A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  I aired out the smells and scrubbed out the back room, and it wasn’t too bad. With the black smoke cleared out we whitewashed the two downstairs rooms. We were looking prosperous now: we had a table, some stools, and a bench in the front room. Two big kettles and several little vessels decorated our freshly swept hearth. We had a plentiful woodpile, and more in the shed, and a nice chest and some baskets. Brother Malachi, in a benevolent mood, had built special shelves in both rooms, and here we kept the herbs, in airy baskets, and other preparations in little boxes and clay jars. Hilde still dried some big bunches of herbs from the ceiling in the corner, but they weren’t all over, as they had been before. There were no rushes on the floor, but since it was made of real tiles, and not of dirt, we had polished it until it gleamed. With the Stinkery closed down, you could smell the sharp, wild scent of the herbs. It was still dark inside, but it wasn’t disgusting, and that was a great improvement.

  But Hilde did cry, for she missed Brother Malachi in the big bed and worried that he would never come back. I assured her he would return, because he would never leave his distillery, and she quit grieving, because it was so obviously true. He did come back some time later, with a pocketful of money and a number of other odd things, and more inflated than ever. But that’s another story.

  Hilde grew lonely and fussed that the house “wasn’t right.” Her job didn’t keep her happy, although she was busy all the time. Outside, spring madness was at work. When the weather wasn’t so raw, there passed by in the street a band of people stripped to the waist, men and women together, beating themselves with barbed, many-thonged whips until their backs bled. They shouted as they went off in the direction of the church that everyone should repent, for the end of the world was at hand. Most people who did not hide repented, all right. They repented of seeing them, for they would grab up anyone they could find and force them to march and be scourged with them. It is always better to latch the shutters tight when folk like that are about.

  The end of the world was the general theme that spring. I saw a man in the stocks at Cornhill; he had claimed that the sinfulness of the mayor and aldermen was bringing on the end of the world. Perhaps it might have gone better for him if he hadn’t been so specific about the precise type of sins involved. Naming people and places is always unwise.

  When I left the house, I always went directly on my business and didn’t dawdle, the Burning Cross tucked beneath my surcoat, where it would not show. I did not need to attract madmen and thieves. But careful as I was, I could not entirely avoid trouble. One day, rounding the corner by the entrance of a grubby little alley not so far from Fenchurch Street, I was nearly knocked over by a big man without teeth, who was hurrying somewhere with a desperate air.

  “Out of my way! I must touch it!” he cried. Three women holding hands barred my way out of the alley as they pushed their way around the corner.

  “Just see it, and you are saved!” I could hear other voices, and looking down the alley, I saw it swarming with people. There was a great hubbub.

  “It’s a miracle!”

  “Let me see it! Hold it up here!”

  “Oh, my God, hold me, I’m fainting!”

  “It’s a Sign!”

  “Yes, the End of the World is at hand!” Again, the End of the World! I stood in a doorway to avoid being trampled, for the trickle of people hurrying down the narrow, dark alley had turned into a river. Cripples on crutches, children leading blind beggars, ragged laborers in torn leggings, old women in shapeless gray dresses and poor clogs—all were pressing and shouting.

  “Good woman! What is the matter there?” I cried, tugging at the sleeve of a passerby with an honest-looking face.

  “Why, haven’t you heard? It’s a Miraculous Manifestation! A goodwife there was cooking oatcakes on her griddle and burned one. When she lifted it up to throw it away, the marks on the cake formed the face of Our Savior! This shows that God loves the humble. They say that anyone who sees it is saved. Oh, I must hurry away before it is gone!” She dashed away with the crowd down the dark alley.

  This was surely a sign of a bad spring. Miraculous griddle cakes so soon? It wasn’t even Easter yet. I was looking for a way to worm myself out of the doorway safely, when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Why, it’s Margaret, the little midwife! Do you come to the miraculous manifestation too?”

  “Oh, Father Edmund, I’m just trying to get home without being stepped upon. But why are you here?”

  “It’s my business to be here, so I must leave you.” He plunged into the crowd, and I could hear his voice, crying, “Let me through, good people!”

  “Why, look, it’s a priest!”

  “Let him through, he’s come to worship!”

  “No, he’ll take it away for himself.”

  “Don’t take it!”

  “Let me through!” The voice of Father Edmund sounded more urgent.

  “Don’t let him in or he’ll steal it.”

  “I’ve not come to steal it, not at all!”

  “Then wait your turn. Why should you be saved before us? We’ve waited longer.”

  “The miracle must be verified, don’t you understand? Then it will be arranged so that everyone can see it.”

  “I told you he’d take it.”

  “You’ll steal it to charge money to visit it, that’s what you’ll do. You hate the poor, you bloodsucking priest.”

  “I tell you, I have no intention of taking it.”

  “They all say that.”

  “You don’t want the poor to be saved, you. You’d rather destroy the Manifestation.”

  “They’re all like that, I say. Priests are evil bastards!”

  “He’ll destroy it! Stop him!”

  There was a dreadful clamor, and the sound of conflict and screaming. Now the crowd was moving the other way. They were chasing Father Edmund out of the alley.

  They had divided into pro- and antipriest factions, and fists, distaffs, and ladles had come into play. As a nasty object picked up from the gutter went sailing past my doorway, I saw Father Edmund emerge from the crowd. His gown was torn and filthy, and he was limping. There was a bruise forming across one eye, and blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. As he sought to make good his escape, someone tripped him, and he fell flat.

  “You leave him alone!” My voice was shrill as I stepped out of my sheltering doorway. “He’s not taking anything. He can’t, for you’ve knocked him flat.” I stood as tall as I could and looked fiercely at the crowd. They drew back a little. “Aren’t you ashamed?” I went on, “God will love you better if you take this chance for grace without stepping on His priest! Besides, with all this running around, you’ve lost your places. Someone else has taken them. See?” A big man in front turned around with alarm.

  “I’ve waited a long time! Those are newcomers who just sneaked in! Move away!” He started shoving back down the alley.

  “No, you move, you clodhopper!”

  “I was there before!”

  “Let me through!”

  The crowd had reversed and shoved back in the direction of the miraculous pancake. Father Edmund got up and dusted himself off.

  “This is not what I planned on when I dedicated my life to God,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Thank you, Margaret. You seem to have a way with people like this.”

  “Not really. But you look unwell. We live not far from here. Come and restore yourself a bit before you return home. Where must you go?”

  “St. Paul’s.”

  “That’s a long way. You must come to our house first. We have good ale brewed, and maybe something to eat.”

  “I’ll come, but I can’t eat,” he said wearily. “I think my teeth have been knocked loose.”

  “Let me see,” I said.

  “Not here; it’s not decent.”

  “Very well, let’s go. Perhaps you should lean on my shoulder.” He pulled away.

  “That’s not decent either,” he said. A few steps more,
and he began to look pale.

  “Perhaps I need your help after all.”

  “We all need help sometimes; it’s not so bad to accept it, though it’s much more dignified to give it.”

  “You talk like an old lady,” he said, leaning on my shoulder.

  “An old lady; a man; nobody thinks I’m like myself—just Margaret. This is an odd city that way.” We were walking up Bishopsgate to Cornhill now. It was not much farther, which was good. He didn’t look as if he could walk very much longer.

  “You’re not from London?” he asked.

  “No, I’m from the country.”

  “I should have guessed as much. You’re too simple to be a city girl.”

  “Oh, please, not that simple.”

  “No, I take it back. Not that simple. Are we turning here?” We had entered our narrow alley, and had to step carefully to avoid the unspeakable things in the gutter. As we stood before the front door, Peter opened it. Father Edmund looked alarmed as Peter bobbed up and down with pleasure, grunting and grinning.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Father, he’s saying hello. He’s glad to see you.”

  “Who, or what, is that?”

  “Don’t hurt his feelings. It’s Peter, Mother Hilde’s last remaining child. He’s never been right, but she’s good to him. He does no harm.”

  “Is he Christian?” Father Edmund still looked taken aback.

  “Oh, Father Edmund, he’s too simple to understand. But he loves Christ—he kisses the cross. See?” I held out my cross to him, and he bobbed clumsily over it. Father Edmund smiled wearily, as best he could with his sore mouth.

  “So this is the fate of the famous Burning Cross. Worn about London by a poor country midwife and kissed by drooling idiots.”

  I was annoyed but wouldn’t let him see it. I sat him by the fire, for it was chilly out of the sun, and poured him some ale. He sipped it and winced. I noticed his eyes never ceased roaming around the room, even though he was sitting still, to favor his leg. I was glad we had got everything all polished up just the day before. The cat walked in front of him, carrying a kitten in her mouth, and disappeared behind the woodpile. Then she emerged, without the kitten, walked in front of him, and paraded back with another kitten.

  “What is she doing there?”

  “Moving her kittens. She does it every so often. She decides she doesn’t like the place she has them, so she moves them.”

  “And what’s that creature that greeted you at the door? And which end is the head?”

  “That’s Lion; he’s a dog, and I’ll show you his head. Here, Lion.” Lion got up from where he was lying by my feet.

  “Beg, Lion.” The dog sat up and begged. “You see?” I said. “That’s his head.” Lion’s little pink tongue hung out between his teeth, and his brown eyes glittered deep beneath his fur. He looked as if he were laughing. I put Lion on my lap, where he promptly fell asleep.

  “That’s an odd dog. It looks as if everything in this house is odd.”

  “I’m not odd.”

  “I’m not so sure, Margaret. Can you still do that thing? The thing you did that night that I saw? I’m having a selfish thought. A thought about my pain, which I should bear in remembrance of Christ’s passion.”

  “If you wish to bear it, I won’t stop you. If you wish not to, I’ll help.” Father Edmund had an honest-looking face, I’d always thought. As if he knew how to take things the right way, if you see what I mean. “I do it a lot, these days, anyway.”

  “A lot? What do you mean?” He looked shocked.

  “Well, it started with birthings. I’d see things here and there that I could help, so I did. Then the people came back, just for medicine or healings, and they sent their friends. Now I see a lot of people in the district—women, mostly, and just for smaller things. It’s easier with them, you see. I’m terrified of death. I could be sucked away into death. Some things can’t be fixed: they’re too big or too dreadful, and I haven’t got the strength. I usually know when I see them, and tell the person so. Things gone, fingers and ears and such, cannot be restored. But it works best on warts.”

  “Warts?”

  “Yes—warts, wens, cuts, little things. Sometimes I do fractures, after the surgeon sets them.”

  “Am I to understand that you have been given a Divine Gift for the removal of warts?” He sat there on the bench, with the bad leg up, holding his knee. His face looked appalled.

  “I didn’t say I had a Gift, but since you think that, I’ll not deny it. I don’t know how big it is, but I think it’s not so big, because I’m not so big. Warts—small diseases—some fevers, they’re about right.”

  “Well, I have decided not to live with pain. My teeth might come out, and I can’t kneel on this knee, which is a very bad thing for a priest.”

  “Then I’ll help, but you’ll have to lie down. You’ve got a lot of places I have to put my hands.” I put Lion down by the hearth.

  He groaned as he got up and lay down on the long bench at the table, and I knelt until the room shone a soft orange, and my hands felt warm. I could feel his keen eyes staring at me suspiciously, but I didn’t look, for it would break my concentration. I put my hands on each bruise in turn, ending with the swollen knee.

  “Don’t move for a while. They need to be let alone for a bit so they can finish healing. The knee may take a couple of tries. Things are moved around in there—sort of torn up and broken, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Are there other places I don’t see that are hurt?”

  “My side, here.” I felt cautiously through the folds of his robe.

  “The rib is cracked,” I told him.

  “How do you know that, when I don’t know it myself?”

  “I can feel something like a shadow, all around the body. When it feels broken, then something is broken inside. I didn’t used to know that, but I’m learning all the time.”

  “Goodness, I feel much better.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, rubbing his jaw.

  “I saw your face shining, Margaret. How did this thing come upon you? Did you acquire it through a prayer, or contemplation, or divine intervention?” He spoke in a surprisingly mild voice.

  “It came by itself at a time when I had lost all hope. This Gift is a sort of leftover from a Vision that I had. A Vision of light.”

  “What were you doing when it came? Were you praying? Did it come all at once?” How odd that somebody was interested in the Vision. It was a kind of relief to speak of it, even though I didn’t really know how to. Sometimes it’s helpful to have to put things in words.

  “No, Father Edmund, I wasn’t praying. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I thought of Nothing. That’s what I did just now. I set my mind on Nothing. Not what you’d call ‘nothing in particular,’ but real Nothing, which is very large. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I’m not sure I’m saying it right.”

  “You’re saying it exactly right, and I understand it perfectly. Others have done it, but not in the strange, backward manner that you have.” He looked at me and shook his head. “And they don’t use it to run about town curing warts! Only a country girl like you would have thought of that. You’re supposed to talk to God, when it comes. Something noble, you understand, on a higher level. You’re really impossible, you know.”

  “I’m sorry I’m impossible. I just do the best I know how. I think God wants people to be well—that’s why He lets me help them heal themselves. I wanted to have education, so I could do things the proper way, but I never got any. So I do my best by watching and thinking.” I spoke humbly, because it’s never wise to rile a priest—even one who looks as if he were nice.

  He drank up a whole mug of ale, and then another, and then ate some bread and cheese. He looked entirely better.

  “What do you charge for this—ah—healing assistance?”

  “Nothing, really, but people give me things, depending on how much they think I’ve helped. Vegetables, mostly, or a chi
cken. Clothes, things like that. Sometimes, if they’re from another ward, they’ll give money. But they’re mostly poor here, you know.”

  “I saw that. Aren’t you frightened of the neighborhood? It’s not a safe one, you know.”

  “I used to be frightened, but now that I know everyone, it’s not so bad. People are the same everywhere. I’m more frightened of great lords. I met one once, and he was a very scary man. Wild and cruel, because he could do anything he liked.”

  “Then you’re comfortable here?” He looked around, but I could tell he was concealing a certain distaste.

  “Oh, we do well now. Hilde and I have got some good fees for attending births. Sometimes people come up to me in the street, or in church, and give me money to pray for them. I saved it all, and we mended the roof. Tiles are awfully expensive, you know. Last winter it leaked very badly, and we didn’t have firewood always, so we were very cold. Now it’s better, a lot better.”

  “Hilde is your teacher? The one of whom you spoke?”

  “Oh, you remember everything! But I’m curious, too, you know. I want to know why you poke about town after miraculous pancakes instead of saying Mass.”

  “I’m a theologian. Do you know what that is?”

  “A man who studies religion—all about God. Are you a master or a doctor?”

  “Oho! You know more than you pretend, Margaret. How does a girl from the country know that?”

  “I have a brother who studies theology. He was so very clever that he was sent to Oxford under the patronage of Abbot Odo of St. Matthew’s. My brother told me about it.”