The Anchoress of Shere

that again: why did God make you?”

“We both make the assumption that there is a God. Then His purpose would be for us to live on earth and be good Christians…or Muslims…or Buddhists, if that’s what you believe. That’s my first thought. But I know that some people want to live in heaven. I’ve never fancied the idea of harps and clouds and all that. I might when I’m sick and old, but not now. As for good Christians, what is ‘good’? Presumably priests are supposed to be good.” She bit her lip slightly, but Duval ignored her ironic parry.

“I am not good,” he said, trying to sound humble, “but in my own small way I try to bring people to God.”

Yes, thought Marda, you put the fear of God in people, but she continued to play along. “And, Michael,” she asked, “are people who are not Christians not good? Can a Buddhist be a good person? Or a Jew? At least by our”- she emphasised the “our”-“definition, as Christians, I mean.”

“Excellent, Marda,” smiled Duval, “you are thinking about God. I suppose you have thought more about Him in the last few days than in all your life.”

Marda’s big eyes flickered nervously, but Duval carried on excitedly. “Let’s try to learn the basic rules and then we can move on to debate. We can discuss good and evil later. I do believe there is evil, I must say. It is tempting to deny the existence of Satan since it removes the need to fight Him. It is so easy to slip back into moral relativism. You might know the saying: kill one person and you are a murderer, kill millions and you are a conqueror. But if you kill everyone, you are God.”

Marda nodded politely, completely appalled.

“I enjoy talking to you, Marda,” said Duval expansively. “I feel very confident about you, but we are running before we walk. Let us get back to God’s purpose.”

Duval stopped and stared at her for a moment, then continued, “Of course there is the classic dilemma. If God is perfectly loving, He must by definition wish to avoid evil, and if He is all-powerful He is able, also by definition, to abolish evil. But evil exists-I suppose you think me evil, Marda? — and therefore, God cannot be both omnipotent and perfectly loving. Do you see?

“Or take our situation here. Even if you think me evil, and let us agree that in some circumstances I may be evil-no one is perfect of course-then let me suggest that even here good can come from evil, that new life can come from old. Christ’s crucifixion was an utterly despicable historical act, but from this sacrifice emerged the New Testament, Christianity and the possibility of redemption on a world scale. So what seems a bad action may actually be good. Do you understand?”

Marda frowned, and deliberately did not answer.

“I shall give you a Catechism to read and learn,” Duval continued, not really having expected an answer. “Initially I shall allow you to have one hour’s light a day to read the Catechism and a Bible which I shall also give you. If you use this period fruitfully, I shall extend the reading time. Later, if your studies go well, I shall give you some paper so you can make your own notes.

“When I go I want you to think about your soul.”

Marda thought he was about to leave, but Duval rambled on about the soul and its immortality. She came to realise that often he wanted to indulge himself in long monologues. Despite his excellent memory, he would sometimes repeat himself.

When he touched on faith again, he suddenly asked Marda, “Where is God?”

Her mind had been wandering and she was not prepared for the question. “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she stuttered.

“Ubique. The answer in the Catechism is ‘God is everywhere,’” he said confidently.

“Well, He’s not bloody well here, is He?” she blurted out, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

Duval stood back, disappointed. “Ah, Marda, you were doing so well until now. I don’t like this kind of facetiousness-which, by the way, is also blasphemous. Since this is just the start, and you have had a difficult few days, I shall be lenient on this occasion. For two days you will have no light, and you will have only plain bread and water. Now I know you do need more nourishment, and I was about to add, for example, some cardamom to your coffee and put some fenugreek seeds in the bread; that is so good for your digestion. But if you insist on being a poor and recalcitrant pupil, you have only yourself to blame.”

Marda was beyond caring what Duval thought of her. She grabbed the frame of the grille and brought her face close to the priest’s. “Maybe my stomach can survive on bread and water,” she shouted at him, “but my bare feet won’t last much longer. Will you, please, give me the shoes and stockings you mentioned? The ones that are appropriate for this nun’s habit.”

The afterthought, more calmly expressed, was well targeted, but Duval ignored her, closed the grille and walked away.

Marda sat in the absolute silence, the absolute darkness, feeling proud of herself. A short time before she had been a quivering mass of abject terror. Now she had somehow managed to engage a maniac in a sustained philosophical discussion. She could pretend to play according to his rules. He wanted to control her mind and body, but he could control only her body. Her mind was hers, and she would beat him at his own game. Let him think he had the power; she would somehow discover how to use it against him. Meanwhile, she would survive. She resolved not to allow herself to be foolishly flippant again, no matter what she felt like saying. In the lonely blackness she would train her body and her mind. No matter how her stomach was knotted in agonising fear, she would not show it. She would not be humiliated. That was how she would win.

And yet doubt and despair sapped her bouts of confidence. She wondered whether she could continue to subdue her intelligence, to get the balance right between her assumed mantle of dedicated student and docile victim. Her life teetered along a razor’s edge every time he asked a question, so she would have to think hard and plan her words more carefully. She had plenty of time to think. She would use this time to her advantage, no matter how cold and desperate she was.

An hour later, Duval opened the grille without a word and threw in a brown paper bag. The grille was slammed shut and she heard his footsteps echo angrily down the corridor.

Marda tore open the bag and found clean woollen stockings, and shoes. They were a little large, but it made no difference to her feet, aching with cold.

Two days passed, and Duval opened the grille twice without speaking. Each time he handed in a clay jug of water and half a loaf of dark bread. Marda started to beg for some light on the first occasion, but the grille crashed shut before she could get the words out.

When it opened the second time, Marda said in rush, “Please give me a Bible so that I can read.”

Duval still said nothing, leaving her standing in the darkness.

On the third day, he silently brought a wooden tray with strange, rather gritty coffee, a fruit she did not recognise and cold venison, heavily larded with horseradish. As soon as he passed the narrow tray through the grille, Marda seized it and began to devour the food.

The priest watched her gorge, then said in a clipped voice, “I have brought you a Bible. I will permit you light for one hour.”

He flicked on a switch in the corridor.

“You can also have this tallow candle so that you can study as they did in olden times.” She heard the now familiar sound of his heavy tread disappearing down the hall.

Spiritual and physical food, thought Marda. She scanned the cell, her first chance to see it in proper light. As she chewed greedily, she flicked open the first pages of the Bible: the Catholic Douay version. It was unfamiliar. She would have preferred the King James Bible, the one she had used at school, but realised it was ridiculous to worry about that.

Wiping her hands on her habit, she began to read the first line of the first book: “And in the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth…”

“What am I beginning?” she asked herself. “And can I prolong the beginning to avoid the end?”

IX. The Inquisition