Sylvia Page 18

  I had always been forthright about the events in my life, even though I seemed to be one of those people who was constantly misconstrued and seemed always to be explaining or denying. How then was I going to explain the blood on the Virgin’s rose? I would have to admit that I had stained my white gown with my woman’s blood in front of perhaps five hundred people. Already the street children had spread the news of the latest miracle, who knows how far and wide. The commonfolk were always receptive to gossip and no doubt anxious to hear more of the Petticoat Angel, who, judging from my reception in St Martin’s square, seemed to them to be touched by a divine hand. Now I must confront two priests and my shame and their piety made it impossible to admit the truth.

  Perhaps the matter of the blood on the rose would soon be forgotten. Until now all the misconstruction placed upon events in my life had been witnessed by ordinary folk, who are always on the lookout for signs and portents and cry ‘miracle’ at the flapping of a bird’s wing. On only one occasion had the scrutiny of a priest been involved and Father Pietrus had summarily dismissed the Miracle of the Gloria. I felt sure these two priests would do the same. Walking towards St Mary’s on the Kapitol with Nicholas I prepared myself for the humiliation I was about to face.

  But I had not reckoned on the blessed Father Hermann Joseph who, since childhood, had been devoted to the Virgin. It was known he spent countless hours kneeling before her image in ecstatic raptures. Miracles and visions were commonplace to him so that he was no Doubting Thomas to begin with. His life since childhood was so blameless that his fellow priests dubbed him Joseph, a nickname he would not in all humility accept until he had a vision where he was mystically espoused to Mary with a ring and so became Joseph her earthly husband.

  As a child of seven he was already enraptured with the Virgin and the Child and would occupy every moment he possessed kneeling before the blessed stone carving of Mary and the infant Jesus at St Mary’s on the Kapitol. The best-told story of him was when as a hungry child he had been given a precious apple and instead of eating it he had presented it to the Christ Child recumbent on the Virgin’s lap. Jesus had reached out, accepting it. Thereafter, Mary helped him to climb over the choir screen to play with the baby Jesus in the presence of Joseph and John the Evangelist.

  Of course I knew none of this at the time. As we walked Nicholas told me what had occurred the previous evening when he’d taken the rose to the two priests.

  Nicholas and his street urchins had run all the way to St Mary’s on the Kapitol and trembling with faith asked to see Father Hermann Joseph who had just gone in to prayers after the ringing of the Angelus. Nicholas, unwilling to wait, brushed aside the monk on duty and entered the church, running down the aisle to confront the priest as he knelt in his accustomed place before the statue of the Virgin and Child.

  ‘Father! Father! There has been a miracle!’ he cried, still trembling.

  Father Hermann, deep within his devotion to the Virgin, at first ignored Nicholas, until the boy grabbed him by the cord of his cassock and pulled, demanding his attention. The priest, who had worked all his life so that he might be sanctified, had never been known to show anger, but he would later confess that the boy’s rude interruption to his devotions had tested his spirit sorely. Containing his vexation he rose to his feet. ‘What is it, Nicholas? Can you not wait?’ he asked the agitated urchin.

  Wide-eyed and trembling, Nicholas held out the white rose now stained with blood. ‘A miracle, Father, we have seen a miracle. Your Virgin’s rose has wept blood as the Petticoat Angel sang to the glory of our Saviour!’

  ‘Blood? The Virgin’s rose? What mean you, Nicholas?’

  ‘A miracle, Father, ask anyone!’ He turned to the urchins who now stood behind him. ‘They saw it!’

  ‘Yes, Father!’ several chorused while others nodded their heads in confirmation.

  The priest now took the rose and examined it carefully. ‘Aye, I do not deny this is blood, perhaps a thorn upon the stem?’

  ‘Nay, Father, you did yourself remove the thorns,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Perhaps one I missed?’ Father Hermann said gently. ‘My eyes are not as good as they once were.’

  ‘Then it would be present now,’ Nicholas protested.

  ‘Or removed?’

  ‘Nay, Father, look, all the petals to the underside are stained but not the stem.’ Nicholas was close to tears knowing the priest doubted his word.

  Father Hermann, ever gentle, then explained, ‘A miracle must have verification, Nicholas.’

  ‘But . . . but we all saw it!’ Nicholas cried again.

  ‘A priest or someone whose truth cannot be denied must be a witness. While I truly believe you think you saw a miracle and speak the truth, Nicholas,’ Father Hermann said gently, ‘alas, the bishop will not accept the word of a street child or the verification of his companions.’

  ‘Father Paulus saw it!’ Nicholas exclaimed. ‘He called it a miracle and fell to his knees and kissed the Petticoat Angel’s hands.’

  ‘Paulus the scribe? I know him well!’ the priest said, surprised. ‘I will call upon him at St Martin’s tomorrow.’

  But there was no necessity for this, because, almost as he spoke, Father Paulus arrived, much agitated and puffed from hurrying through the streets. He seated himself to recover his breath and in a halting voice exclaimed, ‘A wondrous happening . . . the rose.’ He saw the rose in Father Hermann’s hand. ‘See, it bleeds!’

  ‘Aye, I have explained to Nicholas here, a thorn perhaps to the finger of the maiden?’

  ‘Nay, I clasped her hands and turned them palm upwards to examine them more closely, and there was no blood, nor single wound or prick to her fingers!’

  ‘Are you sure, Father?’

  ‘I swear it upon my life, Father Hermann! You know me well enough to know that I am not, as thou art, blessed with holy visions. I am but a humble scribe and scholar trained to tell things as they are. I came to ring the Angelus and heard this maiden sing. It was as if the heavens had opened and she was the solo voice to that celestial choir.’ He pointed to the white rose. ‘Then I saw the bleeding to the underside of the petals with mine own eyes and will verify it to the bishop or any other without fear or contradiction.’

  ‘Nicholas, come here,’ Father Hermann commanded suddenly. Nicholas stepped forward to stand in front of the priest. ‘Spread your hands.’ The boy spread his hands and Father Hermann examined them closely. ‘Now the underside, your palms, show me.’ Nicholas turned his hands so that his palms faced upwards and the big priest examined each finger individually for the slightest sign of a cut. ‘No cuts. There are no cuts!’ he exclaimed. Now greatly excited, he cried, ‘The white rose of Mary, the mystical rose Herself! We must jointly confront this maiden they name the Petticoat Angel and examine her before we go to the bishop. We must be quite sure.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘You shall bring her here tomorrow, Nicholas. I will pray to the blessed Virgin for forgiveness that I doubted you and as penance I will wear a garland of the Virgin’s rose thorns about my neck for a week.’

  Nicholas, delighted that Father Paulus had verified his word, promised he would seek me out. ‘She can call the birds from the trees to sit upon her hand, ask anyone, Father,’ he said.

  ‘We saw it ourselves!’ some of the urchins chorused.

  ‘Aye, and the rooks to come down from the belltower,’ Father Paulus added, then he smacked his hand to the side of my head. ‘Oh, glory be! I have forgot to ring the Angelus.’

  With all the questioning on thorns and pricks to my fingers, I thought that Father Hermann would be most wary and demand an explanation. Father Paulus, as a scribe, would be even more particular with his questions. Priestly scribes, I had often heard, were both a cynical and doubting breed. But when Nicholas told of Father Paulus’s emphatic insistence that no coincidence of thorns was possible and then further, how Father Hermann had promised to wear a necklace of rose thorns in contrition for his doubting the boy’s word, my hear
t sank.

  It was only then, with Nicholas at my side, that I thought to withdraw Father John’s dagger from my stave and cut my finger, but it was too late and I recalled how Father Paulus had looked carefully when he kissed my palms.

  By the time we reached St Mary’s on the Kapitol I was in a state of near terror that I must either be seen a liar within the sanctity of the Church or tell a truth that would shame me forever. Worse still, upon our arrival, we were taken to stand outside the open door to the sacristy where the reliquary and vestments were kept and through the doorway I glimpsed a small carving of the Virgin clasping to her bosom a rose. The two priests waited in front of the door, in view of the figure. I felt that I must turn and run for my life, for if I should tell a lie in such a place I felt sure God would strike me dead right there where I stood in front of the Holy Mother.

  Father Hermann was an elderly man, perhaps over sixty years. He was big-boned and must once have been powerful in his physique but now was thin and sallow in his face, the hair surrounding his cleric’s bald pate grown white. Around his neck was a garland of rose thorns and already several sharp pricks marked the skin on his neck. I felt terribly ashamed that I should be the cause of his penance and his pain.

  Father Paulus, who I remembered from the previous day, was the younger of the two, aged forty or so, small in stature, not much bigger than myself. His red hair was speckled with grey, his eyes a pale washed blue. But it was his nose that was most unprepossessing. It dominated all his other features and was so straight and long it seemed falsely appended to his tiny face. It was as if it was intended for someone else and God, momentarily distracted when in the process of His creation, had affixed it to the wrong visage. It extended beyond his bottom lip and cast a shadow upon his chin.

  Both greeted me most courteously and in the manner of an equal so that I grew even further afraid in their presence.

  ‘Please, fräulein, show me your hands,’ Father Hermann asked. I held out my hands. ‘No, turn them over,’ he instructed. I did as he asked and from his cassock he produced a round magnifying glass such as scribes use to do illumination and brought it down to my hands, his eye up against it, examining every part of the palms and fingers. Then he turned to Father Paulus. ‘Praise be to God, there are no cuts!’

  My mind raced. What would I say when they questioned me? How could I tell these two holy men that it was my menstrual blood? Frau Sarah had told me that when it occurs in Jewish women their priest, the rabbi, pronounces a woman during this time as unclean and that the woman must attend a ritual bath she named the mikvah. If the Jews thought this time in a woman was unclean then how much more so would a Christian, I reasoned. To admit my parlous state to the two priests was unthinkable.

  But to my surprise they did not question me, thinking no doubt that a miracle is a matter for a priest and God and that I was merely His instrument. So it was the instrument they were interested in as they had a duty to perform by informing the bishop and they must be sure that they could well explain my nature.

  ‘Nicholas says you called the birds from the trees in the woods above the city?’ Father Hermann said, then not waiting for my answer turned to Father Paulus. ‘And you spoke of the rooks called from the belltower, did you not, Father?’

  ‘Aye, it was most remarkable,’ the little priest said.

  ‘Perhaps we should witness this for ourselves?’ Father Hermann suggested, looking directly at me. ‘Can you take us to the woods and show us, Sylvia?’

  I agreed and once more we climbed the hill to the woods. I asked that they remain still and silent and I demonstrated calling the birds, causing a robin to sit upon Father Hermann’s hand and a chaffinch to alight on the shoulder of Father Paulus. I made a cry and the birds surrounding us rose in the usual lovely flutter and departed.

  Able to talk, Father Hermann cried in a most excited voice, ‘Remarkable! Glory to God, this is yet another miracle!’ He turned to the other priest. ‘What say you, Father Paulus?’

  Father Paulus nodded his head and seemed at first speechless, then finally said, ‘I am not a man of visions, signs, portents, auspicious comet happenings in the night skies or even much taken with miracles, but I am this day and yesterday convinced.’

  At last I was back on safe ground. ‘Nay! Please! This is not a miracle. As I child I practised every birdsong – it is nothing but the mating calls imitated. The hens must come and cocks cannot resist and must examine the competition of the other cocks and they too come flying in to see if they might match the calling male in courting the hen bird.’ The two priests looked at each other and I could see they thought I was talking gibberish.

  ‘Come, we must return to St Mary’s, there is a great deal to do,’ Father Paulus said.

  ‘You must leave these affairs to us, my child,’ Father Hermann added gently, placing his hand on my shoulder as we walked down the hill. ‘You must understand, it is up to the Church to decide these things.’

  ‘Yes, there are a great many documents to prepare for the bishop,’ Father Paulus said importantly, and I could not help but feel that he looked forward to creating these.

  ‘Ah, how fortunate that you are a scribe of high standing and a clerk, Father Paulus. I myself was not good at school, a poor student though I could understand the workings of timepieces,’ Father Hermann admitted. Then turning to me, he asked, ‘How long is it since you have been to confession, my child?’

  ‘Never, Father,’ I admitted shamefully.

  I expected him to show surprise, but he smiled and asked instead, ‘How old are you, Sylvia?’

  ‘Now almost twelve.’

  ‘A good time to confess – at twelve you are a woman and I think our Saviour may have some very special task for you.’

  ‘I have much to confess, Father,’ I said.

  ‘Then come tomorrow and I will hear your confession.’ He turned to Father Paulus. ‘After this we will begin to put our case together.’

  Father Paulus nodded. ‘I shall write what we have seen today and also yesterday. Will you keep the rose safe?’

  Father Hermann answered him as if I wasn’t present. ‘Last night after I had talked with the boy I placed it between two pages and put them under a parchment press when the blood was still wet upon the petals. This morning I examined it and the bloodstains have dried on the page and the petals are pressed, the stains show clearly upon them.’

  When we reached St Mary’s, Father Paulus took leave from us and I asked Father Hermann when I should attend for confession. ‘Immediately after the Angelus tomorrow morning, my child. I do not suppose it will take long. I shall set aside ten minutes from my devotions,’ he instructed.

  ‘Father, I have much to confess, it will take more than ten minutes.’

  I thought how I would need to confess the blood on the white cloth. It was the last time I would be permitted to wear white as the Church henceforth forbade it to mature women. To have stained the virgin white of childhood with the red blood of womanhood was a sin. Not only must I confess the blood on the rose but also this, and the prospect filled me with terror.

  He smiled. ‘Then however long it takes, but God is generous with those he loves and has set aside for a special purpose, you must not fret too much, Sylvia.’

  The following morning I arrived at St Mary’s as the Angelus rang and stood outside the church in the bitter cold for some time before entering. Shortly afterwards Father Hermann arrived and bade me take my seat in the confessional, then moments later he entered his side. He left the screen between the two sides open so I could see his face and commenced with a short prayer and then asked me to proceed.

  I had decided to make a clean slate of all my sins. Whatever the penance, no matter how hard, I would carry it with great joy knowing my terrible life of deception would finally be over. I would confess everything no matter how difficult this proved to be. My father’s wanton abuse, my acceptance of the Miracle of the Gloria when I knew it to be nothing of the sort, the abuse I had
hurled at the peasant woman on the road when I had been denied shelter, the gulling of the village folk concerning the banishment of the rats and the Virgin Maid. I would tell him of the incident in the bathhouse with the three whores and how I was not worthy of the name Petticoat Angel. Then finally, I would have to admit for the sake of my immortal soul the true reason for the blood on the rose.

  However, this did not turn out to be the usual confession where the priest listens without comment and then at the end pronounces the penance. With each incident Father Hermann made a fairly detailed comment.

  With my father’s abuse: ‘You poor child, do not fret. If I have heard this incident in confession once I have heard it a thousand times. You are free of sin – God does not blame children for the wrongdoing of their parents.’

  With the Miracle of the Gloria: ‘That priest was much too impatient!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am sure there is more to this than you claim with your own simple explanation. Those who witnessed what happened saw what you could not see. Demons and devils are everywhere and one had come to rest in thy soul from your father’s wantonness. Others saw how it was cast out and the light of heaven descended and the thunder of God’s word that followed. I cannot accept thine explanation and do not regard you as having sinned.’

  With the peasant woman’s abuse: ‘God places the charity of love above all things and when we show it to strangers we are especially blessed. He will be angry at her response to a child in need of shelter. But, nevertheless, you were wrong to abuse her and I will take note of this in pronouncing your penance.’

  With the village people: ‘I have witnessed the Miracle of the Birds and think you were gulled by this ratcatcher who claims these extraordinary powers. You said his flute was silent – how may a rat respond to a silent flute? I pronounce you mistaken, my child. The rats following you to the woods was yet another miracle. I see all the signs of God working within you.’

  I tried to protest, to tell him this was not so, but he gently pointed out that I was in the confessional and must only answer his questions.