Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Nay, child, it is but a long day’s journey. We shall trust in the Lord and if He doesn’t provide, it can only be that our precious Saviour means us to fast this day.’

  I felt sure that the other priests thus constantly regaled by Father Hermann’s sanctimonious piety regarded him as a tiresome and self-righteous bully. I thought of poor Father Paulus, a recent victim of his brusque, disapproving and forthright scolding, although, I felt sure, all the while Father Hermann simply sought to conceal his lack of learning by seeming more pious, humble and worthy, proving himself to be a more conscientious disciple than his more learned brethren. This practised humility was simply another form of arrogance, in its own way just as vainglorious as the priest who rode high-handed on a mule or travelled contented in a cart. Humility does in silence; it does not constantly remind others what it does.

  The prospect of not eating all day was not a pleasant one. For just a few small coins, food in the countryside was abundant and to a priest more likely given freely without payment. The bread would be baked with new-harvested corn and the wine would be young and sweet. Besides, to stop for a short repast would break the tedium of the long journey to the convent. I had not eaten before our departure and slept little as it was well after midnight when Master Yap’s night watchman escorted me home. Once abed I lay awake for the remainder of the night, at alternate times savouring the moment then feeling guilt-ridden, at once knowing myself wicked and then altogether fulfilled as a woman.

  The Benedictine buildings on Mount Disibodenberg were far more formidable-looking establishments than the Monastery of St Thomas. As we approached the high walls and massive wooden gates reinforced with iron bars and studs that enclosed the first building, I thought little more than two years had passed since I had left the carpentry shop of the sainted Father John. So much had changed from the little girl who had felt Frau Anna’s spittle landing on the back of her neck. Now, God willing, I would become a scholar in search of the truth and perhaps some day I might return to the village of Uedem where even the abbot of St Thomas would treat me, a famous woman scholar, with due respect.

  Father Hermann rang the rope that hung from a belltower on the wall full thirty cubits above us. In the stillness of the late afternoon the sound of the bell clanging seemed far too intrusive for announcing someone of such small importance as me. Presently a door not much larger than a man’s face opened in the lower region of the great gate and a monk’s head inquired as to our business.

  ‘I bring a novice for instruction!’ Father Hermann boomed, even though the monk’s head was but two cubits from where we stood. It was as if the size of everything confounded the priest and he must match it with the stridence of his voice.

  The monk winced at Father Hermann’s barking. ‘Nay, not here. The convent is the next building. Go to the side . . . there is a gate.’ Whereupon his head withdrew abruptly and the tiny door closed.

  ‘What side, left or right?’ Father Hermann bellowed, perhaps to hide his discomfiture at mistakenly approaching the wrong entrance.

  There followed a pause before the door opened again and the monk looked at us bemused. ‘Er . . . the side with the mole on the ear, ’ he said, and then once again quickly slammed the door shut.

  ‘It’s to the right, Father,’ I grinned, realising the monk had not known his right from his left, but had spotted the large mole on the priest’s ear.

  ‘What mole?’ Father Hermann demanded to know, then turned and examined both my ears. ‘Rubbish, there is no mole on your right ear, Sylvia.’

  We walked quite some distance beside the massive monastery walls and once when I made some small remark Father Hermann, lost in thought, impatiently replied, ‘Shush, Sylvia, I am preparing our announcing!’ We walked in silence until we came upon a small door set into the stone wall, the bell above it much smaller and its clang polite enough. We waited some time and Father Hermann, ever impatient, moved to ring a second time when a small peephole opened in the gate and a female eye asked, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I bring you Sylvia Honeyeater, the blessed child of God, known to folk in Cologne as the Petticoat Angel. It is she who doth charm the birds from the trees, has caused the Virgin’s rose to bleed and sings with the voice of an angel. Her miracles are, as I speak, with the bishop himself. How fortunate you are to have her in your nunnery!’ Father Hermann stentorously announced. It was immediately apparent that his words were much rehearsed and I blushed to the point where I did not know where to hide my head.

  ‘Oh, the novice,’ the eye said, staring. ‘She is five days late!’

  ‘But I sent a message!’ Father Hermann protested, taken aback at this accusing and unexpected reply from the single staring eye.

  ‘We did not get it,’ the eye said firmly.

  ‘Perchance it went to the monastery?’ Father Hermann suggested, his voice surprisingly intimidated.

  ‘Men!’ the eye exclaimed. ‘They never do things right.’ There followed a pause and I looked up at Father Hermann to see that he seemed lost for words. Even a humble disciple of Jesus who walked everywhere and was the earthly husband of the Virgin Mary and a giver of rosy red apples to the baby Jesus was still a priest and so was unaccustomed to any woman speaking to him in such an abrupt and contemptuous manner. But even before he had sufficiently recovered, the eye launched yet another tirade. ‘Well the abbess is not pleased! Five days is a terrible long time to be late! Terrible! Terrible!’ she scolded further. Then still not yet completed added, ‘We’ll have to have reasons.’ The eye seemed to be looking directly at me. ‘Lots and lots of reasons and explaining! Our plans are spoiled for this extreme tardiness of time, this coming, then not coming and now coming! We must know the reasons or it will not bode well for this untimely novice!’

  My heart started to beat furiously – I wasn’t even within the gates of the convent and already I must tell a big fat lie. What could I possibly give as reasons to the abbess? I am delayed because the whores in Cologne’s most famous brothel did wait the five days after my monthly bleeding to be sure that I was safe from becoming pregnant. This they did because they had procured for me a handsome young knight who played the lute wondrously well and possessed violet eyes and dark hair and lips that seemed dipped in nectar, and with his cunning finger, pliant tongue and lovely rod did fulfil my every desire. Of all the young maids in Cologne I am the rose best plucked. This is why I am five days late, Abbess.

  But now Father Hermann seemed at last to recover his equanimity. ‘Learning!’ he said emphatically. ‘Lots and lots of learning. This blessed child of Jesus who has two miracles for the bishop’s appraisal doth study the testaments in Latin, Greek and Hebrew under the great scribe Paulus of St Martin’s. Her curriculum did require five more days to be completed.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the eye replied.

  ‘Well, he’s famous and was the first cleric to witness the Miracle of the Blood on the Rose,’ Father Hermann said, vastly exaggerating the status of Father Paulus. Which was in fact somewhat lowly, a scribe who lived in the belltower and rang the bell at the approved times and was steadily going deaf as a consequence. Besides, he seemed to have forgotten Father Paulus taught me only Latin.

  ‘Bleeding rose? A rose bleeding! Never heard of that either and I’m a gardener and should know,’ the eye remarked flatly.

  Father Hermann had finally had enough of the accusing eye and, realising she was only a gardener and probably a lay sister, rose to his full indignation. ‘Why are we waiting, Sister? Will you open the door at once,’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, Father, of course, welcome to the convent of Disibodenberg, known to the blessed St Hildegard, the great scholar.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know all that! Open up!’ Father Hermann replied irritably, now fully back into his stride and his usual bombastic self.

  The gate opened and a small, rotund woman in a rough habit soiled with dirt stood before us smiling. Then she bowed her head to Father Hermann. ‘I am Rosa,’ she said quie
tly, all the boldness from the prying eye now disappeared.

  ‘To the abbess, at once!’ the priest demanded. ‘We have walked all day and have not eaten since dawn and then only a single crust and water!’

  My stomach rumbled for lack of food and I dearly wished that I had shared his crust.

  ‘I shall inform the kitcheness, but first must tell the cellaress – it is she who must decide who eats and who does not,’ Rosa said, regaining some of the confidence formerly possessed by her single eye.

  Father Hermann ignored this remark. ‘The abbess! Where do we find this dame?’ he asked again.

  To our surprise Rosa brought two fingers to her lips and whistled. A shrill sharp sound I could myself perform, but knew it for the skill possessed by a peasant, a countryman, usually a goatherd. Moments later a nun appeared from what I would later learn was the entrance to the chapter house.

  ‘Come, Sylvia,’ Father Hermann said, walking to meet her, Rosa following us.

  ‘Welcome, Father!’ the nun called out as we approached.

  ‘The novice, Sister. The one that is late!’ Rosa called from behind us.

  ‘Thank you, Rosa, that will be all, you may go,’ the nun said sharply, then added, ‘I have told you not to whistle!’ Then, turning, she smiled sweetly at Father Hermann. ‘I am Sister Angelica, the novice mistress.’ She turned to me with a slight frown. ‘You are Sylvia Honeyeater?’

  I curtsied, lowering my eyes. ‘Aye, Sister.’

  ‘We had expected you sooner,’ Sister Angelica said, perhaps a little archly.

  ‘She had first to complete her curriculum, Latin, Greek and Hebrew,’ Father Hermann repeated. ‘It was the bishop’s wish,’ he then declared, further embroidering this spurious reason for my delay.

  ‘Oh? That doesn’t sound like my brother the bishop, who cares little for learning, hated Latin as a child and to my knowledge knows nothing of Greek and even less of Hebrew.’ Sister Angelica looked at me sharply. ‘Nor cares he much for miracles to roses or the summoning of tweeting birds.’

  Whatever Father Hermann had caused Father Paulus to write about me to the abbess was clearly now well distributed amongst the nuns or, at the very least, shown to Sister Angelica. If it contained anything like the verbose introduction he had given at the gate to Rosa, I knew I was in trouble. The letter concerning me had obviously not been well received. Like most nuns, Sister Angelica was highborn, the sister of the bishop and therefore a member of the nobility. She would regard me with disdain, and she would not be in the least beholden to the priest.

  ‘I, myself, was a poor student,’ Father Hermann said, ‘but I was witness to both miracles,’ he added, though his voice was too soft to be called defiant.

  Please say no more, Father! I begged him silently.

  ‘Ah, that is helpful to know, Father,’ Sister Angelica said sweetly, then turned and smiled at me. ‘To have a novice of such superior intelligence and then also spiritually blessed is indeed a great privilege. Come now, we must see the abbess, she has been awaiting your arrival most anxiously these five days.’ There was no mistaking the sarcasm to her voice. Tired and hungry, I trembled at the thought of what lay ahead of me.

  ‘They have not eaten!’ Rosa called out. She had retired when asked to leave our presence, but still remained within earshot, settled on her haunches a little way down the path pretending to pluck out weeds.

  ‘Rosa!’ Sister Angelica called sternly, the single sounding of her name her shrill admonishment.

  Sister Angelica led us to the chapter house and bade me to be seated on a bench outside the door. Then she turned to Father Hermann. ‘It will not be necessary for you to tarry any longer, Father. The novice is now with us and we thank thee for her safe delivery.’ She pointed to several buildings some distance away and higher up the mount. ‘It is now almost sunset. You may, I feel sure, sojourn this night at the monastery.’

  There was no offer of sustenance, as Rosa had suggested, and it was clear Sister Angelica considered Father Hermann dismissed. I could see that he felt humiliated, but lacked the courage to demand food from so imperious a person as the sister of the bishop. God, it seemed, had granted him his wish and given us a fast day. I wondered how I would last until the bread and wine of breakfast yet twelve hours hence.

  Father Hermann placed his hand upon my head and said a short prayer, while Sister Angelica stood aside, impatient for him to be gone. ‘Bless you, my child. May the Lord be with you as you continue His wondrous works to perform,’ he prayed. Then looking down at me said in a voice I felt was close to tears, ‘Farewell, Sylvia. We, Father Paulus, Nicholas and myself, will greatly miss thy presence in our lives.’

  ‘Farewell, Father, I too shall miss you and will try to do God’s bidding,’ I said, softly sobbing. I knew I would greatly miss his presence in my life. He had been kind and generous to me and despite his failings I loved him dearly, for I knew that underneath he was no different to me, very afraid. I watched as he walked away, his tall figure slightly bowed. The Virgin Mary had chosen her earthly husband well, for there was no badness in him.

  ‘Stop crying at once, Sylvia, you are not a child!’ Sister Angelica demanded. Then she pointed to my stave and the leather bag on my back. ‘No, no, you cannot bring those with you,’ she said, shaking her finger.

  ‘But I must!’ I cried. ‘They are ever with me!’

  ‘Nay, no earthly goods may thou possess, they must go at once!’ Then turning she shouted, ‘Come here, Rosa!’

  Rosa came at her bidding. ‘What is it, Sister?’

  Sister Angelica pointed. ‘The stick and the bag, take them and burn them.’

  ‘Nay!’ I screamed. ‘They are holy, blessed with holy water, the gift of a priest!’

  Sister Angelica looked scornful. ‘If they were gifts from His Holiness the Pope you may still not possess them.’

  I was suddenly in a blind panic. ‘Father Hermann,’ I yelled at the top of my voice. ‘Father, please come back! Please!’

  Rosa, seeing my distress, said quickly, ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘No, Rosa!’ Sister Angelica called, but Rosa had already turned and was running towards the gate.

  ‘Really, this is too much! I shall have to tell of this! You are hardly arrived and already you are a troublemaker!’ the novice mistress chided angrily.

  Rosa soon returned with Father Hermann and I ran to meet them and fell to my knees clutching my precious stave to my breast. ‘Father, tell her, tell her I must have my stave!’ I wept.

  ‘What is this, Sylvia?’ he asked.

  ‘We can possess nothing here, Father. Ours is a vow of poverty,’ Rosa explained.

  ‘But a stave, our Lord Jesus Himself possessed one?’ he said, bemused.

  Sister Angelica had by this time approached us. ‘Tush!’ She pointed to the stave clasped to my bosom. ‘It is wordly goods and we have forsaken any such,’ she scolded.

  Father Hermann tried to assert his priestly authority. ‘It is a stick that grows upon a tree, God’s tree, God’s stick, Christ Himself carried such a stave.’

  Sister Angelica gave him a small, triumphant smile. ‘This is a convent where a woman doth preside who has within these bounds the absolute authority. No stick, no stave, no anything! I go at once to fetch the abbess,’ she threatened.

  ‘No, please don’t,’ I begged. ‘I had not thought to cause trouble.’ Turning to Father Hermann I asked, ‘Father, will you take my stave and keep it safe? And my bag, will you give it to Nicholas? They are from the Monastery of St Thomas, the work of Father John, and are blessed with holy water from the Pope.’

  Father Hermann looked straight at Sister Angelica and slowly shook his head, then he looked down at me. ‘Of course, Sylvia, I shall keep the stave in the sacristy of St Mary’s.’ He grinned. ‘Pilgrims will think it a relic of some past prophet or holy monk.’ He looked pointedly at Sister Angelica. ‘And perhaps it will turn out that they are not far wrong.’ With this he reached out and took my hand and r
aised me to my feet. Then he took possession of my precious stave and leather bag.

  ‘Please go now!’ Sister Angelica said, deliberately not appending ‘Father’ to her dismissal.

  When Father Hermann had once again departed, Rosa escorting him as far as the gate, I stood miserable and forlorn, sniffing and wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand. Once they were beyond hearing, Sister Angelica turned to me. ‘Tears are of no avail here, you stupid girl. So stop crying and pull yourself together. We go now to see the abbess, who you will, at all times, refer to as Magistra, both to her face and otherwise, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ I said, sniffing back my tears.

  ‘Yes, Sister Angelica! I am your teacher and must be obeyed,’ she commanded.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sister Angelica.’

  I followed her to the chapter room where she bade me wait, then departed, leaving me alone on the bench outside. The sun was beginning to set and I was dog-tired, hungry and thoroughly miserable and thought that I might escape at the first opportunity. I felt weak for lack of food but with darkness approaching I knew if I bolted now I would have to sleep in the woods and it would be too late to forage for wild strawberries, blackberries and the like, all abundant at this time of the year. I decided I’d wait until morning. I would have slept and eaten and then I could all the better make a run for it.

  ‘Psst!’ A voice sounded behind me. I turned to see Rosa. ‘Take this, but eat it quickly,’ she said urgently, thrusting a thick crust of bread in my direction. I grabbed the bread and hid it in the fold of my dress. ‘No! Eat it now or else they’ll confiscate it!’ she hissed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said softly.

  ‘Come and see me when you can,’ she said in a loud whisper and then was gone.

  I devoured the bread hungrily, hastily swallowing half-chewed chunks, the crusty rinds rasping at the lining of my throat, terrified that Sister Angelica or the abbess would come upon me chewing. But I need not have worried. The sun was well set before they approached, Sister Angelica walking beside a tall, thin woman who carried a lantern in her left hand and a testament in her right.