Chapter 19 Ursula
Ursula
Oh, Sister Ursula thinks, Elsebeth was right: The saint’s skull really does bob around like an apple in a barrel.
She’s back in her convent, at the altar where she and her sisters worship.
When the Protestant troops sacked their convent, they took the golden candlesticks, ripped and soiled the embroidered altar cloth, and toppled the statues of saints from their sockets and smashed them up with hammers.
As for Christ on the cross: the less said about what they did to Him, the better.
But here, the wooden image of her Heavenly Husband still hangs on the wall, the saints stand tall and unbroken, the altar cloth lies clean and uncreased, and the candles burn.
A dream then, this.
The skull is floating a little above Sister Ursula, looking down on her with its glass eyes.
It has a halo, though the light isn’t that warm honey-like light that so many artists try to reproduce by using gold leaf.
It is cool instead, and it pulses brightly one moment, then very softly the next, as if they are underwater.
“Ursula,” the saint says, and though Sister Ursula sees the jaws move, the voice doesn’t spill from between the pearly teeth, slightly blue in their opacity. She hears it in her head instead. “Be not afraid, thou bride of Christ. I come to thee in this dream with a task for thee.”
I am experiencing a miracle, Sister Ursula thinks.
One of the most beautiful things Sister Ursula has ever felt is the profound and unending love of God for her and all of His creations.
It is no easy thing to put that experience into words, but if pressed, she’d describe it as submersing herself into a hot bath and floating in the warm water, feeling as safe and loved as a babe in its mother’s belly, for His love is both a feeling and a place.
Yet the feeling that smites her now, that cleaves into her breast and makes her gasp, is no gentle bath. It is sudden and violent, a riptide pulling her under.
When it is done battering her and spits her out again, she realizes that she has fallen to her knees, that her hands are clasped in prayer.
The saint’s skull is moving from side to side in front of her face, no longer gently bobbing like something waterlogged, but fast and sharp, like a bee moved to anger, like a hand waving impatiently to draw attention.
“Finally,” it says once Sister Ursula blinks and sits up straight, “thou hast returned to me. I feared thou wouldst wake first, or that thou might tumble into a different dream and I would have to chase after thee like a hound after a rabbit.”
When Sister Ursula hears her own voice inside her head, it has only one volume at which it can speak to her; the saint’s voice, though, is very loud and not quite pleasant.
Sister Ursula doesn’t know whether to cry or to laugh.
“Forgive me, sweet saint, I beg of you. I meant no offense. If it pleases you, tell me how I may serve you, and I shall serve you till the last bit of air has left my lungs, my heart has contracted for the last time, and the last drop of blood in my veins cools and congeals.”
The skull tilts to the side in the manner of one cocking their head, then chuckles. It is a strange, dark sound. “How prettily thou speakest! Silver-tongued thou art. No wonder that peasant wench followed thee, even though she believes not in saints.”
Sister Ursula flushes with such force, her cheeks and throat feel scalded. That feeling of absolute awe that battered her has left her feeling raw.
“Very well,” the skull goes on, “I shall tell thee how thou may serve me. Through thy fault, I have fallen into the hands of a sorcerer of Satan. This witchy wretch means to use me to grow his dark powers, which he shall then use to spread sin and misery wherever he goeth.”
Sister Ursula bows her head in shame. She feels sick and full of hate for herself. No amount of confessing and repenting—or washing and beating—shall wash her clean of this sin.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa—
“Dost thou heed me?” the skull shrieks.
Sister Ursula snaps her head back up. “Yes. Forgive me, sweet and merciful one. I am a weak woman, a coward, a—”
“Did I ask thee to list all thy many faults, woman? This is no time to tarry. Pah!” the skull interrupts, and Sister Ursula has the strange feeling that it would spit like Elsebeth sometimes does, if only it still could. Saints are strange and unknowable.
Sister Ursula opens her mouth to apologize once more but manages to swallow those words. Instead, she asks, “How may I make amends for my sins against you?”
“Thou must steal me back from the sorcerer and return me to my body,” the saint says lightly, as if this is a small matter, simple to complete.
Sister Ursula feels her stomach sink. “Steal you back? But I am only a silly woman, ignorant and afraid, whilst that sorcerer has all the dark arts of Satan at his disposal, and—”
“And thou the power of the Lord, so what fearest thou? Or dost thou mayhap think that the Almighty is not, in fact almighty, and no match for the serpent dwelling in Hell?”
“No, of course not, that would be heresy, but I don’t know how Elsebeth and I can—”
The skull swoops close to Sister Ursula, who prostrates herself on the ground. “Dost thou dare question the way and will of the Lord?” the skull hisses.
“No,” Sister Ursula whimpers, her eyes trained on the cool flagstones, “I just don’t understand why He chose me when there are much worthier vessels for a quest as holy as this.”
“Spare me thy modesty. I find it tiresome. Better to rejoice that thou hast been chosen, no? ’Tis a prayer answered, methinks, or didst thou never dream of carrying out grand deeds that will make thee a little more worthy of being the wife of Christ?
Bask in that feeling, and question not, but let the Lord move through thee. ”
“Yes,” Sister Ursula whispers. She can repress all questions and critical thoughts; she has been taught to do so ever since she entered the convent, because such perfect obedience is what God demands of them.
She sits up straight, clears her throat, and says, “I shall make you proud, saint… What may I call you?”
The skull thinks for a moment. It is disconcerting to look at a face that always grins and never blinks. “Names matter not to the Lord, who knows all His children.”
“But I am not the Lord and would like to know what saint I have the pleasure of serving,” Sister Ursula says gently.
“Very well,” the skull grumbles, “If thou must call me something, then let it be by the name of Columba.”
Sister Ursula frowns. There is only one Saint Columba she knows of, a martyr whose patronage focuses mainly on witches and wizards.
The skull can’t be her, though; both the French and Spanish claimed to have her holy body, but the French one was destroyed by Huguenots some decades ago, and the Spanish one lies in a church many miles from here.
There are, of course, many saints, too many to know them all, but how odd that there is another Saint Columba only a few days’ travel from her convent, yet she hasn’t heard of her.
As a rule, churches aren’t secretive about their reliquaries, because they draw pilgrims and, in that way, money.
“Thou art doing it again!” the skull shrieks. “Questioning, questioning, questioning! They should have called thee Thomas for how much doubt thou holdst in thine heart!”
Sister Ursula makes to apologize, but she doesn’t get the chance. The burning candles extinguish, the Christ on the cross warps, the altar cloth turns into a smear of color.
The dream dissolves.
She wakes.