Vesna McMaster - Loss

1096

‘Sister Magdalena is not back from her rounds. We cannot lock the outer gates.’

‘There is no-one to watch them. They must be locked.’

‘Sister…’

‘They must be locked.’

You breathe deeper, reigning down the cries behind your ribs. ‘I will watch them. Give me the keys.’

The whites of the Abbess’s eyes appear around the winter blue. ‘Give you the keys?’

You bow, and stay bowed, praying that Humility will speak for you, for Magdalena.

After a small eternity, you see the Abbess’s wrinkled hand move to her girdle. It pauses; then grips the keys that hang there, removing them. Her voice drops. ‘We cannot afford to lose Sister Magdalena. Do not fail me. Return the keys to me at Matins.’

There is no light in the watch house. A lantern would let the looters know there may be a way in. You feel your way in with the help of a few feeble stars, struggling through the clouds.

Before Matins, the Abbess’s eyes flick to Sister Magdalena, and then back to your hands, rendering back the keys. The winter-blue sinks a little deeper than usual under your skin; perhaps because you have taken the care to wrap the keys in cloth, preserving the transaction’s privacy.

The world behind the walls is pushing in, grinding you down, in a process of attrition. Each year you lose sisters, each year the novices are fewer, bringing smaller dowers. Stores dwindle, fields harder to till, and the very bees are listless, seeking blooms less starved. Only the transcription increases. Patrons supply ever fewer inks and gold for the illuminations, but demand increasing skill and speed. You have no choice. So you sit as close to the window as you can, and squint to make the lines come together. Fill the Virgin’s robe with celestial blue, her trim in carmine, and her crown in gold. In this tiny bound, there is plenty, and peace; it flows from between your fingers.

2014

‘It can’t be. This was a nunnery, not a monastery. Or were there some monks, perhaps?’

‘It’s a woman’s skeleton. They’re all women.’

‘But a build-up to that degree? It would have taken years.’

‘Yes.’

 He looks at the slides again. The row of worn-down teeth, testament to a rough diet, and the distinct blue-tinged calculus, where a receding gum-line would have run. Then the spectroscopy results slide, with the vivid, deep blue of lapis lazuli particles staring back out, unmistakable.

He frowns. ‘Monks may have had cleaners.’

There’s a silence. He looks up and meets an incredulous gaze.

‘Are you serious? What, eating the paints?’

‘So you’re saying, it was the nuns themselves doing the illuminations?’

‘It could only get there if she had been putting the tip of the brush between her lips to sharpen its point, and transferred the pigment.’ A pause. ‘For years.’

He raises his glance to the shelf, where the original remains sit in a hermetic box. The lab assistant, uneasy with human remains, has draped a cloth over them; all that is visible is an incongruous white linen handkerchief.

He looks back at the slides. The teeth are worn flat, exposing the dentine, the jaw brittle. Pigment-filled calculus rises from the gum-line as if to make up for the attrition from above. The bowed humility of loss, sitting quietly in the dark, waiting to let in those who wish to return.