It has been two weeks since Father Lucas's letter. War has come just as he feared. King Wenceslaus has called the men to arms. They have even taken the boys from the village. The streets of Tepla are hushed, travelled only by old men and wives who fear the worst and mothers who grieve for what has already been taken.
Even the Brothers are afraid.
I was gathering the last of the ground cherries for Mother Agnes at the side of the cloister. It was not my fault the Brothers could not see me. I was not lurking in the shadows to hear what I could hear.
They say the death of Quarrelsome Frederick gives our Bohemian King the chance he has always wanted to claim Austria for his own. But the ambitious Holy Roman Emperor wants Austria, too, to help him hold against the Pope's newly crowned anti-king, Heinrich Raspe.
Excommunicated and called the Antichrist by his once-friend, Pope Innocent IV, the Emperor is a hunted man with nothing to lose and much to gain.
Many will die, the Brothers say. The blood will stain the Church.
I don't care about that. I want to know when Father Lucas is coming home. When I heard Brother Dusan ask where Father Lucas was now, I stopped the prayer of contrition running in my mind and held my breath that I might hear clearly. And when Brother Dusan gasped at the answer, I lay my face against the cold stone of the wall and slowly turned so that with one eye I could clearly see him as he crossed himself, closed his sad eyes and shook his head.
And I grew cold with fear, but what did it mean that Father Lucas was at Millstatt?
Day Ten of Hewi-manod, the Hay Month
Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend You, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life.
It is my act of contrition. It runs in my head and across my lips constantly. It is what will bring Father Lucas home.
A day ago, a village boy, cutting hay in the fields by the river, let slip his scythe and sliced open his father's face. An accident or consequence of my sins? Did I release a darkness when I opened the book?
Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry, I whispered even as I held the man still while Mother Agnes cleaned his wound. I detest all my sins echoed in my mind with each stitch I took to bind the man's cheek again. It was the first time Mother Agnes trusted me to use the skills she has been teaching me. I will be a healer, she says. And a good one.
I firmly resolve to do penance.
But Sister Edith burned her leg this morning when her habit caught fire at the hearth. The kitchen still smells of burned flesh. She will heal. Mother Agnes will make it so.
And I will be good. And Father Lucas will come home at Michaelmas. And you will forgive me because, Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You. I script my contrition in my blood. Surely you will forgive me.
The Brothers had a letter today from Father Lucas. It tells us that Frederick the Quarrelsome is dead. Father Lucas fears that war will come soon.
Consequences
Father Lucas left the Abbey this morning for another trip. He did not come to say goodbye. He sent Mother Agnes with a message for me.
He wants me to rest until he returns at Michaelmas. I am forbidden to enter the Library.
I know it is meant as punishment. I know I deserve it. And I know Father Lucas has taken the book with him.
Where will I look for answers now?
And what am I to do for two months with no books?
I will go mad with nothing but needlework and prayers day after day.
Oh, God, I am sorry for what I wrote. I know my Book of Hours by heart. I do. And I don't mind the prayers. Not really. Please, God. Father Lucas took away the Library. Do not punish me by taking Father Lucas.
I will recite my act of contrition until Father Lucas is home again. Safe.
Please, God, let him come home.
And what am I to do for two months with no books?
I will go mad with nothing but needlework and prayers day after day.
Oh, God, I am sorry for what I wrote. I know my Book of Hours by heart. I do. And I don't mind the prayers. Not really. Please, God. Father Lucas took away the Library. Do not punish me by taking Father Lucas.
I will recite my act of contrition until Father Lucas is home again. Safe.
Please, God, let him come home.
A Return
Though it has been weeks, my fingers are still so swollen from the spider bites that I can barely hold my quill. But the skin, which had grown black with rot, has finally sloughed off. Mother Agnes keeps the raw, new skin covered in salve. It smells like honey and the purple lupin that cover the fields behind the Abbey in the late spring.
Now, in my nightmares, the spiders no longer come pouring from an old book, but rather scurry out of giant hives while I pick flowers in the sun. I never see them coming. Until it is too late. And I wake, screaming.
Father Lucas found me in the library that night, screaming. I was covered with bites, but there were no spiders. The book was closed again.
Father Lucas keeps asking me what I saw in the book. I ask him where the book came from and who wrote it. Neither of us will give an answer.
I cannot tell him what I saw because I am afraid that whatever lives in the book will come for me again. Or for him.
I hear the Sisters in the hall outside my room whisper as they pass with their heads lowered. Their eyes cut toward my open door. They say I should be dead, sick as I was from the bites and then the rot.
Even Mother Agnes crosses herself when she turns from me, her kiss on my forehead still damp with love.
Now, in my nightmares, the spiders no longer come pouring from an old book, but rather scurry out of giant hives while I pick flowers in the sun. I never see them coming. Until it is too late. And I wake, screaming.
Father Lucas found me in the library that night, screaming. I was covered with bites, but there were no spiders. The book was closed again.
Father Lucas keeps asking me what I saw in the book. I ask him where the book came from and who wrote it. Neither of us will give an answer.
I cannot tell him what I saw because I am afraid that whatever lives in the book will come for me again. Or for him.
I hear the Sisters in the hall outside my room whisper as they pass with their heads lowered. Their eyes cut toward my open door. They say I should be dead, sick as I was from the bites and then the rot.
Even Mother Agnes crosses herself when she turns from me, her kiss on my forehead still damp with love.
In the Library
I have opened the book.
The front page is not parchment at all but a pressed sheet of gold etched with the image of a beast I have never seen. Its head looks like a creature I saw in the Bestiary Father Lucas brought me. It was called a crocodile, but the body of this beast looks more like a cat's, spotted and lithe. The massive back legs belong to some other animal I do not know. I think this creature is not made by God.
The flickering candlelight makes it seem as if the beast's haunches are quivering like a cat ready to pounce. It frightens me. I turn the page.
The other pages of the book are parchment but they do not feel like goatskin or calfskin. They are too rough. The script is crowded and thick, and I cannot read the words. I do not know the language.
My eyes are tired with the strain. I want to creep back to my bed and sleep, but my heart races with panic when I start to move away from the book. I am bound to it somehow. I stare at the words, refusing to blink until my eyes water against the burn, and I think I start to understand them.
But the letters seem to shift and move as I watch them--like they will burst with life and crawl off the page. If only they would hold still, I might read the first words.
The front page is not parchment at all but a pressed sheet of gold etched with the image of a beast I have never seen. Its head looks like a creature I saw in the Bestiary Father Lucas brought me. It was called a crocodile, but the body of this beast looks more like a cat's, spotted and lithe. The massive back legs belong to some other animal I do not know. I think this creature is not made by God.
The flickering candlelight makes it seem as if the beast's haunches are quivering like a cat ready to pounce. It frightens me. I turn the page.
The other pages of the book are parchment but they do not feel like goatskin or calfskin. They are too rough. The script is crowded and thick, and I cannot read the words. I do not know the language.
My eyes are tired with the strain. I want to creep back to my bed and sleep, but my heart races with panic when I start to move away from the book. I am bound to it somehow. I stare at the words, refusing to blink until my eyes water against the burn, and I think I start to understand them.
But the letters seem to shift and move as I watch them--like they will burst with life and crawl off the page. If only they would hold still, I might read the first words.
Day Nineteen, Brach-manod, 1246
I have come to the library to look at Father Lucas's book. It is late. There was only my candle shining as I crept through the abbey halls. I heard only the sounds of mice scurrying in the darkness. This Mouse shimmied up the shelves and snatched the old book from its hiding place.
It is lying on the floor in front of me, but I have not opened it. I brought this parchment and ink to copy what I might find in the book, so why can I not make myself open it? I want to know what is in it. My desire makes me shiver.
I have lifted the stained cover to my face and smelled the muskiness of the old goatskin and the sour sweat from the hands that have held the book over the ages. The faded twang of the shed blood on the cover turns my stomach. It smells like rot. The people who spilled that blood--were they fighting to protect the book or trying to destroy it?
I know there must be secrets in the book or else why would Father Lucas hide it from me? He shows me everything, teaches me everything. I tell him everything, too. He knows what I can do--like what I did to the chickens and how I see and smell and hear all things. I am not normal. He calls me special.
I want to know why. Father Lucas will not tell me. Fear dilates his eyes when I ask. If I am special, surely God made me so for a purpose, but I must know who I am before I can understand my calling. And if no one else will give me answers, I must seek them for myself. Perhaps this book is a start.
I want to open it. But it feels wrong, like a betrayal.
Oh, I wish I had someone to counsel me and tell me what I should do.
It is lying on the floor in front of me, but I have not opened it. I brought this parchment and ink to copy what I might find in the book, so why can I not make myself open it? I want to know what is in it. My desire makes me shiver.
I have lifted the stained cover to my face and smelled the muskiness of the old goatskin and the sour sweat from the hands that have held the book over the ages. The faded twang of the shed blood on the cover turns my stomach. It smells like rot. The people who spilled that blood--were they fighting to protect the book or trying to destroy it?
I know there must be secrets in the book or else why would Father Lucas hide it from me? He shows me everything, teaches me everything. I tell him everything, too. He knows what I can do--like what I did to the chickens and how I see and smell and hear all things. I am not normal. He calls me special.
I want to know why. Father Lucas will not tell me. Fear dilates his eyes when I ask. If I am special, surely God made me so for a purpose, but I must know who I am before I can understand my calling. And if no one else will give me answers, I must seek them for myself. Perhaps this book is a start.
I want to open it. But it feels wrong, like a betrayal.
Oh, I wish I had someone to counsel me and tell me what I should do.
Day Eighteen, Brach-manod, 1246
Father Lucas has brought back a book he will not let me see. It looks very old. Dark streaks mar the tawed cover. They look like fingers clawing to get in or out of the book.
He keeps it on a high shelf behind the other books. He does not know that I saw him with it.
He is my best friend. The picture is not a good likeness, but I will get better now that I know I can steal the ink.
He keeps it on a high shelf behind the other books. He does not know that I saw him with it.
I was sneaking into the library last night to use the blue ink Brother Dusan made. I took only a little, and afterward I spit into the inkwell to fill it so he would not know that any ink was gone.
I wanted to make a picture of Father Lucas like those of Isidore I saw in the Bestiary. I needed the blue ink for his eyes. I used my blood for the lips.
This is my Father Lucas.
He is my best friend. The picture is not a good likeness, but I will get better now that I know I can steal the ink.
I might try to reach the old book as well.
Day Seventeen, Brach-manod, 1246
Father Lucas is finally home. Six weeks I have not been allowed in the library. The Brothers will not let me unless he is here. I am a girl. They think it sacrilege that I can read. What would they think if they knew I scripted copies for Father Lucas? And of holy texts, too.
This makes me smile, that I know things they do not.
But Father Lucas is here now and has brought new books with him from Strahov. He has given me the Bestiary so I might learn about the creatures of the world and the trees and the souls of man.
I already know about souls. But I am not supposed to talk about that.
The new book has the most beautiful pictures. I want to paint pictures like that, but I am not allowed to use the colored inks or gold leaf. I will learn to make my own I think and then I can paint whatever I want.
I like the Bestiary's dog and panther, but the scribe has not drawn the mouse well. He also writes that mice are puny.
He knows nothing about a Mouse.
This makes me smile, that I know things they do not.
But Father Lucas is here now and has brought new books with him from Strahov. He has given me the Bestiary so I might learn about the creatures of the world and the trees and the souls of man.
I already know about souls. But I am not supposed to talk about that.
The new book has the most beautiful pictures. I want to paint pictures like that, but I am not allowed to use the colored inks or gold leaf. I will learn to make my own I think and then I can paint whatever I want.
I like the Bestiary's dog and panther, but the scribe has not drawn the mouse well. He also writes that mice are puny.
He knows nothing about a Mouse.
Day Sixteen, 1246
We took the dead chickens to families living between here and the village. Mother Agnes and I. Her white habit was brown with mud. We are Norbertines at the Abbey. At least the Brothers and Sisters are. I do not know what I am.
It was a hard winter and there is still sickness. Mother tends them. She is a healer, and I help her. I am ten, but I have no dowry and Mother Agnes tells me the Church is not for me. So she is teaching me a healer's skills that I might be useful someday.
But today my task was one of penance. For the chickens.
Mother Agnes says that it is not good enough that I felt sorry for what I did. She said the stone bruises on my feet from walking all day and the soreness in my arms from carrying the chickens--these will serve as reminders to keep my temper and hold my tongue.
The others think I wrung the chicken's necks, but Mother Agnes knows I did not touch them. She knows I am a good girl.
But sometimes I think she might be afraid of me.
I love her still.
It was a hard winter and there is still sickness. Mother tends them. She is a healer, and I help her. I am ten, but I have no dowry and Mother Agnes tells me the Church is not for me. So she is teaching me a healer's skills that I might be useful someday.
But today my task was one of penance. For the chickens.
Mother Agnes says that it is not good enough that I felt sorry for what I did. She said the stone bruises on my feet from walking all day and the soreness in my arms from carrying the chickens--these will serve as reminders to keep my temper and hold my tongue.
The others think I wrung the chicken's necks, but Mother Agnes knows I did not touch them. She knows I am a good girl.
But sometimes I think she might be afraid of me.
I love her still.
Day Fifteen, Brach-Manod, 1246
The sarcophagus is cold against my back. I think I hear sounds coming from within, but I will not turn to look. Sister Kveta has sent me here to pray. A punishment for something I did.
The chicken kept pecking me. It hurt. I only meant to make it stop. But I cannot tell you about that. Not yet. I think you would not like it.
The picture that hangs over me on the wall of the apse frightens me. It is of the Blessed Hroznata. It is his tomb behind me. His wealth and sacrifice built this abbey, Tepla Abbey, where I live with the Sisters and Mother Agnes and Father Lucas.
I am not a novitiate. I am only a girl.
In the painting, Hroznata's face glows with the candlelight. He is an infant, new born. His mother weeps over him, her hair curling around his naked body. But his eyes. I can see his eyes. They are open, rolled toward me because his head has fallen back over the edge of his mother's lap. His mouth gapes, empty and black. He is stillborn.
The Holy Mother hovers at the corner of the picture, wreathed in clouds. She smiles on the grieving mother and the dead baby. She stretches out her hand toward them. It is the miracle of the Blessed Hroznata--that he was saved to do good for God. The Holy Mother will give him life again.
I think I could do that, too. Give life to a dead thing.
I thought about it in the chicken coop this morning, but there were so many of them. If there had just been the one . . .
I may only be a girl, but I am a special Mouse. I do not think I am Blessed.
The chicken kept pecking me. It hurt. I only meant to make it stop. But I cannot tell you about that. Not yet. I think you would not like it.
The picture that hangs over me on the wall of the apse frightens me. It is of the Blessed Hroznata. It is his tomb behind me. His wealth and sacrifice built this abbey, Tepla Abbey, where I live with the Sisters and Mother Agnes and Father Lucas.
I am not a novitiate. I am only a girl.
In the painting, Hroznata's face glows with the candlelight. He is an infant, new born. His mother weeps over him, her hair curling around his naked body. But his eyes. I can see his eyes. They are open, rolled toward me because his head has fallen back over the edge of his mother's lap. His mouth gapes, empty and black. He is stillborn.
The Holy Mother hovers at the corner of the picture, wreathed in clouds. She smiles on the grieving mother and the dead baby. She stretches out her hand toward them. It is the miracle of the Blessed Hroznata--that he was saved to do good for God. The Holy Mother will give him life again.
I think I could do that, too. Give life to a dead thing.
I thought about it in the chicken coop this morning, but there were so many of them. If there had just been the one . . .
I may only be a girl, but I am a special Mouse. I do not think I am Blessed.
Day Fourteen of Brah-manod, the plowing month, Year 1246
I wish I could tell you my name was Margaret or Esther or Agnes.
You would like that, I think. It would be easier.
We could be friends then.
But I am not Margaret or Esther or Agnes. I am not so simple as that.
I might tell you I have no name, that no one loved me enough to whisper an appellation to my soul so they could call me back home. I do not have a home or someone to call to me.
Or a soul, either, perhaps.
I live at the abbey in Tepla. My mother is dead. I know nothing of my father; no one will speak of him and I do not ask questions any more.
When I was born, no one prayed for any promise of my life, no hope of what I might become. No one gave thanks for what joy I might bring.
I do remember a lullaby and gentle hands and a soft breast. For just a moment.
Then the nursemaid carried me into the dark away from death. She put her lips to my ear, her breath quick and light with fear. The name she gave me, as she pleaded with me to be silent while we hid from my father, is the only name I have.
I am not sorry.
I am Mouse.
You would like that, I think. It would be easier.
We could be friends then.
But I am not Margaret or Esther or Agnes. I am not so simple as that.
I might tell you I have no name, that no one loved me enough to whisper an appellation to my soul so they could call me back home. I do not have a home or someone to call to me.
Or a soul, either, perhaps.
I live at the abbey in Tepla. My mother is dead. I know nothing of my father; no one will speak of him and I do not ask questions any more.
When I was born, no one prayed for any promise of my life, no hope of what I might become. No one gave thanks for what joy I might bring.
I do remember a lullaby and gentle hands and a soft breast. For just a moment.
Then the nursemaid carried me into the dark away from death. She put her lips to my ear, her breath quick and light with fear. The name she gave me, as she pleaded with me to be silent while we hid from my father, is the only name I have.
I am not sorry.
I am Mouse.
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