Sylvia (41 page)

‘But what of miracles?' I asked. ‘Are they acts of reasoning or of faith and belief?'

‘Aye, miracles, the sop to the people. Give them a nice miracle and they will no longer question, eh?'

‘You do not believe in miracles, Father?' I asked, astonished. ‘I confess I have a great need to witness one.'

He laughed, an old man's cackle. ‘You are trying to trap me, Sylvia. I did not say that. When I watch a bird fly I do not know how it does so, it is certainly one of God's miracles, but I do not declare it a miracle and so worship a bird's flight. I will accept a miracle only when I cannot find an explanation for it, but at the same time know it to be God's doing and His instruction that I become worshipful because of the lesson delivered to me through the advent of the miracle.'

‘What if I could summon the birds that fly outside to your presence here, Father? Would you name that a miracle?' I challenged, feeling for once that I might confound him as I had done so many others.

‘I should like to see you do so first,' he said. ‘Then I would question how it was done. Only when I could find no explanation would I accept that, having seen it with my own eyes, I must declare it true. But if this appearance of birds lacked a purpose and contained no spiritual instruction, no message I could understand, I would not declare it a miracle. I would exercise doubt and then name it only as a strange occurrence for which I have no explanation.'

I worked my way around the piles of manuscripts and parchments towards the small window of his cell and began to call. At first two sparrows, then a lark, a blue tit and a magpie came. Soon the windowsill became crowded with their barging, fluttering and twittering as birds of every description began to arrive. They entered the cell and sat upon the texts and on Brother Dominic's shoulder and landed on his gnarled hands. He watched, smiling, as the cheeky magpie began to peck at a crust left over from his noon meal.

But after a short while the tiny cell became too crowded and I sent the birds away and when the last had gone (the ever-greedy magpie, of course) and the cell was once again silent, I waited for his response. He smiled and shook his head. ‘It has been nigh fifty years since last I heard these calls in concert; it was when I was a small boy and with my nurse did often walk in the woods. You did give several repetitions and in all sixteen different calls. Reasoning tells me that if each bird hears its own call and comes to the source of this beckoning, then there must be a good reason. Now all the birds possessed male plumage did they not? Brightly coloured some.' He thought a moment longer. ‘Perhaps it is a female mating call and cannot be resisted?'

I clapped my hands in glee. ‘Yes! You are correct. It is no miracle and only a trick I learned as a child.'

‘It seldom is a miracle, my child,' he said quietly. Then smilingly added, ‘But it is a very clever trick and I have seen miracles proclaimed not half as cleverly disguised. Talking of birds, I have recently heard from a wandering monk I knew in Rome who sojourned here one night and came to see me in my cell. He told me of a new religious order, the Order of the Lesser Brothers, founded by a deacon of the Church named Francis of Assisi. This fellow is sworn to poverty and is said to preach to the birds.'

‘Assisi, where is that?' I asked.

‘It is in Italy,' Brother Dominic explained.

‘Does he preach
only
to birds?' I asked, thinking that if he did so, he would need plenty of grain to keep their attention, as believe me, birds know only two things: food and mating. Nor could I see any advantage the birds might possess once they had embraced the Christian faith. Rather than have them follow us and become Christians, had not the Lord Jesus extolled us to follow the example of the birds of the air, ‘
for they sow not,
neither do they reap
'? Other people might think this Francis fellow, deacon, lay preacher, whatever he called himself, was blessed of God for his sermonising to our winged friends, but I did not. I loved birds and sought their company often, but I couldn't help feeling that anyone preaching to them must be some sort of half-wit or idiot.

Brother Dominic, seeing my expression, cackled. ‘Nay, not only to birds. It seems Francis of Assisi is a fine preacher, he wears tattered beggars' garments and is said to emulate the ways of Christ the Saviour even though untrained and not a priest. The commonfolk do flock to hear him preach.' Then he added cleverly, ‘As it seems, do the birds.'

I could not help myself and started to giggle, then ventured, ‘As you have seen, I know somewhat of birds, Father. I should very much like to see how he does this preaching.'

‘Ah, you are learning fast, my child, ever doubting while seeking the truth. I asked the same question. “How do you preach to birds?” I asked the monk, thinking he would not be able to answer. But he claimed to know, having heard the story on good authority.' Brother Dominic paused and glanced up at me. ‘Always be suspicious of good authority,' he warned. ‘It is a term usually used when there is little proof available. Anyway, this is what the monk claimed.

‘The incident occurred about four hours walk from Assisi at a place named Bevagna. The birds had all gathered at the sowing of the new corn. But the peasants, well accustomed to the scavenging of birds at sowing time, noted that this particular spring many of the birds were of a kind they had never seen before. Moreover, they all sat and waited without attempting to dive for a single grain of spilled corn, nor did they scratch among the turned clods for barley seed. It seemed they waited patiently in rows as neat as church pews for the preacher Francis to arrive.'

Brother Dominic cackled, both amused and doubtful. Then he drew breath before expostulating. ‘And
what
a sermon lay-preacher Francis delivered that morning! He, Francis, commenced by saluting the birds as brothers and told them to praise and always love their Creator. He then reminded them that they had good cause to love God as it was He who had bestowed manifold blessings upon them – feathers for their clothing and wings for their flight and they had also been given a safe home in the purity of the air. He pointed to the peasants toiling in the sun, their weary feet dragging in the dirt, reminding the birds that unlike the poor farmers they neither sowed nor reaped but were still protected.'

‘Ha!' I exclaimed. ‘What think the quail or pheasant, pigeon or blackbird of this? Who protects them, eh? They must look sharp or they are sure to end up on some nobleman's table or on some pastrycook's Sunday pie cart!'

Brother Dominic smiled at my interjection, but continued. ‘The birds, it is claimed, rejoiced in his sermon by extending their wings, stretching their necks and opening their mouths, meanwhile gazing in complete adoration at this Francis of Assisi. He then blessed them and gave them permission to fly elsewhere. Afterwards he castigated himself, calling himself Brother Ass. This, for not preaching to the birds sooner, as they had listened to the word of God with such reverence.'

‘He would be better named Brother Cuckoo!' I said. ‘If I should ever meet this Francis of Assisi, I'll tell him a thing or two about birds!'

‘Ah! You make an admirable student, my child,' Brother Dominic said, pleased.

‘Father, may I ask you one more question concerning miracles or the lack?'

He nodded. ‘What is it, Sylvia?'

‘Well, it's just . . . well, you did so quickly work out the true meaning of my beckoning of the birds and I have one other thing that does constantly create worshipful astonishment in people. I should very much like to reveal it to you, so that you might give it, once and for all time, a natural explanation.'

Brother Dominic looked curious. ‘Tell of it, Sylvia.'

‘Nay, I must show it. I ask that you forgive my immodesty as it is upon my back.'

‘Your back?'

‘A birthmark, Father.'

‘So? What is so strange about a birthmark – they are commonly found. Why should I wish to see a birthmark?'

‘May I show it?' I pleaded.

‘Aye, child. A young woman showing her naked back is a small immodesty and I am too old to be affected,' he cackled.

I turned my back to him and arranged my habit so that it fell from my shoulders to halfway down my back. To my surprise I heard him gasp and looking over my shoulder saw that he had fallen to his knees and now he prayed aloud.

Adoramus te. Glorificamus te.
Gratiam agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam.
Domine Deus, Rex coelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens.
Domine Fili unigenite, Jesu Christe.
(We worship You. We glorify You. Lord God, Heavenly King,
God the Father Almighty, Lord Jesus Christ.)

I hastily rearranged my garment so that the fish was once again concealed and then turned to help Brother Dominic's creaking frame up from his knees and back onto his chair. But he rose promptly by himself and then, seated, appeared somewhat dazed. ‘Father, it is but a birthmark, think you not?' I asked, shocked at his unexpected reaction.

He shook his head, a slow movement back and forth three times. ‘Aye, it is a mark. A fish clearly imaged upon thy skin that may well have been there at thy birth.' He looked directly at me. ‘But it is
not
a birthmark!' he insisted.

‘What then?' I cried.

He shook his head again. ‘I know not. It is a holy sign, the sign of the fish.' He shrugged, then bowed his head as if thinking, then raised it again and spoke slowly, carefully. ‘It is in my nature and my training to seek the truth. To doubt before accepting. To constantly challenge my faith until at last I am convinced. I am old and weak, my bones creak and it doth take several minutes for me to fall to my knees. I have begged God's forgiveness that I now pray mostly seated in my chair. I know I should glory in such pain and embrace it willingly, but it is too great to concentrate and I feel that our Saviour does not need me to carry this penance of pain when it denies the possibility of prayer.'

He paused and shook his head as if doubting his sensibility and then pointed to the floor. ‘When this fish upon your back was revealed to me I found myself at once upon my knees and know not how I got there. I felt no pain, nor do I now.' He lifted his arms, his hands open, palms facing me. Then he balled both hands tightly into fists. ‘I have not closed my hands in ten years. See, my fingers bend and there is no pain.'

He seemed for several moments lost in thought, his head bowed, his pliant fingers curled about his knees. ‘This fish is no birthmark, Sylvia.' Brother Dominic now looked directly at me. ‘I am confused. I know not what I must now think of thee or it, but know it for a sign,' he said softly.

But for all Brother Dominic's erudition and wisdom, and then the admission when he saw the fish that he was at last confounded, I remained young and confused and very much in doubt. I obeyed his principles of learning by constantly asking questions, but despaired when no answers, reasoned or otherwise, came to me. He was an old man and I was yet a young woman and doubts, so easily resolved in his mind, were not my doubts and not my solutions. I still doubted the symbol upon my back and the way folk declared it sacred – even a man as wise and doubting as Brother Dominic saw in its coincidence a holy sign.

While I could not explain his loss of pain and the return of the movement to his hands and knees, faith-healing was a common occurrence and was often witnessed among sick pilgrims touching relics or visiting holy places. I did not doubt the power of his faith, or that a relief to his aching joints might be brought about by his seeing the birthmark on my back. But I knew it to be no miracle, but instead something of the mind. So that my own faith might be restored, I hungered for a miracle that bore no possible explanation.

And then it came without any warning one Sunday in Cologne. It was no different to any other Sunday except that this Sunday there were three others who accompanied me. The usual two nuns and, as well, I had found a suitable excuse for the indefatigable Rosa to come to Cologne.

I must explain Rosa's presence. On my frequent Sunday visits to play chess with Master Israel, Frau Sarah had continued to instruct me in the various herbs and unguents used for medicinal purposes. I would take these recipes back to the convent and with Rosa gather the necessary herbs in the woods and beside the streams. Rosa no longer worked in the garden but resided permanently in the infirmary where she was achieving a reputation for her remarkable knowledge as a herbalist and was given the title of Adjutrix Infirmaress.

If the abbess knew where Rosa's newfound expertise came from she did not say. But she caused to be set up a small dispensary where the medicines were prepared. The convent was soon achieving notoriety by preparing these medicinal herbs and syrups for the monks in the monastery and pilgrims who would sojourn overnight. All spoke highly of the efficacy of the convent medicine and the abbess received a lot of praise, and it was soon apparent that she gloried in the attention. So Rosa, in order to gain more importance in the eyes of the monks and outsiders, was permitted to wear some of the accoutrements of a nun's garb.

Rosa still longed to visit Cologne with me and then an opportunity eventually came when she received a message from the monastery of a most delicate matter. It was a request from the abbot and was delivered by a young monk who wrung his hands and blushed scarlet, but eventually stammered out his requirement. Rosa came to see me, as she had no idea how she might comply. I saw it immediately as the opportunity for her to visit Cologne that we had been waiting for. And so she requested an interview with the abbess.