“It is a task that has a greater value than medicine, for it restores us to everlasting life,” she said. “It also requires much wisdom and strength.”
“I don’t feel that I possess either,” I confessed.
“We are none of us born with these qualities. But you have an agile mind and an open heart; that is all you need.”
I always felt ill at ease when others praised me, and this time was no different. “You think so highly of me, Sister, because I have learned to provide relief to the sick, but it is God who created the ingredients for these medicines. Besides, caring for the unfortunate is what The Rule requires us to do.”
Jutta gazed at me with an expectation in her face that at first surprised me, and then I knew . . . The words tumbled out of me. “I have suffered from headaches for many years that leave my body weak and spent but my senses unusually acute, so that all light is brighter, all sound sharper, and I seem to float in the air like a feather.” It was the first time I had shared this with anyone. “Once, when I was little, I heard a voice inside that light that spoke to me and said things I could not understand then, but now I am beginning to.”
“It told me to speak and tell what is shown to me, for He who rules every creature bestows enlightenment on those who serve Him, and eternal vision on those who act with justice.” I closed my eyes as the words, hidden for so long in the depths of my mind, came back to me.
A long silence ensued. A pale wintry sun had come out and its tepid rays shone directly through the window, illuminating Jutta’s face. “Is it possible that God spoke to me?” I asked.
“To you,” she said softly, “and He is still speaking through you.”
“Through me?”
“Yes.”
“But who am I, Sister? Why hasn’t God chosen you? With all the . . . sacrifices you are willing to endure, surely—”
Jutta shook her head, and it was obvious that it pained her. “Evidently He sees you as a better instrument in His hands. Do not fight it. It is a gift that you must accept and use wisely. Let Him speak so that others may know.”
“But what if I speak and nobody listens? Or they think that my wits have left me?”
“Then write.” Her gaze on me, despite her body’s weakness, was powerful, magnetic. “As you have done already.”
And with that, she rose and left the chapel, and I was speechless once again.
17
May 1122
I had never been happier about the arrival of spring than in the year 1122. The melancholy that had descended on the convent after Adelheid’s death seemed to have intensified that winter, leaving me with strong headaches and causing Juliana to become even more withdrawn, so that weeks had gone by without her talking to anyone. I infused hypericum in wine for both of us to stem the excess of black bile, and when the weather turned milder, I persuaded her to help me prune the vine that covered the wall. The fresh air helped me, but its effect on Juliana were more limited.
Perhaps that was because she really did have nothing left, whereas I had the infirmary, my books, and my writing. I had come to believe that writing was what I was meant to be doing—besides treating patients, of course. It had not yet crossed my mind that I could write about anything other than herbs; I was simply happy to have found a way to share my knowledge with others as the voice in the light had told me.
Abbot Kuno had finally agreed to the expansion of the kitchen garden, which meant that we had more space for healing plants. On a pleasant April afternoon, I was busy gardening when the gate squeaked and Griselda walked in, as she did sometimes at that hour before supper preparations started in the kitchen. She picked up a hoe that rested against the workshop wall and made her way toward me. She was sixteen, but with her cropped hair, pointy chin, and small breasts—which she flattened even more with cotton bandages—she could easily pass for a boy. Indeed, in some ways, she seemed more like a boy than a girl; when her monthly bleeding had started, she had come to the infirmary in tears, and it took me a while to convince her that she was not dying. She calmed down eventually and accepted practical suggestions for handling the flux, but the episode had left her shaken.
We began digging up old roots to make room for new plantings. Griselda was a competent gardener, and we worked in contented silence for some time, but at length she leaned on her hoe and sighed.
“Is something on your mind?” I had just started to demarcate the beds for rue, sage, and oregano, and was too absorbed to pause my work.
“No.” She resumed digging but stopped again a few moments later. “Yes,” she said shyly. “I am wondering if the convent is going to fill the vacancy?”
“The vacancy?”
“After Sister Adelheid’s passing.”
I was trying to estimate the yield from the new herbs and was momentarily confused. I put down the trowel, straightened up, and wiped my hands on my apron. “What about it?”
“Is Sister Jutta looking for a novice to fill her place?”
I scratched my temple. It had been more than two years, and although we had received many letters of inquiry, the abbot had been reluctant to give us permission to admit a new candidate. Lately, though, Brother Wigbert had mentioned a discussion in Chapter about the possibility of accepting a female novice, and the news had clearly spread. I considered Griselda, surprised to see her usually dreamy eyes fastened intently on my face. “I don’t know of any immediate plans,” I said truthfully. “But it will probably happen sooner or later.”
I must have frowned as I said it,
