A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  For the first time in his life he felt truly humble. “I am grateful for your kindness,” he said.

  She nodded a brisk farewell and turned to the postulant who readjusted the basket in the crock of her arm and followed Phillipa’s descent to the base of the valley.

  Girard lifted his rosary to his face and trailed the beads across his lips. “Thank you Our Lady of Mercy. Thank you!”

  To the right of him, just there in a thicket of brush, Girard heard a soft animal sound. But before he could investigate, the unmistakable tinkle of the leper’s bells drifted up from the valley. The sound of the unclean! he thought and shivered. To die in pieces is a horrible fate! A wave of heat passed through Girard, who glanced furtively around before reaching between his legs and scratching his blistered thighs well past the time relief turned to pain.

  Robert stepped into the oak-paneled scriptorium where Girard sat hunched over a sheet of vellum. Help me see past my anger, he prayed silently. Grant me compassion to hear this man’s words with an open heart. Straightening his shoulders, he spoke in a measured and controlled voice. “Brother, I’ve come at Lady Philippa’s request to hear your confession.”

  Startled, Girard eased his bulk off the high stool and dropped to his knees still clutching a stylus in his hand. “Father,” he said, his face blanched of color, “I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word and deed.”

  Robert heard the tremble in Girard’s voice, noted the proud monk did not try to hide his deformity in the folds of his robes, and he felt a surge of pity.

  “Although I do not remember every detail of… the incident in the cloister…” Girard began.

  Robert stiffened. “I do,” he said, in a thundering voice. Walking briskly across the room, he stood beside Girard who blushed and cleared his throat.

  “I was not trying to deny my culpability,” Girard said. “I know that I entered Madeleine’s cell and attacked her.” He raised his hand, as though to brush his fingers against the fading scratches on his cheek. Then he seemed to remember the stylus and laid it carefully on the floor beside him. “My sin against Madeleine is an abomination! I beseech blessed Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy apostles Peter and Paul, all the saints, and you, Father, to pray to the Lord our God on my behalf.”

  Robert looked at Girard bent in prayer and judged the monk’s remorse sincere. He, himself, he judged more harshly. Twice he had failed to protect Madeleine.

  “Brother Girard,” he said, “You must learn to gird your faith with discernment and self control.”

  Girard nodded, “I will do anything you ask,” he said, “for my contrition is motivated by love of God, not fear of punishment.” His voice deepened with conviction.

  Outside the high-pitched call of a sparrow hawk mingled with the laughter of children. A warm breeze blew through the open door, rustling a sheaf of vellum atop the table. If he shaped Girard’s punishment to address the needs of the community, everyone would benefit. O Lord, he prayed, what is the appropriate action?

  Just then the tinkling reverberation of leper bells climbed the valley walls. A lip curl of disgust replaced Girard’s sorrowful look of regret, and Robert had his answer. “In retribution for your sins, you will minister to the lepers, bathing their bodies, bandaging their ulcers, and tending to their spiritual needs.” Girard’s eyes widened. His mouth, which had been pinched in disgust, opened in silent horror. “May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you.”

  The following day Girard packed a leather script with a worn Bible, his mother’s rosary beads, and a tattered piece of St. Giles’s robe. Slinging the leather strap over his shoulder, he descended into the valley of the lepers. The trail sloped through brush abuzz with insects, and as he drew nearer the encampment, he heard children at play. Accustomed to the muted and predictable sounds of the scriptorium—Brother Peter’s mournful humming, his own labored breathing and the inevitable rustle of vellum—the rippling glee of children’s laughter lifted his spirits. Despite the horror of what awaited him, a gentle breeze cooled his body and soothed his prickly heat.

  Sister Petronilla, a short compact woman with a high chirpy voice, was waiting for Girard by an abbreviated wall, an exceptional job of masonry that reminded Girard of the chancel at Holy Trinity and prompted a wave of longing for the contemplative life he had abandoned.

  In later years, Moriuht and a crew of young brothers would plant the valley walls with grape vines and olive trees. But for now, only a dusty ridge of earth, hoed into place by the leper Thomas, and a six-foot section of a waist-high wall of stone, separated the malades and the others. Robert had put a stop to the wall, announcing that he wanted no barriers at Fontervand. Thomas reputedly argued with the master, reminding him that while none of the sisters who worked among the lepers had yet contracted the disease, as a safety precaution a line should be drawn between the sick and healthy. Robert had repeated that there would be no barriers.

  “You must be Brother Girard,” Petronilla called out in greeting. “You’re just in time to help me with the baskets!”

  Every day novitiates carried food and supplies to the edge of the encampment. A dozen baskets rested atop the wall. “Good morning Sister.” He prayed that Petronilla, who lived outside the slippery realm of gossip, did not know the nature of his sin.

  As though reading his mind, she lifted her hand before he could speak another word. “The Master told me everything,” she said.

  Girard blushed and looked away.

  “Here,” she said, removing a vial from her habit, “dab some of this beneath your nose. It helps cover the smell of the lepers.”

  Though Petronilla’s bluntness startled Girard, he nodded obligingly. Keeping his crippled arm well hidden, he reached for the vial with his good hand, removing the stopper with a flip of his thumb. The spicy scent of clove oil reminded him of Moriuht’s diseased gums and he shivered slightly.

  “It’s possible to find relief from the leper’s twisted limbs and contorted faces in the beauty of the morning sky,” Petronilla said in a matter-of-fact voice. Smiling, she lifted her wimpled face to the scattered clouds. “But there’s no escaping the stench of rotting flesh,” she said, lowering her eyes to meet his.

  Girard clutched the open vial and blanched. He could feel the bile roiling in his belly.

  “You are disgusted,” Sister Petronilla said. “Don’t be. The disease is ugly. To pretend otherwise would be a lie. But people are not their disease.” She pointed to the vial and ran a finger lightly across her upper lip. Girard turned slightly so as to conceal his deformity and quickly smeared the oil beneath his nose.

  “In time you’ll learn to ignore the smell and to focus your attention on the leper’s souls. But for the time being,” she said, “keep the vial with you.”

  Girard turned to face her, clove oil glistening beneath his nostrils. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Now, if you’re ready, I suggest we get started. Grab two baskets and follow me.”

  “Two?” he asked, slipping the vial into his robe.

  She furrowed her brow. “Even then, it will take a considerable time.”

  “I cannot carry more than one basket at a time,” he said.

  “Of course you can,” she said. “Your fat will hamper you, but I’ll slow my pace to match yours.”

  “It isn’t that,” he said. Pulling back the sleeve of his robe, he exposed his left arm. “The limb is quite useless,” he said.

  She appeared neither moved nor repelled, and for this Girard felt gratitude. “Let me see.” Using both of her hands, she assessed the strength of his flaccid arm with a gentle probe and slide of her competent fingers. “True enough,” she said with the smallest of sighs. “Well then, transporting the baskets will take a bit longer than I had planned. But you needn’t worry. There’s plenty of time before the midday meal, and if we’re lu
cky, we can cajole some of the urchins to help us!” The mention of children seemed to reignite her spirit. Lifting two of the fullest baskets, she smiled. While she waited for Girard to take up his burden, she broke into a cheerful song about sweet cherry tarts and gingerbread squares.

  Madeleine’s first illustration was an imitation of an ornate letter she observed Peter painting for a book of hours. Once he understood the depths of her fascination, the usually laconic Peter spoke eloquently of the artistic process, both the practical and the mystical. “You must first imagine the layout,” he said, indicating, with a wave of his brush, the text, border, initial, and miniature. Using a mixture of flake white and ochre, he added texture to the green vines banding the stem of his letter P to its vermillion globe. “Above all else,” he said, meeting her eyes, “the illuminator should create images that look alive and active.” With a few deft strokes, he transformed the base of the initial into a flare of roots. “Even the borders should add beauty and meaning.”

  And, indeed, Peter’s border contained a symbolic maze of serpents, lambs, and purple demons. But what held Madeleine’s attention was the miniature within the globe of the letter—Mary Magdalene and the Virgin Mother sitting at the foot of the cross.

  Shortly after completing her first drawing Madeleine noticed a sheet of vellum lying in the trash. A small area had been scraped so many times that a hole had worn through. She salvaged a quarter of the page and took it back to her cell.

  Later that night, Madeleine sketched a lead plummet outline of the two Marys. Exhausted but exhilarated, she hid her efforts at the bottom of her trunk before climbing into the pallet alongside the slumbering Little.

  Each time she cleaned the scriptorium thereafter, Madeleine pilfered colors, small portions that wouldn’t be noticed, dull olive green for the dead Christ, azure for his mother’s robe, and carmine for Mary Magdalene’s, for whom Madeleine felt a special affinity.

  She began the illustration shortly after Girard was dispatched to the leper camp, but it was not until the beginning of Lent that she finished. She did not think her work well crafted. Her Christ was a reluctant martyr. Her Virgin did not elicit compassion. But Madeleine was proud of her rendering of Mary Magdalene, who sat in sorrow, one hand resting on her knee, the other lifted to wipe a tear from her cheek. The work came alive, however, when Madeleine added details not contained in Peter’s illustration. First, she layered brown onto the stem of the initial P, transforming it into a tree with bony limbs. Next, she painted several leaves within the frame of the miniature. Little more than spots of pigment, the leaves rested at the foot of the cross. Even before she fully understood her reason for including them, she knew their presence was essential.

  But the most gratifying aspect of the process was her luck in capturing Marie’s colors in the arc of Mary’s halo. When Madeleine first met Marie, greens and yellows dominated her palette. As she aged, a splattering of orange and a thin corrosive layer of murky olive muddled their purity and foreshadowed her slow and painful death. All this Madeleine managed. The effect she could not duplicate was the very quality that she felt distinguished Marie’s nimbus from all others—an egg-shaped band of light that sparked silver and gold and pressed her vibrant hues against the contours of her body. In the end, Mary’s halo only hinted at Marie’s energy.

  Madeleine did not share her miniature with anyone until shortly after Pentecost. Placing the illustration between the pages of a prayer book, she tucked the book into the pocket of her cape and woke Little from her nap. “Come, sleepy head. Let’s walk to the garden.”

  Philippa and Madeleine met nearly every day after the none office so that Little Marie and Anne could play together among the perennials and early spring vegetables. That day, though chilly, was unseasonably bright. The Loire river fog had burned off early, and the sun was clearly visible. Madeleine removed the prayer book from her robe and placed it on the bench.

  Madeleine’s friendship with Philippa had deepened following Girard’s attack. Philippa talked of her difficult marriage and cried openly when she discussed the child she was forced to leave behind. Madeleine, who was by nature more reserved, talked more than was her custom, discussing her childhood in Rouen and Marie’s death. Gradually and over time they came to feel comfortable in each other’s presence, in part because their daughters so enjoyed each other’s company.

  Madeleine heard Philippa and Anne’s approach before she saw them, the unmistakable thump of Anne’s feet hitting the soil. Anne, a child in love with words, captivated Little. “What hurts?” Little asked, pointing to a scab on Anne’s knuckle.

  “I fell down!” Anne said, her eyes large with the drama of her wound.

  Little nodded solemnly and bent to examine the scab more closely before taking Anne’s hand and pointing to a trellis of climbing vines gone to seed.

  Philippa greeted Madeleine and joined her on the bench. Their conversation wove in and out of the children’s words, forming what Madeleine had come to think of as the fabric of their time together.

  “Little and Anne are going to see the dead beans,” Little said, to no one in particular. She had an odd way of narrating her experiences, as though in the telling she could enter the moment more fully. A small, compact child with exceptionally fine features, Little possessed curiosity and insight that far exceeded her mother’s. While random details distracted Madeleine, Little saw the larger picture. Bright and willful, she was also a skillful dissembler.

  When Philippa spotted the prayer book, she tilted her head and asked, “What’s this?”

  “I’ve attempted an illustration,” Madeleine said. She removed the miniature from between the pages of the prayer book and passed it to her friend.

  “How did you manage?” Philippa asked, examining the image closely.

  The children had made their way to the beans before Madeleine answered. “I found the damaged vellum in the trash.”

  “What I meant was how did you manage such beauty? Who taught you?”

  “Brother Peter showed me how to mix just the right amounts of pigment and medium and how to apply each color in turn and then allow it to dry.”

  “I know what pigment is, but what is medium?” Philippa asked.

  From anyone else, the barrage of questions might have struck Madeleine as intrusive, even threatening. But Philippa’s curiosity was a compliment. “My definition of boredom,” Philippa once told Madeleine, “is sitting in a room full of people who share my every thought and experience. Why, it’s the differences in people which make life fascinating!”

  “The medium turns pigment into liquid paint,” Madeleine said. “I mix egg whites and water to make it. Sometimes I added honey to vary the consistency. See?” She said, pointing to the texture in the fold of Marie’s gown.

  “Yes, I see,” Philippa said. And Madeleine could tell by Philippa’s rapt expression that she was trying to enter her life, straining to imagine the process of mixing paints and then applying them to vellum. Philippa’s momentary silence was not so much the absence of sound as it was a comfortable space. “And what of the halo?” she asked. “How did you manage the colors?”

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Little cried out, “I’m stuck!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Madeleine said and went to rescue her daughter, who had managed to wedge herself between the trellis and the snap bean’s vegetation. After Madeleine had freed her (no easy task as Little wriggled in her frustration and would not be still), she picked up both girls, one in each arm, and carried them to the bench. “Play nearby for a while,” she said, pointing to the lamb’s ear. The girls loved the velvety feel of the plant.

  “Little and Anne find snails!” Little proclaimed.

  The hoods of the girls’ capes slipped off their heads and gathered against their shoulders. Little’s curls were black and shiny as wet pebbles while Anne’s blonde waves blanched white against the glare of the wi
nter sun. Madeleine thought, not for the first time, that Anne’s coloring was closer to hers than her own daughter’s.

  “The tree is beautifully rendered,” Philippa said. Madeleine smiled and sat beside her on the bench. “But menacing, unsettling in some way I cannot name except to say it makes me fearful.” There was a trace of awe in Philippa’s voice. “Tell me, will you do more?”

  “I don’t know,” Madeleine said, taking the miniature from Philippa’s hands. “Vellum is costly, and Brother Peter is not likely to throw out more anytime soon.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “We make our own.”

  “How?”

  Madeleine looked to the children, who seemed content, so she answered Philippa’s question as fully as she could, proud of her knowledge. “We soak calfskin for three to ten days in a lime solution. When Peter determines the skins are ready, we rinse them in water and stretch them on round frames to dry. Then we scrape both sides of the skin with a special knife and pounce the vellum with pumice stone.”

  “Perhaps I can help you obtain more calf skins. My husband makes generous donations to the abbey.”

  “Then you don’t think my desire strange?” Madeleine asked.

  “Strange? All the women at Fontervand are strange, if by strange you mean we are at odds with convention.” Her brow furrowed. “We are oddities,” she said with a sigh, “the ones who don’t fit easily into the roles we’ve been assigned. We make people uncomfortable, so we end up relegated to convents.” Her tone was decisive.

  “Some come by choice,” Madeleine said, thinking, there are worse places to live. She had never spoken, even obliquely of the particulars of her life in Rouen. She was not ashamed, only hesitant to recall them, fearful of being pulled back into that place and time.