Sylvia (70 page)

‘Aye, we are Benedictine, they also.'

‘Ask one of your monks to fetch the Sister Infirmaress to attend to Father Pietro. I greatly fear he is hurt.' Then, remembering my status as an angel, I added darkly, ‘God is merciful, he is most fortunate not to have lost both his eyes.'

‘Aye, thank you for saving him,' the monk said humbly. Then he called down for someone to fetch the sister from the convent that, presumably, was nearby.

‘Please, Father Pietro, will you not come into the sanctuary of the church?' I called in Latin. Then turning to the monk, ‘Tell them to bring Father Pietro and the other church officials into the church.'

‘What about the rats?' he asked fearfully.

‘Oh ye of little faith!' I admonished him. ‘Did I not say that God would cleanse the church of rats and bring the birds to glorify him?'

‘Aye, Angel of the Blessed Fish,' Brother Bruno replied, suitably chastened.

‘No more of that blessed fish either! I am no angel and, as you see, quite mortal, and my name is Sylvia and that is sufficient burden.' I was suddenly tired of the pretence, thinking that it presented too many difficulties. I had trouble enough knowing all of Sylvia Honeyeater as it was, let alone taking on the demeanour of an angel. Two hours ago I was preparing for my certain death, content to go to hell everlasting for my sins. And now, surrounded by the Silent Choir of God's Little Children I had a sudden fierce desire to make sure they came to no further harm. My own emotions were difficult enough to contain, let alone the task of playing the role of an angel for which I was entirely unsuited. I had seen enough of Nicholas and the corruption that omnipotence brought, and even in the short time I had preached in his name I had felt the seduction of religious power. Better to stay with my two boot-blackened feet planted firmly on the ground. As Reinhardt had noted, we were not yet out of this pickle.

The monk translated the invitation to enter the church. Several of them called back in the local tongue, which brought a howl of laughter from the crowd. Brother Bruno grinned. ‘They ask about the rats,' he explained. Then without pausing he started to speak, waving his arms and sounding quite liturgical. I who could speak four languages was becoming frustrated at not knowing this one. If I could have this monk by my side but a month I knew I would speak it tolerably well.

Brother Bruno now translated to me what he had said. ‘Our heavenly Father has cleansed the church and it is now, as ever, consecrated to the worship of the Virgin and Christ Jesus! You may enter full-knowing that the hand of the precious Saviour guards you.' He was clearly pleased to be on my side and, perhaps a little self-importantly, took the liberty of adding some priestly rhetoric to the proceedings. One of the priests shouted something in the local language and Brother Bruno turned to me and shrugged. ‘They want me to go and take a look inside,' he said.

‘Trusting lot, aren't you?' I said tartly, feeling good about being back to myself and no longer a celestial being. ‘Go then, take Brother Aloysius with you.'

The two monks took the still-bleeding Father Pietro by the arm and led him up the steps. The children stood to one side of the doors while Reinhardt and I stood on the other, thus to allow the bishop's former entourage to pass through into the church unimpeded.

‘What do I say about the ravens?' I whispered to Reinhardt.

‘Nought. Let it seem the will of God.'

‘Ratcatcher, that's blasphemy!' I hissed.

‘Are you sure it isn't?'

‘Isn't what?'

‘The will of God.'

Father Pietro had almost reached us and now stopped and turned towards me, shrugging free of the arms of the two monks. Then to my surprise he sank to his knees, his hands held in an attitude of prayer. ‘Forgive me for my eyes were blinded by Satan,' he said, turning his bloodied face up at me with a pleading expression.

No longer the Angel of the Blessed Fish, I was unsure what to do. The only priest who had ever knelt in front of me was Father Paulus when he had first witnessed the blood on the virgin's rose. That had not been meant as obeisance to me, but to the blood-tinted petals of the pure white blossom. I did not consider Brother Dominic's prostration, since that was done while my back was turned. I sank to my knees in front of the supplicating priest. ‘Nay, Father, it is not for me to forgive you. I am but a poor sinner much in need of confession.'

If he heard my protest he did not react to it, instead he closed his eyes and recited the
Actus Spei
: ‘O Lord God, through Thy grace I hope to obtain remission of all my sins, and after this life eternal happiness, for Thou hast promised, who art all-powerful, faithful, kind and merciful. In this hope I stand to live and die. Amen.'

There seemed no reply I could safely make. So I sought quickly for a prayer of my own to recite so that I might at least show some initiative. The
Actus Caritatis
seemed the only one that might be appropriate: ‘O my God! I love Thee above all things, with my whole heart and soul, because Thou art all-good and worthy of all love. I love my neighbour as myself for the love of Thee. I forgive all who have injured me, and ask pardon of all whom I have injured. Amen.'

‘Amen,' I heard Reinhardt say beside me. Later he would laugh and say that of the two combative prayers mine had won.

I recall saying to him, ‘Oo-ah, Ratcatcher! God is listening to all of this and some of the blasphemous things you say are written down in the Book of Life and you're going to be in
big
trouble when you get to heaven!'

He had sighed and looked a little woebegone and then said quietly, ‘I don't think they accommodate my sort in heaven, Sylvia.'

After I completed my prayer, Father Pietro stood. ‘If you wish to make confession we can do it now,' he said, indicating the church doors with a nod of his head.

‘Father, you must attend to your face and neck. Any of the other priests may hear my confession.'

He shook his head. ‘I would consider it a privilege, Sylvia. I have seen that you are truly blessed by our Lord.'

During the months on the road I had grown shameless and an expert at mendicancy, with all my senses tuned to seize any weakening of resolve. The priest's sudden softening towards us provided me with an ideal opportunity. ‘Father, my children have not eaten and are hungry. We had intended to sing again for the townsfolk in the hope that they might provide a little sustenance.'

I referred to them as
my
children so as to wring, to the very last drop, the newfound respect he seemed to possess for me. ‘We are God's little children and do not beg,' I added, hoping he wouldn't see through this beggarly ploy.

It was at this moment that the Sister Infirmaress arrived and seeing his bleeding face and neck started tut-tutting, wincing and crying out her sympathy. ‘Wait, sister, can't you see I am busy!' he remonstrated, brushing her aside. The newfound charity he had evinced but a moment before was a very thin crust and underneath it the same hard-nosed bishop's assistant lurked. For all his suddenly professed piety, this was a churlish man who must be carefully handled.

‘Nay, Father, please enter the church where the good sister may attend to you.' I pointed to the crowd. ‘They grow restless. We will sing for them and when you are ready perhaps you will come out again and thank them for coming and ask them if they will provide a little food for the choir?'

I had returned the initiative to him, allowing him on behalf of the Church to regain control of a crowd that clearly appeared to have lost respect for their local bishop and his churchmen. I could see that he quickly grasped this opportunity to reassert the Church's authority and be seen to make amends for the original purpose of the gathering.

‘In thee I see a future saint, Sylvia,' he said clumsily. I could see he was pleased with the notion of regaining the authority, the advantages of my suggestion immediately clear. He indicated my priest's vestment. ‘We will arrange for suitable raiment and perhaps you would like to wash at the convent?'

I looked down at my blackened feet and grinned. ‘Perhaps I shall be named Saint Bootblack?' I said, thinking how frightful my general appearance must be and how far from the vision of a saintly personage I would seem. But judging from his slightly bemused expression my irony was lost on him. So I added quickly, ‘Yes, thank you, Father, I would very much like to bathe and wash my hair.'

He turned to the nun beside him. ‘See to it,' he instructed in Latin.

The nun looked confused and I realised, as he should have done, that she did not understand Latin other than the prayer rote and had not been following our conversation.

‘She does not understand Latin, Father,' I said.

‘Stupid woman!' he exclaimed, then spoke to her in the local tongue and I saw the nun nod. He must also then have instructed her to attend to his wounds because they both turned and entered the church.

‘Father, if we may have Brother Bruno to translate?' I called after him and saw him nod.

‘We will need to entertain the crowd if we are to eat today,' I said to Reinhardt.

‘They have had more entertainment than they will receive in a lifetime, Sylvia. They will speak forever after of the Miracle of the Rats, then the birds, then God's wrath . . . er, the incident with the ravens and the priest. We have sung to them gloriously, what else?'

‘The dogs? The trick with the choir?'

‘Oh my God! I had forgotten them! They are all assembled beyond the square with their noses upon their paws. It is hot – they will be much in need of water.'

‘Will they hear your pipe?' I asked.

‘Aye.'

‘And come?'

He looked surprised. ‘They cannot resist the pipe.'

I nodded, confident that with the dog trick we could leave the crowd in a merry mood, enough so that they would be happy to feed us, though Reinhardt seemed confident that they would do almost anything we asked of them. ‘First let us talk to these people,' I said.

At that moment Brother Bruno arrived and looked pleased to be with me again. I was surprised to see Brother Aloysius was at his side. I was later to learn that they were seldom separated and that Brother Bruno, who was four years older than the black monk, when they'd both been children in Genoa had rescued Brother Aloysius from a mob of boys who had attacked the dark-skinned child calling him an infidel and a Saracen. They were in the process of kicking him to death when Brother Bruno intervened, in fact, risking his own life. ‘We are truly brothers in God's name and even as if we were born as kin,' he'd told me, smiling.

‘Will you translate for us, please?' I asked him. ‘Tell them we come in the name of God and will soon be gone. That we are the last of the Children's Crusade and after we have departed we wish them peace and happiness.'

Brother Bruno took a step forward and Brother Aloysius did the same, the two huge monks making an imposing sight. Brother Bruno held up his hand and called for silence from the crowd. But they had no sooner been hushed than a short fat man stepped forward and appeared to be asking him something in a loud voice. Brother Bruno turned to me and asked querulously, ‘Dogs? He asks if you can bring the dogs back to life?'

‘Aye, in God's name. But I will need twenty pails of water placed around the steps.'

He looked at me as if he didn't understand. ‘Twenty pails of water?'

‘Aye.'

He translated and several of the townspeople broke away, presumably to do as he'd asked.

‘Shall we sing while we wait?' I asked Reinhardt.

‘No more hymns, eh?' he said. ‘The mood grows too sombre.' Taking up his flute he blew the first few notes of a folksong the children all loved. It was a most merry little tune and while the people wouldn't have understood the words it was intended as a jig and soon the people in the square were dancing. Reinhardt had once again correctly guessed their mood. We played two more songs until the pails of water were all positioned below the steps.

There was palpable tension in the air as I stepped from the ranks of the choir. Then, with my arms lifted and my head raised heavenward the crowd fell silent. I called out in Latin for the dogs to return. Beside me Reinhardt blew his special silent signal. Moments later there came a startled murmur from the crowd as several packs of dogs rushed barking into the square and made directly for the church steps where they lapped frantically at the water in the pails, three or four dogs to each pail. Then, as each dog or bitch had drunk sufficient from the pails, they moved about the mob quite peaceably looking for their owners.

I had not noticed that Father Pietro had now come out of the church and stood close. I felt sure he would not have seen or known about the dogs but had only seen them lapping from the pails. I knew somehow, just by looking at him, that he had undergone some sort of epiphany. ‘I am deeply ashamed, Sylvia. You who have nothing think to provide water for our scavenging dogs while we, who have everything, refuse to provide your dying children with a final anointing. May the heavenly Father have mercy on us for we have sinned most terribly.'