Sacred Hearts (18 page)

When she entered the convent the century itself had been young, and there are no other sisters left alive from that time. Everyone, though—Zuana included—knows something of the story: how as a humble novice from the poorest family she had been able to go for weeks on end with only the host to sustain her, and that while she was in such a blessed state her hands and feet bled in sympathy with Christ’s own.

Such godliness had been all the fashion then and Duke Ercole, a man with an appetite for holy women, who collected piety as others collected china or antiquities, had found her in a nearby town and installed her in Santa Caterina, where he and his family would visit, bringing members of the court to hear her prophecies—for sometimes she would go into ecstasies for them.

Rumor was that she had been small even then—some said she weighed so little that it wasn’t hard to believe she could lift herself off the ground. It had been the time of the French invasions and the northern wars, and every city was searching for a way to protect itself. Such humble, uneducated women—living saints, as they were known then—who found God through prayers and their own goodness were talismans of purity in a world of corruption. But once Luther and his dissenters started lighting their fires of heresy across the mountains, such untutored salvation became suspect. After Ercole died the royal visits dried up—and so, it seemed, did Magdalena’s stigmata.

By the time Zuana arrived, she was a forgotten figure who, by her own request, never left her cell, and even those who might have shared her hunger for God were wary of her reputation. Successive bouts of fasting had left her too weak to attend chapel, and over the years convent confessors had proved either too tired or too forgetful to bring God’s food directly to her, so that for some time now she had lived without the host. Her cell door remained closed, and gradually even the memory of the memories had started to dry up. Since she had become dispensary sister, it had fallen to Zuana to oversee her care, which she did as best she could, making sure that her food was delivered and interceding in the appointment of a conversa who would not be cruel to her. There was nothing more anyone could do. Magdalena’s self-inflicted pariah status was a fact of convent life, unquestioned and secure. The rest was up to God.

It seems He may have spoken now.

Her body is so wasted that Zuana can barely register the shape of it under the blanket. Her skullcap has fallen from her head, and the stubble of white hair sits like frost on hard ground. But her face—oh, her face is vibrant: her eyes are fixed open, bright and shining in a sea of wrinkled skin, and she is smiling, a wild exuberant smile, lips apart, as if she has seen something so wondrous that she has taken a gasping breath in anticipation of laughter, only to find it caught in her throat.

Zuana uncorks the camphor salts and passes the bottle under her nose.

She remains transfixed, not a flicker of response.

The room grows dark again as Letizia’s form blocks the doorway. “Oh, sweet Jesus. He has taken her, hasn’t He?”

“Is this how you found her?”

“Yes, yes. Oh, but you should have heard the laughter.”

“Move from the doorway. I need more light.”

The old nun’s right hand is clasped over a crucifix, the knuckles bone-white. Zuana moves under the blanket to find the left hand; it lies loosely by her side, cold to the touch. When she brings it into the light she sees skin so thin and bruised and veins so pronounced they look like membranes on an animal’s stomach. She searches the underside of her wrist for any sign of a life pulse.

“Oh, Lord Jesus, take her soul. Lord Jesus, take her soul.” Behind her, Letizia’s moaning prayers fill the room.

Under her fingers she feels a faint fluttering beat. Then another. Slow, but there, surely. She slides a hand under the back of the old woman’s neck to try to lift her up, and her fingers register a run of vertebrae distinct as standing stones in a graveyard. But the body is rigid and will not move. Rigor mortis with a pulse? She looks back into the eyes, staring, unblinking, bright, with no film, no dullness at all. Dead, but with eyes that are still alive? She bends her cheek to her nostrils. Closer, the strange perfume seems stronger from the open mouth. And then, soft but unmistakable, she feels the heat of an exhaled breath.

“Lord Jesus, take her soul.”

The cell becomes gloomy again.

“Move, I said. I need more light.”

“What’s wrong with her?” But it is Serafina’s voice she hears now, harsh with fear. “Is she dead?”

“What are you doing here?” Zuana does not take her eyes off the old woman’s face.

“I heard someone running. And laughter. I …I was scared, alone in my cell.”

If it is the truth, it sounds disingenuous in her mouth. Such disobedience will mean penance if Zuana chooses to report it, but there is no time to think about that now. Somewhere she knows that she would have done the same thing, the spice of curiosity overwhelming the blandness of prudence.

The light returns as the girl steps in closer. “Oh, the smell …what is it? Is it death? Is she dead?”

Zuana picks up the jug by the bed and, lifting it high, splashes a thin stream of water on the old woman’s face. Nothing. Except this time, as the breath leaves her body, there is the faintest
aah
.

“No, she’s not dead.”

“What is it, then?” Serafina’s voice is as hushed as the room. “What’s happened to her?”

“I think she is in an ecstasy.”

“Oh! Oh, I knew it.” The conversa lets out a new moan. “You should have heard the laughter. It was as if Our Lady and all the saints and angels of heaven were in here keeping company with her.”

“That’s enough, Letizia,” Zuana says harshly. “Go and fetch the abbess. Tell her I need her here now.”

In the silence that follows Letizia’s exit, Zuana can feel Serafina’s fascination behind her. Maybe this disobedience has purpose after all. Even the most recalcitrant novice cannot help but be moved by the white heat at the center of the flame.

“Come.” She turns to her. “Since you are here, you had better see for yourself. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she says boldly.

Zuana makes room for her by the pallet. And, of course, as soon as she sees the old woman’s face Serafina cannot take her eyes off her.

“Ooh, she looks so …so joyful. And the smell—”

“It happens sometimes. It is the scent of flowers, but more than flowers.”

“How do you know she is not dead?”

“Here, take her hand. Don’t worry; she doesn’t feel anything. Under her wrist where the great vein is …feel it? Feel the beat. Try again. Got it? Now, see how slow it is. Remember how fast it was in the sister with a fever.”

“But doesn’t that mean she is dying?”

“No. If it’s like the last time, she can stay like this for hours.”

“The last time? You have seen this before?”

When had it been? Seven—eight years ago? Maybe longer. Summer. As hot as hell itself. Suora Magdalena had been upright on the pallet then, her arms bent in front of her as if she were cradling a baby, her head flung back in what seemed like a paralysis of joy.

Of course Zuana had heard about such things—who had not?—but this was the first time she had ever seen it. As the newly appointed dispensary sister, she had been instructed by the abbess of the time to stay with her until it passed, so she had sat in the cell watching over her. Not that there had been much to see, unless you counted the fly that kept landing on her face, picking its way over her eyes and lips, even into her mouth, while all the while she remained oblivious. How long had it lasted? An hour, maybe less. But the journey had been longer for the old nun. She had been so dead to the world that when she first came back she could not understand where she was; not the time, or the place, or the day. But the wonder as to where she had been, and the sadness that she was no longer there, was painful to behold. With such sustenance for the spirit, what need does the body have for food?

Next to her, Serafina reaches out a hand toward the old woman’s staring eyes, but hesitates as she gets closer.

“Don’t worry. She can’t see you or hear you. You could stick a needle into her flesh and she would not even flinch. She is not here.”

“So where is she?”

“I don’t know. Except I think she has reached a place where her soul is as powerful as her body. So that she is able to move from one into the other for a while. To find herself with God.”

“With God!”

With God. Of course she would not know what that means. But then, who does? With God …When Zuana first came, the novice mistress of the day, a kinder though paler force than Umiliana, would talk of the journey toward Him as a path that could be followed by everyone, as if obedience and prayer practiced regularly would bring on divine love as surely as a dose of figs might regulate the bowels.

Except that it had never happened. Not to her or, it seemed, to anyone around her. Oh, there had been souls who had grown gentler and more humble over the years, even a few who had come in like spitting cats but grown gradually into lambs, albeit with less spring in their steps. There were some who accepted suffering without complaint and overexcited ones who might swoon occasionally in night chapel. Yet such elevation, whatever it was, was short-lived and, to Zuana’s eyes at least, always had the quality of a self-imposed state rather than sustained transcendence.

After a while it had been a relief to stop trying. Her books and her work brought their own rhythm, at times their own temporary loss of self. Still, one could not help but wonder at the idea: to be so consumed, so transfixed by joy… She glances at Serafina beside her, staring down at the old woman’s face, and knows she is feeling it too. Whatever the dangers within it, Suora Umiliana might do better to talk to her novices about ecstasy rather than contamination and decay. Such words would surely hook deeper into rebellious young hearts.

“What has happened here?” Madonna Chiara’s voice from the door is clean and matter-of-fact. “Is she transported?”

“It would seem so, yes.”

The abbess gives a small sigh, as if this is yet another unwarranted problem she must deal with in a busy day. “How long?”

“I don’t know. Letizia said she heard voices, but when she came in she was alone.”

“Who is that next to you?” Her tone is sharp.

Serafina starts, half turning her head.

“What is the novice doing here?”

“I …I asked her to help.” Later, Zuana cannot remember deciding to say this before the words came out.

“Well, this is not her place. Go back to your cell, young woman.”

Serafina moves immediately in response. “Ah!” Then stops. “I can’t …I cannot move my hand. She is holding it too tight.”

It is true enough. Zuana can see it now. Where before the girl had hold of Magdalena’s wrist, searching for a pulse, now, suddenly, the old nun’s hand has twisted to clasp hers back, claw-thin fingers pressing so tight they seem embedded in the younger woman’s flesh, the worst pressure over the burn where the skin has been starting to rise.

“Aah!”

Serafina’s pain and fright are apparent as the abbess moves across the cell toward her. Only as she does so, the figure on the bed starts to move too. Suddenly, it is all happening at once; even the smell in the air seems to be changing, the sweetness turning sour, as the old nun’s face comes alive again.

“Hahahaha.” The laughter that has been held inside for so long is pouring out of her, high and girlish, full of pleasure and wonder, far too young for such a dry, wrinkled form.

Zuana tries to soothe her. “It is all right. You are safe. You are here with us, Suora Magdalena.”

But her words are lost in the rolling moan that follows. The old woman, with unexpected strength, is trying to lift herself from the mattress, yet she still has hold of Serafina’s hand and cannot lever herself up. Zuana instinctively supports her until she is sitting upright, her body thin as a stick of wood. Her eyes blink hard in the gloom as if she is trying to expel some fleck of grit from them, and her mouth opens and closes like a fish, her lips making a dry slapping sound. Zuana lifts the jug carefully to her mouth and slowly she sips, coughs, gasps for breath, then drinks again. Water runs like spittle from her lips down her chin. Serafina, next to her, is whimpering slightly but whether from fear or from the powerful grip on her fingers it is hard to know.

“Suora Magdalena, can you hear me?” The abbess’s voice is full and powerful, like the convent bell. “Do you know where you are?”

The old woman seems to turn her head upward toward the speaker, but she never makes it as far as Chiara’s face—because now she sees Serafina.

“Oh, oh, oh, my dear one, it is you.” The voice has returned to its fragile, cracked age but the words are clear enough. “Oh, oh, come closer.”

The girl throws a frightened glance at Zuana but moves forward anyway. Perhaps she has no option, for Magdalena’s arm, a stick with a flap of crêpe flesh hanging off it, seems to have remarkable power. When she has Serafina close enough, the old woman puts out her other hand and touches, almost caresses, the girl’s cheek.

“Oh, welcome. Welcome, child. I have heard you crying and I knew you would come. You are not to be sad. He is here. He has been waiting for you.”

Serafina looks to Zuana again, panic in her eyes. But there is something else too, a kind of wonder. How could there not be? Zuana nods slightly. The girl turns back to the old nun, and a great smile breaks out on the ruined face.

“Oh, don’t be afraid—you must not be afraid.”

“Suora Magdalena!”

“He said I am to tell you that, whatever comes, He is here and will take good care of you.”

“This is Madonna Chiara, your abbess, talking.”

“He will take good care of us all.” And she laughs again, the pearly, girlish sound echoing around the cell. “For His love …oh, His love is boundless…”

“Can you hear me?”

It is clear Magdalena cannot. She sighs, her eyes closing as she finally loosens her grip. As Zuana helps her back onto the bed, Serafina slides her hand away, but her eyes never leave the old woman’s face.