Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [19]
He tried to maintain his pose of wounded virtue but could not. “All right, I forgive you,” he relented. “At least Father isn’t angry at me anymore. Now—well, come and see for yourself.”
He pulled her up from the damp ground and helped her dust off the clinging pieces of bracken. Holding hands, they walked back toward the cottage.
At the door, John ushered Joan in ahead of him. “Go on,” he said. “It’s you they want to see.”
They? Joan wondered what he meant, but she could not ask, for she was already facing her father and Aesculapius, who waited before the hearth fire.
She approached and stood submissively before them. Her father had a peculiar look on his face, as if he had swallowed something sour. He grunted and motioned her toward Aesculapius, who beckoned to her. Taking her hands in his, Aesculapius fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “You know Latin?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you come by this knowledge?”
“I listened, sir, whenever my brother had his lessons.” She could imagine her father’s reaction to this information. She dropped her eyes. “I know that I should not have done so.”
Aesculapius asked, “What other knowledge have you gained?”
“I can read, sir, and write a little. My brother Matthew taught me when I was small.” From the corner of her eye Joan saw her father’s start of anger.
“Show me.” Aesculapius opened the Bible, searched for a passage, then held the book out to her, marking the place with his finger. It was the parable of the mustard seed from the Gospel of St. Luke. She began to read, stumbling at first over some of the Latin words—it had been a while since she had read from the book: “Quomodo assimilabimus regnum Dei aut in qua parabola ponemus illud?”— “Unto what is the kingdom of God like? And whereunto shall I resemble it?” She continued without hesitation until the end: “Then he said, It is like a grain of mustard seed which a man took, and cast into his garden, and it grew, and waxed a great tree, and the fowls of the air lodged in the branches of it.”
She stopped reading. In the silence that followed she could hear the soft rustle of the autumn breeze passing through the thatching on the roof.
Aesculapius said quietly, “And do you understand the meaning of what you have read?”
“I think so.”
“Explain it to me.”
“It means that faith is like a mustard seed. You plant it in your heart, just like a seed is planted in a garden. If you cultivate the seed, it will grow into a beautiful tree. If you cultivate your faith, you will gain the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Aesculapius tugged at his beard. He gave no indication of whether he approved of what she had said. Had she given the wrong interpretation?
“Or—” She had another idea.
Aesculapius’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”
“It could mean that the Church is like a seed. The Church started small, growing in darkness, cared for only by Christ and the Twelve Apostles, but it grew into a huge tree, a tree that shades the whole world.”
“And the birds who nest in its branches?” Aesculapius asked.
She thought quickly. “They are the faithful, who find salvation in the Church, just as birds find protection in the branches of the tree.”
Aesculapius’s expression was unreadable. Again he tugged solemnly at his beard. Joan decided to give it one more try.
“Also …” She reasoned it out slowly as she spoke. “The mustard seed could represent Christ. Christ was like a seed when he was buried in the earth, and like a tree when he was resurrected and rose toward Heaven.”
Aesculapius turned to the canon. “You heard?”
The canon’s face twitched. “She is only a girl. I am sure she did not mean to presume …”
“The seed as faith, as the Church, as Christ,” said Aesculapius. “Allegoria, moralis, anagoge. A classic threefold scriptural exegesis. Rather simply expressed, of course, but still, as complete an interpretation as that of the great Gregory himself. And that without any formal education! Astonishing! The child demonstrates an extraordinary intelligence. I will undertake to tutor her.”
Joan was dazed. Was she dreaming? She was afraid to