The End of Time (2 page)

W
E HAD STEPPED into a small room. Candlelight revealed walls paneled with old wood and a floor set with small stones. Opposite where we entered was another pair of closed doors. Against one wall was a bench. Over it was a wooden cross.

“In this convent,” said the nun, continuing to study us as if we were a great curiosity, “we live mostly in silence.
We ask you to honor that as best you may. But it’s also our rule to extend hospitality to guests, to help the needy, and to feed the poor.

“Therefore,” she continued, “you will most likely be allowed to stay the night. But it’s not for me to decide. I must consult our abbess. I’ll see if she’s awake. She’s been ill. Stay here,” she said, indicating the bench.

Without waiting for our response, the nun passed through the inner doors, taking the candle with her, leaving us in darkness. We heard her turn a lock behind her.

We felt about for the bench and sat side by side. My stomach grumbled with hunger.

“What is a convent?” Troth whispered.

“A church house,” I said, remembering how little Troth knew of the world. “For women.”

“What do they do here?”

I thought for a bit. “I’m not sure.”

We sat there, waiting. “Crispin,” Troth said shortly, “what if Iceland doesn’t exist?”

“Bear said it does,” I said, not wanting to admit how much the nun’s words troubled me, too. “What we need now is food.” We continued to wait.

Troth said, “Did you see the herbs growing by the path?”

“No.”

“It was all overgrown, but I think it was once a garden,” she said. “I’m sure I saw some curing herbs.”

It was the kind of thing Troth would notice. I was trying to sit still, musing on what kind of food the nun might bring and if we’d be allowed to stay the night.

From somewhere deep within the building, a bell clanged. It was followed by the sound of soft steps beyond the inner door. Not long after—at a distance—we heard women singing. The voices were high, clear, and solemn. Though I could not understand the words, the sound softened the dark.

The inner door lock shifted and the door opened. Sister Catherine, her face illuminated by a lantern, reappeared.

“I have spoken to our abbess, Mother Marie,” she announced. “As I told you, she’s ill and in the infirmary. As is her custom, she wishes to see our visitors. Come.” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk.”

It was like following a shadow as we passed down a stone-paved corridor. Since the nun carried the only light, we saw little save columns and walls, all of stone. Here and there candles burned in cold niches.

The singing stopped. A bell rang. The only sound was our steps. Sister Catherine pushed a door open and made
a motion with her hand. We stepped into a small room, its high ceiling lost in vaulted darkness. In one corner of the floor was a dish in which a small candle burned. Its trembling light revealed a wall covered with pictures. As I would later learn, the pictures depicted Saint Margaret’s life and martyrdom.

Against another wall was a long table on which sat jars. There were also five narrow beds. Over each bed—on the wall—was affixed a small cross.

In one of the beds lay a woman. Propped up by pillows, wrapped in blankets, she seemed slight. Her thin, white face, encased by a dark shawl, had high cheekbones. Her eyes, ringed by darkness, were closed. The lines about her clenched mouth suggested pain. For a moment I was not even sure she was alive.

“Our abbess,” Sister Catherine whispered. “Mother Marie.”

Sitting in a chair next to the bedridden woman was another nun. Her head was bowed over a small blue-bound book that was cradled in her hands. Near her a second candle burned in a shallow bowl. As we approached, this nun did not look up but stood and stepped noiselessly to one side. She remained there as long as we did, eyes cast down, never speaking.

Sister Catherine bent over the woman in the bed.
“Mère Marie,”
she said softly,
“les enfants sont ici
.”

The abbess shifted slightly and partly opened her eyes. At a touch from Sister Catherine, Troth and I stood before her.

“
Bienvenue à notre abbaye
,” the sick nun said in a soft, husky voice. Her mouth twitched as if trying to smile. She did not have all her teeth.

“She welcomes you,” Sister Catherine translated.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Pardonnez-moi. Je suis malade
.”

“‘Forgive me. I am ill’” came the translation.

The abbess spoke, and again Sister Catherine translated. “She says, ‘It is our mission—in Mary’s name—to be kind to poor strangers. You shall be fed and you may sleep here tonight.’”

Troth suddenly said, “What ails you?”

That Troth spoke at all startled me. It wasn’t her way, since her garbled speech was hard for others to follow. Indeed, Sister Catherine looked at me in puzzlement. I repeated Troth’s question so she could understand.

After a moment’s hesitation, Troth’s words were translated for the abbess. Mother Marie—looking only at Troth—replied in French. Sister Catherine translated.

“She has pains in her head.”

“Where?” said Troth.

“Behind her eyes.”

The abbess continued to gaze at Troth. Under such scrutiny, Troth normally stepped back. This time she remained in place. Nor did she cover her face with her hair as she always did when someone looked directly at her.

Troth and the abbess contemplated each other for a while. Then the sick nun took her thin arm out from beneath her blankets and extended her small hand. Troth stepped forward and grasped the hand.

Sister Catherine gasped.

I too was surprised.

For a moment the abbess and Troth remained with fingers linked. Neither spoke. Then the old nun, breathing deeply, pulled her hand away and closed her eyes. Her hand went back beneath the blankets.

Before I could speak, Troth said, “Thank you.”

Sister Catherine touched her on the shoulder, then gathered me and guided us both out of the room.

Once outside, Sister Catherine said, “Follow me. I’ll find you some food.” Though I was sure she was unaware how rare it was for Troth to speak out or act as she had done, she kept glancing at her.

As the nun walked down long passageways, we stayed
close. Since we had left the infirmary, we had seen no one. Once the sister paused and pointed into the darkness. “Our church is there.”

All I could see was some colored glass. The colors, illuminated from within, seemed to ripple like the surface of a flowing brook.

We were taken into what appeared to be another building, then a kitchen. It had two large ovens as well as open hearths in which smoldering red coals were piled. The room was warm and smelled of food. On a large, heavy table stood great pots and a pile of bread loaves. Sister Catherine gave us each a loaf. “We’re allowed one pound of bread a day,” she said. From a pot, she ladled tepid soup into two wooden bowls.

Troth suddenly said, “What does ‘laide’ mean?”

“‘Ugly.’ Why do you ask?”

Troth shook her head.

The nun looked at me for an explanation.

I only said, “A word she heard.”

Once again Sister Catherine bade us to come. Holding on to our food, we were led into a corridor. On one side was a wall; the other side had a row of columns. Atop each column—half in shadow, half in lanternlight—I could see the sculpted heads of people. They seemed to be watching us.

Sister Catherine opened a door to a small room. “For our guests,” she said.

Moonlight seeping through the two high windows revealed a bare room with three pallets of straw upon a stone floor. A crisscrossing timbered roof was overhead. On one wall was a flaking image of Saint Christopher carrying the infant Jesus on his back.

“You may sleep here,” said Sister Catherine. “There’s a blanket on each pallet.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Taking the lantern with her, Sister Catherine turned away. She was just about to leave the room when Troth called out, “I can cure that woman.”

S
ISTER CATHERINE HALTED. “What did she say?”

I repeated Troth’s words.

“Explain what she means.” Though the command was put to me, Troth answered for herself.

“I know about plants and herbs,” she said. “For healing.” I repeated her words so Sister Catherine could understand.

“How did you learn?”

“I was taught…by my mother.”

“Where is your mother?”

“She died. But,” said Troth, “she was a healer. A good one.”

Sister Catherine lifted her lantern a little higher and considered Troth anew.

“Who takes care of your abbess?” Troth asked.

“We pray for her every day,” said Sister Catherine. Then she added, “For a long time, we’ve had no infirmarian.”

“What’s an infirmarian?” Troth asked.

“The one who cares for us if we become ill. How might you help her?”

“For the ailment your lady has, a drink of feverfew leaves and chamomile could help.”

Sister Catherine stared at her.

“They are herbs,” Troth explained.

“I know what they are!” the nun snapped. “Where would you find such things?”

“As we came along your path,” said Troth, “I saw feverfew. If I look for chamomile, I’ll find it. It’s common.”

Sister Catherine, her lips pursed, her brow furrowed,
remained quiet for a moment. “In the morning,” she said, “I’ll speak to the abbess.”

With a sudden swirl of her black robe she left the room, leaving us in darkness.

Troth and I sat on the floor, and in such light as the moon cast through the windows, devoured the food we’d been given.

“They make good bread,” I said, gobbling it down.

Troth said nothing.

“Perhaps they’ll let us stay for a few days,” I went on. “We could offer to do some work. It’ll be worth it for the food. And maybe someone here knows where Iceland is.”

“Crispin,” said Troth, “I really can help that sick woman!”

I looked around. “Are you sure?”

“Aude used to say we must always try.”

I shrugged and swallowed the rest of my bread.

While Troth remained sitting some distance from me with her back against a wall, I lay down on one of the straw pallets and drew the wool blanket over me. Its warm comfort made me realize how tired I was. As I lay there, it occurred to me that I had not slept under a roof since Rye. I told myself not to get used to such luxury. I suspected we still had a long way to go.

I shifted and was about to ask Troth what she thought of Sister Catherine. My friend was staring intently out one of the windows, toward the moon. Wondering what she was thinking, I watched her for a while until, overcome by great tiredness, I slept.

Ringing bells woke me at dawn. I sat up and looked around. By the soft light, I could see that Troth was still asleep.

The door creaked open. Sister Catherine looked in. “Morning prayers,” she announced. “Prime. You must come.” She waited.

I gave Troth a little shake. She sat and rubbed her eyes, looked at Sister Catherine, but said nothing.

Once again we went with the nun. She led us to their church and had us stand at the back of the nave, by the entrance. Hanging lanterns and candles let me see it wasn’t a very big church. The ceiling was vaulted, with interlacing tracery. Windows were high and small. Some, as I had noticed, were colored. Walls had pictures on them, but it was too gloomy for me to see what they were. The air smelled of old incense.

Leaving us, Sister Catherine joined the other nuns, who sat in facing rows during the mass. At the altar stood a priest, an open book before him. Speaking in Latin, he
offered the mass. Now and again the sisters chanted and sang. Bells rang.

When the service was done, the nuns filed out in silence, heads slightly bowed, hands clasped, their faces white against their dark robes. Though they passed near us, I didn’t see any of them look in our direction, not once.

The day was brightening as Sister Catherine guided us back to the kitchen. This time I could see that many of the walls had colorful images and painted sculpture.

In the kitchen people were at work preparing food. They did not appear to be nuns. Rather, they seemed to be servants, who glanced at us disapprovingly. Sister Catherine ordered that bread be given us.

Our hands full, the nun guided us away. I soon realized she was bringing us to the entryway. Troth guessed it, too. She reached out and tugged at Sister Catherine’s sleeve. Surprised, the woman turned.

“Did you tell your sick lady I could help her?” asked Troth.

Sister Catherine looked at me for understanding. I repeated Troth’s words. The nun studied Troth for a long while, as if trying to make up her mind. In the end she said, “Come with me, the both of you.” She chose a new direction.

I now saw other nuns. They walked briskly, paying us no attention. No one spoke. The silence was something one could almost feel.

We returned to the infirmary. The abbess was in her bed, eyes closed. In her hands was a rosary, over which her fingers flitted. Her thin lips moved slightly.

Sister Catherine went to the bedside. Whispering, she said,
“Mère Marie. La jeune fille est ici.”

The abbess opened her eyes and gazed at us. She made a movement with her hand, which drew Sister Catherine close. The nun listened to something the abbess said, then stood and turned to me. “You must come with me. Your sister will stay.”

I turned to Troth.

She nodded.

Wondering what would happen to Troth, I was led back to the kitchen. When we entered, the women stopped their work and looked at us.

“Mettez ce garçon au travail,”
Sister Catherine ordered, and left.

One of the women came up to me. She must have realized I didn’t speak French. All she did was pull at my arm and lead me to a great stone basin, into which cold water was flowing. Nearby was a great pile of wooden bowls and iron pots.

I spent the morning working, my hands chafed by cold water and rubbing sand. I spent most of the time thinking about Troth, wondering what was happening, what she was doing, if she could help the nun.

It was not until the afternoon that Troth and I were reunited. I was already in the sleeping room. When she came, she brought more bread and bowls of some meat stew. A rare treat. Her movements were quick, her eyes full of life. I hadn’t seen her so for a long time. And yet she didn’t speak.

While I ate slowly, she bolted her food down. “What happened?” I finally asked.

“The abbess said that her pain was great,” she related. “It sits behind her eyes and keeps her from her prayers. She asked if I thought I could truly help her. I told her I could, with an infusion of feverfew and chamomile. I had to speak slowly so Sister Catherine could understand me, since she was translating for us. Then the abbess asked me if I was a Christian. I said I didn’t know. Then she asked me where I came from. I told her about my life. About Aude. How Aude died. She said she would have the sisters pray for her. She even offered
me
a blessing. Crispin,” said Troth, her eyes bright. “She looks upon me with kindness. She…she’s not frightened of my face. And,” Troth concluded with a
bright smile, “she said she would let me try and cure her pains.”

It was good to see her so happy. I said, “What do you need to do?”

“I know where feverfew is growing. It’s the chamomile we need to find.”

A different nun led us to the main doors. She gave Troth a small basket. Though the nun showed no interest in me, she kept glancing at Troth. Not that she spoke.

Outside—in great contrast to the dim convent—it was a bright, sharp day, the clouds high, the sky a deep blue. With Troth leading the way, we went behind the buildings into the woods. She fairly skipped along, while I came slowly. Her elation was making me ill at ease because I wasn’t part of it. It made me restless, too, and I wished we would leave this place and go on our way.

Every now and again, Troth would pause and examine some plant, then rub it between her fingers and smell it. Then she’d announce, “Here’s myrtle. That’s for bad joints.” Or, “Here’s lily of the valley. For clearing thoughts. Crispin, there’s so much here I can use. I think all these things were planted here.” She laughed. “Maybe they were set here by the infirmarian as an excuse to go wandering in the woods. To get out of that silent place. These woods are full of noise.”

In late afternoon she found a flowery plant growing by a large boulder. She picked it and made me smell it.

“Do you like it?” Her eyes were smiling.

“It’s strong. What is it?”

She grinned. “Chamomile.”

As we headed back to the convent, Troth chatted blithely. “Many of the plants Aude taught me about are here. I saw marigold—good for wounds. And parsley. It’s used for many things. I’ll have to search more.”

Her words made me increasingly uneasy. “What if your potion doesn’t cure the nun?”

“I think it will.” She sounded confident.

Returning to the convent, I used the knocker to gain entry. Another nun opened the door. She must have known of us, for she let us in without speaking and took us directly to the room where we had slept. But as soon as we got there, she made motions with her hands that indicated Troth should go with her. She made it equally clear I was to remain behind.

Annoyed and frustrated, I stayed in the room for a long time. In my heart, I admitted I didn’t want Troth’s cure to work. If it did—the thought came—maybe they would want her to stay. I wanted us to go.

When Troth returned, she told me how she had made
the infusion and given it to the abbess.

“Did it work?”

“We’ll have to see.”

Though I spent a restless night, Troth slept well.

In the morning it was not the bells that woke us but a hard knock on the door. When I opened the door, it was Sister Catherine.

For the first time, I saw her smile. “Mother Marie’s pains have lessened.”

An excited Troth, all but skipping, went away with her. My time was spent in the kitchen, where I cleaned things and hauled wood and water. No one spoke to me. I chafed at the time and the work, wishing Troth would come back, wondering where she was.

I did not see her again until I was taken to church for vespers. We stood side by side in the back. “Where were you?” I whispered.

“They asked me to see other nuns,” she said.

“What for?”

“Their ailments. One sister has a bad elbow. Another has a red eye.”

“Can you help them?”

She smiled shyly.

After the service the nuns filed past us as before. This
time I saw many glances in our direction—all toward Troth. They knew what she had done.