Chapter 4 Aleys #2
But Finn stiffens and grabs her wrists, pushing her back. “No.” His voice comes from far away. “Stop.” Her eyes fly open. It’s like he’s slapped her. “Aleys, I can’t.” He looks at his hands, drops her wrists. “I was going to tell you. I . . .”
“What? Tell me what?” She feels herself flood with shame.
He takes a deep breath. “I’m joining the monastery.”
She’s stunned. “To become a monk? You can’t. I thought . . . we would be together forever.”
“Aleys. I’m called.”
“By whom? By God?” She’s incredulous.
“The monks say I have a gift.”
“A gift I taught you.”
He ignores that. “Aleys, there’s an opening in the scriptorium in Ter Doest. They’ll teach me, lead me further.”
“And what about me? Who will lead me further?”
“I don’t know. You’re a girl. Join a nunnery.”
“I don’t want to. Besides, I promised to care for Papa. I thought you and I would . . .” She had thought Finn could move in, that she could keep Papa and her best friend. Her only friend.
“Well.” He looks at his hands. “You’ll marry.”
She brandishes the page before him. “And do what? Read scripture between nursing babes, and spinning, and turning the joint? Finn, I’ll be in another man’s bed!”
He flushes. “I can’t—I can’t think about that. I have to go where I’m called.”
“Well, so do I.” Aleys jumps from the platform and lands hard on both feet. She picks up her skirt and dodges apples as she runs toward the woods so he can’t see her tears.
But where? Where can a girl go?
And why hasn’t God called her?
The sting of Finn burns like swallowed lye, like her blood has turned molten and everyone can see the fire in her cheeks.
Even though Griete’s the only one who knew about him, Aleys is sure her shame is stamped on her.
She avoids her reflection the way Griete avoids the shrine.
There’s something deficient about her, something unwomanly that would drive a boy to become a monk.
Although that’s not fair, and she knows it.
Finn loves God as she does. It’s just that she loved Finn, too.
What a fool. She thought she could have them all: Papa, Finn, and God.
It was like the trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Only false.
Aleys takes the leavings to the gate, shielding her head with her apron against the rain.
A pair of Franciscans appears, their brown robes flapping about their skinny ankles.
They have each other, she thinks, always two by two with their begging bowls and shorn heads.
No one ever heard of a friar abandoning another, not ever.
She wonders if they can see in her face that she’s been betrayed.
But they murmur the same benediction they always do, like nothing’s changed. Amore Domini Dei. For the love of God.
She wonders what it would be like to be a friar, to have your mission spelled out for you.
To commit to the vita apostolica, the life of an apostle.
There are Franciscan sisters in other lands, a friar once told her, though not in Flanders.
Here, a woman’s only choice for fellowship is to vanish behind convent walls.
And the nuns aren’t that serious, anyway.
Everyone knows the abbey is for surplus daughters.
God didn’t call them; their wealthy fathers sent them. At least Papa wants her to stay.
Aleys studies the eyes of the friars as she ladles soup into their bowls.
They mostly look hungry, but what a holy hunger it must be.
So unlike Henryk and Claus, who wolf down their food and grab for more.
She thinks of Finn eating in the monastery refectory and banishes the image of him. Unlike him, too.
The friars, the monks, the nuns all have companions.
Only she has to go it alone. She watches the friars recede down the lane.
The rain has stopped. Farrago nudges her and she bends to pat him and then drops into a crouch, hugging him close.
She buries her face in his graying fur. The dog leans into her as she whispers how much it hurts to be human.
Farrago understands. If only he could speak.
Above, the piercing cry of a hawk. Girl and dog lift their heads. The sound makes Aleys think of angels, armed and angry. She scans the skies.
“Mama,” she says to the empty air, “what now? I’m sixteen and out of wishes.
” If Mama were here, she’d take Aleys in her arms and stroke her hair.
But she’s not. The only way Aleys can find Mama is in her dreams, like when she prayed and the roof dissolved.
That messenger, standing behind her, bearing one word from Mama: Seek.
Mama would tell her to seek. No, she thinks, I can’t. I’m in too much pain. She buries her head back into Farrago. The dog raises his muzzle to sniff the air. Aleys takes a deep breath. She looks up again.
The hawk threads circles above them. When its scream comes again, terrible and near, Aleys feels the raw broken thing inside her rise to meet the hunting angel.
They are telling her. She’s meant for God, not man. That the three wishes lead to a sacred union, not an earthly one. She takes a deep breath.
God is her beloved now.
Show me how to find you, she prays. I will seek. Show me the way.
But God sends trials, not road maps. Aleys is rinsing out the small beer jugs when Griete rushes from the side yard holding a leaf that looks like lace.
“Our garden!” Aleys throws down the towel and races outside.
Decimated leaves litter the ground. The broccoli, the lettuce, even the tomatoes are gone.
Bent stalks lean from the soil like wounded soldiers.
Cabbage moths. All the crops that they were about to harvest, all of it, eaten overnight.
She imagines their root cellar in February, empty. Her heart falls.
Oh Mama, this never would have happened if you were here. Then she thinks, Where there are cabbage moths, there are clothes moths.
Griete has the same thought. They sprint toward the storage shed.
Aleys gets there first, rattles the door.
Of course it’s locked. Griete runs back to the kitchen, grabs the key, fumbles with the padlock, throws open the door.
A small cloud of moths puffs out. Griete looks back, ashen, shaking her head.
“How bad?” asks Aleys.
“Bad.”
They push into the storage room, sweeping through billowing moths and grabbing stacks of dyed wool and running to the yard and dumping them into the sunshine, piles of red and blue and black.
The edges of the fabric crumble in their fingers.
They run back and forth until the shed is empty of everything but fluttering gray insects.
Aleys bends to pick up a length of indigo wool and lifts it to the sky.
Spots of light glare through like evil stars.
She drops her arms and looks around. Maybe half their wool is salvageable. Maybe.
“I thought he took it to Brugge last week.” Aleys scans the yard. Ravaged plants, ravaged wool. Oh, why hadn’t she checked her plants for worms? She’d been so caught up in her fantasies and her broken heart.
“He went to the Lakenhalle, but the guild had lowered prices.” Griete wipes her forehead with her sleeve. “Papa thought it better to wait. He thought Mertens might finally grant him a stall.” She presses the heels of her palms into her face. “It was such good wool.”
Aleys could curse Mertens. They’ve been waiting on him as long as she can remember.
The last time they went to the city to get their wool stamped, she’d sat in the back of a draper’s shop, leafing through her psalter, daydreaming of Finn.
She barely looked up when a middle-aged man emerged from behind a curtain.
He had a pink face, with skin that shone as if polished.
The man spoke of weft and warp, but his eyes kept roaming to Aleys.
Aleys frowned and turned a page. She saw Griete tilt toward the merchant, tip her blonde head and dimple at him.
Regard my sister, not me. But Griete’s languid blink went unnoticed.
Even if she was a flirt, Griete was still nearly flat as a board.
When they left, Griete turned to Papa. “Who was that? He was so comely.”
Was he? Aleys didn’t find him so.
Papa laughed. “Comely? That was Pieter Mertens, the head of the guild.”
“Oh.” Griete was no fool. “Who runs the Lakenhalle. He sells wool to princes.” Aleys could tell that Griete was thinking she’d like to meet a prince.
They all knew it was Mertens they needed, Mertens who could grant them the license that would allow them to grow.
And now, looking at the remains of the wool, she knows they need that license to survive.
They’ll have to scrub and brush what’s left and sell it fast. Aleys looks from the ruined garden to the ruined wool.
They’ve already sold Claus’s horse. What’s next?
Winter approaches. Her brothers hire themselves out as barge workers, Aleys and Griete take in washing, their knuckles growing raw with lye.
Papa sells the salvageable wool, the best they’ve ever produced, smooth and fine with a graceful drape in royal blue, at a fraction of its value.
He’s back and forth from Brugge all the time now, trying to negotiate credit with the guild.
Aleys promises the spinsters they’ll be paid in the spring, once her family sells the next season’s wool—if only they can have this yarn now?
Winter settles in. Aleys pulls the last shriveled turnips from the cellar. The friars skip their home. Word is out that hunger is at their back gate.
Aleys finds Griete at the prie-dieu. She tiptoes away. She hopes God hears her sister’s list of demands, because they need his help now.
It’s just after dawn that Aleys hears hooves in the courtyard.
She raises herself to her elbows. A door opens and closes.
Papa is speaking in urgent tones with someone in the kitchen.
Aleys descends quietly, avoiding the step that squeaks.
She peers around the corner just as the messenger leaves.
Papa has his sleeves rolled up and his elbows on the table, his head in his hands.
He looks at her, then quickly away. He can’t seem to speak.
“Papa, what is it?”
“An offer from Mertens.”
“And?” Aleys places her hand on his. “The license?”
He nods. “We will join the Lakenhalle.”
“At last!” She claps. They’re saved. More than saved, they are made. If they can just make it through the winter, they’ll sell next year’s wool at a premium. With the guild’s approval, credit will flow, and they’ll be back in production.
Claus appears, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “We got the stall?” Papa nods and Claus lets out a whoop. The others crowd into the kitchen. Henryk is slapping his forehead and Griete is jumping up and down. Old Farrago has heaved himself to his feet and is weaving between their legs, tail flapping.
“Can I buy back my horse?” asks Claus.
Henryk claps him on the back. “You’ll buy two, brother.” He looks up at the old family shield above the fireplace. “Get that down. I’ll polish it.” The crest won’t be a joke anymore. “We’re about to become a major house.”
“Aleys.” Griete grabs her sleeve. “A dowry! I could have anyone!” She turns to Papa, who’s still sitting at the table, looking at the letter in his hand. “Do you think . . .” She breaks off. “Papa,” she asks, “what’s wrong?”
“Aleys.” He looks up, eyes stricken. “He wants to wed Aleys.”
Everything stops.
“Mertens does?” asks Henryk.
“He can’t do that,” says Claus. “She doesn’t want to marry.”
They stare at her. Griete puts her hand to her mouth.
Henryk speaks. “But she has to.” He turns to Papa. “Right? She has to. Or we won’t get the license?”
Papa closes his eyes and nods.
“Why her?” asks Griete.
Papa finally regards Aleys. “He wants a wife who knows the draper’s business. Who can teach his children to read.”
“But I . . .” starts Griete.
Papa puts his hand up. “Griete, this is about your sister.”
This can’t be real. None of it can be real.
Papa is looking at her, saying something.
Something about Mertens being a good man, a wealthy man.
She can’t hear it. She’s looking around the kitchen, at the hearth that needs sweeping, at the familiar blackened pots, at the spot where Farrago sleeps.
This can’t be happening. She’s meant for God, not for men.
Marriage will kill her. Papa’s voice is far away, still speaking.
We need this, he says. I’m sorry, he says.
“I gave him my answer.” He places his hands flat on the table. “You’ll marry Mertens.”
Everything comes into focus, as if a stagehand has yanked away a screen.
There was a marketplace behind their kitchen, and she never saw it.
Where there had been the hearth, the low stool by the fire, Farrago at their feet, Aleys sees stalls and inventory, account ledgers and scales.
She looks back at a father who is suddenly a stranger.
Aleys feels, in this moment, transformed from a girl to a bolt of cloth.
A daughter whose value has been weighed in the balance. A daughter who’s been sold.