While a number of the choir nuns are now visibly alarmed, from the rows at the back of chapter there is a rustling wave of support.
Zuana finds herself imagining a ripe boiclass="underline" the way it grows under the surface, swelling, hardening, gathering pus, and however many poultices are applied it will not soften or heal of its own accord. Such is the ailment within the body of the convent now.
“For a novice mistress whose greatest desire it is to close down contact with the outside world, you seem to know a great deal about what goes on there.”
The abbess glances briefly at the gate censor sister, who reads all correspondence that moves in and out and who has the decency now not to be able to meet her eyes.
But Umiliana holds her ground. “Santa Caterina could be as great as any of those convents. He has already given us the purest voices with which to praise Him.”
And now she looks toward Serafina, so the rest of the nuns immediately follow the gaze. Not, however, the abbess.
“So. If I have understood you correctly, Suora Umiliana, you see the work of the termites in the chapel as God’s message to us that we are failing in our duties toward Him?”
“I see it as a sign for us to mend our ways, yes,” Umiliana says again.
Zuana thinks again of the boil and how at such times the only way forward is to lance it, whatever mess and pain it might cause.
“A sign. Ah, yes, signs—they are such a rich language.”
The abbess looks out over the assembled chapter. And her eyes are clear, no hint of fear in her.
“I have been in this convent serving God since I was six years old, and what I have learned in that time is that His plan is wondrous indeed. So that while He would not choose to stop the appetite of termites, for nature must work by her own rules, He can certainly make His will felt.”
What is coming? Zuana thinks. Can she really do this?
“The left-hand nail that held Our Blessed Lord’s body to the cross and the fixing in the back of His torso both worked loose at the same moment. Had the nail on the right side of the crossbar also given way, the great sculpture would definitely have crashed to the ground. In which case we would be mourning the loss not only of Suora Magdalena but also of one or more of our sweetest novices—even perhaps Suora Umiliana herself—as they were all close to the altar, taking the host.”
She pauses. Timing, Zuana thinks. The world is made richer by its subtleties.
“That, to me, is the true sign here. For I have to tell you that the carpenter discovered that the wood behind the right-hand nail was even more badly eaten away—so much so that he and the sculptor are in total amazement that it should have held under the strain.” Another pause. “It seems to me that, far from being damned, we were chosen instead to be saved.”
She waits again now, to make sure the room has taken on the gravity of what she has said.
“I have extracted an oath from the workmen not to speak of this outside the convent, in case careless talk of a miracle should spread and we would seem lacking in humility in our desire to bring attention down upon us. But of course I have informed the bishop and asked if perhaps a small service of thanksgiving within the convent might be called for.” She stops, smoothing her skirts again, though there is not a crease out of place and never will be. “If, however, Suora Umiliana, you are still determined to put another point of view, His Holiness might be interested in hearing from you. If you compose a letter I will make sure that it is delivered.”
The novice mistress stares at her. Zuana watches her chin tremble slightly.
“I will write it today and bring it to you during visiting hour,” she says, absorbing the defeat as if it can only serve to strengthen her, “when I would beg leave to talk of this further.”
A deep silence falls on the room. It is unheard of for a choir nun not to publicly accept the abbess’s conclusion. They are entering uncharted waters now, and that brings with it the taste of excitement as well as fear.
Among the sweet saved novices, some of them now seek out Serafina. She is sitting stock-still, staring out on to the room, those sunken eyes not seeming to focus on anything at all. This is only her third day back within convent life but she had not needed Suora Umiliana’s comment to draw attention to her. In contrast to the showy piety of before, her fasting penance has already had an impact, such that some of the sisters are beginning to wonder who this young woman really is. A novice with the temper of a Gorgon and the voice of an angel is rare enough, let alone one who has been chosen by the convent mystic as worthy of saving. And now, if Madonna Chiara is right, and the falling cross was indeed a symbol of God’s grace rather than His anger, what should one make of the fact that it was she who was receiving the eucharist at that fateful moment? Of the sweet saved, surely that makes her sweetest of all?
Zuana, meanwhile, is concentrating more on the girl’s body than her soul. She is thinking of how excessive fasting, especially when done too suddenly, can bring with it a strange intensity of self, which without proper supervision can become overwhelming; for such emptiness is a place where one can get lost as well as found. She is thinking also that while the penance officially ended three days ago, she has not seen the girl eat anything since. And she makes a note to try to change her place at the refectory table so that she can get a better view of her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
ON THIS OF all visiting days, the abbess does not take any chances. She appoints two chaperone nuns to be present continually inside the parlatorio. This is not unusual—indeed, a single chaperone is convent custom, since any contact with the outside world must be monitored—but the rule, as with so many others in Santa Caterina, is implemented lightly and the nuns generally speak, laugh, and gossip with their relatives freely. Today, however, the presence of two overseers—both from within the abbess’s family faction—will determine the conversations: how in the unfolding drama of convent life, a holy sister has died and is much mourned, and though termites ate the wood of the great chapel crucifix, it proved an opportunity for the convent to be blessed by God rather than criticized by Him. Added to that there is the news, come that very morning, that the crucifix, now removed from the chapel, will be repaired and remounted in a few weeks, in time for Palm Sunday.
That same morning, Zuana is in the dispensary working when she receives a visit from Suora Ysbeta, distraught and cradling a silk-wrapped bundle, the snub nose and gummy half-closed eyes of a small dog just visible at one end of the swaddling.
“He is sick, Suora Zuana. Very sick. Will you look at him?”
There is no point in telling her that the dispensary is a place for nuns, not animals. Ysbeta is a pure enough soul, compassionate and devout. In another world she might have been a follower of a stricter regime, only her love of animals is almost as great as her love of people and in a convent where she could not keep a pet she would surely wither and die. As the dog is doing now.
Zuana places the bundle on the worktop and carefully unwraps the silk. The smell tells her much of what she needs to know. The animal is rank with sickness, its little body trembling, its coat, usually so sleek and groomed, matted and dull. She moves her hand carefully along the line of its stomach and soon locates a hard swelling near the groin. The dog whines and makes a feeble attempt to snap, but there is no fight there anymore.
“He has not been himself for a while. Not since the Feast of Saint Agnes. But it is only in the last few days …Can you help him?”
“I am afraid he is beyond my help. There is a growth, a tumor here. Probably not the only one. It will be sapping his strength and causing him pain.”