A Vow Of Silence

by Veronica Black

  Her cell seemed airless. Still sitting up she allowed the moonlit shapes within the room to resolve themselves into the few items of furniture. Shelf with its books, plastic curtain behind which her other garments bulged slightly, basin and ewer — her mouth was dry and with that realisation came the remembrance that she had completely forgotten to fill the ewer with cold water ready for the morning ablutions. The way things were going, she thought resignedly, by the time general confession came on Friday everybody else might as well sit down because her list of faults was getting longer every day.

  Certainly she couldn’t go until morning with her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth. The bathrooms, two of them, and their adjoining toilets were at the end of the passage. An overhead light burned dimly red when she opened the door.

  House shoes and cloak took only a couple of seconds to don. She bent to pick up the ewer and went out into the corridor. Further along a door opened and closed swiftly behind the small figure of Sister Lucy who went on down the passage without looking round. Not to the bathroom however but to the head of the narrow flight of stairs that connected with the kitchen. Without knowing quite why, Sister Joan set down the ewer, pulled her door to within an inch of being closed and followed, her rubber soles making no noise on the linoleum. The other was at the foot of the stairs, pausing to light a lantern. Sister Joan had a brief glimpse of the little, catlike face illuminated by the brilliance before Sister Lucy turned the wick lower. As Sister Joan hesitated in the angle of the stairs the bulky figure of Sister Felicity emerged from her cell off the kitchen. Together the two figures moved towards the back door.

  Wild theories of midnight assignations jostled in her mind. All nonsense, of course, but convents were usually peaceful places during the grand silence. Certainly she had never heard of nuns creeping around with lanterns in what must be the early hours of the morning.

  They were not breaking the grand silence anyway but gliding noiselessly to the back door. She waited a moment and then descended the narrow stairs. In the kitchen faint greyish ashes lay in the wide, old-fashioned hearth with the stone bake oven at its side.

  She moved to the back door and bit her lip with annoyance as it failed to yield to her hand. It must have been locked again on the outside. Now she could choose either to return meekly to her cell or to leave the house by another exit.

  She chose the latter course, stepping out into the passage that ran past the infirmary, hearing the muffled music of three old ladies gently snoring in concert as she went by the door. In the main hall another light burned dimly, barely revealing the carved wainscoting, the half-open door beyond which lay antechamber and parlour. Here she hesitated and then, following instinct, stepped within and stole across to the double doors. They were not locked and she entered the parlour feeling a mixture of emotions. Some guilt because what she was doing went against all her natural inclinations as well as her ethical training, a growing excitement and a sudden longing for the austere purity of the parlour where Reverend Mother Agnes held the reins of authority.

  Yet it was a beautiful room, its faded elegance softened by the moonlight that arched through the windows. The long curtains were still held back in graceful folds and the statue was transmuted into deep ivory.

  Sister Joan crossed the room to take a closer look. Any casual glance would have identified that slender, cloaked figure with the crown on the small head as the Virgin. Both hands were held, palms outward a little away from the body in what looked like the familiar pose of acceptance and blessing. At the front of the neat little crown a crescent moon trembled. She had been with Jacob when they had stopped to look at the statue of Isis in the Museum. ‘The forerunner and prototype of your Virgin Mary,’ he had said provocatively. ‘She was married to her brother Osiris, but Osiris was murdered and dismembered by the other brother, Set, and Isis roamed the world in search of the missing pieces. Finally they were all put together again and Isis bore Horus. After which Osiris promptly died all over again and went to rule the Underworld.’

  ‘So?’ She had assumed the expression of a rather backward pupil faced by an intelligent tutor.

  ‘So you tell me the difference between that and the Holy Trinity.’

  ‘I think,’ she had said hesitantly, abandoning the pose, ‘that the idea of a Trinity has always been implicit in human consciousness. All those pre-Christian cults were gropings towards the reality.’

  Isis or Mary, the wooden statue had a grace, a purity of line that transcended the fashionable parlour.

  Sister Joan crossed herself, murmured a brief prayer for guidance and left the parlour. To draw the bolts on the front door might rouse someone. She turned towards the further wing where the narrow passage led to the chapel. At least if anyone saw her she could say that she was doing penance. It was not an excuse that would have been accepted for one moment by Reverend Mother Agnes, but here where nuns apparently did penance and held fire drills in the middle of the night it might be taken as normal.

  The chapel door was locked. She had turned the handle softly but it resisted her effort, and she stood, staring at the closed and secret panels.

  This was ridiculous. In cities and towns the unfortunate increase in crimes of vandalism had made it necessary to lock up churches in between services, but every convent maintained an ever open chapel where any sister or visitor could worship or meditate or simply sit quietly letting the peaceful atmosphere heal the problems and strains of the everyday world. It was a violation of her own rights to be locked out.

  The side door through which visitors to the public parlour came had only a small bolt drawn across it. She drew it back, blessing whoever oiled the locks, and was outside again. The chapel windows were too high for her to see in and there was no convenient ladder lying around. But there were candles burning within. More light than the illumination provided by the Perpetual Lamp streamed through the stained glass. She bit her lip, trying to hit on some brilliant plan of campaign. Nothing came to mind.

  Meanwhile she was still thirsty and the cold dew was soaking through the thin soles of her slippers. Feeling increasingly foolish she trailed round the side of the building, looking up in exasperation at the glowing rectangles of glass above her head.

  It was then that she noticed the tall water butt placed close to the side wall within reach of the slanting dormer window that admitted light to the sacristy. She had thought on first seeing it that the architect who had stuck a dormer window in the slanting overhang of a seventeenth-century roof ought to have been condemned to sit and look at it for the rest of his life. Now she sent him a grateful word of thanks for his foresight in providing access to the upper storey.

  Being small and wiry had had its advantages in the school gymnasium, enabling her to come out ahead in any exercise requiring balance and dexterity. In races she had generally panted up among the also-rans, but work on the parallel bars and the ceiling ropes had allowed her to compete on equal terms. At school however she had worn leotard, not long nightdress and hampering cloak. She took off cloak and slippers, folded them neatly in the shadow of the rain butt and used the string of the cloak to kilt up the nightgown to knee level.

  The butt had iron hoops ringing it round. She reached up, her fingers and toes hooking the metal, took a deep breath and squirmed higher until she was sitting astride the rim. When she looked down she could see the dark sparkle of water within. Now with a little luck she could swing herself to the sloping window and from there reach one of the dormer windows above. A narrow ridge, about four inches wide would give her a toe-hold. The possibility that the upper windows might all be screwed shut entered her mind and was thrust aside.

  She raised herself cautiously, balancing on the rim, leaning in towards the wall, one hand reaching up to the overhang of the roof. It was of stone as she had guessed, which would not bend obligingly but would, she hoped, bear her weight.

  It bore her slightness easily and she squirmed herself sideways, urging her unused muscles to hoist t
he rest of her to the coping.

  She was alongside the dormer window, pinned like a moth to the rough stone. At least she wouldn’t slide off and land with a splash in the rain butt, she thought thankfully.

  The ridge was only just above her head. She inched upwards, feeling a surge of triumph as her hands fastened on the projecting sill of the end window. The trick now was not to look down but to continue leaning inwards while her fingers grasped the projecting sash and the ridge scraped skin from her toes.

  The window slid up easily and she bent over the sill, allowing her pent breath to escape her and then sliding the lower half of her body within, landing with a faint thump on the floor. In her own ears the thump sounded like an earthquake but she was certain it could not have been heard from below. She rose, wincing as the reality of scraped palms, knees and toes stung her, and softly closed the window.

  She was in one of the storerooms. The square shapes of packing-boxes stood all around. The possibility that the inner door might be locked delayed her for a second and then she negotiated a passage between the boxes and tried the handle. It opened easily and she went into the passage that led to the narrow staircase leading down into the chapel. No convenient light burned here. Presumably nobody ever wandered about here after dark. From below came the tinkling of the Sanctus bell. A Mass at this hour held in complete silence? It made no sense at all.

  She moved forward along the corridor to the greyish square of light that marked the top of the stairs. She couldn’t recall if any of the steps creaked, but she would have to risk it.

  None of them did and she gained the small landing at the bend in the staircase with no sound save the hammering of her heart in her ears.

  Below, grouped about the Lady Altar, the four novices, demure in their pale smocks with the white collars, knelt in silent devotion, prostrating themselves each time Sister Lucy rang the Sanctus bell. Behind the novices the Prioress stood, flanked by Mother Emmanuel and Sister Felicity, all three bowing in unison with the tinkling bell. Bathed in the soft light of the candles the entire scene had an innocent charm, a purity that was completely unlike her more freakish imaginings.

  The bell rang a final time and the novices rose, heads bowed and hands folded, to pass before the older sisters, each novice kneeling briefly for blessing, genuflecting to the high altar and filing silently out.

  Sister Lucy was moving from candle to candle, extinguishing each flame. The painted features of the Virgin retreated into shadow again. Only the Perpetual Lamp still glowed. One by one the remaining sisters left the chapel. To Sister Joan’s relief Sister Lucy, the last to leave, merely closed the outer door. The idea of having to climb out of the upper windows and shin down the sloping roof to the water butt had been less than attractive. She came down the final flight of stairs and sat down in one of the choir stalls. At that moment she was feeling a complete and utter fool. What she had just seen was clearly an exercise in group worship, unusual only because of the hour at which it was being held, but even that could be explained. Discipline of mind over body was a necessary feature of the religious life and though in the Order of the Daughters of Compassion one was not often roused from sleep to spend an hour in prayer in a cold chapel the personal will still had to be subdued.

  She slid to her knees, crossing herself, glad of the sting of her scraped knees and palms since it provided an instant penance. Certainly this night’s escapade could never be confessed either in general confession or privately to the chubby little Father Malone. She would wait until some stranger priest visited as happened now and then to give the laity a change of confessor.

  It would have been pleasant to stay here and doze for a while with her head on her arms. She resisted the temptation and rose, moved into the aisle, genuflected and went to the door, pausing to dip her fingers into the holy water stoup and blessing herself. The cool water on her brow reminded her again that she was thirsty. She would not however quench her thirst until the morning. Another small slice of penance for foolishness.

  Outside was starlight, Venus hanging low with the attendant Sirius ringed with cloud. She went back to the water butt, sternly repressed a feeling of pride when she looked up to trace with her eyes the climb she had taken and retrieved her garments.

  She pulled down her nightdress, shrouded herself in the cloak and slid her dirty and scratched feet into her slippers. Re-entering through the visitors’ door she went softly along the passage to the main hall again.

  Here she hesitated, unwilling to run into any of the other sisters, but the others had dispersed. By now the novices, she assumed, would be tucked up in their beds again. Not until she was in her cell again, the door closed, the betraying cloak hung away, did she sit up in bed as violently as she had done on wakening from the dream, her mouth open with astonishment at her own slow wits.

  The four novices, kneeling, their hands joined, their hair glossy in the candlelight. Veronica Stirling’s hair carefully combed and curled, another novice with curly red hair. The Prioress had stooped to ruffle it playfully as she gave the blessing. Four pretty novices and not a shaven head among them. Suddenly everything was more puzzling than before.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Whatever have you done to your hands, Sister?’ Sister Katherine exclaimed, staring at them as the former reached for a slice of bread.

  They were standing up eating breakfast on the following morning.

  ‘What? Oh, nothing much. I scraped them somewhere.’

  ‘It looks just like the stigmata,’ Sister David said from her other side.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Sister Joan said curtly. ‘I will have to remember to wear gloves when I go riding, that’s all. For heaven’s sake don’t start any silly rumours.’

  Sister David looked hurt and moved away. She had cause, Sister Joan thought contritely. Not once yet had she invited her over to help in the school and this morning she had snapped her head off.

  She said quickly,

  ‘I was wondering if you could possibly take school tomorrow for me, Sister? I have tried to give you a rest but it’s so long since I taught that I am finding it exhausting.’

  ‘Gladly, Sister,’ Sister David said, promptly melting. From her forgiving glance it was obvious that she’d put Sister Joan’s snappishness down to tiredness. In which she wasn’t far wrong since she hadn’t slept a wink after her realisation that one of the strictest rules in the order was being flouted. Wigs perhaps? No, Reverend Mother Ann had ruffled one girl’s hair too energetically for that theory to stick.

  ‘You had better get something from Sister Perpetua for those scratches, Sister,’ Sister Katherine said.

  ‘I’ll go along before I go to school,’ Sister Joan said, putting down her coffee-cup. She caught up with Sister Perpetua as the latter was on her way to the infirmary and made her request.

  ‘Let me see.’ Sister Perpetua clucked her tongue as the other spread out her palms. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I’ve decided to wear gloves for riding in future,’ Sister Joan evaded.

  ‘I should think so! Come into the dispensary and I’ll get you some salve. I pound it up myself from a blend of witch hazel and goosegrease, much better than any commercial stuff.’ The dispensary was a small room tucked away between the infirmary and the kitchen. There was a pleasant scent of spices and on the table an old-fashioned pestle and mortar.

  ‘I shall smear this on and lend you a pair of thin cotton gloves. Wear them until the salve has soaked in, then come back this afternoon and I’ll put more on for you. Did you take a header into a bramble bush?’

  ‘It feels like that,’ Sister Joan said, submitting to the other’s ministrations gratefully.

  ‘It seems as if you’ve been here for ages, doesn’t it?’ Sister Perpetua was chattering. ‘I find it quite hard to realise you only arrived last Saturday. I do hope that things are going to go well now, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Do you feel better about things?’ Sister Joan said bluntly.

 
‘Oh yes,’ Sister Perpetua assured her. ‘My neuralgia is really improving.’

  As Sister Joan stared at her in astonishment Sister Felicity said from the doorway.

  ‘I have to go into Bodmin this morning. Shall I buy some feed for Lilith?’

  ‘That would be very kind of you, Sister,’ Sister Joan said, turning slightly.

  ‘Have you hurt your hands, Sister?’ Sister Felicity looked concerned.

  ‘Nothing very serious,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Sister Joan must wear gloves when she rides Lilith in future.’

  ‘I’ll get on then.’ The lay sister gave her broad smile and stomped out.

  ‘I didn’t wish to reveal my own worries,’ Sister Perpetua whispered. ‘They will only tell me that it is imagination, my old trouble.’

  ‘Your old trouble?’ Sister Joan glanced at her.

  ‘I had a slight breakdown some years ago,’ Sister Perpetua said, looking embarrassed. ‘Not a really bad one. I didn’t have to go into hospital or anything like that. Just shock after an unfortunate — oh my! That’s Sister Andrew wanting another cup of coffee. Excuse me.’

  She scurried out, her reddish eyebrows working furiously.

  A breakdown? Nuns did occasionally have breakdowns, usually at the menopause when it dawned on them that there was now no possibility even if they did the unthinkable and left the religious life, of their bearing children. Most of them didn’t even want children let alone husbands but their bodies betrayed them into useless regrets. Perhaps it had been like that with Sister Perpetua. Perhaps it would be like that with herself. She pushed the morbid thought away and went out to the stable to saddle up Lilith.

  This morning the rain had stopped. The night had been dry too, she recalled. Perhaps summer was really on the way. Solstice certainly was. She would have to sit down and work out where everything fitted before long, but for the moment she had better concentrate on the lessons she intended to give that morning.

  This morning two of the farm children were absent.