Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard Von Bingen (2 page)

Then something niggled at the back of my head. What if the key to saving my daughters from the coming tempest lay in my past, in examining my life from its genesis? Past and future were connected in an eternal ring, like the circle of holy flame I’d seen in my visions, that ring of fire enclosing all creation. If I allowed myself to go back in time, to become that graceless girl again, perhaps I might find a way to preserve us.

G
REEN LEAVES DANCED
in the gardens of Bermersheim, my parents’ stone-built burg. Five years old, I sat on the grass with my wooden doll. Beyond the hedge, my older sisters played with our brother Rorich, still too young to join our father and older brothers in the Crusades. How my siblings’ shrieks and laughter pierced the air, and how my loneliness stabbed me. My wheezing lungs, still clogged after a long bout of grippe, stood in the way of my joining their games. When Rorich or my sisters, Clementia, Hiltrud, Odilia, Bertha, Roswithia, and Irmengard, so much as squeezed my hand, I bruised as though I were an overripe pear.

Cradling my doll, I wondered if my longing would be enough to turn the dull wood into living flesh. A shadow passing overhead made me glance up to see an orb come floating out of the sunlight. A ball of spun gold, yet as clear as glass. Inside grew a tree adorned with fruits as dazzling as rubies. The tree breathed in and out, as a living creature would. My doll tumbled from my arms as I reached out to clasp the heavenly orb when, like a bubble, it burst.

“Where did it go?” I demanded, turning first to Walburga, my nurse, and then to Mother. “Where did the ball with the pretty tree go?”

Mother and Walburga whispered behind their hands.
What could be wrong with the child? Is she mad, or simply bad?

After I told my mother about the floating tree, a crippling headache struck her down. She staggered to her bed, commanding Walburga to draw the draperies fast around her, and there she lay, moaning in darkness, until the following afternoon. The stony looks my sisters threw me sent me cowering behind the sacks of oats in the undercroft. How horrible I was, bringing down this illness on Mother. Deep inside I must be wicked. Good children did not see the invisible. Walburga accused me of telling false stories to vex the poor woman.

Afterward I tried my best to earn my mother’s favor so that she might love me as she loved my sisters. I learned to pretend that the floating golden orbs weren’t there. If I had succeeded in forever banishing that otherwhere, I might have grown up to lead the life Mother wished for me—to marry some high-ranking knight and to bear his sons.

Every night, huddled in Walburga’s arms, I prayed to be spared the visions. Yet there was no escaping the orbs. By night, they lit up the darkness. In the clear light of day, they whizzed close by my head, echoing with music that sounded like the harps of angels. I kept it secret, not breathing a word. My happiness lay in pretending to be a girl as uncomplicated as my sister Clementia, beautiful and always smiling, our mother’s darling.

When I was seven, I was content, walking hand in hand with Walburga through greening April fields past the village left half-deserted with every able-bodied man, and a number of women, off with the Crusades. Only the children, the elderly, and the lame remained behind.

“Did the girls really go off to fight?” I asked my nurse, never tiring of the story of how some young women, caught up in the same fervor as their menfolk, had disguised themselves as warriors and marched away under the banner of the cross.

“Disgraceful,” Walburga huffed. “Women dressing up like men, sleeping in the same camps as the soldiers. May God forgive them.”

I dared to smile at her slyly. “You’re jealous! They got to go off and see the Holy Lands while you’re stuck here.”

“War isn’t a pretty ballad, child. Have you ever seen a razed village? Crops set to fire?”

“But, Walburga! Whoever fights will be saved from hell.”

Even I had heard how Pope Urban II had promised instant salvation to all who joined the Crusades. Ignoring Walburga’s mutterings, I allowed myself to sink into a daydream of Rorich and me in armor, riding forth with Father and our two eldest brothers, Drutwin and Hugo. I pictured us arriving victorious before the gates of Jerusalem, that city covered in gold where seraphim sang beneath the sun.

Meanwhile, a cow, escaped from her pasture, ambled across our path. White with brown spots, she feasted on the rich new grass. As I stepped close, the animal lifted her head, her huge moist eyes locking on to mine.

“I’ll have a word with the bailiff,” Walburga said. “Those dunderheads from the village should know better than to let a cow run loose.”

“She’s not
running
anywhere,” I pointed out.

She had merely broken through the flimsy fence of her overgrazed enclosure to reach the better grass. I patted her soft flank and giggled when she swung her head around to nuzzle my hair. Her breath was as sweet as the milk she must give.

“What a splendid calf!” I blurted out, forgetting myself, forgetting that my safety lay in silence.

“What calf?” Walburga shook her head.

“A bull calf.” I saw it as clearly as I saw Walburga’s face. “With brown and black spots, and four white legs.”

Our shadows disappeared as a cloud veiled the sun. With one last snuffle through my hair, the cow strolled on, the bell tied to her neck singing and ringing. Walburga grabbed my shoulders.

“You’re making up stories again.”

Spinning around, I bolted for home as fast as my shaking legs would allow, but Walburga soon caught up, seizing my arm, leaving a bruise as big as her fist.

“Don’t tell your mother.”

Jagged sobs racked my body as I made my vow not to say a word.

A month later, Mother learned from Walburga what I, her tenth child, had foretold. The cow had borne her bull calf, his markings exactly as I had described them.

“The girl sees true,” my nurse told my mother, while I peeked around the edge of the drapery I was hiding behind.

Mother’s face was white and pinched, as though someone had just delivered the news that Father, Hugo, and Drutwin had been slain by the Saracens and left to rot in unhallowed graves.

But Walburga went on beaming like a simpleton. “My lady, you should give the calf to Hildegard. She’s blessed by God, that child.”

Walburga’s thunderstruck proclamations soon spread as swiftly as the pox. Much to my mother’s mortification, my prophecy regarding the calf was all anyone in Bermersheim and the surrounding villages could talk about.

I shrank from Mother’s gaze and sought refuge in Walburga’s lap, in her engulfing embrace. Walburga hugged me close, her heart beating against my ear. My nurse loved me more than my own mother did—this I knew to be a fact. Yet Walburga had sealed my doom. Mechthild von Bermersheim’s youngest daughter saw true—what would people say about our family? Either I was touched by God or possessed by Satan. How was Mother to know which?

That evening after Compline in our family chapel, Mother made me stay behind with her after my siblings, the servants, and even the chaplain had quit the place. Mother drew me into the chilliest corner, near the shriving bench where we knelt to confess our sins. Unsteady candlelight sent Mother’s shadow rearing against the painted walls. Walburga had told me that Mother was thirty-five, an ancient age, and indeed my parent looked like an old woman—toothless, a few wisps of sparse gray hair poking out from where her wimple slid back, her spine buckled from bearing so many babies.
At least with your father away
in the Holy Lands,
Walburga had confided,
your poor mother can take comfort in the hope that there’ll be no more.

“Hildegard.” Mother stared down at me. Even with her stoop, she was a tall woman. “You are the tenth child. You know that.”

An awful tightness clutched my throat. Unable to look at Mother, my eyes slipped to the fresco of Eve with the apple cupped in her palm. Naked and glowing, the first sinner lingered beneath a tree that was nearly as exquisite as the one that had appeared in the golden sphere. Her softly rounded belly, almost like that of a pregnant woman, revealed the lust and corruption lurking inside her beautiful flesh—this was what our chaplain had told us. Eve lifted her face to the serpent, whose sinuous body boasted a woman’s head and breasts—the creature was none other than Lilith, Adam’s first wife, whispering wicked knowledge in Eve’s ear while Adam just stood there like a dullard.

“Do you know what a tithe is?” Mother asked me.

I nodded, fighting tears.

“Tell me,” she commanded, her voice as cool as her fingers gripping my shoulders.

“Every good Christian”—I gulped and swallowed—“must give a tenth of all he owns to the Church.”

Mother knelt before me so that our faces were level. Her hazel eyes seemed as huge as the orbs that swam across my vision.

“You are the tenth child,” Mother said again.

I was the tithe.

“It’s not a bad place, Disibodenberg,” Mother told me the following morning, as if to soften the blow.

She allowed me to perch in her lap as she worked the bone teeth of her comb through my flaxen hair while Walburga held up the mirror of polished silver to reflect my face. Though my eyes were swollen from crying, I gazed greedily into the mirror for as long as I was allowed because this might be my last chance. Mirrors were forbidden to those in holy orders.
Mother wants to be rid of me.
What would happen if I threw my arms around her neck and begged her to let me stay? I twisted in Mother’s lap, but she told me to sit still.

“You won’t be alone, child.” Her voice was gentle and soothing. “You are to accompany Jutta, the Count of Sponheim’s daughter, as her chosen handmaiden. Think of the prestige!”

My family swore fealty to the Sponheim dynasty. On feast days in their hall, I had seen Jutta dancing in a circle with the other girls. At fourteen, Jutta was ripe for marriage, the most beautiful young noblewoman in the Rhineland, so everyone swore, with her auburn hair and cornflower eyes, her slender grace, the necklace of seed pearls and garnets adorning her white throat. But there were rumors—even I had heard the gossip.
Jutta von Sponheim is as mad as a box of frogs.
According to my sister Odilia, this was why Jutta’s family could find her no husband, despite her stunning looks and huge dowry. To make matters worse, Jutta fancied herself a holy woman. Nothing but the religious life would do for her.

“But why Disibodenberg?” Walburga dared to ask Mother, forgetting her place. “Two young girls given to the monks—it doesn’t seem proper. Surely they’d be better off with the nuns at Schönau.”

Mother’s reply was icy enough to make me shiver. “Don’t offer your opinions on things you know nothing about.”

She snatched her prized mirror from Walburga’s hand and set it down on the table.

“Sweetheart,” she said, turning me in her lap so that we faced each other. “It
is
a great honor to be chosen as Jutta’s companion. You will bring glory to us all. Your father will be so proud when he hears.”

I ached to tell her that I had no wish to spend the rest of my life with a mad girl no one wanted to marry, but my tongue turned into a plank and I said nothing.

“You and Jutta von Sponheim.” The smile on Mother’s face allowed me to glimpse the ghost of the lovely woman she had been ages ago, before she had all the babies who had left her as swaybacked as an old plow horse. “The pair of you will be holy virgins who take no husband but Christ Himself. You are lucky, my girl. The chosen one. You know, I wanted a religious life. I begged my parents to let me join holy orders, but instead I was given to your father when I was only thirteen.”

My eyes prickled in confusion. Was Mother doing me a kindness, then, by banishing me to the monastery? Was this truly a better fate than being married off like other girls?

“But I don’t want
any
husband,” I told her. “Not even Jesus.”

“Every girl must take a husband, either mortal or divine,” Mother replied, as though she were stating the plain truth to an idiot.

“Walburga didn’t!”

“Walburga is a peasant,” Mother said, with Walburga only a few feet away. “Does a noble falcon share the same destiny as that of a barnyard goose? You were born to grander things than she was.”

Catching my eye before turning her back on Mother, Walburga’s contempt for my parent filled the room like a bad smell, as though my nurse had let out a fart. I wondered if Mother was terribly wrong, if she was making a mistake so enormous that even the servants saw through her.

The following day Mother rode off to the court of Sponheim to discuss my future with Jutta’s mother, the countess. Blessing of blessings, she whisked away my six beautiful sisters, still unbetrothed owing to their paltry dowries, and left me alone with Rorich and Walburga. The first thing Rorich and I did after solemnly waving good-bye was to sneak out the gate and through the vineyards where the grapevines grew tall enough to hide us. When we reached the forest, we tore around like heathens, beating down nettles with hazel sticks.

“They’ll be gone for weeks!” I shouted, delirious with happiness.

What joy could be greater than spending the summer days with Rorich, just the two of us? Rorich was my most beloved sibling. Ten years old, he was close enough in age to be my friend. He hadn’t changed like my sisters had, turning to women before my eyes, abandoning our childhood games as they set their sights on marriage.

“They’ll be feasting on roasted swan every night in Sponheim,” Rorich said, leading the way to the brook, where he slipped off his shoes, leaving them to lie on the mossy bank.

“And they’ll dance!” I kicked off my deerskin slippers.

My brother and I joined hands and threw our noses in the air to mimic the counts and countesses, margraves and margravines. Humming courtly dance tunes, we reeled through the shallow stream, our feet splashing and prancing, until my skirt and my brother’s tunic were soaked.