Sylvia (6 page)

Having failed to sell anything at the market I decided to try the nearby Monastery of St Thomas, where the kitchen monk complained bitterly that the hens were aged and possessed no meat and were suitable only for the soup pot. It wasn't true – my hens were young, in good health and steady layers and the rooster was a lusty fellow. Greed, I was discovering, lives in every man, lacks a conscience and grows fat on the misfortunes of others.

The whining monk was no different to the peasants at the market. Finally, complaining all the while, the monk exchanged the chickens for a small bag of corn, sufficient if I was careful to sustain me for no more than a week on the road.

The tools I took to the monastery carpenter's shop and foundry where the carpentry monk, an older and altogether kindlier person who introduced himself as Father John, examined them, then inquired closely why they were for sale, perhaps thinking I had stolen them. I told him of the death of my father and explained my circumstances.

He placed his hand on my head and sighed. ‘
Orphanus
,' he said, consoling me. ‘We have heard of the Miracle of the Gloria
.
You are
that
blessed child?' he asked, surprised.

‘It was not a miracle, Father, only some stupid villagers making up stuff they
think
they saw.'

‘So you were not a mute who was gifted with an angel's voice?'

‘I have sung to God's glory since I was a small child,' I replied.

‘And now what will you do?'

I shrugged. ‘Leave the village and go somewhere else . . . somewhere far away.'

‘I see, a pilgrimage maybe?'

‘If my sins may be forgiven I should like to do that, Father,' I answered, remembering my father's mocking words in the pigsty.

‘Ah, yes . . . sins. We all have those. How old are you, child?'

‘Eleven years . . . I think.'

‘And what sins have you at such a tender age? Have you stolen? Have you used Christ's name in vain? Have you dishonoured the memory of your mother? What sins have you committed that would merit the trials and tribulations of a pilgrimage?'

‘Sins of the flesh and sins of the spirit. I am condemned to the everlasting fires of hell,' I replied emphatically, wondering what he might say if I confessed to murdering my father.

‘Oh dear,
that
bad, is it?' Father John seemed to be thinking for a moment. ‘I am but a humble carpenter monk and so cannot take your confession, maybe you should see your village priest?'

‘No!' I cried, suddenly afraid. ‘Father Pietrus thinks me a mute and an imbecile and, because of the false miracle, claims I am possessed and have blasphemed in the eyes of God.'

The elderly monk shook his head sadly. ‘
Suffer little children
to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of
God
,' he quoted. Then he said quietly, ‘The Lord Jesus does not
punish
children for sins of the flesh and of the spirit and they do not become possessed and are not blasphemers, but he does
forgive
them what small sins they have committed. From what I have heard of this so-called miracle, you have only used it as an opportunity to praise our Saviour in hymns to His glory.'

‘Yes, but I may not sing anywhere near the Church as I am unclean and burdened with sinfulness.'

‘Hmm . . . I see . . . awkward then.' He smiled. ‘You would be a child sinner singing to the oh-so-pious peasants.' Father John seemed to think this notion quite amusing. ‘Well if you can't confess you really are in a bit of pickle, are you not? You have been given a glorious voice to praise the Lord but now cannot use it near His temple.'

‘Only alone in the woods,' I allowed.

He clapped his hands. ‘Ah, such innocence! A child alone in the woods singing to the glory of God.'

I corrected my previous statement. ‘No, never quite alone.

I call the birds and we sing together and sometimes the village children are present.'

He looked doubtful. ‘You call the birds?'

I nodded. ‘They like to sing to the glory of God.'

He looked at me quizzically, then mocking me gently asked, ‘Hymns . . . Gloria?'

‘No, Father, birds have songs of praise of their own. We exchange hymns, theirs are much the sweeter sounding.'

He laughed. ‘You have a lovely imagination, child.'

The carpentry shop together with a small casting foundry was set within the monastery garden and now after harvest, when the remaining fruit and corn were ripe, it was filled with birds. I stepped outside and listened, deciding on the nature of the birds I could hear. Then, taking a small handful of corn from the bag the kitchen monk had given me, I began to exchange their various calls using a pattern I had come to know through a process of trial and error and starting with the chattering magpie. The monk came to stand beside me and I bade him stretch his arms wide and open his palms to heaven whereupon I placed a little seed in each. As I continued the calls, birds began to gather in the tree above us. Quite soon the tree was filled with birdsong. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I changed my voice from the carolling of a songbird into the first words of the
Gloria in Excelsis
, keeping it high and pure so that the birds above me continued in their own hymn of praise to Almighty God. A magpie, the cheekiest of all the birds, came to sit upon the monk's left hand, pecking at the corn. Soon a robin hopped from a branch and settled on the right, its breast scarlet in the autumn sunlight.

While I had often performed in the woods with the birds for the benefit of the village children, no adult had ever been a witness to the swapping of hymns of praise. In my experience, purity and innocence is soon sullied or exploited in the hands of adults. The false Miracle of the Gloria was just such an example: those who witnessed my singing in the marketplace could not accept it as a child with a pure, clear voice singing a hymn of praise, but must necessarily turn it into a miracle. Father John I hoped might be different. No adult had ever spoken to me in the compassionate and understanding manner he had adopted, nor treated me with such respect, and I thought him worthy to be the first adult to witness the Gloria of the Birds.

‘Miraculous!' he exclaimed, at the conclusion of my singing, the sudden sound of his voice sending the birds in a wild flurry of wings from the tree and the robin and the magpie from his hands. ‘I should not have believed it if I hadn't witnessed it with my own eyes,' he declared. ‘You are truly blessed by God.'

I laughed, despite myself, having had my recent fill of being blessed I wished for no more such blessing. ‘Oh, it is nothing, simply a trick the village children enjoy,' I replied trying to sound dismissive, though I was secretly proud of my prowess.

‘It is a great deal more than that!' he said emphatically. ‘Besides, you have a truly remarkable voice and a wonderful way with nature. Will you not let me intercede on your behalf with the abbot, and perhaps he might find you a place in a convent as a novice?'

‘Nay! I cried out. ‘If you please, Father, no!' In my imagination I saw the boar with its head over my father's stomach, a piece of his intestines hanging from the corner of its mouth, its great porcine snout covered in blood. I had used the boar too often to play the role of the abbot while I mimicked his furiously spitting sermons – now the prospect of being taken into his hallowed presence filled me with terror. As for becoming a novice nun, how could I ever entertain such an idea with the great burden of sin I carried upon my young shoulders?

‘Ah, such a pity. Though, on second thoughts, burying you in a nunnery, while granting you salvation, would deny the world's children the benefit of your extraordinary talents.' He paused and smiled. ‘Now you must tell me, what is it I can do to help you, child?'

I had never been spoken to with such generosity of spirit, but nonetheless I knew that I should not allow Father John's kindly words to seduce me into thinking I was more than a terrible sinner with the practical intent of escaping the environs of the village. ‘You can give me a fair price for my father's carpentry tools,' I answered, in what I hoped was a businesslike voice. Then, rather cheekily, I held up the small bag of corn. ‘The kitchen monk has dealt with me unfairly, Father. My six hens were plump and good layers and the rooster in his prime! Yet he claimed they were scraggy old boilers, fit only for soup, and gave me this small bag of corn in exchange for them.' Then, imitating the kitchen monk's voice, I mimicked his words to me: ‘Child, be off! You are fortunate I feel generous today, the abbot will chastise me over the thin and watery taste of the soup these scraggly hens will make and the rooster is not worth fetching water from the well for the boiling pot. It has been a poor year and the corn crop has failed – you are well ahead in this exchange.'

Father John clapped his hands gleefully. ‘Perfect! You have that miserable old fool down pat!' he chortled.

Anxious to press my advantage and desiring to stick to the subject of providing for my departure, I now said, ‘Perhaps, in return for my father's carpentry tools you can arrange for a little more corn or even coin to purchase food on my journey, Father?'

Father John sighed. ‘Alas, we are not allowed to handle money and only the kitchen monk has access to the corn bin.' He looked momentarily distraught, then suddenly brightened. ‘A leather bag with straps for your back, a fine brass buckle I have recently forged to clasp it secure and a stout stave! If it should rain the bag of corn you carry will spoil! Yes, yes! A splendid idea!' he decided, and without consulting me further. ‘A stave to protect you and help you over rocky ground when you embark upon your pilgrimage and a bag for your back so you have the means to carry what you gather on the way and protect it from the weather.'

‘It is not a pilgrimage, Father,' I protested. ‘I seek only to find somewhere else to go. Cologne perhaps, where I will find employment as a kitchen maid in a rich man's house.'

‘Ah, yes, but that is no less a pilgrimage. We may not all reach Jerusalem, but we are all pilgrims and life itself is a rocky road with the promise of redemption at its end if we remain pure in spirit.'

I was not sure I understood him, thinking his words altogether too profound for such as me. Anyway, if I correctly understood him, it was a bit late for me to remain pure in spirit as the rocky road in life had long since stubbed my toes and skinned my knees and elbows and in the process, I felt sure, crushed my poor spirit. ‘Thank you, Father, it is a generous exchange, the stave will protect me well and the bag is just what I need,' I said, wishing to be polite, although I would have much preferred a bigger bag of corn.

He seemed pleased. ‘Come then, we must measure you for both, the bag must sit comfortably upon your back and the stave must not be too unwieldy for you to handle.'

Some hours later and after he had shared his midday meal with me, bread and wine and a bowl of boiled cabbage, he completed the bag and the stave. The leather satchel stoutly stitched and fitted with a strong brass clasp sat comfortably enough upon my back but Father John tut-tutted and fiddled, adjusting it carefully until he was satisfied that it was a perfect fit. Whereupon he reached for the stave, a lovely silvery colour that seemed cut from a yew tree, at its one end a metal tip and at the other, where I gripped, a cunning plaiting of leather most comfortable to my grip. The monk frowned, his head cast sideways to rest upon his neck. ‘You are too young and, besides, too small to protect yourself by the defensive use of a stave. So I have fashioned it somewhat differently for your use. Use it only when you are threatened by the likes of knaves and robbers.' Whereupon he twisted the leather handle to the left and pulled from the top of the stave a dagger of sharpened bronze. ‘I had forged it for a kitchen knife, but now have changed it to make a dagger. It is blessed by sprinkling with holy water and should not be put to flippant use. Each time you use it, when you place it back you must pray to our Saviour and thank Him for protecting your life.' Then he replaced the blade and putting his rough carpenter's hand upon my head pronounced, ‘God be with you, my child. Remember always He has said, “
Suffer little children to come unto me . . . for such is the
kingdom of God
.” Those are the words of Jesus who has seen that you have a way with children and with nature and He will ever guide and bless you.'

I was leaving a past I had no reason to remember and to which I had no wish ever to return. As I had told Father John, I vaguely thought that my journey to somewhere else might end up in the great city of Cologne, where I imagined myself indentured as a kitchen servant in the grand house of the
Richerzeche
, perhaps one of the
senatores
, in return for food and lodging. It would be a place where a fire kept me warm in winter, where plump round loaves, warm from the oven, were placed before me and a perpetual pot of soup simmered on the hearth. It is with such fairytales that poor motherless children remain hopeful and it just goes to show that, with the encouragement I had received from the kindly monk, even at this darkest moment I remained optimistic.

But for the chill in the air, travel wasn't difficult and the first two days passed without mishap. I would find a place in the woods and using the flint I had taken from home I would gather twigs and light a fire to cook my evening meal. I possessed only one blanket and after the fire died down it would grow bitterly cold at night, but I would soon grow warm with walking once the sun rose and I had regained the road. A few people passed me but they kept to themselves. There was no advantage to be gained from a passing acquaintance with a barefoot child in a patched gown; misery always begets more misery and an eleven-year-old girl has no amusing stories to tell to while away time spent on the road.