Alas, with her death, I was now alone with my father who, no longer able to vent his anger on my mother and now free to do as he wished with me, would rape me when drunk. In one fell swoop I had gone from a loved, cherished and innocent child to becoming the victim of a wantonly cruel father who regularly slaked his lust on me. He would never rape me in the cottage, but instead drag me into the pigsty where he'd point to the black boar and in a slurred voice, he'd whine, âYour mother loved that brute more than me!' Then he'd push me face down over a broken wine barrel. âLet the bitch look now! See who has the last laugh!' He'd lift my shift and with his peg leg stuck out at an angle, its brass point buried in pig shit, he would take me, meanwhile grunting and snorting like the three pigs jostling alongside.
When it was over he'd grab me by the hair and jerk me to my feet, turning my head so that I looked directly into his broken face. A sour smell issued from a mouth possessed of yellow rotting teeth and blackened stumps. âSing! Sing for your papa,' he'd growl, releasing his hand. Fighting back my tears, I would sing a folksong my mother had taught me. When it was over he'd place his huge hand upon my head. âRemember, it is
I
who have been forgiven past sins and will go on another crusade before I die to redeem myself for those I have since committed. It is
you
who are now the sinner condemned to hellfire.' Then tucking away his vileness, he'd add in what he thought an amusing tone, âNever you mind, when you are older you too can be a pilgrim to the Holy Land, just like your brave papa who suffered so terribly in the name of the true Cross.' Pausing to cackle at such an amusing notion, he'd exclaim, âThen,
abracadabra
, all your sins will be forgiven!' With his tunic and pouch adjusted and his peg leg upright he'd reach into his pocket to produce a lump of honeycomb wrapped in a twist of cloth. âTo sweeten you for the next time,
liebling.
'
There are few secrets in a small village and those who knew themselves my betters soon gave me the disparaging name Sylvia Honeyeater. Why I have to this day retained it I simply cannot say. I have no cause to remember those days with fondness and have been given many more flattering names in life. Perhaps we come to think of ourselves in a certain way and by removing a childhood name, no matter how disparaging, we lose some small part of ourselves. Today most folk think âHoneyeater' such a pleasantly amusing appendage that it must have come about because of my sunny disposition. I have long since learned that the hurt that we acquire in life can be disguised behind a smiling face.
I missed and mourned for my sainted mother with a terrible ache, and prayed every night to God that while I knew myself to be a sinner condemned to roast in hell, He would protect her in heaven from knowing what was happening to me. Knowing myself condemned, I grew silent and withdrawn and showed my face in the village as little as possible, only attending religious feast days or venturing in when I had something I might sell in the market. As my mother had taught me I attended Church on Sunday. I would hide in the graveyard until the last of the worshippers had entered the building before creeping silently into a back pew, seating myself convenient to the door so that the moment the service was completed I might escape the curious and accusing eyes of the pious parishioners. While in Church I remained mute, concentrating on the sounds of the Gloria, refining in my head the purity of the notes flattened and corrupted by the tuneless voices of many of the nuns. Later in the woods I would spend hours alone practising and bringing to life the various hymns.
Because of my silence and unobtrusive manner I became an acute observer of people and I also began to understand the lives of the birds and the small forest creatures. I would spend as much of my summer days as I could in the woods that covered the slopes of the surrounding hills. As I had done with my mother, I gathered herbs, wild strawberries, blackberries and field mushrooms and dug for roots and lily bulbs to feed the pigs. Here I would sing all day while fossicking, and spend hours alone practising the hymns I had memorised while in Church. I could recite the mass word for word, even though it was in Latin and beyond my comprehension, and would often remember an entire sermon.
Singing brought me closer to the memory of my mother, who had so often praised my voice. âGod,' she would also say, âhas lifted it from the soul of an angel who no longer sings in the heavenly choir and placed it as a precious instrument into your infant throat.' After her death I sang at first only to myself and later sometimes to the village children who would venture into the woods to play, and so I gave it no worth other than that it comforted me and brought me within her imagined presence. Despite the vicissitudes seemingly overwhelming me, my sainted mother had left me with a strong sense of my own worth. My father's vile and frightening actions condemning me to hellfire I locked away in a chamber within my heart. If I was denied the power to prevent him from harming me, then I told myself that within me remained someone uncorrupted and worthy of my mother's precious memory.
I was seldom miserable for the company of friends my own age. With my mother as my sole company I had not previously cultivated any friendships with other children and so knew nothing of child's play. To amuse myself I would have imaginary conversations out loud with various people I had observed or overheard in the village market. I would sit on the low wall of the pigsty and pretend the black boar was the village priest or the mayor or one or another of the more self-important town dignitaries, mimicking their voices as I conducted a conversation with them. I would use the sows to talk with the village women who loved to gossip and to condemn everyone or everything that didn't fit in with their own narrow views on piety and life. I loved especially to imitate one fat, large-breasted woman, Frau Anna, known in the village as the Gossip Queen. She was self-important, pompous and possessed a loud and vociferous voice that offered an opinion on everything, but seldom had a kind word to say about anyone. Generally speaking, if I may say so, she was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. In the process of this lonely children's game and unbeknownst to myself, I was becoming a very good mimic.
As a special treat to myself and after admonishing the black boar to be on his best behaviour I would turn him into the abbot at the nearby Monastery of St Thomas. The abbot, preaching as he sometimes did in the village church, would always delight me. While the village priest, Father Pietrus, intoned his message in a dogged and sonorous litany as if disinterested in the hallowed words of our Saviour and seeming anxious for his sermon to be over and done with, the abbot's were filled with the fire and brimstone of the Old Testament. At its crescendo he'd often draw a deep breath until he'd become scarlet-faced, when he'd commence to hiss as if adding vehemence to a word yet to be formed and which finally emerged in an expostulation of spittle and sound. These truncated and strangled words that hissed like a goose and fought for release before exploding from his mouth I would greatly enjoy imitating, holding my breath, then making them stop dead with a hiss, then leaping them forth at the command of my nimble tongue.
This gift for mimicry, though of course at the time I wasn't conscious that it was any more than the pastime of a lonely child, began at the age of seven or thereabouts when I began to imitate the calls and the songs of all the birds in the woods. The persistent call of the male cuckoo, the woodlark, redpoll, robin, hawfinch, flycatcher, the shy wood nuthatch, thrush and wren, the harsh caw of the crow, the chattering of a magpie and the assiduous
cookerooing
of the wood pigeon and the turtle-dove, even the woodpecker and many more were all grist for my mellifluous tongue. I was careful with the call of a raven or a jackdaw as they brought on evil omens. I learned to distinguish the mating calls of all the cock birds and soon enough I could draw them as well as the hens to my presence at will, until the trees above me trilled with the birdsong of courtship.
Then one indifferent autumn day when the sun seemed to be spending most of its time behind threatening storm clouds all this changed for me. I stood in my usual place in the market, my eyes downcast, hands folded at my waist, silently taking in the chatter around me when the Gossip Queen, Frau Anna, waddled up to me. She was one of three market women who seemed always to be together: the other two I had nicknamed Frau Frogface and Frau Gooseneck. The first because her head seemed broader than it was high as if it had been placed in a clamp top and chin and squeezed causing her eyes to bulge and lips to protrude. The second for her small rounded head, sharp nose, beady eyes and long neck that constantly moved from side to side as if she was trying to locate a bad smell. Frau Anna was too well-known as the Gossip Queen to be renamed. Now she stood in front of me, her breasts heaving, her heavy leather-booted legs apart. She looked down at my naked feet in apparent distaste, then her eyes travelled across my ragged gown and still further up, lingering purse-lipped on my dirty face, runny nose and matted blonde hair. Whereupon she sniffed, jerked her chin in disapproval and pointed a fat finger at a small heap of field mushrooms, dropping a coin into the dirt at my feet. I bent down and silently scooped up the mushrooms and placed them carefully into her basket, then reached to retrieve the coin. âWhore! Satan's child!' she hissed, whereupon I heard a sharp âphfft' as she spat, a glob of spittle landing on the back of my neck.
I shall never know what possessed me; her insult was no worse than many others I had received at the hands of the self-righteous villagers. I would carry their cruel words home in silence where I'd crawl into a dark corner and weep for their reminder of the miserable sinner my wanton father had caused me to become. Barely conscious of my own voice or that the sun at that very moment had come out, bathing the corner in which I stood in bright sunlight, I commenced to sing the
Gloria Patri
, my voice rising above the noise of the marketplace. It is a short hymn, but well before I had come to the end a silence fell upon the market crowd who quickly gathered around me. Not knowing how to extract myself from the predicament in which I had so stupidly placed myself I followed this first hymn with a second longer one, the
Gloria in Excelsis
. Almost at the precise moment I'd completed the hymn, as suddenly as it had arrived the sun disappeared, followed shortly by a soft rumble of far-off thunder. To my consternation I saw that several of the more humble village folk had come to kneel at my dirty feet.
And so a different stage in my childhood had arrived. The incident at the market became known as the âMiracle of the Gloria'. Those who boasted that they had been present that morning told how the general hubbub of the market stalls had suddenly ceased as a blindingly bright light appeared to surround me. They watched and saw my eyes take on a fiery red glow as the demon within me looked outwards and an expression of abject terror appeared on my face, contorting it horribly, so that they knew I was possessed by Beelzebub. As they drew back in fear, the glorious light began to enter my mouth and the demon's transmuted eyes immediately began to fade and mine return to a deep sublime blue. Whereupon my face softened to a beatific smile, as if I had just received a divine kiss from the Virgin Mary. At that precise moment my mouth opened and I commenced to sing the
Gloria Patri
in the voice of an angel, followed by the
Gloria in Excelsis
, causing many of those present to fall to their knees in prayer. As I came to the end of this second hymn of praise a great clap of thunder caused the earth to tremble around me.
From such small and unpropitious beginnings miracles are made. From that day on folk stopped disparaging me and bought my produce with a smile, placing their payment politely within my palm. The name Sylvia Honeyeater was no longer used and I was now known as Sylvia of the Gloria. The village folk would beg me to sing to them and I would do so, but only when all my produce had been sold. Nor would I again sing a hymn in a public place but only folksongs. In my usual pew at the back of the church on Sunday I reverted to my accustomed silence. I was now eleven years old or thereabouts and knew my mind, and while the village women begged me to sing in the church grounds after mass so that the priest, Father Pietrus, might hear my voice, I steadfastly refused. Despite my redemption in the inflamed imagination of the Christ-zealot villagers, I still knew myself to be a sinner unworthy of singing in or even near God's house.
My newfound public voice brought a reflected glory to Brass Leg Peter the Forgiven Coward, who now acted as if I was the result of his careful nurture, happily accepting the credit for my transformation into a songbird. He commanded me to appear at the inn to sing to his circle of drunken comrades. He would bask in their congratulations and when my singing brought tears to their eyes he would boast that my voice came from him. That he had once sung like a lark until the infidels had captured him. They'd poured lye down his throat when they'd caught him on his knees in his evil-smelling, rat-infested prison cell praising the Almighty in glorious song. This brought the usual derisive laughter from those who had known him as a young man. They claimed he had only ever been part of a drunken singsong and had never been heard to sing in praise to the Almighty. But others who knew him less well were quick to pat him on the back and refill his tankard. Nor was the innkeeper lacking in generosity; my singing attracted new customers and so he too saw to it that my father's tankard was always brimming with good cheer.
But idle tongues cannot easily be silenced and the news of the divine occurrence did not take long to reach Father Pietrus. The Miracle of the Gloria by this stage had increased even further in its lurid and improbable detail and it was now maintained that prior to the âmiracle' I had been a mute.