“I have been working on a book of medical treatments,” I confessed on the spur of the moment.
“That is good. You have a lot to teach others, but don’t stop there.”
“You don’t mean”—my eyes widened—“that I should write about matters of faith?”
A barely perceptible nod.
“But how? Will I even be allowed?”
“It will not be easy to make your voice heard, but that is not a reason not to try.” The effort of speaking was becoming too much for her. “But now, promise me that if the sisters elect you, you will accept the burden.”
I considered this for a long moment. I knew this day would come, but I would have preferred more time to prepare. “I promise,” I said nonetheless, for the timing was beyond my control. If this was how it had to be, I would do it; otherwise, who knew what would become of us?
I dipped the towel in the water again and set out to wash her hands and feet. Her body trembled slightly, as if her viriditas, so weak and languid just a short while ago, had suddenly stirred and began to boil under her skin, ready to burst out of that unwelcoming dwelling and return to the world. “Are you not afraid of death, Sister?” I asked as the window shutters rattled in their hinges, the wind picking up ahead of the snow.
“Fear is of this world.” The corners of Jutta’s mouth curled up in a rare smile. “Yet the world is only a thoroughfare, and we pilgrims upon it toiling on the way to our sacred destination. Death puts a blessed end to all sorrow, so why should I be afraid? I long to be dissolved and to be with Christ.”
“I hope that when the time comes, the passage will be easy for you. You have suffered enough.”
“There is no such thing as enough suffering because the flesh turns to sin the moment you stop chastising it. I welcome it.” There was a peculiar gleam in Jutta’s eyes, and I was stunned to see that it was one of pleasure—it was sensual.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Instinctively, my hand went up to my brow as if to shield myself from the shattering realization. May God have mercy on her when she finally stands before Him, I thought. May He not hold her sin against her as He would a thief’s or a murderer’s because she may not have been responsible for what she had done.
In my years in the infirmary, I had seen people who did harm to themselves or others prompted by a disease of the mind that robbed them of free will and sound judgement. It was due to an imbalance of humors in the brain, of a mysterious origin, and extremely hard to treat. Why had I not seen this before?
“I would like to confess.” Jutta’s voice reached me through the fog of my stupefaction.
Pity hollowed out my chest. “I will arrange that with Father Abbot.”
I wrapped up the ablution, for there was not much time left. For all the purity of her life, Jutta must not die unshriven.
An hour later, we carried her to the gate. Snow was already falling, and the abbot’s cowl sparkled in the quivering candlelight as we opened the grilled window so he could hear her confession. When it was over, he passed us a viaticum and a vial of blessed oil to be put on seven parts of Jutta’s body. The rite completed, she donned the white veil in which she had taken her vows and asked us to keep vigil with her. We prayed and sang together as the snowstorm intensified, and in the small hours of the morning, Jutta von Sponheim drifted off to sleep never to awaken again.
Tradition called for all sisters to be involved in the washing and preparing of the body of one of their own for burial, but I decided to do it alone. I removed the sackcloth robe that had been Jutta’s only earthly attire and found a hair shirt underneath. Not altogether surprised, I took it off too, but, as the marble-like nakedness of the body unaccustomed to the rays of the sun came into view, I felt cold sweat break out at the base of my neck.
Leaning on the edge of the table, I closed my eyes and thanked God for having had the foresight to exclude Juliana and Gertrude from the rite because fastened tightly around Jutta’s right thigh, a metal chain was sunk deeply into the flesh that was horribly inflamed and infected. It had to have been there for years because scar tissue had grown around parts of it while other areas were covered with blisters—crimson, hot, and pus-oozing in life, now bluish-purple and dry. An awful smell rose from the wound, and to be able to proceed, I had to tear up a linen towel and tie a strip around my nose and mouth.
It took some searching to find the clasp that held the cilice together, and I unhooked it with effort. My stomach pitched into my throat for one dreadful moment, but I steadied myself with a few breaths, for I was determined not to leave that terrible instrument buried in Jutta’s body. I pulled firmly, and the band began to come out one link at a time, the inward-facing spikes emerging with awful regularity from within the withered muscle with a soft tearing sound.
When it was all out, I turned the body on its side to examine the back. The old wounds had scared over so thickly that they had long since stopped bleeding under the lashes of the whip. So that was it. The festering mutilation on the thigh was the true cause of Jutta’s recurring fevers, her steady weakening, and eventually her demise. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had lived so long. What unimaginable pain it must have been! This was why she had never allowed me to tend to
