muted boy, and asked Su-mei if Freda did this often. Su-mei said that it began a few days ago. And then he asked her if it came from the White God. Su-mei looked at him, frightened of what he'd do if she said no, and probably even more afraid if she said yes; so she said nothing. But the tears welling up in her eyes told the story simply enough. She looked as confused as I felt, and as frightened as I've ever seen anyone. Her dark eyes were darting from father to his son, trying to fathom what it was they wanted from her—from Freda I mean—and she sat back in defeat, sunken. The tears came to her eyes in earnest, rolling down her cheeks slowly. She tried to hide behind her long, dark hair, and I could see the sobs taking over. She put the bloodied rag to her face and inhaled deeply: she's taking strength from it I told myself. I've often wondered what sort of fragrance she found in it.