by J. D. Popham
They kept Sister Clarine in the
convent’s basement. The door that led to the stairs
from the kitchen was thick oak; a relic from a
different age. But the sisters were glad for it,
and its old fashioned lock. Sometimes Clarine spoke
to them through the keyhole. That was bearable.
However, mostly she sang, and that was not.
The sisters had abandoned the kitchen
two days earlier as no one could listen to Clarine’s
singing long enough to prepare a meal. Beautiful
singing in words they didn’t understand, but
something in the words, coupled with the unearthly
quality of Clarine’s newfound voice was deeply
distressing to the nuns. It seemed to resonate
within their heads and within the heart and soul.
And for all its beauty, there was no pleasure or
comfort to be found in it, but rather something
cold, relentless and unforgiving. It filled them
with deep anxiety, made their heads ache and their
noses bleed.
Mother Superior Mariella called the
Chancery the day they locked Clarine in the
basement. A bemused Father Keener visited the next
day, prepared for yet another convent’s claim of
miracles and heavenly intervention on the part of
their patron saint. He was appalled to find the
sisters had locked one of their own away in the dark
without food or water. He railed at them for
“utterly medieval behavior” and demanded Clarine be
brought up at once. The sisters shrank back from
him, fear in their eyes.
Keener looked at the
Mother Superior, who made no move to order them, but
handed him the key instead. Keener huffed in anger
and stormed into the kitchen. He made it as far as
the second basement step before he turned and fled,
dropping the heavy barrel key on the stones of the
kitchen floor. The sisters rushed to throw their
weight against the door, in case Sister Clarine
should try to escape. They locked the door again
and retreated to the chapel.
It was the Mother Superior herself
who finally took matters in hand. The Chancery was
waiting for direction from Rome. Sister Clarine had
been four days locked in the basement without food
or water. When one of the novices said outright
that she wished Clarine’s suffering would shut her
up, Mariella scowled at her.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“Something has to be done.”
Some sisters followed her as far as
the common room, but dared go no further. As she
approached the kitchen Mariella could hear Clarine
singing. Sweat began to bead on the Mother
Superior’s forehead and trickle down the center of
her back. She took the key from her pocket and slid
it into the lock as her nose and ears began to
bleed. She hauled back the heavy door, and the
sound of Clarine’s voice struck Mariella like a
hammer. Her knees buckled and she clutched at the
railing to keep herself from pitching down the
steps.
“Clarine,” she called into the dark.
“Clarine, stop it!”
The voice fell silent.
Mariella stood, panting for a moment,
wiped blood and sweat from her face. She pulled the
door closed behind her, locked it, and dropped the
key back in her pocket.
“Clarine?” She spoke into the silence
as she stepped quietly down the stairs. “Clarine?”
“Yes. Mariella,” The voice that came
from the darkness was Clarine’s, but thin and raspy.
Exhausted.
Mariella fumbled for the light switch
at the base of the stairs. She found it, pushed it
up, and the basement was flooded with light.
Sister Clarine lay back against the
boiler on the basement’s dirt floor. Her veil was
pulled off revealing short red hair, shot with gray.
She was filthy, her cheeks hollow, her lips cracked
and split. In a circle around her were dozens of
dead rats. She gestured at them.
“They came to hear,” she said.
Mariella stepped off the stairs and
moved closer.
“To hear what, Clarine?” she asked.
“The truth,” Clarine answered. Her
smile was beatific.
“Your singing?” Mariella asked.
Clarine nodded, weakly. She opened
her mouth and the singing began again.
Mariella felt herself beginning to
black out. “No, Clarine! You’re hurting me!” She
lurched forward, grabbed the nun by the shoulders
and shook her.
Clarine stopped singing and peered at
Mariella, trying to focus.
“Of course it hurts,” she said. “We
were never meant to hear it. But isn’t it
beautiful?”
“What is it?” asked Mariella. “We
don’t understand.”
“No,” said Clarine, with a sigh. “I
told you. You were never supposed to hear it. It
wasn’t made for us.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The divine,” she said. “The
infinite. We were meant to search for God. Not to
find God.” She began to whimper and put her hands
over her face.
“Hush now. Hush,” Sister Mariella
took a handkerchief from her sleeve and, pulling
Clarine’s hands down, began to wipe the face of the
younger nun.
“Something is wrong, Sister, and I
don’t know what it is. But I don’t think it’s to do
with God. Men find God every day without....”
“No!” Clarine barked. She grabbed
onto Mariella’s wrists with surprising strength.
“No, they don’t. They see shadows,”
she said. “Shadows of God. A Reflection,” She let
go of Mariella’s wrists and slumped back against the
water heater.
“But I did it,” she said. “I
searched and searched all these years. I prayed so
hard Mariella, so hard. And I finally did it. Seen
God, heard the songs of angels. Seen how small and
insignificant the human soul is.”
Her head lolled over and she looked
Mariella in the eyes.
“It’s a terrible thing. I never
knew.”
Above, the nuns listened hopefully to
the long silence. Then the singing began again.
This time, a duet.
No comments:
Post a Comment