The Miracle Thief

by Iris Anthony

  We ate together, a simple meal of bread and gruel, and then we attended a service in the church. I had never been in a place so large. Though I had just eaten with many people, and though we had all attended the service together, the church was so vast it still seemed empty. It was made of stone and was quite cold and very dark, but when the priest began to speak, something happened to his voice. It magnified and multiplied until it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. At least there were candles burning at the front where he was standing. If not, I might have felt myself lost in the darkest gloom.

  After, we were shown to separate dormitories. One for the men and the other for the women. We slept, all of us women, on the same wide pallet. It was hard, and the bugs were many, but I pinched all those I could feel. Then I drew my knees up underneath my tunic and tucked my mantle in about my feet, and before I had the chance to worry about the next day’s journey, sleep claimed me.

  ***

  The next morning, I attended prime. I even made a confession and stopped to pray at the altar of the church, but I did not do so quickly enough. The group I had traveled with the day before went on without me.

  From the talk I had heard the previous night, it seemed most of the pilgrims were headed south. Not many were journeying to Rochemont. Although the weather was fair and my town of Autun would not have seen winter for several months yet, already there was some fear of encountering snow in the mountains this late in the year. “Are there any going on pilgrimage to Saint Catherine?” I was inquiring of one of the monks who had given me a bit of bread for the day’s journey. “Or do you know which road I must take?”

  He nodded toward a group that was leaving. “You might speak with them.”

  I did not wish to throw myself upon strangers, but I did not want to start off in the wrong direction either. Especially not with the possibility of snow. I tugged on the sleeve of one of the women in the group. “If I wanted to go to the abbey at Rochemont, do you know which road I should take?”

  One of the men overheard me and answered in her stead. “The road of repentance and the pathway of peace. Those always lead to redemption.”

  That is what the priest had always said after I made my confession. “But I am bound as a pilgrim to Saint Catherine, and I do not know the way to go.”

  The man gestured to the road that lay to the left. “This way. It leads to Besançon.”

  “Yes, but I am bound for—”

  “And after, it goes east and up into the mountains.”

  “Then this is the way?”

  “Indeed! If you are filled with courage and stout of faith, then come with us.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I fell in with them and, heeding my mother’s warning, I did not seek a friend. But the woman I first talked to fell into step beside me anyway. She looked older even than my mother had. Wispy strands of gray hair escaped her wimple to be bandied about by the breeze. I had noticed her earlier that morning as we were in the church. After the offices, she had approached the altar. Tears had streamed from her face as she knelt before it.

  Her dark eyes still held a hint of sorrow and of hopes unmet. But that did not stop her from speaking to me. “You travel alone, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your need must be very great.”

  I nodded.

  “You were right to seek companions. Whatever you do, do not take to the road by yourself.”

  I would do what I had to in order to gain the abbey.

  “Is this your first pilgrimage?” She was looking at my tunic.

  I covered my bosom with my good hand and nodded once more.

  “You’ll get the way of it, and you’ll know better next time.”

  Next time? “But, how many times have you been?”

  “Oh…” She squinted away down the road for a moment before she answered. “This is my first to Saint Catherine, but I’ve been to Conques and Toulouse several times each. There’s something about a pilgrimage just makes everything else seem less important. And more dull. And every time I go back home, there’s something else that needs to be prayed for special; have you never thought the same?”

  “I do have a special request.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. A special request that only a saint can grant. You’ll see. It won’t be long before you’ll be right here the same as me, telling some other young pilgrim what must be done.”

  “How…how do you do it?” My only cares had been for the journey; I had not thought of what I must do once I arrived.

  “Do it?” She cast a startled glance at me. “Well, most of the way, you do just like we’re doing. There’s a hospice or a monastery or an abbey at the end of every day’s walk. And they board you and lodge you. They’ll take your confession.” She seized my hand. “Don’t ever pass up the opportunity to do that. Not like some. What if you meet with your death on the road? Or what if you reach the abbey only to have God decide you did not care enough to make Him answer your prayer?”

  I promised I would make a confession at every opportunity.

  “Oh! And you must leave your cross at the place with all the others.”

  Cross? “I have no cross. I did not have time to have one sewn—”

  “Not that cross. The one you carry.”

  “I carry no cross.”

  “No cross?” She looked at me with pity. “You have no cross?”

  “I did not know I needed one.”

  “You do need one. But you can buy one. Most pilgrims travel with theirs, but I see no reason you could not buy one.”

  “I’ve no money to buy one with.”

  “No money? None at all?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you can use your alms.”

  “I have none.” I had nothing I was supposed to have.

  “That is what I meant. You can ask for alms.”

  “Ask whom?”

  She shrugged. “Anyone.”

  “And…they will just…give them to me?”

  “They’re supposed to. It’s like giving them to Our Lord and Savior Himself. Although, considering how late we mostly arrive at the hospices, sometimes there’s never anyone to ask…”

  My spirits sank just as quickly as they had risen.

  “I suppose…you could make one.”

  “What with?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think on it.”

  This group was not like the other one I had walked with. These people were sober and serious. When they sang, the tunes were hymns, and when they spoke, their words were solemn. Often they recited psalms and prayers together. But it helped to pass the time. When the sun was high and we heard the ringing of far-off bells, we knew sext was upon us, so we stopped for a bit of a rest and ate the bread the monks had given us. The woman talked with some of the men. One of them left the group to search through the grasses that lined the road. When he waded out from them, he held long strands of it between his fists. Grasping the long stalks, he twisted and turned, knotted and tied, and then he came over and handed it to me. “Your cross. My Rosamund said you needed one.”

  The whole group was watching me. “Thank you.” I started to take it from him, but then I remembered my mother’s words and withdrew my hand instead. “I have nothing to give you in return.”

  “Our Lord once said it is better to give than to receive.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “There now.” He handed it to me once more.

  I tucked the cross into my cloth with all my other things. We left soon after and took to the road again. The woman, Rosamund, walked along beside me. “Now that you have your cross, you can leave it with the others.”

  “But where? Where am I to leave it?”

  “At the place.”

  “What place?”

  “The one we come to where the
others have left theirs. There is always one along a pilgrim’s path.”

  “But how will I know it? What if I miss it?”

  “You won’t miss it. Besides, I’ll tell you what to do. But more important than leaving the cross along the way, is what you must do once you gain sight of the abbey.”

  “What? What must I do?”

  “Better, I will tell you what I did. All of the times at all of the churches. I will tell you what I have done.”

  She told me of her first pilgrimage and then her second. After her third and her fourth, I confess I could not keep straight to which saints she had gone and to which she was still hoping to go.

  “…and then, at first sight of the church—” She dabbed at her eyes with a crooked finger. “At that first sight, I took off my shoes and I walked that last bit in my bare feet, rocks tearing into my soles, just the same as Our Lord did in Jerusalem…” She broke off with a tremulous cry.

  “And then?”

  “And then…what?”

  “And then what happened?”

  “What happened? Well! I got to the church, and I made my confession, just as I was supposed to.” She glanced at me. “Remember what I said: Never miss the opportunity to make a confession. That time, I spent the night there in vigil, on my knees. Not once did I allow myself to shift back onto my feet or sway forward. Not that time, though I must say I did the time before. But I stayed there the whole night, praying until the bells rung lauds.”

  “And then you were healed?”

  “Healed?” She touched a hand to her the nape of her neck as if probing for something. “No. But that morning, I was first in line to view the shrine, and it was wondrous! So many candles, so much light! First we prayed together, all of us, and then the priest took the cover off the relic, and there was the sound of tinkling bells—”

  “From heaven?” Oh!—the joy of it.

  She eyed me. “No. There was another priest standing beside the first one. He was holding a strap of bells and shaking them. So we made our offerings, and knelt and kissed the reliquary, and then we left.”

  “And then you were healed.”

  She heaved a sigh. “No.”

  “But you did everything right that time, didn’t you?”

  “Yes…” Though her answer was affirmative, she did not sound very confident about it. “At least, I thought so.” She clutched her walking staff more tightly. “But this time, I am going to do everything righter. I won’t just take off my shoes when I see the abbey. I’ll take off my shoes and go the rest of the journey on my knees. And I’ll spend two nights in vigil if they’ll let me, and then maybe…maybe this time…” We walked on for some length in silence, and then she grabbed my arm again. “But let me tell you about my pilgrimage to Toulouse. I was almost certain that time…almost, really quite certain…”

  ***

  The next day, as we walked along, I rehearsed what I must do. At the place up ahead that we would come to, though I did not quite understand where exactly it was, I would leave my little cross. At the first sight of the abbey, I would take off my shoes, and I would go the rest of the distance on my knees. And then I would make another confession and partake in—in three nights of vigil as I prayed. I could not imagine going on another pilgrimage after this one, so I must make certain to do everything exactly right. On the fourth day, at last, I would pray at the altar and kiss the relic. And then, if I had pleased God, I would be healed.

  I only hoped I would not forget anything Rosamund had said I must do.

  Another group of pilgrims must have left the hospice not long after us. They overtook us midday as we paused for rest at a spring that bubbled up beside the road. As we left that place together, one of their men fell into pace with me. It was difficult for me to keep with the others. My feet quickly tired, having become blistered and bruised, and I had discovered my shoes ill-suited to the purpose of travel. What had worked sufficiently within the confines of my house had begun to crack and tear.

  But the man did not seem to mind my awkward gait or my slower steps, and he whistled some jaunty tune as we went along. He looked as if he had long been on the road. The cross on his tunic was fraying, and his mantle had several holes in its cloth. Heedful of Mother’s advice, I knew I should not acknowledge him, but there was no church to run to, and it seemed rude to refuse his companionship since we were traveling in the same direction.

  Though he had pulled his hood far over his head, he kept glancing at the road we had already traveled as if he were expecting someone. But already we had fallen behind the others, and I could not see how any would fail to recognize him, so I said as much.

  He only looked over at me as if startled. “I don’t travel with anyone.”

  “I thought you were with them.” I nodded toward the group now well ahead of us.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I travel with anyone.”

  “So you are not from Lyons, then?”

  “I come from Autun and happened upon them as I walked.”

  “You travel alone?”

  I nodded.

  “But to whom do you return after all of this is over?”

  “No one.”

  “No one? No father?” He gave me a keen-eyed look behind the fringe of black hair that had fallen across his eyes.

  I shook my head. “He died many years ago.”

  “No brother?”

  “I was a child alone.”

  “You must have a mother.”

  “She died just last week.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. But surely you have a husband, a lass as pretty as you.”

  Perhaps one day, if God was kind, after I had been healed. “I have no one.”

  He looked at me as if I had misspoken. “Everyone has someone. At least you must have a lord.”

  “No.” None had wanted to claim me. Not with my hand so misshapen and scarred.

  “You jest.”

  “I do not.” His questions discomfited me, though I could not think why. He had an easy manner. “And yourself?”

  “Me? What about me?”

  “Where do you go? Which saint do you visit?”

  “Everywhere. All of them.” He said it with a broad gesture of his arm.

  He must be very holy then, although he did not exactly look it. And he did not have that same determination, that same anticipation the others seemed to have. “And from where do you come?”

  His brow rose. “It’s been so long now. Let us say I come from everywhere else. There are not that many of us who travel alone, not bound to any lord.”

  “No lord but Our Lord.”

  Again he seemed startled by my words, and he sent a glance back over his shoulder. “Of course. No lord but Our Lord.” He bumped my arm with his staff. “What is it you wear on that cord around your neck?”

  I put a hand to my throat, wondering how he had come to notice it. “It was my mother’s.”

  “I suppose it’s just a trinket.”

  “It’s quite nice, really.” At least I had always liked it. I drew it out and held it up to catch the sun. It caught the light, making the enamel-work glow.

  He reached out and took it up, turning it within his palm.

  Now it was my turn to be startled.

  “A pretty bauble for a pretty girl.”

  My cheeks warmed at the compliment. No one had ever called me pretty before. At least no one who seemed to mean it in the same way this man did.

  He held it up and watched it spin on its cord for a moment.

  I put my hand around the cord and stopped it. Then I let it drop back beneath my tunic.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. You should leave it out. It suits you.”

  As I returned the smile he offered, I considered his suggestion. Perhaps he was right. Why should I not appr
eciate its beauty? I pulled it out and let it settle atop my chest.

  The man began to whistle a tune and then broke out into a song that had nothing to do with holiness. But the others soon picked it up, and the cheery melody and sheer exuberance of it made me wish to sing along as well. As I listened, learning the words and then starting to sing along, I looked down at Mother’s pendant. Just seeing it flash in the sun put my mind at peace. I did not know why she had worried so. All of the people I had met along the road were so very nice.

  CHAPTER 13

  We reached that evening’s hospice rather late, as the sun was in its decline. The bells for vespers were already ringing, and there was a great knot of people at the entrance to the church. I had still not grown used to the push and crush of thronging crowds, and I was jostled to and fro by the people. I confess I stayed close to the man who had been my walking companion, for at least he was known to me, but the crowds soon parted us, and I ended by standing in the chancel among strangers, clasping my knotted cloth to my chest.

  This church had been built of stone just as the others had been. It had the same high, soaring roof and the same sort of few, small windows, which failed to let in light. But I had become accustomed to searching out God in the dark. And how glorious was that service. I closed my eyes as I listened, imagining the priest to be the voice of God. The incense to be the scent of heaven, and the chanting monks to be the voices of angels. The offices were soon finished, and I shuffled into the hospice with the other pilgrims. I did not see the man I had walked with, but I soon located the woman, Rosamund, I had spoken with the day before. She caught my eye with a wave of her hand. As had been my habit, I waited until the others had been seated before slipping along the wall and finding a place for myself at the darkest corner of their table. Thus situated, I had learned that by the time the remainder of the food had reached me, the others were intent upon their own meals and I could eat with my left hand without any of them remarking upon it. Happily, when I sat, it was next to Rosamund.

  Unfortunately, I was served first.

  “He who is last shall be the first.” The monk spoke the words with a nudge and a wink as he set a large kettle of steaming fish and a piece of bread beside me.