Mermaid_ A Twist on the Classic Tale - Carolyn Turgeon [16]
Margrethe looked into her friend’s pale, freckled face, her round cheeks and huge green eyes. It always surprised her how unmistakable Edele was, even with the habit concealing her mass of red hair and large, curving body, whereas most of the others seemed to blend into one general person. “There is no need for you to worry so much,” she chided. “It does not suit you, you know. I am in excellent health and spirits.”
“Perhaps you could try to stay that way?”
A nearby nun shushed them, and Edele made a face. Margrethe stifled a laugh. Seeing her old friend try to adapt to this environment was a constant source of amusement for her.
They took their seats. The novices all sat at one end of the long wooden table and the older nuns at the other. Huge fires burned at either end of the room. One of the nuns sat reading scripture, her voice ringing out above the quiet clang of the dishes. Talking was officially forbidden at mealtimes, but this was one of many convent rules that was not strictly enforced.
As they ate, Margrethe heard snippets of news about the man and his fast recovery. The village doctor had been called for, to treat the man’s wounds and apply cleansing leeches to his body.
“He is very strong,” whispered one of the younger nuns, a woman who’d been sent to the convent by her family to rid her of the devil’s touch. “He has the most wonderful eyes. Doesn’t he, Mira?”
They all looked to her, waiting.
“How did you see his eyes?” Margrethe smiled.
The other novices giggled and received a sharp look from one of the older nuns seated nearby.
“I offered to bring him water and cloths,” the young nun said, looking down at her plate.
“You are quite generous and kindhearted, Sister,” Edele said.
“How did you find him?” one of the others whispered to Margrethe.
She looked at them, all of them watching her, fascinated. If only they knew how wonderful it’d been. For a moment she wished she could tell them everything, let them share with her the wonder of those moments, standing over the sea. She looked at Edele and suddenly missed the long hours they’d spent together at the castle, in complete freedom. There, she would have already told her friend every detail of the event several times over, reliving it again and again. She was not used to this silence and secrecy, pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
“I was in the garden,” she said finally, “and I saw a man lying on the shore. I don’t know why I didn’t call to anyone. I just ran down the steps, to him.”
“You gave him your furs, I heard. You could have died in this cold.”
“Imagine him, lying there, almost drowned!” someone else said. “It’s a miracle he survived.”
“I heard he’s some kind of Viking.”
They were all talking at once, and Margrethe leaned back, glad that, for a moment, they had almost forgotten her.
The abbess entered then, and a hush came over the room.
“I would like you to come with us today, Mira,” she said, approaching the table, her black habit swishing about her legs. “To the village, to deliver help and blessings to the families …”
“Yes, Mother,” Margrethe said, standing.
“A group of us are going. And then you and I will make a few visits alone.”
Margrethe nodded. She knew what this meant: that they were to visit her father’s men who waited in the village below, most likely to discuss what had happened. It was normal for the novices to accompany the older nuns on these visits, and no one seemed surprised. The abbess’s appearance had instead sobered the group, and they quickly finished their bread and fish.
THAT AFTERNOON, a group of holy women walked from the convent into the village. The convent was at the top of a mountain, and the path was rocky and curved sharply down, bordered by bare, thick trees. The wind was brutally cold, and they were all bound in furs, the black and white of their habits flailing out beneath. Like the others, Margrethe carried a basket of goods to take to the villagers: furs and blankets they’d woven.
She stepped