by Sarah Dunant
Before the midday meal the abbess returns, bringing Zuana a change of robes and food and fresh water from the kitchen. She stands looking down at the girl. The face is calm now, the mouth slack, lips blistered where the poison has scorched them.
“When was the last spasm?”
“A while ago. Half an hour, maybe longer.”
“So the remedy has worked?”
“I don’t know.”
The abbess glances up at her. “But she is not going to die?”
“I don’t know.”
“She is not going to die,” she says firmly, the words as matter-of-fact as the announcement of the menu for a feast day. How wonderful, Zuana thinks, to be so certain of everything. How wonderful and how terrible. “I will sit with her if you want to rest.”
“No. I must watch still.”
After the abbess leaves, the girl’s breathing becomes noisy through her parched mouth. Zuana puts a few drops of rosemary essence into the water and lifts her head while she moistens her lips, then pours a little gently down her throat. It is her father’s remedy. Once the body has no more to evacuate, one must start to put something back, for with so much liquid gone the organs will dry up and no longer work properly. The girl chokes on it and this time does not throw it back up again immediately. But there is no sign of regained consciousness.
A few hours later Suora Umiliana comes to the cell, given permission by the abbess to say prayers over her most troublesome novice. Her distress at the sight that meets her is palpable. She sinks to the floor, hands clasped, lips moving almost before her old knees have found purchase on the hard ground.
Zuana feels a lurch in her stomach. Does Umiliana see something she does not? Perhaps she knows the girl is dying, senses it as she did with Imbersaga. Has she missed some change, some sign within the body? But the girl’s pulse, when she finds it, is still the same weak but steady beat.
The room settles around the novice mistress’s whispered intercession: God’s love, His horror of our sins, the depth of His suffering, the wonder of a sinner returned to the fold. The joy of the final reunion even in death, the power of the light, the pull of the boundless, boundless sea of love.
Zuana listens, mesmerized by the older nun’s flow. If only I could pray like that, she thinks: pray with my whole being poured into each and every word. Pray as if I could hear Him listening.
The prayers end, and Umiliana leans over and puts her finger gently on the girl’s forehead before rising. “Shall I ask the abbess to bring Father Romero?”
“No.” Zuana’s voice is clear. “She is not going to die.” The abbess’s words have become her own. “This reaction to the remedy is to be expected. She will wake soon.”
But while Umiliana has been praying, Serafina’s face has moved from pale to a kind of gray, and though her lips are open it is hard to know if she is still breathing. It was too much, Zuana thinks. If not the poppy, then the hellebore. I gave her too much …God help me.
“We must keep praying for her. That is all we can do.” The novice mistress takes hold of Zuana’s fingers and squeezes them. “Do not despair,” she says, as if she knows that this is one of Zuana’s darkest temptations. “You have done all that could be asked of you. He will know that.”
Oh, but I haven’t, Zuana thinks. Not at all. And He will know that, too.
Time passes. She strokes the girl’s head and pulls a cover over her. The bell sounds for supper, and once more she hears the shuffle of feet across the cloisters. She pinches herself to stay awake.
There is nothing more to be done, Faustina.
She shakes her head. “There has to be. There has to be something.”
You are only a healer. There comes a point when you must give it up to God.
“Ha! You sound like Umiliana.”
Why don’t you leave her for a while? Walk out in the air. Maybe take something to give you energy. Do you keep infusion of angelica root? I think you must.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Then take a dose of it, with some mint essence. Make it strong. It will help you get through the night. But before you go, give her some more rosemary water.
“What if she vomits it back up while I am gone?”
If she does, there will be only a little bile. Not enough to choke on if she is on her side. At least it will show some sign of life.
“Papa, Papa, I don’t want her to die.”
I’m afraid you have grown too fond of her, child. It does not make for good healing. Go now. You have done all you can.
IT SEEMS DAYS since she was last in the infirmary. The two elder nuns are asleep, while Clementia lies in her bed, singing quietly to herself. The room is clean, the floor washed, the hanging baskets fresh, and the night candle already prepared on the small altar. Letizia has done a good job. Life, it seems, must go on. The very thought makes her want to cry. You are tired, Zuana, she says to herself sternly. And too much tiredness makes one maudlin.
In the dispensary she finds the angelica root and mixes it with a little wine and peppermint. It has kept her awake before and it will do so again. She swallows the preparation and feels it moving into her stomach. It will take a while to work. She transfers more to another vial. She will need something for the second night, if indeed there is going to be one.
The bell marking the end of supper is already ringing as she leaves the room. She must hurry. The sisters will be returning to their cells and this is not the time to meet anyone, however kind and sympathetic.
But as she crosses back over the courtyard she sees something that makes her heart pound. In the corner of the cloisters, the door to the girl’s cell that she had closed so carefully behind her is now wide open.
There is no way the girl could have done it herself. So who is in there? Has the abbess returned, bringing her supper? In which case why hasn’t she closed the door?
She runs across the courtyard, regardless of the rules. As she nears the open door she hears something—more a sound than a voice—a whining, like a line of taut thread vibrating in the air.
Inside, on the floor by the mattress, a figure is crouched, so small and bowed it looks more goblin than human, the head larger than the body and naked, save for a covering of white stubble over scabby skin.
For a moment Zuana stands transfixed in the doorway. Then as she goes closer the keening turns into words.
“See—oh, yes, you can see Him. Yes, yes, I know you can. He is come to welcome you back. Oh, see how He bleeds for you, Serafina. Feel His breath on your face. If you open your eyes He will be there. He has been waiting for you to find Him. He has been waiting so long for you.”
“Suora Magdalena.” Zuana tries to keep her own voice gentle.
The old woman does not turn but simply tilts her head to one side, like a beady-eyed bird detecting a sound. “Not yet, not yet. I am with the child. See—she is better.” She gives a sudden girlish giggle. “See what He has done for her?”
And as she comes closer, Zuana does indeed see. For the girl, lying on her side on the mattress, is awake, her eyes open and blinking.
Zuana takes a sharp breath and moves toward her, dropping to her knees next to the old woman.
“Serafina!” she says urgently.
The eyes are huge in her thin face, and there is a strange blankness to them, as if she has woken to something she does not yet understand. Three months ago she had been so young. Well, she is not young anymore. But she is alive.
“Welcome, welcome.” Zuana cannot stop smiling. The girl stares at her, then seems to give a small nod.
“What happened?” Zuana’s question is directed at the old woman, but she is not listening, simply rocking to and fro, singing to herself, the holy goblin returned.
Behind, out in the courtyard, Zuana can hear people moving. She must get up and close the door.
It is already too late.
“Oh, Sweet Lord Jesus, she is alive!” Suora Umiliana is standing in the doorway, a few brave souls willing t
o risk disobedience gathered behind her. “Suora Magdalena has brought her back to us.”
But Magdalena is not listening to her either. She has taken hold of the girl’s hand, thin claw on soft flesh, and is stroking the skin. “See, see, I said He would come.”
The girl tries to pull herself up on the mattress but does not have the strength. Zuana supports her until she is almost sitting.
Umiliana is inside the cell now, others crowding in behind her.
Serafina opens her mouth a little, moving her tongue around her blistered lips. She looks at Zuana, then out across the room.
“I saw Him,” she says—and though hers is a sad little voice, its silky beauty all burned out, it reaches everyone in the room. “Yes, I do think I saw Him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
IN THE BEGINNING there was nothing. Just darkness, blessed darkness, deep and soft, like being wrapped in swaths of black velvet and held within the silence of an eternal night sky. No past. No future. No present. And it was good, this nothingness, an oblivion of mercy with no pain.
It had descended upon her as she moved across the gardens. She did not have to do anything. After all that had been done, nothing more was asked of her. She was not even scared. Zuana’s arms were around her, her voice was in her ears, and she was safe.
“Help me, Serafina. Walk a little, yes? Oh, sweet child, I am so sorry.”
She wants to tell her it is all right. It doesn’t matter anymore. She wants to say she is the one who should be sorry, not Zuana. To thank her for what she has done, and to ask forgiveness, for she is not yet so lost that she doesn’t know that what took place on the dock between them will bring trouble on her head.
“No, no, don’t try to speak. Save your strength. Just a little farther. We can talk later.”
Only there will be no later. Because when the drowsiness comes it is not to be argued with. Behind it she feels the pull of the darkness, with its deep rich velvet touch.
“We are nearly there. Keep walking, keep walking.”
And she does walk, because she does not want to disappoint Zuana, not again. But after a while she has to stop, because the nothingness wraps itself around her and takes her away. And, just as she hoped, there is no pain.
• • •
EXCEPT, EXCEPT— how can this be? — it does not last. How long she floats in the velvet black she has no idea. But she knows when it ends. Knows when the dark is torn apart by scorching white pain. Someone is hammering a long nail into the center of her stomach. After the first there is another, then another. Once inside, the nails become scissors, slicing and chopping her innards into pieces small enough to be able to come out of her mouth. It happens so fast that she barely registers the nausea before the stuff is already up in her throat. The force of it sends her reeling so powerfully that if something or someone had not been holding her she would have fallen over. She watches in horror as her insides explode out of her mouth. The shock is almost worse than the pain. The next time the hammer hits, the nail goes through her stomach into the bowels beneath. The sound of her groans and the smell of her own decay are everywhere.
She tries to breathe, to find her way back to the blessed darkness, but when she gets there it isn’t blessed at all. She sees herself suspended, arms and legs dangling uselessly on either side, a spiked pole rammed through her, anus to mouth, like an animal on a spit ready for roasting. And when she looks around she is not alone. There are hundreds, even thousands, like her, figures stretching into the darkness as far as she can see, their bodies eviscerated, roasted, grilled, sliced, and diced into bleeding bits by an army of squat, grinning torturers, black as the night they are born out of. There is flesh and pulp everywhere, and the terrible emptiness of silent screams, each soul locked forever in its own suffering.
“Oh, but we did not sin like this,” she hears herself say. “It was love, not lust, I swear. Bodies singing together, that was all …Oh, Jacopo.” But even as the words form, her offending lips are wrenched open and another stream of bile pours out.
Now as she looks around, instead of devils in the darkness she sees a water rat, sleek wet fur like a black veil around its head, face pale and twitching, teeth drawn, ready to sink into her insides. It looks up at her and smiles.
“Sometimes one must use a poison to cure a poison. Don’t be frightened, Serafina. It will not last forever,” it says, before the fangs go back in and the agony returns.
Farther into eternity, when her guts are on the floor and there is nothing more to lose, she comes far enough out of the pain to open her eyes onto the inside of her cell. She knows it must be her cell from the crucifix on the wall.
She fixes her gaze on it to keep from sliding back into hell. She studies how He hangs there, slumped forward against the nails, ribs pushing out against His skin, each muscle singing in agony. Oh, yes, He understands pain. He knows what it is to be consumed by suffering, the terror and the terrible aloneness of it. Oh, no one should be so alone. She keeps Him in her mind after her eyes close: His bloodied face, His lacerated body. He would be so beautiful were He not in agony. She sees a young man standing tall, hair falling and curling over broad shoulders, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest and the fine, fine face: high forehead, full lips, and clean clear gaze. If one loves him broken, how much would one love him whole? Oh, Jacopo, where were you? A good savior. Such strength, such goodness.
He does not really care for you. You are not worth the trouble you would cause him.
No. No. No. But He cares. Look at Him—oh, yes, He cares. Always. Whatever the trouble, He cares enough to climb up the stairs onto His own cross and hang there in agony for an eternity waiting for her.
“I’m sorry. I am sorry…”
She tries to say the words loud enough for Him to hear but the slicing starts again, and all that is there is the long groan of her own voice.
The darkness returns, changed again. No bodies now but also no velvet. Instead parched stone, hard, unforgiving, stretching up and out all around her, and she must lie on it forever and ever. At least she has no bones. They have been ground up and vomited out or melted in the furnace of her insides. Her limbs are filled with sand, so heavy it means she cannot move at all unless the pain does the moving for her. And everywhere is so dry—no moisture anywhere, only sand. In her body, in her mouth. She cannot swallow. She is so thirsty. So thirsty.
Now someone lifts her head and puts a finger across her lips, moving droplets of water inside her mouth. How it stings! After so much agony it is wonderful to be able to feel such a small, distinct pain. Then there is more water. It dribbles into her mouth, burns down the back of her neck. She chokes. It hurts, but not enough to stop. She takes more, would be greedy if the hand did not gently resist her. Her insides start to groan and heave as it hits, and she feels herself retching, but nothing comes out.
Later—is it days or only hours? — she realizes that the pain has stopped.
She is flooded with relief, the utter joy of feeling nothing. Serenity like a flat surface of water: no ripple, no wind, nothing, just the wonder of being still. How is it possible for it to have gone? For there to have been so much of it and now none at all? How does that happen? How much care does it take? What kind of miracle?
“Dominussalvedeigratias.”
The singing is high and thin. She moves her eyes up from the still surface of the water to see a bank of reeds moving in the wind. And there is light now, she thinks. Surely it must be the sun, because she can feel warmth on her skin. In the distance there is a heat haze across the world, and inside it something— a figure? — walking toward her.
“See? Oh, yes, can you see Him, Serafina? Oh, He cares so much. He sent me to wake you.”
It is a strange voice, childish except for the cracks of age in it. She knows it immediately, feels it inside as a familiar hollowness. She concentrates on the image ahead of her. The air is so warm. No wonder everything shimmers so. Within the shimmer a figure forms, tall flowing hair, the
n seems to unform again, as if stumbling, and is engulfed in haze again.
“See how His poor hands and feet bleed. But He smiles for you. He has been waiting for you. He is come to welcome you back.”
Back. She feels a sudden terrible ache inside her, as if after her innards they have scooped out her womb. But she keeps on looking and He is closer now. Yes, yes, she sees Him: that beautiful broad forehead pierced by a line of fat little wounds, the eyes clear, filled with so much understanding. He cares. He would not leave. He loves me.
“If you open your eyes He will be there.”
She lets out a slight cry. She knows she must wake now. Knows that is what He wants her to do.
She opens her eyes. It is gray in the cell. No shimmer or light here. The smell is foul and stale. On the wall Christ hangs forlornly off the cross. Next to her the shriveled figure of Magdalena, her face like a pickled walnut, is rocking and laughing with girlish delight.
“Serafina?” And now Suora Zuana is on the floor next to her, her face close to hers, tired but smiling, smiling like the sun. “Oh, welcome, welcome.”
Beyond, in the doorway, she sees Suora Umiliana, with Eugenia, Perseveranza, Apollonia, Felicità, and others peering in around her.
“Sweet Jesus! She is alive! Suora Magdalena has brought her back to us.”
The novice mistress’s happiness is so complete, so infectious, that a few of the nuns behind her start to laugh, too.
The room fills up as she tries to move, but of course her bones are weak and she cannot raise herself off the bed.
The old woman puts out her hand. “See?” she says, with a toothless grin. “See? I said He would come.”