The Owl Killers

servant martha

fATHER ULFRID WAS LATE. He was normally a rigorously punctual man, but the bell of the parish church of St. Michael’s had long since ceased tolling and the service had still not begun. The church was unusually crowded and the congregation was becoming restless. They always milled about during the service, chattering and laughing, playing little heed to the Mass, but on that day they turned and stared at the door each time it opened, buzzing with excitement as if they expected the arrival of some great dignitary.

The door opened again and Father Ulfrid finally entered, but he was not alone. He was dragging some poor wretch of a man behind him, a man who was tethered by his wrist to a long length of rope. By the sudden hush, I knew this must be the person the villagers were expecting. The man’s face was hidden under a hood. But I now saw why the villagers all drew away as he approached. There could be no mistaking the white patches on the skin of his outstretched arm or the stench of rottenness that clung to his body. Some of the younger beguines drew back too. I frowned at them reprovingly and motioned them to stay still.

On the chancel steps the leper fell to his knees and whispered his confession at the feet of the priest. I was furious. The priest had no need to make a public show of this man’s confession. Did Father Ulfrid think God so deaf that He had to borrow a hundred dull ears from men to listen to the suffering of a single soul? One woman was actually cupping her hand to her ear that she might hear better.

“It’s well known that sleeping with an adulteress will cause the leprosy,” she said loudly to her neighbour.

“Aye, that or sleeping with a woman in her menses,” her friend replied.

“But what if she be both an adulteress and in her menses?” the woman asked.

“Then he gets pox and leprosy-an itch and no fingers to scratch it with-now there’s a torment!” They both cackled with laughter.

The man’s confession seemed to go on forever as though he feared to stop lest the axe should fall on him. Eventually, cutting the penitent off in mid-sentence, Father Ulfrid held up his hands to pronounce the absolution. He picked up the man’s rope and dragged him towards the far corner of the church. Two carpenter’s trestles had been placed there, with a black cloth stretched between them in the semblance of a sepulchre. Father Ulfrid urged the man inside. The wretch pulled back in horror as if it was the mouth of Hell, but Father Ulfrid insisted, driving him in as a dog to a kennel. The man crouched under the black cloth, his hood pulled so far over his face that he seemed all shadow.

The Mass continued, but I could no longer listen. My spirit was weighted down by the slab of black cloth. I felt the suffocating chilliness of the tomb as if the stone still sealed in the stench of Lazarus, and the cry “come forth” made but mockery of a soul walled in. The bell rang, the body of Christ was elevated, and the shadow of the man shrank closer to the gravestones beneath him.

When Mass was finished, Father Ulfrid again tugged on the rope and half dragged the man from his cave. Scarcely waiting for him to stagger to his feet, the priest strode from the church, hauling the man behind him. The congregation poured out after them, but at a safe distance. By the time we reached the door, the crowd had already gathered in a wide circle around an open grave.

The wretch stood in the grave, his bowed head scarcely visible above the top. Father Ulfrid waited for his audience to assemble, then he picked up a spade, dug it into a mound of soil and flung the dirt at the man’s head. The man staggered sideways, pressing his hands against the top of the grave to balance himself, and the crowd drew back with a gasp as if a corpse was trying to crawl out from a tomb.

Twice more the priest threw earth on the man and then declared, “Be dead to the world, but live again unto God.”

At the back of the crowd a woman screamed, but no one paid her any heed.

Father Ulfrid tugged again on the rope, indicating that the man was to climb out of the grave. He struggled, but the pit was too deep and the earth continually gave way as he tried to lever himself out. They stood watching him struggling helplessly. I wanted to push every one of them into the pit with him.

I shoved my way forward through the gawping crowd, knocking aside anyone who did not move fast enough from my path. The gravediggers’ ladder lay by the priest’s feet. I picked it up and slid it into the grave, holding out my hand to the leper. He stretched out his hand instinctively and then, before I could grasp it, withdrew it from me, fearing to touch me.

Summoning all his strength he climbed the ladder and stood unsteadily next to the grave. His clothes were smeared with dirt. It had begun to rain. Wet earth oozed down his haggard face but he made no effort to wipe it away. I lifted my arm intending to wipe his brow on my sleeve, but Father Ulfrid caught me by my arm and tried to pull me away.

“Are you mad, woman?”

“If the blessed Veronica was mad when she wiped our Lord’s face, then I embrace that insanity.”

“Our Lord was not corrupted with sin.”

“Our Lord Himself embraced lepers, Father Ulfrid.”

“Do you dare to compare yourself with Christ?”

Without waiting for an answer, Father Ulfrid turned abruptly on his heel and marched off towards the road leading to the forest, the rope jerking in his hands. The leper stumbled blindly in his wake. I followed them. Half turning, I saw the little band of beguines following me. They were alone. Now that the entertainment was over, the villagers had wandered back to their cottages.

Father Ulfrid finally halted by the stone on the track which marked the edge of the parish boundary. He turned and faced the leper, letting the rope between them slacken. Father Ulfrid’s face was grim. He bowed his head for a moment towards the leper, muttering something too low for me to hear. The man met the priest’s eyes briefly, then looked away. He stared with leaden eyes back towards the village.

Father Ulfrid stepped back. He cleared his throat, declaiming loudly enough for all of us to hear, “You have been favoured by Christ inasmuch as you are being punished in this world for your grievous and manifold sins. You must daily give thanks for this great gift of suffering. Do you understand?”

The man continued to gaze at the village as if he would fix it in his mind. Father Ulfrid impatiently tugged on his rope, jerking the man’s attention back.

“Now mark this well, for these are the rules you must henceforth live by. You are forbidden to enter a church, a tavern, or a bakery or to go into any place where Christian souls meet. You are forbidden to wash in a stream or drink except of that water which has been placed in your cup. You must not touch food, or garments, or well ropes, or anything that Christian souls might touch. You must never go barefoot. When you buy food you must not hand your coin to the merchant, but place it instead in a bowl of vinegar. You must not eat or drink except in the company of others like yourself. You are forbidden to have intercourse with any woman. You are forbidden to come near a child. If you meet any person on the road you must step off it and warn them not to approach you. You must not pass down any narrow street or lane lest you brush against a Christian soul. You shall sound the leper’s clapper to warn godly souls of your approach. You must wear at all times the appointed garb so that all men may see at once what you are. When you die you shall be buried outside the parish bounds and may God give you grace to bear your suffering in true humility.”

He gabbled through this list as if he wanted to get the matter finished as soon as possible. Neither man looked at each other. There was a long pause. No one moved or spoke.

“Ralph, you know I didn’t…” Father Ulfrid began. He swallowed hard, staring at the rope in his hand. Now that he was no longer reciting the words of others, he seemed to be struggling to find words of his own. But none came.

In the end he simply dropped the rope, made the sign of the cross over the man, and strode back towards St. Michael’s Church without another word. The leper stood bewildered, staring back at the village. He plainly had no idea what to do now or where to go. Rain was pattering onto the leaves and I drew my cloak more tightly about me, but the leper didn’t seem to notice the water running down his face.

The beguines and the children were huddled together a little way off, watching me. I knew this day would come sooner or later just as it had for our sisters in the Low Countries. Some of them knew it too. But I could see the uncertainty in their faces. My next words to them had to sound confident. If I stumbled or gave them time to think, it would only make them more fearful of this dread sickness.

“Healing Martha, return to the beguinage as quickly as you can. Prepare a place in the infirmary for him. Kitchen Martha, you go also and take the children with you. Get your fire stoked for a hearty meal, for I know your hot pottage will do him as much good as any of Healing Martha’s herbs. Go on now, hurry. The rest of you remain with me. I have need of you here.”

Beatrice caught my arm. “But surely you don’t mean to bring him with us… not to the beguinage. You heard what Father Ulfrid said; it’s forbidden-”

“The priest may forbid it, but our Lord commands it. And if there is anyone among you who does not know which of them is to be offered the greater obedience, let her not set foot across our threshold this day or any other, for she is not fit to wear the beguine’s cloak.”

I saw shocked expressions on their faces and deliberately turned away, willing them to do what I asked. They were not under a vow of obedience to me or to anyone. I could not compel them. I couldn’t even enforce my threat if the majority of Marthas opposed me. But if I couldn’t hold these disparate women to one common purpose, then everything we had worked for was worthless. The beguinage would fracture and fall apart.

The leper stood where the priest had left him, slumped and lifeless, like a hanged man dangling from an invisible noose. The rope still trailed from his wrist. But when I drew his wrist to me, he flinched as if he feared I was going to strike him.

“Be still, I merely wish to untie you. They call me the Servant Martha. What did Father Ulfrid say your name was?”

He muttered something, but I couldn’t make it out.

“Speak up, man, you know your name, surely?”

“His name is Ralph.” Osmanna was standing just behind my elbow.

“I’m sure he is capable of making an answer for himself,” I said a trifle sharply, startled to find her so close. “And I thought I gave instructions that the children were to go on ahead with Kitchen Martha.”

She jerked her chin up. “I am not a child and you instructed the rest of us to stay.”

I bit back a smile; the girl showed more spirit than the rest of them put together.

I turned back to the leper. “Ralph, we are taking you to the beguinage. There you will have shelter, a warm bed to sleep in, such ointments as we can provide for your sickness, and good food to fill your belly.”

His eyes widened in fear and I almost retreated from him, catching the satyr’s look around his mouth, but when I looked again I saw only the misery of an outcast, nothing more. I was annoyed with myself for flinching. To be condemned never again to feel the touch of another human hand; free to roam, yet imprisoned away from all life; to see it, to hear it, but never again to be part of it. It was a sentence beyond bearing. I was determined it should not be so with us.

“Come, Ralph, where else will you go? Driven from hamlet to hamlet, sleeping in ditches, begging scraps that even the pigs refuse. Can any tales you’ve heard about us be worse than that? At least in the beguinage you’ll be close to your home.”

At the mention of home, tears sprang up in Ralph’s dead eyes. He swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Finally, without looking at me, he gave the smallest nod of assent. I turned and led the way back. Ralph shuffled after me, his shoulders hunched, staring down at the mud-filled ruts of the road. I could have been leading him straight into Hell and he would not have protested, for in his mind he was already there. The little band of beguines trailed behind us, silent as mourners following a coffin.

I tried to skirt the village as far as I could. I feared the reaction of the villagers if they saw him returning, but the final stretch of the path took us beside the outlying cottages and there was no avoiding it. I had hoped the rain would keep the cottagers inside, but children do not care about getting wet and there were several playing on the track ahead of us. They ran into the cottages when they saw us coming, their voices raised, giving the alarm. Men and women emerged from doorways, gathering together on the path. There was no other way round. Drawing myself up to my full height, I marched forward, purposefully staring straight ahead, so as to make it quite clear that I would not permit my path to be blocked.

As we approached, the villagers began to jeer and shout. Mouldy vegetables and eggs flew towards us. A rotten egg exploded on my chest. The stench was enough to turn the stomach. Ralph stopped suddenly and the women behind almost fell on top of him. He was trembling. He wouldn’t move. I seized him by one arm and tried to pull him forward, snapping at the women to keep walking and stay close together. Then I felt someone pulling Ralph on the other side. Osmanna had locked her small arm tightly through his. I caught her eye and smiled approvingly. She would make a strong beguine one day if only she would take as firm a grip on her own spirit as she had on this leper’s arm.

Someone spat at me. The spittle ran down my cheek, but I felt confident they would not dare to lay hands on us for fear of the contagion. I only prayed that they’d stick to throwing eggs and wouldn’t pick up any stones. The beguines were cowering under the barrage of filth and dung that was raining down on us from all sides. The villagers screamed and shouted as we hurried between them, their faces distorted with fear and anger.

The shouting died away. The villagers dropped behind us. Once we were safely away from their cottages, they seemed to lose interest. Only a few children still ran along at a safe distance behind us, jeering and throwing muck, but they were too far away to hit us. At the beguinage gate I risked a brief glance round. There was no one following us. I permitted myself a small sigh of relief and guided Ralph firmly inside.

We were safe, but for how long?