Chapter 67 Aleys
Aleys
The crowd parts and Aleys sees the stake.
At its base is not just wood, but piles of parchment that form hillocks.
Some are in stacks pinned down with stones.
Some is tucked into the branches piled around the stake.
She knows the parchment contains precious Dutch words inked by believers and copied by others.
Marte’s revelations. The showings of God that she whispered to Lukas.
She has given the word to the people and knows that others will follow.
In a century, in two, as the hidden copies surface, the world will read these letters of love.
She mounts the platform. A breeze catches up a loose piece of parchment and the gospel drifts over the people as she’s bound to the stake.
Closest in, encircling her, are the women in gray.
The beguines are sober; they do not chant; they do not care if she is saint or not.
The plaza is an ocean of people on their knees, but the beguines stand witness.
All of them—Ida, Katrijn, Marte, even old birdlike Agnes—are there, and each is holding parchment, blank parchment, waiting for the word.
Some, defiant, raise the sheets high. Others hold it to their chests.
There is nothing between these women and their God.
They simply love and are loved in return.
As the pyre is lit, it is Katrijn who begins the Ave Maria, Katrijn who holds her eyes.
Aleys tips her head back to meet her God.