Out of the woods

Today was a special day, and Frances stored the rice salad and cutlery in her backpack. As she drove to the church, the young woman nibbled on her lower lip. What if Father Tristan had changed his mind? Refused to come? After all, it was highly unusual a situation for him. What if he had asked his superior and been rebuked? Or lectured?

Her palms were sweating now, and she berated herself as she looked for a parking space. There! A tiny one, just enough to park her diminutive, rounded car. Frances backed into the space with practised ease, then pulled the handbrake. Her head fell upon the steering wheel with a thud. Her heart was racing out of stress, and she took a few, deep breaths to steady it. This whole panic was stupid. Father Tristan was a friend, a dear one at that. He would not complain about the spot, or the food, or anything else. And if he couldn’t come because of religious laws, then so be it. It still was a beautiful day, the sun shone outside, white tiny ice crystals sparkling upon the trees after a very cold night. Ideal weather to be outside, without an ounce of wind. The view out on the crop would be incredible, and so soothing. She couldn’t wait to climb up there.

Her heart was now beating steadily, all manners of nervousness discarded. Frances extricated herself from her seat and slammed the door shut, the bag left in the trunk for safety. Her long legs took her to the church in no time, and she made her way in. Mass had finished forty minutes ago, and by now, there were only a handful of faithful conversing at the door. But Father Tristan’s voice echoed from inside, indicating that he was engaged with several parishioners. Frances discreetly walked in and, catching his eye, only nodded before she went to settle upon her bench.

She watched the candles flicker under Marie’s feet, her thoughts settling at the familiar view. Father Tristan came around ten minutes later, still dressed in the traditional frock that suited him so well. Instead of settling behind her, he just bent slightly to greet her.

— “Good morning, Frances. I need to change, now. Can me meet outside in five minutes?”

— “Of course,” she responded, her heart soaring at the idea that he had not pushed her away.

The priest nodded and disappeared in the shadows of the church, his long robes flapping around his ankles with flourish. The young woman took a few minutes to bask in the quietness of the place before she stood. Outside, the crisp air greeted her without warning; the sun had yet to illuminate the façade and it was still below zero. Fishing the aquamarine gloves out of her bag, Frances trailed a little further from the entrance to gaze at the spotless sky. Aside from her technical underwear, she wore a sleeveless fleece jacket that should keep her warm enough. Despite the freezing temperature, the absence of moist and wind was a blessing.

Her head snapped aside on its own; Father Tristan was but a few feet away, dressed in cargo pants, walking boots and a warm jacket that revealed the collar of his order. The strap upon his shoulder betrayed a backpack, but Frances had only eyes for the man. It was the first time she saw him without the traditional habit. She had expected to find him more ordinary, perhaps less impressive. But the truth was that this man still called her eyes, still commanded her attention. Even without the suit, there was no denying the magnetism of his presence. The firm set of shoulders showed his posture was no more relaxed than when he officiated, energy simmering just below the surface.

Seeing him in plain daylight revealed things she had not noticed beforehand. The way his eyes captured sunrays, the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, hidden below the beard, the tone of his skin, slightly darker than hers. And his hair, this warm chestnut that took on rusty hues. But more than that, she was taken aback by the energy that seemed to radiate of him. The ever-poised man, appeased in church, seemed to harbour an endless swirl of energy that begged to be released. The revelation wasn’t entirely conscious, and Frances just watched his long steps, puzzled about the feelings assaulting her.

Father Tristan had just become a three-dimensional being, someone, rather than a higher spirit that belonged to angels and choirs. A human.

And truth be told, she found this newly appointed human … beautiful.

— “Ready?” he asked.

His smooth voice shook her out of her musings. This, at last, had not changed. The same caressing tone she had come to associate with relief. The young woman nodded, and, engaging in light-hearted conversation, drew the man to her car. Then to the hills, a mere thirty minutes away, still chatting about this and that. At first, Father Tristan only punctuated her sentences, still the active listener her used to be. Then, little by little, she managed to shake him out of his role. Thus began a real conversation where both parties shared childhood memories, experiences or thoughts about the world in general. Frances discovered that, when engaged in conversation, Father Tristan possessed quite a wicked sense of humour.

Frances enjoyed the joyful banter until she had to park her car on the roadside. Father Tristan extricated himself from the passenger seat – his six feet had trouble fitting in the rounded beetle-like vehicle – then gave a thoughtful look to the hill they were supposed to climb. Deep into the gorges of the local river, the steep incline of beige rock awaited them. Trees hid the spot from view, so much that he could only rely on Frances to guide him.

— “No map?” he asked as she shouldered her backpack.

The young woman blinked.

— “Nah. I could roam those hills at night with my eyes closed.”

— “That would defeat the purpose.”

Frances chuckled at his jab, then crossed the road and found a little track where they could walk side by side. Thus started a half-hour trek that led them uphill amongst trees and detached rocks, with them sharing a few words here and there, but mostly taking in the landscape. At last, they emerged from the trees to engage on a much narrower, rocky path. Below, way down below now, the river sparkled with the low angle winter light. In many places, ice still lingered, adding freckles of white on an already clear water. Frances paused, relishing in the sunrays hitting her flushed cheeks, and fishing water out of her bag.

She passed the bottle on to her companion, who took it without a second thought. He was barely winded, a feat; she knew she walked fast! But then, so did he with his insanely long legs. Behind them, the rock was cut in huge unnatural stairs, and she spotted his intrigued look.

— “It used to be a quarry,” Frances explained. “Many of the building of the city are made of this stone, perhaps the church itself,”

Father Tristan asked a thousand questions about the rock – calcite from the Jurassic Era, a name chosen in the Jura mountain close to her home town. His curiosity was a delight and for once, Frances didn’t begrudge her teachings as it allowed her to feed it.

— “Come,” she said. “On the next level, I found a fossilised beach. You’re going to love it.”

— “A fossilised beach?” he echoed, incredulous.

— “Yeah. It’s a sight. I’ll show you”

She hopped upon the narrow path like a mountain goat, her little shoes much lighter than his, and he understood now why she had seemed so spooked by his concerns. Frances was clearly at ease among rocks, and he didn’t doubt she could climb the cliff full front rather than take the path if need be. Her silhouette was lithe, her muscles powerful, her strides purposeful. His alter ego, somehow, for he was as sure-footed as she was, and bristling with energy. This place, somehow, fuelled his heart. A little taste of freedom, of strings detaching the higher they went, with the lazy river flowing far below to civilisation.

At last, Frances stopped in front of a strange curvy outcrop.

— “See,” she said, pointing to the inward curve at least five feet tall. “This part is what remains of a cliffside battered by the waves.”

Then she stood on tiptoes and, realising she was still too small, found a spot on the side to climb upon the cliff side. Her toes clutched to the rocky asperities as she showed him shells and debris. Tristan held his tongue – keeping his worries in check - concentrating instead on the wavy outcrop. It was amazing, how it seemed that the sand itself had imprinted the pattern of small waves.

— “This, here, means we are on calmer waters. It is on top of the first cliff, meaning it happened afterwards in the history of earth.”

Tristan frowned, trying to grasp the concept of sedimentation.

— “So what had changed?”

Frances shook her head, still hanging in equilibrium upon the cliff face, her fingers tracing the patterns gently, as is searching something. Her little nose scrunched in concentration as she detailed the rock and she responded without even seeming to think about it. Automatic geology mode.

— “In a few million years, probably not a climate change. But it means we are closer to shore, and there probably was a coral reef somewhere to shield this piece.”

She twisted sideways, her flank leaning upon the cliff as she spread her arms outwards, as if pointing to the Ocean that might have covered miles and miles beyond this point. He had no issues imagining it, waves crashing on the horizon upon the corral while they gently flapped on the shoreline.

— “How long ago was this?” he asked.

Frances jumped down, her feet landing with barely a thud beside him.

— “Jurassic, so roughly a 150 million years ago. The climate was much warmer, and the sea covered much of the area round here until it soared 30 million years ago”

Tristan tried to calculate what it meant in his head, but failed at grasping the timeline as he wasn’t used to those scales.

— “The sea was higher because of the climate ?”

Frances shook her head; no, it wasn’t an issue of global warming.

— “No. The conformation of this area was different, with no relief at all until the Alps came”

Tristan nodded; the making of the alps held some interest, but it would have to wait until later for he wasn’t finished with his reconstitution of the place.

— “So we have not been out of the water for such a long time”, he mused.

Frances gave him a mischievous smile.

— “Yeah. Luckily, we’re out of the woods now”

Tristan laughed.