Ophelia (33 page)
Authors: Lisa Klein
"I will not say."
"See! She lies, without a doubt," Durufle cries.
Mother Ermentrude glares at the count with evident dislike, and Bishop Garamond holds up his hand to silence him.
"Has she confessed her sins and repented of them?" he asks.
"That, Your Excellency, is a matter for her conscience," replies Mother.
I have not confessed my sins to Father Alphonse, and Mother knows this. She knows my heart and its straggles. Not the priest, but Mother, should be my confessor. Why did I not tell her all, when I had her open and forgiving ear?
The bishop regards me, tapping his cheek with a finger.
"What is her habit of life here?" he asks.
"Ophelia prays and communes with us, and abides by the rules of community life. She displays charity to all, humility, and a love of work," says Mother.
"How can we be sure she does not deceive you?" Durufle interjects. His harsh expression matches his unyielding figure. "Surely she has ran away from another convent. That is why she will not tell you where she is from or how she came to be in this state. Or the name of her
pretended husband."
He spits out the words mockingly.
"She came to us weak and sick in body and mind. She asked for our protection. She brought a generous purse with her. Now she works among us as our physician and healer," says Mother, like one who patiently repeats a message for a child.
"Witchery, you can be sure. She and that servant—that base laundry maid—are surely conspiring in some evil," growls Durufle.
Again, I must speak, though my words might endanger me.
"Therese loves our Lord with all her heart. She is, however, afflicted with a wasting disease which I treat with plants provided by our Maker. To call this witchcraft is an affront to the Lord," I say, trembling all over with the effort of speaking. Mother Ermentrude presses my shoulder, either to calm me or to bid me be silent.
"I see she has a passionate nature. No doubt she continues to lie," insists Durufle. "She should be expelled, like the wicked woman she most certainly is."
"The law of Christ and the rule of Benedict alike require us to give her shelter," says Bishop Garamond. "But they do not allow us to condone immorality—"
"Rather you must condemn it, Your Excellency," Durufle interrupts. The plume on his hat quivers with his rage. "Evil is a contagion that spreads with contact. Root it out here, at its source!" He stamps his foot for emphasis, then adds in a low and oily voice, "This foul business impugns my family's good name. I tell you, it bodes ill for this convent."
Bishop Garamond is silent, perhaps considering this threat. I dare to look at his face, even into his eyes. They are gray and troubled, like a dark-clouded sky, but there is no unkindness there. In the silence, I hear the scratching of Marguerite's pen.
"Tell me whence you come and the identity of your child's father," he commands me, though gently. All wait for my reply. The sound of Marguerite's pen ceases; she, too, waits.
Isabel has told me the bishop is a good man. When she took her vows, he presided over the ceremony and, like a tender father, gave her in marriage to Christ. If I cannot trust this kindly-seeming bishop, what man can I trust?
"No harm will come to you or to the child. Speak," he urges again.
How can he make such a promise? No one on earth can ensure our safety. Though Claudius can no longer touch me, Ed mund may still live. And King Fortmbras would be no ally to me or my child. Above all, I do not trust the powerful and vengeful Durufle.
I offer the bishop a reply from a psalm I am sure he knows.
"No more will I put my trust in princes," I say.
A strange sensation overcomes me, and the edges of my sight grow dark. I waver on my feet and, against my will, I sink to my knees. Does God strike me for defying his deputy?
Bishop Garamond sighs heavily. Durufle makes a sound like the grinding of teeth. Mother comes to my side, and her strong arms keep me from falling prostrate.
After a moment, Bishop Garamond announces, "She may remain among you until she has delivered the child. Meanwhile we will inquire and discover the truth." He sounds weary.
"Your Grace, I must protest—" hisses Durufle, but the bishop cuts him off by stamping his crozier to signal the finality of his judgment. Once, twice, three times. The sound echoes loudly from the wood-paneled walls. Then I feel the bishop's hand on my head as he murmurs a prayer in Latin. With Mother's help, I rise to leave, but I am seized by a pain that grips my entire belly and I cry out for help.
Darkness like water swirls about me. Pam seizes my belly, stopping my breath. Its grip loosens and I gulp the air, greedy for life. Then the weight of all my suffering sinks my body again as water closes over my face and seeps into me. I kick feebly against the resisting shroud of my clothing.
Fragments of Psalms float to the surface of my mind.
Save me O God for I have come into deep waters where the floods overflow me.
I am seized again and again with pains that mount like sins and pierce like swords. Oblivion opens before me like a dark chasm, and I am too weak to step back from its edge.
Let not the deep swallow me up nor the pit shut its mouth on me.
I see a glowing fire that heats my flesh. Death and sin must not claim me now! I hold fast to life though my body bends, twists, and arches as if it will break. My blood flows out. Voices cry to me and whisper softly. The dead, in a masquelike procession, beckon to me to join them.
Then strong hands lift me from the water. They raise me from an earthen grave, newborn like Lazarus. They pull from the clutches of my body a slick, wet baby that renounces my darkness for the light.
My flesh also shall rest in hope, for you will not abandon me to the grave.
The ghosts are dispelled. Death is defeated again. The floodwaters recede; it is only salty sweat that trickles down my face and into my mouth. Isabel lays in my arms a tiny boy, gasping his own first breaths with lusty cries. He is swaddled in clean linen and smells of purity itself.
She and Angelina hover over me like angels wreathed in human joy.
"Children are a heritage from the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is a gift," says Angelina. Her red face is bathed in sweat, but her smile tells me that all is well.
I have delivered the babe on a pallet in the bakery, for it is the warmest place in the convent. The fires have been stoked and the ovens left open to disperse the heat.
"Angelina, bring my small cabinet of medicines and the bag of herbs. A hot poultice placed on my belly will help to shrink the womb and parsley will bring away the afterbirth."
"Did I not say she would soon be about her work again?" says Angelina with a laugh as she does my bidding.
Mother Ermentrude comes into the room and kneels by my pallet, a gesture of humility that belies her authonty. She looks tired. Marguerite stands behind her.
"We have prayed these two days and now thank God for your safe deliverance," Mother says, taking my hand. She has tears in her eyes. Her touch moves me to speak truth at last.
"I am sorry that I ever deceived you in this matter. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you would send me away. Do you forgive me?"
"Shhh. There is no cause, Ophelia," she says, smoothing my damp hair from my face and touching my baby's forehead.
"I have never known a mother's care," I whisper. "I do not know how to be a mother." Even as I say this, I realize it is no longer true.
"Do not fear," says Mother Ermentrude. "think of Our Lady, the mother of beautiful love, greatness, and holy hope."
"No, I will think of you," I say to this woman who kneels at my bedside as my very own mother would. "You are a kind mother to many daughters. Look how they love you, as I do." At this, Mother Ermentrude smiles so broadly that her eyes almost disappear into the many folds and creases of her face.
I look at the baby cradled in my arms. His mouth is a perfect O, like that of a tiny chonster singing God's praises. I know that I will love him beyond all reason. This must be what Gertrude felt upon seeing the newborn Hamlet, what my own mother felt holding me before she died. The thought comes to me:
This, then, is the fruit of it all. Not the punishment of death, but the gift of life.
Strength and courage flow into my body like new blood. The heavy burden I have borne so long now lifts from my soul. I am afraid no more as I open my mouth to confess.
"My son's name is Hamlet, as was his father's, and he is a prince of Denmark."
It is April now, and the rains falls in sweet showers that bathe every root and swelling bud of nature. The yellow daffadowndillies have burst into bloom, and the tiny cupped flowers of crocuses are spreading their pied blankets of white and purple. My son, Hamlet, is as new and as full of wonders as the spring. Isabel tells me that when they learned his name, the nuns wept with surprise and joy.
"This is no usual babe, but a prince! He will be a bringer of peace!" Sister Lucia even cried out.
Soon Mother will send word of his birth to the bishop, who will rule on our future, but for now my delight in Hamlet overcomes any fear.
Every earthly joy, however, is tempered by sadness. For weeks, Therese has been too sick even to rise from her bed. Tomorrow is the feast of Christ's resunection, and while the nuns attend the Easter Vigil service in the chapel, I keep my own vigil at Therese's bedside. She is out of her senses and does not recognize me. Now the precise outlines of her skull show through the skin of her face, presaging death. She murmurs incoherent words and plucks at her bedding with bone-thin fingers. Her weakened body rejects even the tiniest crumb of bread and drop of water.
Therese's illness oppresses the convent like a heavy blanket laid over spring's green floor. Those who resented her piety now are ashamed that they turned away from her. In Mother's drawn face, I can see the regret that she did not champion Therese in her desire to become a nun. Though speechless and unaware, the dying woman rebukes us all. That I could not make her eat fills me with sadness, even as I joy to watch my baby grow fat from my milk. I have failed Therese, and she will soon die.
As if in a waking dream, I hear the voices of angels. Have the hosts of heaven come to claim my patient? I open my eyes to see that the candle has expired, and there is no light left to pierce the dark. But Therese still breathes and sleeps.
The singing commences again, and I realize that the Easter matins have begun. I pick up baby Hamlet in his cradle of rushes. The steady chanting draws my weaned steps, which know their way despite the dark, to the chapel. In the nave, scores of country folk stand or sit on mats and benches. They have risen before dawn and walked in the dark to witness this annual drama. In the sanctuary, candles illuminate the solemn faces of the nuns. The crosses are covered in black cloth, signifying the death of Christ. The audience waits, expecting a great drama.
Finally the act begins. Mother Ermentrude, in a gold-edged green cope, sends the three Marys to visit the tomb of Jesus, a large stone that has been hauled into the sanctuary. The women, played by Angelina, Marguerite, and Isabel, lament the death of their Savior, moving their hands in small and eloquent arcs as they sing. Then they see the angel, played by a farmer's son in a tunic covered with goosefeathers. He carries a jeweled box, and as he opens the lid, he lifts his eyes to signify that the box is empty. Rejoicing that their Lord is risen, they carry the news to the nuns seated in the choir.
Then the village priest enters, dressed in a brown cloak and carrying a shovel like our ancestor Adam. Marguerite, who represents Mary Magdalene, falls to her knees, for she recognizes the resurrected Christ. Her clear, sweet voice rises in joy as she sings of her love.
This is a play quite unlike anything I saw acted at the court of Elsinore. Here nothing is feigned, no action is false or pretended. The nuns' upraised hands, their solemn steps, and their shining faces convey hope and earnest faith. It is truth they enact, a truth that shames all human falsehoods and deceits.