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.”
