Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  While he had prostrated himself in front of me, momentarily overcome by remorse, I wasn’t so foolish that I did not know Father Pietro was a man and a priest, the bishop in everything but in name. He was arrogant and powerful and his epiphany on the steps of the church was likely to prove a temporary relapse into a piety of some distant youthful past. After I had bathed, received a change of raiment and eaten, I had been granted an interview with the abbess, Sophia of Piemonte, an educated woman who spoke Latin, and during our talk I had asked that she intercede and find out if I might see Father Pietro.

  ‘He is, at his kindest, still a difficult man, Sylvia,’ she sighed. ‘When I have need to petition the bishop, we all say a special prayer that God might grant Father Pietro an even temper on the day.’ Then she added with a grin, ‘I will send Sister Infirmaress and use the excuse that she has come to dress his wounds. She has no fear of anyone except perhaps the Pope and God, though I doubt even the former.’

  How different this Abbess Sophia of Piemonte to the bitch . . . oops! I mean, of course, the abbess at the convent at Disibodenberg.

  Sister Infirmaress returned shaking her head. ‘He is not himself, Mother Superior. I think those ravens, for all the misfortune they bring a soul, seem to have pecked some courtesy into his stubborn head. He will see Sylvia with pleasure and at her convenience.’

  ‘My goodness, he is most certainly sick!’ the abbess exclaimed, first having politely translated the nun’s remarks.

  ‘Thank you, I will go immediately,’ I said.

  I was about to take my leave when the abbess said, pointing to my nun’s habit, ‘Sylvia, the nuns who brought you one of our gowns spoke of the sign of the fish, the sign of our precious Saviour on your back. Do you think? I mean, would it be possible to see it?’

  ‘It is only a birthmark, Mother Superior.’ I turned my back and dropped the top of the robe from my shoulders and back and heard the abbess gasp.

  ‘Nay, Sylvia, it is more, much more. Then the Miracle of the Rats and the Birds is true, also the ravens!’

  I adjusted the gown and turned to find her on her knees with her hands clasped in prayer. ‘Please, please, I am just a humble maid. Do not think any more of me!’ I cried. I had long since given up explaining the matter of the rats and the birds. The more I explained, the more doubtful people thought the explanation. People want miracles and when they are denied they become very upset. Just as the Abbess Sophia, despite being told the fish was a birthmark, would not accept this explanation, she would also not have accepted the explanation for the so-called miracles. Although, I confess, I had no idea why the ravens attacked Father Pietro and the troop captain of the Bishop of Koblenz.

  She rose to her feet. ‘We are truly blessed to have you with us, Sylvia,’ she said, and I could see tears in her eyes as she smiled at me. ‘I promise you, no pilgrim child will henceforth pass through this way without comfort and succour.’ I did not tell her that we were the last, nor point out, as I had in no uncertain terms to Father Pietro, that charity should be given without thought of motive or gain, especially to hungry and dying children. Don’t get bitter, Sylvia, I reproached myself.

  Father Pietro welcomed me with a smile. He seemed in demeanour quite a different man from the scowling priest of only this morning, and thanked me profusely for what I’d done for him and the parish of Piacenza. I attempted to apologise for my remarks and in particular for my language. Seemingly completely mollified he said, ‘We don’t know what Christ said to the moneylenders when he drove them from the temple, but I feel sure he did not spare the whip the tongue becomes when anger is well justified.’

  ‘It is most forgiving and gracious of you, Father,’ I said humbly, unable to believe that this was the same priest who had first read out the indictment of the German children and the bishop’s refusal to grant them a final anointing. ‘How is His Lordship, the bishop?’ I now asked tentatively.

  ‘He has sprained his wrist, a few scratches and bruises, it is nothing,’ Father Pietro said dismissively. He tapped his cheek and then his neck, indicating the raven pecks. ‘Sometimes things happen to shake us from our lethargy and to restore our faith in God,’ he said humbly. He cleared his throat. ‘Sylvia, we cannot make amends for what has happened but I have done all I may to improve the situation. Our priest, clerics and monks are out in the town seeking any sick child from your pilgrimage. They will give those who are still alive the final anointing and those, alas, who are dead we will bury in consecrated ground. The church will create a special place, it shall be named “The Field of Forever Dreaming” and it will be where God’s little children may lie and each shall be blessed with a stone cross. Henceforth, all the children who die in Piacenza will be buried with these precious pilgrims to the Holy Land, so they are forever honoured.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, I am overwhelmed,’ I said, for I truly was and also surprised at his poetical turn of phrase in naming the new children’s cemetery.

  ‘Will you and the children and the piper fellow stay a while in Piacenza so that we may restore their health and your own? Sister Infirmaress informs me that you are in need of rest and care, and the children are skin and bone and, she says, riddled with lice and many carry open sores.’

  ‘It has been a bitter journey, but we are much better provided for since we became the Silent Choir of God’s Little Children. Alas, Father, we thank you most graciously, but must be in Genoa in five days. We cannot tarry here even another day.’

  He looked at me doubtfully, then asked, ‘Hence you depart from Genoa to cross over the sea to the lands of the Saracens and some day reach the Holy Land?’ He paused, seeming to be searching for the right words. ‘I beg you, Sylvia, think carefully about this. We have seen your faith and your strength and all things are possible when we act with God’s purpose, but you should pray most assiduously for further guidance.’ I could see that his nature was now completely turned to compassion and that he was most concerned for our welfare.

  ‘Nay, Father, we go to Genoa so that I might urge Nicholas of Cologne to abandon this Children’s Crusade . . . this pilgrimage has seen enough death.’

  He seemed hugely relieved to hear me say this. ‘Can we not send a messenger? Five days is yet a goodly distance to travel and your children will suffer further.’

  ‘Father, they are hard-set upon this destination. But if we might obtain a missive from the bishop that carries our safe passage and asks for the assistance of the church in each town we pass through, we would suffer little.’ I smiled. ‘We will sing for our supper and give good value,’ I promised.

  ‘Aye, you have the voice of an angel and the children are as cherubim. I vouch there are none as good in hymns of praise to our Lord from here to Rome. The letter shall be yours.’

  ‘But has His Lordship not sprained his wrist?’ I asked, remembering.

  Father Pietro laughed. ‘The only scripting His Lordship does is press his ring seal upon the wax and I have a spare ring for this purpose.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘I have a suggestion.’ Without waiting for me to ask what this might be, he continued. ‘Will it not greatly help you with the local tongue if Brother Bruno goes with you and with him Brother Aloysius, for they are never parted and are as two peas in a pod. Both are ordained priests. What think you, Sylvia?’

  I thanked him warmly. ‘I would cherish the opportunity to learn to speak your language,’ I said.

  He looked at me doubtfully. ‘In five days?’

  ‘The beginnings. I will learn more on the way to Rome.’

  ‘Rome? You go to Rome?’

  ‘Aye, to have an audience with His Holiness, Father.’

  He laughed, truly amused. ‘Nay, Sylvia, you do not understand. You would more easily reach Jerusalem, or have the true cross returned to you by the infidel, than be granted an audience with the Pope.’

  ‘But only he can rescind our sacred vows. We must see him!’

  I cried. ‘Can the bishop give us a supplicating letter to His Holi
ness?’

  Father Pietro sighed. ‘Aye, but it is a waste of parchment, ink and wax, my child.’

  ‘I am greatly in your debt, Father. I wish only that I could find a way to thank you.’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘There is one thing.’

  ‘Aye, what is it, Father?’

  ‘The curse.’

  ‘Curse, Father?’

  ‘Ravens, the curse of the ravens. Will you lift it?’ His eyes left mine and looked down into his lap a little shamefully, then in a low voice he said, ‘Please?’

  I was glad that his eyes were downcast so they did not witness my astonishment. Here was a man of God, an educated priest and scribe, the bishop’s assistant and likely some day to be a bishop himself, and he believed in witchcraft and in this peasant superstition of crows, ravens and jackdaws being the harbingers of misfortune. Hoping that he did not realise my surprise I knew that he had just presented me with an ideal opportunity to leave Piacenza without being seen to be beholden to the Church.

  I had sworn to myself that I would not beg again, even if my life should depend on it. That our children would never again have to go onto their knees and, clutching the thick ankles of a peasant woman, kiss her dirty feet while pleading for a scrap of bread, only to be kicked aside in contempt, the crust denied with an impatient expletive. Then there was also the matter of learning the Italian tongue, a task that would take more than five days with Brother Bruno at my side. I would need some fluency if we were to survive in this heartless land.

  ‘We will need to go outside where we may see the sky,’ I said.

  ‘Not in the square! Folk will see us,’ he said quickly.

  I smiled inwardly. Ever the man, ever the priest. ‘Take me to the Field of Forever Dreaming, Father.’ Our eyes met and I forced myself to have the boldness to hold his gaze. ‘We will lift the curse in that soon-to-be consecrated place,’ I said as seriously as I might.

  We left the church and Father Pietro led me up a rise behind the convent, not quite a hill and certainly not a field but open woodland of scattered oak and elm, the summer grass beneath the trees still surprisingly green in the hot August sun. As a place to bury our children I liked it exceedingly, though I was not so foolish as not to guess that he had led me to the nearest open land adjacent to the church and had, in fact, named the place of child burials before deciding where it might be located.

  ‘It is important that we choose this as the last place of rest for our children. This Field of Forever Dreaming must never be changed as I will cause it to be a sanctuary for birds and I will tell them it is consecrated ground chosen by God.’ I turned to Father Pietro. ‘Will you swear to commit this place to God’s little children?’

  ‘I swear to God I shall keep this promise, Sylvia.’

  ‘Then I will call the birds to be witness to the lifting of the curse of the raven.’ As I began to call I saw the look of alarm on his face.

  ‘No ravens!’

  ‘Aye, I must. They will be present with all the other birds so that they know I have, with God’s help, lifted this disharmony from your soul.’

  I resumed calling and already the birds had started to land, settling in the trees around us. When a host had gathered I beckoned the ravens, not knowing how many to expect. But to my surprise only two arrived and I wondered if they were the same pair who had earlier attacked the priest. I called them to sit upon my shoulders.

  ‘Come closer, Father, stand directly in front of me.’

  ‘What if they attack me again?’ he cried, very frightened.

  ‘God sees into your heart, Father. If there is no evil there, how may the birds attack you?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I stroked each of the ravens in turn and they tilted their heads and looked at the priest curiously. ‘See, they bear you no malice,’ I said. He now stood directly in front of me and I said, ‘Touch each lightly on the head, Father.’ His hand shook as he reached forward. The raven cocked its head and Father Pietro winced and quickly withdrew his hand. ‘Nay, Father, they are most friendly.’

  ‘Sylvia, I am sore afraid.’

  All about us the birds were singing. ‘See, all the birds laugh at you, Father.’

  He tried a second time, this time with the second raven, but it too cocked its head. Ravens are ever curious birds. This time the priest jumped back frightened.

  I had teased him enough. ‘I will sing this matter to the birds, Father, they grow impatient to be gone. Their nestlings are almost grown by this time in summer and they have to work very hard at gleaning to feed them.’

  I began to sing.

  To all the birds of heaven

  Know that the curse is spent,

  Scattered to the four winds

  On the wings of ravens sent!

  Field of Forever Dreaming,

  Here precious children lie.

  If you listen in the stillness

  You’ll know they did not die.

  Theirs is the New Jerusalem

  Where children know no sin,

  Their voices raised in glory

  As God’s precious cherubim.

  We pray to our Lord in heaven

  To make your suffering cease.

  Small pilgrim, gone to paradise,

  May your soul rest now in peace.

  Hark! Hear you children singing?

  Can you see their faces grave?

  In the Field of Forever Dreaming

  Where the oak and elm give shade.

  When I completed singing the birds rose up in a great fluttering and with them the two crows. I looked to see that Father Pietro was on his knees and that tears ran down his cheeks.

  At first I thought I must still be within the ambience of the little hymn I’d composed, that I had been caught up in the spell of this quiet and lovely place. But when he rose from his knees I became certain that what I was looking at was no illusion: there was no mark to be seen on his countenance, nor a single raven’s peck upon his neck.

  I contained my surprise and remained silent, the coming of the avenging ravens in Koblenz and now here in Piacenza was something I couldn’t explain with my bird calling. God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform and I had been grateful for His timely intervention and had thanked Him in my prayers. Besides, I’d just about had my fill of miracles. Let him find out for himself. When he does, I feel sure there will be some advantage in it for us, I decided.

  Father Pietro was entirely overcome when he discovered the little miracle to his countenance and so was splendidly softened up for my proposition. In no time at all Brother Bruno and Brother Aloysius were granted permission to accompany us to Rome on a pilgrimage. With them they carried a missive to the priests we would meet on the way to give a last anointing to any pilgrim child in their town and to make sure we were fed and cared for. In Reinhardt’s satchel was another to His Holiness, though Father Pietro had again stressed that there were delegates to the throne of St Peter who waited months to see the Holy Father and not to expect a veritable miracle.

  In my head I could hear Master Israel’s voice: ‘If you are powerful, take a drum and beat it and the people will come to march behind you. But if you are weak, make music and the powerful will come to sit at your feet.’ It had been intended as a metaphor for the power of persuasion, but it could also be taken literally. I felt sure that the combined talents of Reinhardt and me could turn the Silent Choir of God’s Little Children into a unique instrument of sacred music that would capture the attention of the Church and take us all the way to the throne of St Peter. Furthermore, if the Holy Father had been touched by the story of Francis of Assisi preaching to the birds, as I had been told he was, then we also had an avian trick or two up our sleeve. If we proved good enough, then the Holy Father would release us from our crusader’s oath but would also want to keep us for his divine service and then our children would be safe forever.

  Brother Dominic had once told me, ‘Few of the Princes of the Church care much for
God’s laws, but all are careful to possess all the trappings of faith. The ceremony, not the conviction, that is what is important to them.’ We would become trappings and a part of the ceremony. Reinhardt particularly liked the idea of trappings. ‘Oh, we shall look beautiful, Sylvia. I shall design everything and then a gown for you and a uniform for me that will make the cardinals swoon with envy!’

  Of the journey to Genoa there is little that is new to say, other than we travelled without a care, with sufficient to eat. Our singing, which seemed to get better and better as our shrunken stomachs began to accept more food, was marvelled at. People would say they had never heard voices so pure and sacred singing so beautiful. But I knew we could still improve and, by the time we reached Rome, be wondrously good.

  Brother Bruno turned out to be a good and patient language teacher and in the five days on the road I had grasped the fundamentals of the local grammar, and with its many Latin roots I knew I would speak it tolerably well by the time we reached Rome.

  The children adored Brother Aloysius who, by the way, possessed a beautiful baritone voice, and Reinhardt worked with him on the road to integrate him into the choir and also to give him a solo part. He became a deep contrast to the high soprano voices of the children and as a voice at the opposite end to my own.