From such small and unpropitious beginnings miracles are made. From that day on folk stopped disparaging me and bought my produce with a smile, placing their payment politely within my palm. The name Sylvia Honeyeater was no longer used and I was now known as Sylvia of the Gloria. The village folk would beg me to sing to them and I would do so, but only when all my produce had been sold. Nor would I again sing a hymn in a public place but only folksongs. In my usual pew at the back of the church on Sunday I reverted to my accustomed silence. I was now eleven years old or thereabouts and knew my mind, and while the village women begged me to sing in the church grounds after mass so that the priest, Father Pietrus, might hear my voice, I steadfastly refused. Despite my redemption in the inflamed imagination of the Christ-zealot villagers, I still knew myself to be a sinner unworthy of singing in or even near God’s house.
My newfound public voice brought a reflected glory to Brass Leg Peter the Forgiven Coward, who now acted as if I was the result of his careful nurture, happily accepting the credit for my transformation into a songbird. He commanded me to appear at the inn to sing to his circle of drunken comrades. He would bask in their congratulations and when my singing brought tears to their eyes he would boast that my voice came from him. That he had once sung like a lark until the infidels had captured him. They’d poured lye down his throat when they’d caught him on his knees in his evil-smelling, rat-infested prison cell praising the Almighty in glorious song. This brought the usual derisive laughter from those who had known him as a young man. They claimed he had only ever been part of a drunken singsong and had never been heard to sing in praise to the Almighty. But others who knew him less well were quick to pat him on the back and refill his tankard. Nor was the innkeeper lacking in generosity; my singing attracted new customers and so he too saw to it that my father’s tankard was always brimming with good cheer.
But idle tongues cannot easily be silenced and the news of the divine occurrence did not take long to reach Father Pietrus. The Miracle of the Gloria by this stage had increased even further in its lurid and improbable detail and it was now maintained that prior to the ‘miracle’ I had been a mute.
I have subsequently spent most of my life in the observation of people and know how they hunger for sacred manifestations, holy signs and wonders that they could perceive to be miraculous. Nor, at the time, was I willing to deny them. My newfound status was a great deal better than the one I had previously possessed and while I sometimes longed for my former privacy I confess I enjoyed the attention. Never having known anything but disparagement, the respect people now afforded me gave me my first small taste of power. My voice was the only thing I had ever possessed that was mine alone to control and I would often quietly refuse a request to sing. Refusal was a new experience for me. I had never possessed anything to withhold from anyone – even my body, that most sacred of female rights to refuse, had been taken without my consent. Curiously, refusal seemed only to enhance my status in the village and I soon learned that to give sparingly of my voice made it more valuable to those who hungered to hear me sing.
As I grew older it was a lesson I was to employ in other aspects of my life. As a woman I was to learn that the promise of something to come that must by degrees be earned is far more valuable to a man than a hasty, generous and wanton fulfilment. Despite this small sense of independence, I had some doubt that I possessed the courage to refuse the command of the village priest to sing, even though I thought myself a blasphemer should I be made to sing anywhere near the house of God.
I was to be escorted into the presence of Father Pietrus by Frau Anna and her two companions. The Gossip Queen had very conveniently forgotten the spittle and abuse she’d hurled at me. Now she boasted that she’d been the main presence at the moment Christ’s spiritual light in the form of the Holy Ghost had entered to wrestle with and cast out the evil demon that had taken possession of me.
Ever since the ‘miracle’ she’d claimed certain privileges at my expense, the major one seeming to be the right to attach her presence to me whenever it was to her advantage. I have no doubt it was she who led the prattling contingent of old wives to the village priest to inform him of the miraculous event that had turned me from a deaf mute into a celestial singer.
I had been cleaning the pigsty, singing to myself, so that by the time I heard the three village women approaching it was too late to hide. Frau Anna was at the forefront followed by Frogface and Gooseneck, both carrying baskets. She came to a halt beside the pigsty. ‘The priest wishes to see you, Sylvia,’ she announced in a peremptory manner, then including the other women with a sideways nod of her head, added, ‘but we have agreed thou art not in a fit state to see him.’ I immediately thought she meant that as a sinner I was not fit to be in his holy presence. ‘You will wash in the stream and then put on fresh linen,’ she commanded.
I glanced shamefaced at my ragged gown. ‘Frau Anna, I have only what I am wearing.’
‘I know, child,’ she said impatiently. ‘We have brought a gown for you and shoes and a cap. They are not new but clean and well patched and the shoes are stout enough. Now hurry, we cannot keep the good father waiting.’
The stream, when I had earlier that morning gone to fetch water, had been covered in a thin layer of late-autumn ice.
Though it was by now well past noon and the ice would have melted in the pale sunlight I knew it yet to be freezing. ‘We will wash and prepare you,’ Frau Anna announced firmly, then pointed to a basket one of the women carried. ‘We have brought soap and a scrubber and some old linen to dry you.’
I was told to disrobe beside the stream where they sniffed in disgust at the ragged garment that fell to my feet to leave me standing naked, hugging myself and shivering in their presence. ‘Look, she is still a child,’ Frogface pronounced, pointing at my hairless crotch.
‘Only in appearance,’ Gooseneck said sardonically. This set both of them cackling.
‘Shame on you!’ Frau Anna chided. ‘God has returned the child’s virginity.’ She turned to me. ‘Has your bleeding come yet?’
‘No, Frau Anna,’ I replied.
‘There, you see! She has been restored to a blameless innocent. Oh my God!’ she suddenly exclaimed, visibly trembling, then grabbing me by my right shoulder and spinning me around so the other two might look at my back. ‘See the fish!’ she shouted out excitedly. ‘It is the sign of Jesus the Saviour! The Son of God! The Fisher of Men!’ Then in a tone of awe she suddenly whispered, ‘Oh my God! He has marked her for Himself!’
I had never seen the small birthmark situated between my shoulder-blades and so had forgotten about it. I now remembered my mother saying it was in the perfect shape of a fish. She had joked that it was God’s way of seeing to it that I would never drown. Now Frau Anna saw it for a part of the Miracle of the Gloria. I remained silent, too preoccupied with the cold, and besides, I saw no reason to tell her that I had been born with the mark upon my skin.
‘There! I told you so!’ Frau Anna, somewhat recovered from her initial shock, declared triumphantly. ‘This is yet another confirmation that the Lord Jesus has personally blessed the child.’ Not wishing to miss an opportunity to scold them she turned scornfully to her two companions. ‘And you two see fit to mock God’s special child! Shame on you both. I hope you will declare this sinful behaviour before next you accept the bread and the wine of redemption?’
Frau Anna’s admonishment silenced them and somewhat resentfully they set about me with soap and wet rags, splashing me with jugs of freezing water until I gasped and turned blue from the cold, my teeth chattered furiously and I was unable to cease from trembling. They soaped my hair and then made me immerse my head in the freezing stream, Frau Anna’s huge hand at the back of my neck forced my head below the water while one of the women rinsed my hair. At last, fussing and clucking, they dried me in the pale sunlight and dressed me in a woollen gown that fitted well enough and was clean and carefully patched. The wimple was almost new and wrappe
d snugly about my head, and though the shoes were too big and the wooden soles well worn they remained on my feet with only a little difficulty and were tolerably comfortable. One of the women produced a cloak to wrap around my shoulders.
And so we set off for the meeting with Father Pietrus, the three women excited by the further addition of a sacred fish, which added to my growing mystique. As we approached the village church Frau Anna turned to me. ‘I will do the talking, Sylvia. You will be silent until the priest asks you to sing the Gloria. Say nothing, you hear? Nothing! Do you understand, child?’
I nodded, happy to comply with her request. I was anxious and frightened for I had never spoken to a priest and couldn’t imagine ever doing so. Father Pietrus was busy and caused us to wait for some time before we were ushered into a draughty vestry by the old hausfrau who swept the church interior and cooked and cleaned for him. She bade us all to be seated in a pew too small to contain three fat women and myself, so I found myself squashed between the enormous buttocks of Frogface and Gooseneck.
The priest arrived and sat in a chair facing us; he seemed not to notice our discomfort, his hands spread on his lap and his head bowed as if he was about to pronounce a blessing, but no word came from his mouth. We waited for what seemed like ages until at last he sighed, raised his head and asked somewhat wearily, ‘So, tell me about this so-called miracle I hear so much about?’
Frau Anna started to open her mouth when the priest’s hand shot up. ‘The child will speak of it first.’ Shocked at this sudden command to speak I remained silent and terrified. ‘Speak up, child!’ Father Pietrus demanded impatiently. ‘I do not have all day to listen to the prattle of three old women and a child.’ He sighed again and then said in a mocking voice, ‘It seems a month for miracles – last week an old crone visited me to say she’d seen the face of the Blessed Virgin appear on a piece of linen as the wind blew her washing on the line. She brought the rag to me and asked that I declare it sacred and pronounce it a relic!’ He sighed and ran his hand over his bald pate. ‘“Use it to wipe the dishes, old frau, that way your food will be blessed,” I advised her. She left well pleased.’ He sighed. ‘Is there no end to this nonsense of signs and portents?’
If Frau Anna was offended by the priest’s cynicism she didn’t show it, nor did she seem in the least put out. She nodded her head in my direction. ‘She is a former mute, Father,’ she said impassively, ‘and has yet to learn how to talk.’
‘A former mute that sings!’ Father Pietrus yelled out. ‘Did I not hear that she sang the Gloria Patri and the Gloria in Excelsis in the marketplace? Are they not formed by words of praise?’
‘Ah! Now you begin to understand the gift from heaven, Father. But that is only a part of it,’ she added mysteriously.
‘There is more?’
‘Oh yes, Father!’ Frogface and Gooseneck exclaimed simultaneously, almost as if they’d been rehearsed in support of Frau Anna.
Frau Anna nodded, acknowledging them. Then, anxious to maintain her role as chief witness, she added primly, ‘They are witnesses to the miracle and will confirm everything I have to say is the truth.’
‘Of course,’ Father Pietrus said wearily, ‘of course they will.’ He looked towards Frau Anna. ‘So pray tell me more of this mute child bursting into hymns of praise. But do it quickly, woman, I have much to do.’
Frau Anna appeared not to notice the priest’s mocking irony. ‘Formerly mute, now learning to talk, Father,’ she corrected him, then she launched into the incident in the marketplace. She turned the coincidental sunlight into the spirit of the Holy Ghost descending from heaven to surround me in pure white light. She told of the demon’s red eyes looking out of mine in fear and the look of terror on my face. Then how the light entered my mouth and my eyes turned to a heavenly blue and upon my face appeared a beatific smile. Pausing for effect she then explained how I commenced to sing the Gloria in the voice of an angel, whereupon God Himself was heard to send down his approval in the form of a mighty clap of thunder.
It was little wonder that Frau Anna was known as the Gossip Queen for she was a born storyteller. Well knowing the truth and despite myself I was impressed. On either side of me Gooseneck and Frogface had taken to their rosary beads and both were weeping softly, overcome by their leader’s eloquence. Father Pietrus sighed, folding his hands across his chest and twiddling his thumbs. ‘Well, I see the child has kept the blue eyes the Holy Ghost brought down from heaven in the glaring white light,’ he observed. It was obvious that he remained unbelieving.
Frau Anna, who had up to this moment remained impassive to the priest’s sarcasm, was now suddenly barely able to contain her fury. Father Pietrus hadn’t, like everyone else, succumbed to her impassioned and detailed description of the miraculous event. Jumping from the pew she turned and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me viciously to my feet. ‘Look for yourself, Father!’ she shouted. Then placing a hand on either shoulder she pulled, stripping the garment from my shoulders so that I stood half-naked. Then she turned me about so roughly that I staggered and would have fallen had she not held me. I now had my back to the priest. ‘There, see the mark of the fish!’ she exclaimed. ‘She is among those chosen by the Lord Jesus Himself! Come ye after me and I will make you to become fishers of men.’
Father Pietrus rose from his chair and came to stand directly behind me so that I could smell the sour sacrament wine on his breath. ‘Hmm . . . an interesting birthmark. You are right, it does closely resemble a fish.’
‘It is the sign of Jesus the Holy Fisherman on the Sea of Galilee,’ Frau Anna declared triumphantly, then added incredulously, ‘It was not seen to be there before the miracle, Father.’
‘Nonsense, woman! It is a simple birthmark.’
‘The mark of Jesus our precious Saviour upon her frail flesh,’ Frau Anna insisted, despite the priest’s scornful opinion.
Father Pietrus suddenly threw his hands in the air. ‘I have no more time or patience to waste on this blasphemy! Be off with you . . . all of you . . . out!’
‘You have yet to hear her sing, Father!’ Frau Anna said huffily, ignoring his scornful dismissal. She commenced to adjust my garment, pulling it back over my shoulders, whereupon she bade me turn to face Father Pietrus.
A look of exasperation crossed the priest’s face. ‘For God’s sake, woman! Am I really to believe that the Holy Ghost has caused a mute child to sing?’
‘Why, Father, I have twice already told you, the child cannot yet speak for lack of learning, but she can sing!’ Frau Anna scolded. ‘Sing to the glory of God! That is the Miracle of the Gloria! She will now demonstrate how the Lord has gifted this poor miserable mute.’
‘Why has God punished me with the likes of you in my parish, Frau Anna?’ Then, accepting the inevitable, Father Pietrus added, ‘Yes, of course, it is not the child’s own voice, it is the voice of an angel descended from heaven and placed into this dumb child’s compliant throat.’ The priest turned to me and with a degree of sarcasm commanded, ‘Sing, child, let us hear the beatific voice within your recently mute throat.’
I had vowed, as an unworthy sinner, not to sing in the house of God. Besides, as I silently memorised all his deprecating words and angry gestures so that later in the woods I might reproduce the entire scene unfolding in the vestry, in the process I had completely lost my fear of Father Pietrus. Now I knew I had the strength within me to deny his demand to sing. There was plainly no point in continuing the farce – the priest had quite correctly concluded no miracle had taken place and I was about to be restored to my former status as Sylvia Honeyeater, the village outcast.
I’m not even sure if at the time I was disappointed at the prospect of returning to my previous life. Except for my father’s drunken brutality, I had been left on my own to do as I wished since the death of my mother and as time went on, being the centre of attention and at everyone’s beck and call was wearing thin and becoming most wearisome. I found myself escaping to the woods at every opportu
nity. But even there I wasn’t always alone. The village children soon enough discovered my gift for mimicry and for storytelling and would frequently seek me out in the woods where they could have me to themselves. While I oft times enjoyed their company, there were increasingly frequent periods when I wished to be alone with only the birdsong surrounding me. Furthermore, it now occurred to me, if my voice should please the priest, while yet denying the miracle, he might force me to sing in church and by so doing increase my already heavy burden of guilt.
As I made no attempt to open my mouth, Father Pietrus repeated impatiently, ‘Sing if you please, child!’
I looked up at the truculent face of Frau Anna and realised that if he should dismiss, as seemed certain, the Miracle of the Gloria, then Father Pietrus would cause her newfound status to be greatly diminished. I glanced at Frogface and Gooseneck and saw the gleeful look in their eyes as they too realised that Frau Anna, the bully and their constant tormentor, would become the laughing stock of the village.
I realised how desperately Frau Anna depended on my voice to save her from ultimate humiliation. In my mind I heard the ‘phfft!’ of her spittle and felt it land on the back of my neck, followed by the words, ‘Whore! Satan’s child!’ She’d presented me to the priest as a near-mute and now she would have one. I remained silent.
Sylvia Page 3
