and I will not have it! I WILL NOT HAVE IT!”
She picks up the wooden bowl and hurls it at my head. I dart out of the way and it clatters against the wall.
“But you need help,” I say.
“GO!” she shrieks. “GO AND NEVER RETURN!”
She buries her head in her hands and begins to sob. Huge, wrenching, terrible sobs.
I want to go to her, but fear what she may do.
Shaken and close to tears, I grab a dirty shawl off the floor and hurry out into the milky morning light.
C HAPTER 12
L OVE T HY N EIGHBOUR
“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one year since my last confession.
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. Amen.
Many years ago, I kidnapped a child of God and caused her to sin. Not once, but a multitude of times, over the course of many years. Then, just over one year ago, she died, and I thought my wickedness died with her, but I was wrong.
Truly father, I thought all that was past, I honestly believed my sinful desires died when she passed, but over the last year I have sinned against God several times. I have maintained a deceitful tongue and I have inflicted pain on others. I have even killed.
And then, just last night, I saw my heart's new desire running through the woods, and instead of heading homewards, I followed her. I followed her to that foul old witch's hut. I watched as my heart's desire cared for that grotesque hag, and the more I watched, the more covetous I became.
You see, father, I did not resist the devil. And now, again, I desire sinful ways. And though I know God's will, I cannot do it.
I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all my sins against purity.
Forgive me, father.”
*
Ice crusts every surface turning the trees to stone and the ground to scratchy slabs of rock. No wind moves, no sound breaks the silence of the woods. The sky is white, motionless, oppressively still. The air carries the breath of hard, dry, tasteless ice. There are no birds or woodland creatures; nature's harshness has scared them into hiding. The wood appears abandoned, but I know beneath the surface animals breathe and struggle to survive, huddling close to their kin for warmth.
My only warmth comes from the stolen shawl which is wrapped so tightly about my chest that I can scarcely breathe. It reeks of manure, but I care not; this shawl is my lifeline. I need it to endure the temperature long enough to reach a village or house or some kind of refuge.
I trudge for hours through the frozen wood. To protect my feet I create shoes out of the bottom of my dress, securing the material with flexible roots I have dragged out of the soil.
As the sun creeps up, all ice turns to water, dripping from every branch and puddling on the ground.
Soon the sun is centred high in the sky, which itself has evolved into the prettiest of pale blues. Not a cloud exists. It is one of those deceptively pure-looking days when beauty is all around but chilling cold is ever-present to remind one that winter still commands. However, the cold is bearable – just about.
Sick of droplets constantly plopping onto my head, I busily arrange the shawl over my hair and spy, about one hundred yards in the distance on the cusp of a small hill, a church. The first sign of human life!
I surge up the hill, weaving in and out of the trees, enter a culled field and hurry across sloppy mud, making sure not to linger too long lest the mud sucks me in. My ankles and make-shift shoes are soon sodden and it is hard to move quickly, but the church gives me hope that I will find someone, a priest perhaps, who may guide me towards London.
Panting, I walk around to the front of the church
She picks up the wooden bowl and hurls it at my head. I dart out of the way and it clatters against the wall.
“But you need help,” I say.
“GO!” she shrieks. “GO AND NEVER RETURN!”
She buries her head in her hands and begins to sob. Huge, wrenching, terrible sobs.
I want to go to her, but fear what she may do.
Shaken and close to tears, I grab a dirty shawl off the floor and hurry out into the milky morning light.
C HAPTER 12
L OVE T HY N EIGHBOUR
“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one year since my last confession.
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. Amen.
Many years ago, I kidnapped a child of God and caused her to sin. Not once, but a multitude of times, over the course of many years. Then, just over one year ago, she died, and I thought my wickedness died with her, but I was wrong.
Truly father, I thought all that was past, I honestly believed my sinful desires died when she passed, but over the last year I have sinned against God several times. I have maintained a deceitful tongue and I have inflicted pain on others. I have even killed.
And then, just last night, I saw my heart's new desire running through the woods, and instead of heading homewards, I followed her. I followed her to that foul old witch's hut. I watched as my heart's desire cared for that grotesque hag, and the more I watched, the more covetous I became.
You see, father, I did not resist the devil. And now, again, I desire sinful ways. And though I know God's will, I cannot do it.
I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all my sins against purity.
Forgive me, father.”
*
Ice crusts every surface turning the trees to stone and the ground to scratchy slabs of rock. No wind moves, no sound breaks the silence of the woods. The sky is white, motionless, oppressively still. The air carries the breath of hard, dry, tasteless ice. There are no birds or woodland creatures; nature's harshness has scared them into hiding. The wood appears abandoned, but I know beneath the surface animals breathe and struggle to survive, huddling close to their kin for warmth.
My only warmth comes from the stolen shawl which is wrapped so tightly about my chest that I can scarcely breathe. It reeks of manure, but I care not; this shawl is my lifeline. I need it to endure the temperature long enough to reach a village or house or some kind of refuge.
I trudge for hours through the frozen wood. To protect my feet I create shoes out of the bottom of my dress, securing the material with flexible roots I have dragged out of the soil.
As the sun creeps up, all ice turns to water, dripping from every branch and puddling on the ground.
Soon the sun is centred high in the sky, which itself has evolved into the prettiest of pale blues. Not a cloud exists. It is one of those deceptively pure-looking days when beauty is all around but chilling cold is ever-present to remind one that winter still commands. However, the cold is bearable – just about.
Sick of droplets constantly plopping onto my head, I busily arrange the shawl over my hair and spy, about one hundred yards in the distance on the cusp of a small hill, a church. The first sign of human life!
I surge up the hill, weaving in and out of the trees, enter a culled field and hurry across sloppy mud, making sure not to linger too long lest the mud sucks me in. My ankles and make-shift shoes are soon sodden and it is hard to move quickly, but the church gives me hope that I will find someone, a priest perhaps, who may guide me towards London.
Panting, I walk around to the front of the church
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