Read Online The Devil on Her Tongue by Linda Holeman - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
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she said, pointing to one of the jars, “wipe all the woodwork of the sanctuary and the sacristy. You must be careful when you polish the silver candle holders and chalices—use this.” She opened another jar and held it towards me. I smelled soda ash and salt. “Rub gently, to avoid scoring the silver. And you’re never to touch the monstrance or tabernacle.”
I set down the bucket before the closed door. “I don’t know what any of those things you talk about are, except for the candle holders.”
She looked at me for a long moment as I felt the steam from the bucket soft against my bare leg. Finally she said, “Is anyone in the church?”
I pulled open the heavy door and looked in. “No.”
“All right. I’ll come in with you and show you what you need to do. But I can’t be seen.”
I wanted to ask her why, but the hush of the empty church stopped me. For the next half-hour the nun explained it all. Then, as we stood looking up at the statues of the saints in their niches, the church wasflooded with light as the front door opened to admit a parishioner.
In a whisper of cloth, Sister Amélia was gone.
I stood looking around me after she left, the bucket and mop at my feet. Ignoring the woman kneeling in prayer, I walked around the church, staring at the ceiling, which I now knew symbolized charity. The floor, Sister Amélia had said, represented the foundation of faith and the humility of the poor. I ran my hands over the columns, representing the Apostles. I studied the saints, imagining them whispering to each other from their niches in the empty church as I whispered to my absent father on the beach or on the cliffs.
I was happy to be surrounded by such beauty, and as I mopped and polished I hummed my father’s sailing tunes under my breath.
When I came into the kitchen a few days later, it was empty, and the fire out. I quietly called Sister Amélia’s name, and at her murmur, I went to the doorway beside the fireplace. Her room was tiny and steamy, little more than a closet, with a slit of a window covered with a wooden grille. Sister Amélia was curled on her side on a pallet on the floor. A large, rough wooden cross hung on the whitewashed wall over her.
“Are you ill, Sister?”
She slowly sat up. She wore a plain white dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Her head was still covered by the white cap, but without the black veil. Her dark eyes glistened, perhaps from sadness or perhaps because they weren’t shadowed by the veil. By the way the wimple fit snugly on her head, I could tell that her hair was cut short; only a few dark wisps showed at the hairline. Her heavy crucifix hung on her chest, and I tried not to stare at the high mound of her breasts, which were unnoticeable under her robe. I hadn’t really thought of her as a woman before, with a woman’s body and a woman’s miseries.
“Is it your monthly time?” I asked. “I can run home and bring you back some dried chasteberries. They will ease your cramping.”
“No. It’s not that. I have a melancholia that comes some days. Itwill pass. It always does.” She tilted her head. “Why do you stare so, Diamantina?”
I smiled at her, wanting to heal her, to make her feel better. “You’re pretty, Sister Amélia,” I said.
She frowned as if my compliment had upset her further instead of pleasing her. “You mustn’t say that. I must not know any pride.” She rose and smoothed down the white dress.
“Where is your habit?”
“This is my sleeping gown.”
“Are sleeping gowns only for nuns?”
“No.”
It struck me as strange that someone would wear different clothing to sleep. “Does Father da Chagos wear a different gown for sleeping?” I asked.
Sister Amélia’s cheeks coloured. “Really, Diamantina. That is an unspiritual thought.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but not sorry about my unspiritual thoughts about the fat priest. I
was
sorry for Sister Amélia’s state of mind.
“Please go to
I set down the bucket before the closed door. “I don’t know what any of those things you talk about are, except for the candle holders.”
She looked at me for a long moment as I felt the steam from the bucket soft against my bare leg. Finally she said, “Is anyone in the church?”
I pulled open the heavy door and looked in. “No.”
“All right. I’ll come in with you and show you what you need to do. But I can’t be seen.”
I wanted to ask her why, but the hush of the empty church stopped me. For the next half-hour the nun explained it all. Then, as we stood looking up at the statues of the saints in their niches, the church wasflooded with light as the front door opened to admit a parishioner.
In a whisper of cloth, Sister Amélia was gone.
I stood looking around me after she left, the bucket and mop at my feet. Ignoring the woman kneeling in prayer, I walked around the church, staring at the ceiling, which I now knew symbolized charity. The floor, Sister Amélia had said, represented the foundation of faith and the humility of the poor. I ran my hands over the columns, representing the Apostles. I studied the saints, imagining them whispering to each other from their niches in the empty church as I whispered to my absent father on the beach or on the cliffs.
I was happy to be surrounded by such beauty, and as I mopped and polished I hummed my father’s sailing tunes under my breath.
When I came into the kitchen a few days later, it was empty, and the fire out. I quietly called Sister Amélia’s name, and at her murmur, I went to the doorway beside the fireplace. Her room was tiny and steamy, little more than a closet, with a slit of a window covered with a wooden grille. Sister Amélia was curled on her side on a pallet on the floor. A large, rough wooden cross hung on the whitewashed wall over her.
“Are you ill, Sister?”
She slowly sat up. She wore a plain white dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Her head was still covered by the white cap, but without the black veil. Her dark eyes glistened, perhaps from sadness or perhaps because they weren’t shadowed by the veil. By the way the wimple fit snugly on her head, I could tell that her hair was cut short; only a few dark wisps showed at the hairline. Her heavy crucifix hung on her chest, and I tried not to stare at the high mound of her breasts, which were unnoticeable under her robe. I hadn’t really thought of her as a woman before, with a woman’s body and a woman’s miseries.
“Is it your monthly time?” I asked. “I can run home and bring you back some dried chasteberries. They will ease your cramping.”
“No. It’s not that. I have a melancholia that comes some days. Itwill pass. It always does.” She tilted her head. “Why do you stare so, Diamantina?”
I smiled at her, wanting to heal her, to make her feel better. “You’re pretty, Sister Amélia,” I said.
She frowned as if my compliment had upset her further instead of pleasing her. “You mustn’t say that. I must not know any pride.” She rose and smoothed down the white dress.
“Where is your habit?”
“This is my sleeping gown.”
“Are sleeping gowns only for nuns?”
“No.”
It struck me as strange that someone would wear different clothing to sleep. “Does Father da Chagos wear a different gown for sleeping?” I asked.
Sister Amélia’s cheeks coloured. “Really, Diamantina. That is an unspiritual thought.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but not sorry about my unspiritual thoughts about the fat priest. I
was
sorry for Sister Amélia’s state of mind.
“Please go to
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