The Gargoyle (14 page)

I loved the visitors who came to Engelthal. Locals came for medical treatment in our infirmary, and it was only proper that we accept them. Not only from a standpoint of mercy, but also as a political necessity. The monastery was expanding rapidly as nobles donated surrounding lands, and we inherited the tenants as well. There were other visitors, too, traveling priests who wanted to see what it was about Engelthal that produced such exceptional visions in the nuns or who, more practically, just desired shelter for the night. I was just as interested in a sick farmer as in a nobleman, because each brought stories about the world outside.

Sister Christina indulged me when these visitors came. I’d sit quietly in the corner of the room, concentrating intensely upon the conversation, perfecting the art of being overlooked. Gertrud disapproved, of course, and would look down her long thin nose at me. She was already losing her eyesight, and it was a chore for her to keep her disdain in focus.

Gertrud saw these visitors as intruders on her real work because, as armarius, it fell within her duties to translate occasionally. She wasn’t particularly skilled at it—her French and Italian were sketchy at best—but her position required it. Most of our visitors could speak in Latin or German, but I liked the ones best who brought exotic tongues. It was during these conversations that I sharpened my listening. The challenge was not only to understand the foreign words but also to grasp the foreign concepts. For example, I knew that Pope Clement had moved the papacy to Avignon—but why? And where was that? And what was it like? One night, I overheard my first argument. A foreign guest dared to question the righteousness of the late Pope Boniface and Gertrud jumped staunchly to the defense of His Holiness. For a little girl, it was shocking stuff.

I remember distinctly the evening that my talent was revealed. A foreign visitor was among us and Gertrud, as usual, was struggling with the translation. I could never understand what the problem was, because I could grasp everything that was said. It didn’t matter which language it was, I simply understood. On this evening the visitor was Italian, an old, poor, unwashed man. Anyone could see that he was not long for this world, and he was trying so desperately to make his situation understood. Gertrud threw up her arms in disgust and proclaimed that his accent was too vulgar to decipher.

Maybe it was because the old man looked so very frail, or maybe it was because of the rattle in his chest. Maybe it was because he thanked the nuns between every spoonful of his porridge, uttering not a single bad word despite the fact that no one could understand him. Or maybe it was because I felt that if someone didn’t talk with him that very night, it was possible that no one ever would again. Whatever the reason, I broke my code of silence and stepped out of the corner. In the Italian of his dialect, I asked, “What’s your name?”

He looked up over his spoon with such joy on his face. “Paolo,” he answered, then asked how I knew his Italian. I didn’t know how or why, I said, I just did. I told him that I listened to foreigners and after they left I’d have conversations in their languages, in my mind, before going to sleep. He thought this was wonderful. When I asked where he was from, he answered that he’d lived much of his life in Firenze but that he’d been born in the far south in an area notorious for its coarse vernacular. His own accent, he explained, was an awful mix of the two places. He laughed when he said this, and the laugh shocked Sister Christina out of her astonishment. She started feeding me questions, which I suppose was as much to test my translation skills as to uncover information. Through me, the old man’s story was told.

Paolo had spent his entire life married to a woman he’d loved dearly. She’d recently died and he knew that he would follow her soon. This was why he was traveling, because he’d never seen countries outside his own and he did not want to die knowing nothing of the world. He was not afraid of death, as he’d been a good Christian and expected his final reward. He asked if he might have just one night’s rest at the monastery before continuing his journey. Sister Christina granted this, as she had the power to act on behalf of the prioress, and Paolo thanked her for her kindness. For the first time in my life, I felt important.

Paolo took a book from his bag and held it in my direction. It was obvious that he wanted me to have it. “I won’t be needing this much longer.”

Sister Christina stepped forward to decline on my behalf. “Tell him he has so little that we cannot take from him what he does have. But thank him.” I translated, and Paolo nodded his understanding. He thanked the nuns once more before heading to the bed that was made available.

Sister Christina told me that I was to meet with her and the prioress in the chapter room the following day after matins. I asked if I was in trouble for speaking up, but Sister Christina assured me that I was not.

When I arrived the next morning, the prioress was sitting at her desk, with Sister Christina behind her. Gertrud stood at the side of the room with a detached air. The prioress was a good woman but she scared me nonetheless. She was just so old, with wrinkled jowls like a hunting dog’s.

“I take it on the authority of Sister Christina that we had a revelation last night,” she growled. “Child Marianne, there is no conceivable reason for you to know the Italian language. By what method did you accomplish this feat?”

Sister Christina gave me a reassuring nod, which bolstered my courage. “When I listen to languages, I just understand,” I said. “I don’t know why everyone can’t do it.”

“You can do this with other languages, as well? Truly, it is a showing.”

“If I may speak,” Gertrud interjected. The old woman nodded. “Your judgment is sound, Prioress. As always. Still, I think it would be prudent to ask from where such an unusual ability might come. I urge that we be on our guard, as we know so little about this child’s birth. What assurance do we have that this ability comes through the Lord, and not through…some other Entity?”

I was in no position to challenge Gertrud on such a suggestion but, luckily, Sister Christina was. “Where might
you
suggest it comes from, Sister Gertrud?”

“It is best that such names not cross the lips, but you are well aware that there are forces against which the righteous soul must be vigilant. I am not saying that this
is
the case, I am simply suggesting that we would be wise to consider all possibilities.”

The prioress answered the charge. “Until we have reason to believe otherwise, we shall assume that this is indeed a revelation from God and not a trick of the Enemy.”

I could tell Gertrud wanted to say more, but stopped herself. “Yes, Prioress. Of course.”

The old woman continued. “I propose that we consider this not only a revelation but also a calling. Do all speak with tongues? Do all interpret? No. When such a gift is recognized, it is our duty to see that it serves God’s honor. Do you not agree, Sister Gertrud?”

“I agree that we should, every one, do what we can to serve.” Gertrud squeezed these words out of her mouth as a miser might squeeze coins from her purse.

“It gladdens me to hear you say that,” the prioress continued, “for I have decided that you will take the child into the scriptorium. It is clear that her gifts exist in the realm of language, and her training shall commence immediately.”

My heart fell heavily into my stomach. If I could have foreseen that I’d be assigned to Gertrud’s tutelage, I would never have stepped out of the corner. What the prioress thought of as my “reward” was actually the harshest of all possible punishments, and I’m certain my disgust was exceeded only by Gertrud’s. At least we were finally united in a common belief: that this was a horrible idea.

“Marianne is but a child,” Gertrud protested, “and is certainly not ready for such responsibilities. While she may have displayed some rudimentary skills, there are other traits necessary for such work. Patience, for example, and an attention to detail that a child cannot possibly possess.”

“But she will learn,” the prioress responded, “by your example.”

“I beg to discuss the matter further. I understand your thinking, but—”

The prioress cut her words short. “I am pleased that you understand. You would not want me to go against the Lord’s will, would you, Sister Gertrud?”

“Of course not, Prioress.” Gertrud had her hands behind her back, and I could hear her fingernails digging into the fabric of her robe. Sister Christina stepped forward, laid her hand on my shoulder, and asked whether—with the kind permission of the prioress—we might have a few moments alone. The prioress granted the request and exited. Gertrud also left, sucking angrily at the air and doing her best not to slam the door on her way out. She was not successful.

Sister Christina spoke. “I know you do not think much of the idea, but I do believe that Sister Gertrud is a good and holy woman, and that there is much you can learn from her. Though you cannot understand it now, your gifts are as exceptional as they are unexpected. The Lord obviously has great plans for you and I could not in good conscience allow this to go unaddressed. We must trust in this revelation and remember that the Lord allows no accidents.”

You can imagine how any child would take such an explanation, even a child raised in a monastery. How could God’s design involve training under Gertrud? I howled until my cheeks were red and tears rolled down my face. Sister Christina let me get it all out and even took my childish blows. She did, however, dodge my kicks, so I suppose there was a limit to her self-sacrifice. When I had finally drained myself of energy and crumpled to the floor, she sat down beside me.

I told her that I hated her, but we both knew it was not true. She stroked my hair and whispered to me that everything would be all right, if only I trusted in God. And then she took something out of the folds of her robe, a book that she had secreted there.

“When I went to wake Paolo this morning, I found that he had died in his sleep. He went without pain, I believe, and the look on his face was serene. But it was clear that he wanted you to have this last night, so I am fulfilling his final wish by passing it along now.”

Sister Christina handed me an Italian prayer book, the first book that I could call my own. Then she took me to the scriptorium, so that I might begin serving God’s will.

H
ow do I best present the medieval life that Marianne Engel claimed was hers, when—of course—she no more lived in the fourteenth century than I did? The challenge lies not only in her story’s inherent lack of truth, but also in the fact that I can no longer continue to write solely in my own voice: I now must consider hers. I have attempted to re-create the Engelthal story exactly as she spoke it, but if my rendering of her voice is sometimes flawed, please forgive me. I have done my best.

The tale also brought forth the question of just how crazy Marianne Engel actually was. Did she really believe she had been raised in a medieval monastery, or was she simply trying to entertain a burn patient? When I tried to get her to admit that she was making it all up, she looked at me as if I were the insane one and, since I wanted her to keep coming back, I could hardly insist she had it backwards. In the end, I decided I would let her keep telling the story until the facts tripped her up.

I was not the only one musing on the state of my visitor’s sanity. Dr. Edwards paid me a visit with the unambiguous goal of discouraging further visits from this new woman in my life. The conversation opened with a warning about the physical risks that came with Marianne Engel; as she was sneaking in when the nurses weren’t looking and was disregarding the rules about gowns for visitors, who knew what germs she might be bringing? I conceded the point but countered that it certainly could not harm my recovery to have something—
someone
—to look forward to seeing.

“That may be, but you need to focus on your recovery, and not deal with…” Nan took a moment to compose a politic phrasing. “…Other issues that won’t help you get better.”

She was very quick, I suggested, to tell me what I needed.

“I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve seen what extra stress can do to a patient.”

I asked whether her concern arose because my visitor was an occasional psychiatric patient at the hospital, and Nan affirmed the fact did not play in Marianne Engel’s favor. However, she was also quick to add that this would not, or could not, be used to keep Marianne Engel away; as she had been judged competent to live in society, thus she was also competent to visit a hospital. Still, I could see that Nan might use her influence to make it as difficult as possible.

“I’ll tell you what,” I proposed, “if you allow her to keep coming, I’ll work harder with Sayuri.”

“You should be doing that anyway.”

“But I’m not,” I said, “and you should take what you can get.”

Nan must have judged that she would not be getting a better deal than the one I was offering, because she accepted. However, she could not stop herself from adding, “I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You just have to leave her alone.”