she put it under the hearth. She says when the fire gets hot, it’ll scald your bowels and stab you till you confess.” I glanced up, suddenly afeared. “You’re not burning now, are you?”
The women in grey laughed and shook their heads.
But the fierce one looked crosser than ever. “Did no one teach you such practises are wicked, child? If you are afraid of anything, you should pray and God will… He must surely hear the prayers of a child.”
She looked sad and worried. Maybe someone she loved got lost in the storm, like my mam. I wanted to give her a hug to make her feel better, but I was too scared of her.
servant martha
tHE INFIRMARY WAS PEACEFUL and quiet after the mess and chaos of the village. I paced slowly from cot to cot, blessing the occupants. Ralph waved at me respectfully. The twisted child lay cradled asleep in his lap. I longed to climb into one of the cots myself and sleep for a month.
The pain in my arm kept me awake most nights and I used the prick of it to drive me to my knees in prayer. That at least I should have been able to do, keep vigil through the dark hours. Even if my limbs were hacked off, my tongue torn out, my eyes blinded, and my ears sealed, I should still have been able to perform the work of prayer. But I could not pray. Healing Martha’s distorted face floated constantly beneath the surface of my thoughts like one drowned.
If I had gone back to look for Healing Martha, instead of following Gwenith’s granddaughter, could I have protected her? If I’d had the faith and courage to fight that demon, could I have saved her? But the question that tormented me the most, the one I could not push away, was why had she been chosen to face that battle alone and not me? Was her faith so much greater than mine?
I stood before His altar and held in my hands the deepest mysteries of life, both of this world and the next. It was my words that transformed base bread and wine into His very flesh and blood for others to consume. But I was only the ditch through which water flowed, leaving me behind, empty and cold. Yet what right had I to ask for anything more? A priest is but an instrument, a knife, a spoon, a bowl. When all is said and done, it is women’s work, this feeding.
I finally made my way to the bedside of my old friend. I’d wanted to move Healing Martha back to her own room, but I knew it wasn’t practical to do so. Andrew could be left for hours at a time, except in her last few days, but Osmanna, who had been working in the infirmary ever since the night of the storm, assured me that Healing Martha must be watched constantly. She struggled sometimes to clamber out of her cot and if she slipped she couldn’t right herself. More than once Osmanna had found her choking on her own saliva. We couldn’t spare someone to watch her in her own room day and night, at least not yet.
Healing Martha smelled of lavender and stale urine. She’d slipped down the cot and her head was lolling to the side liked a hanged man. She peered at me with her open eye and her good fist clutched at the coverlet.
“Gar.”
“What is it, Healing Martha, what are you trying to say?”
She took a harsh breath. “Gar. Gar. Gar!” she shouted, her good hand pounding her leg in frustration.
I couldn’t believe that such a fury could emanate from any so weak, let alone Healing Martha. Osmanna came hurrying up. Slipping her arms under Healing Martha’s arms, she hauled her back up the bed. Then she carefully arranged her head on the pillow, as if she tidied John the Baptist’s head upon the platter. Healing Martha sank back, both eyes closed, her breath rasping.
“Is that what she was asking for? To be lifted up?”
Osmanna looked pained. “I don’t know. She makes that sound over and over to whoever is near. Sometimes she shouts it, other times she whispers. No one understands what it means.”
“I dare say it has no more meaning than a baby’s cry. How is she?”
“She’s quiet most of the time, staring for hours into space and I don’t know if she is awake or sleeping. Sometimes, Servant Martha…” she hesitated and glanced uneasily back at the spectre in the bed, “when I look at her she’s weeping. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s in pain. I don’t know if I should give her something.”
“Healing Martha would not weep for pain. Look how she suffered with her back without complaint these many years. She weeps for the evil she has seen. Her tears are prayers, Osmanna, prayers for those who have not repented. Didn’t our Lord Himself weep over the stiff-necked people of Jerusalem?”
Osmanna looked unconvinced. Perhaps I sounded unconvincing. I hoped that’s why Healing Martha wept. I prayed it was.
“You look weary, Osmanna. Have you been in here all day?”
“I don’t mind. I want to.”
“I’m glad of it, but get yourself some ale and take it out in the courtyard. The cold air will revive you. I’ll watch here.”
She smiled gratefully and walked away, her feet dragging in the rushes.
I took Healing Martha’s right hand. It lay like a dead fish in mine. I squeezed it, but there was no response.
“I’ve neglected you, Healing Martha. Forgive me. You know that I’d spend every day at your bedside if I was free to do so, but I’m not. The women are frightened. They depended too much upon you. I’m guilty for not having recognised it long ago. They shouldn’t depend on any save God alone. I must show them that the beguinage will continue without you. I can’t be seen to keep vigil over you as if I too missed you.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“In a few days we are to elect a new Martha. Someone must take responsibility for the infirmary. Not that she will ever replace you,” I added hastily. “I’ve prayed these past days for guidance, Healing Martha, but I’m no closer to the answer, for there’s no one who clearly stands out as your successor, no one who has your skill and maturity. I wish you could be with us in the meeting. You could always examine a seedling and tell which way it would grow.”
Healing Martha made no response. Her head lay at ease where Osmanna placed it on the pillow. Osmanna handled her well, and the rest of the patients too. Ralph, old Hilda-they all seemed to respond to her. The infirmary looked ordered and calm, almost as it was under Healing Martha’s rule. Not as tidy, but the patients appeared content enough.
But Osmanna was much too young to be appointed as the Healing Martha. She was scarcely more than a child. Then again perhaps she was the young blood we needed; a new beguinage needed young beguines who could carry on the vision long after we ancient ones were dead. If Osmanna was trained up as a Martha, allowed to sit in Council and listen to the debate, she would learn, and maturity would come in time.
I leaned closer to Healing Martha. “Is that what you meant the night of the storm, when you said, ‘The fault in the pupil is the virtue in the leader’? That we should make Osmanna a Martha?”
Healing Martha’s eyes did not flicker.
I squeezed her hand. “I know the Marthas think I should never have taken you out that night. They do not say it to my face, but I see the reproach in their eyes whenever they speak of you. And their condemnation is nothing compared to my own guilt over what I’ve done to you. But God ordered us to bury the dead. I was doing what God commanded and I trusted Him to keep faith with us.
“I have searched alone in that place since and there’s no trace of either the baby or that poor woman’s corpse. Aldith’s body simply vanished. But it was there. The woman had been ripped apart. We both saw it. I touched it. Did the Owlman devour them both? If that’s so, I not only failed you, my old friend, I failed to protect the soul of the child Aldith entrusted to me. I’ve always believed that faith could defend me against anything. But where was God that night? Why did He abandon me?”
Healing Martha’s good eye opened and I realised I was shaking her arm. Tears trickled down, settling in the wrinkles of her face. “Ga,” she whispered. Her face twisted into a devil’s mask as she struggled to make the animal sound. That demon had destroyed her mind and body as surely as if he had eaten her from the inside.
I closed my eyes and saw that creature again, those eyes, ringed with fire, the great black bottomless pupils that seemed to draw me closer and closer until I was swallowed up in the darkness of them. What evil lay at the bottom of them? What horrors had Healing Martha seen in them to freeze her face forever in this glimpse of Hell? I had not believed that such a monster could exist and now-now he was more real to me than God. Each time I tried to pray I saw his face. I heard the crack of his savage beak and smelt the foul stench of his breath. That demon reared up before my face as if the prayers I was offering were made to him. And God was silent; He was nowhere and nothing.
december
to prove his innocence of a crime of which he was accused, saint egwin locked his feet in irons and threw the key into the river avon before walking to rome. there he bought a fish which he cut open in front of the pope, and inside was the key.
tHE MARTHAS ENTERED into the chapel, each from their appointed realms. Gate Martha was already seated. She was used to waiting without impatience. Her eyes seemed permanently fixed on a far horizon, from perpetually squinting down the road to see who approached. Her hands were, as ever, busy with her spindle while her mind slipped off by itself to who knows where.
Kitchen Martha, scarlet and sweating profusely, waddled in and flopped down on the bench, fanning herself. “Thank the Lord, it’s cooler in here. The heat in my kitchen’s fit to roast a pig in ice, for we’ve to keep all the doors and shutters fastened against the wind. That wind is so strong it could pluck a fowl. One
