Chapter 17
Ursula
Shame and guilt and self-hatred batter Sister Ursula, wave after sickening wave.
She wishes the Lord would smite her, for how can He allow her to live after what she has done?
She should have defended that skull with everything she had.
Her death would have been that of a martyr then, worthy of admiration and respect.
Instead, she will have to live a coward’s life.
Whilst Sister Ursula wrestles with these personal demons, Elsebeth moves to the Aufhocker’s mother. She closes the woman’s eyes, binds her jaw, folds her hands.
“Poor thing,” she says. “At least the grave I dug for her husband and child is still fresh, meaning the earth will be loose. That’ll make it much easier to dig it all up this time around.
She’s such a slight slip of a thing, I’m sure she’ll fit right in.
Mayhap the Aufhocker will be grateful for it, too.
It’ll be like sleeping between his parents then, all safe and snug. ”
Sister Ursula is still so mired in shame, she stays silent for fear she will begin to cry if she doesn’t. Her eyes are sore with unshed tears. She can smell herself, this mixture of piss and fear sweat, and it revolts her.
“It’s all right, Ursula,” Elsebeth says softly. She comes to her and lays her hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Sister Ursula shrugs it away, not because she does not want it, but because she doesn’t deserve it.
“You go dig that grave,” she manages to say. “I’ll take care of this mess.”
Elsebeth hesitates, seems to chew on some words, but rather than spit them out, she swallows them down.
As soon as she is gone, Sister Ursula takes off her shift, cleans herself up, then puts on her dress. The fabric is rough and unpleasant against her bare skin, but she deserves that, too.
When she feels inside her dress pockets for her rosary, she finds the skull’s map as well. It’s useless now. Perhaps she should throw it away. Instead, she thrusts it back into her pocket. Let it serve as a reminder of her cowardice and failure.
With her shift, she mops up her puddle of urine. That done, she scrubs at the floorboards with a rough-bristled brush. There’s no soap to be found—maybe the woman ate it, since soap is made out of animal fat and wood ash, and is thus kind of edible—so she uses a fistful of sand instead.
Coward, coward, coward. Selfish, selfish, selfish. You can try and erase this stain all you want, but Elsebeth has seen, and she’ll remember, and so will you, and so will the Lord, who sees all, she thinks as she scrubs at the stain. Shame lies on her chest as heavy as a millstone.
Still, what else is there to do but try and clean what she has fouled?
When the floor is as clean as she can get it, she crushes some flowers against the wood in the hope that their bruised stems will release their strong, fresh scent and overpower the stink of her shame.
Next, she takes her filthy shift to the little stream that runs close to the house. The sun has risen by now, allowing her to see what she’s doing as she kneels down on the bank and sets to cleaning her shift in the burbling water, which is bitterly cold, the sand scraping her skin painfully.
As she scrubs, beats, and wrings, she is reminded of that fairy story Elsebeth told her, about the woman who took a man’s skin to the river and washed it so thoroughly that all the demons who possessed him were drowned in the water.
Prayer and confession are what washes a soul clean, but it would certainly be nice sometimes if that process were as tangible as a bit of skin you could scrub and beat, then hold up to the light to see if you’d done a good job.
If sin, shame, and all the other things she’d rather be rid of would stain her skin like wine, then this stream would run red if she were to plunge her skin into it, like Moses turning the river Nile to blood, and…
Elsebeth interrupts her train of thought as she crouches down next to her. Her hands are filthy from all her digging.
Sister Ursula throws her shift over the branch of a nearby tree, then sets to unwind the bandages wrapped around Elsebeth’s hands, wincing in sympathy as she reveals the raw, blistered skin underneath. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says.
Elsebeth puts her hands into the streaming water, hisses at the cold.
She doesn’t look at Sister Ursula, who is grateful for this; it’s easier to bear all these feelings when she doesn’t have to see the disappointment in her beloved’s face.
Instead, they look at the water as rays of the rising sun turn it these beautiful shades of blue and purple, almost like wine.
There is something quite lovely, quite peaceful, about just sitting here, listening to the water as it runs over the stones and the sand.
When Sister Ursula finally finds her voice, it comes out thin and reedy; her throat is sore from trying to keep from crying. “What are we to do now that we have lost the skull?”
Elsebeth thinks for a while, then says, “I don’t know. Mayhap you should go back to your convent, and I should go to my aunt, the way we meant to, before we found each other.”
Of course she wants to leave you now that she has seen what a coward you are.
Sister Ursula tilts her head back, as if the tears burning in her eyes will roll back into her skull and she can keep from shedding them that way. “Is that what you want?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light.
“No, but what else is there to do?”
“You could come with me to my convent. We always need farmers to work the convent’s lands.
I am sure one of the families might take you in.
Or you might help us in other ways. You might work in our gardens, or do laundry, or any number of tasks.
” She realizes she is pleading, but what does it matter?
Pride is a sin, and even if it wasn’t, she’d gladly grovel to keep Elsebeth with her.
But Elsebeth, always pragmatic, asks, “What nunnery would let a Calvinist like me stay with them? And I won’t convert, Ursula, not even for you. That would be a lie, and that I cannot abide.”
“I would never ask that of you. I just want… Without you, I can’t…
” She makes a soft choking sound, feels for her rosary, presses the beads hard against her fingertips to ground herself.
She takes a deep breath and says in a voice a little less tear choked, a little more reasonable, “There is still time to think about it; we will be traveling together for some days more even if you decide to go to your aunt. And you can stay at the convent for a while, too, if you wish, before you decide. Unless, of course, you can’t bear the sight of me anymore. ”
Elsebeth looks at her, a frown thick between her brows as if carved there with a knife. “Why would I not be able to bear the sight of you? Because you wet yourself? Those things happen. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.”
“No, not because of that.” She takes another deep breath, feels it hitch in her chest as it gets caught on all those feelings tangled there.
“I gave him that skull, Elsebeth!” she bursts out.
“I didn’t resist; I just gave it to him.
I should’ve fought, I should’ve done something, anything but bend so easily to his will, and now all is lost, and I… ”
Elsebeth picks at one of her blisters. “Methinks it was a clever thing that you did, not a cowardly one. You may call my big mouth bravery all you want, but if I’d had my way, we would have gotten killed and much worse besides, and for what?
That necromancer would still have gotten the skull then.
Sometimes, fear is a good thing. It keeps you alive. ”
Sister Ursula shakes her head wildly. “No, no! We need that skull, Elsebeth! How else will you wish for your family back? How else will I end poor dead Sister Hildegard’s suffering in purgatory and finally rid myself of all this guilt and shame?
How will I ensure my living sisters will be well?
” Her tears fall into the water, which streams too fast for the surface to be much disturbed by it.
“Ursula—” Elsebeth begins, but Sister Ursula won’t let her go on.
“A poor Ursula I am! When the Huns besieged Cologne, a prince fell in love with sweet Saint Ursula. This Hun promised her she would be spared if only she’d marry him, but rather than submit to such heathen lust, she defied him and was martyred.
She was less than half my age. But what do I do when things get frightening?
I freeze, and I buckle, and I piss myself like an infant!
” She thrusts her hands into the wet sand and balls them into fists; the feel of the grains scraping against her skin helps to ground her a little.
“And what did Saint Ursula get for her trouble? Her head got cut off, that’s what.”
“Actually, she was pierced through with an arrow. The manner of her death matters little, though. What matters is that she became a saint and thus an example for us all. I dishonor her name. No matter that it was Satan himself who came to call on us; I should have stood up to him precisely because he was the devil. There are stories all over of common peasants who trick him, who outsmart him, who stand up to him, but I, a bride of Christ—”
Elsebeth says, “That wasn’t Satan, Ursula, but a necromancer aided by a mercenary.”
Sister Ursula turns to her in surprise. “A necromancer?”
“A sort of sorcerer who raises the dead.”
“I know what a necromancer is, Elsebeth, but why do you believe that creature who took the skull from us is one? Surely Satan can make the dead rise and, in that way, mock the miracle of resurrection?”