Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [30]
The canon returned, carrying something long and shiny. It was his bone-handled hunting knife. As always, the sight of it filled Joan with a strong and bewildering sense of dread. The dim play of forgotten memory teased the edges of her awareness. Then it was gone, before she could remember what it was.
Her father sat at the desk. Turning the knife at an oblique angle so the sharp edge lay flat against the page, he scraped at the vellum. One of the letters on the page disappeared. He gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
“It works. I saw it done, once, at the monastery of Corbie. It leaves the pages clean so they can be used again. Now”—he motioned peremptorily to Joan—“you do it.”
This, then, was to be her punishment. Her hand would be the one to destroy the book, to obliterate the forbidden knowledge and with it all her hopes.
Her father’s eyes glittered with malevolent expectation.
Woodenly, she took the knife and sat at the desk. For a long moment she stared at the page. Then, holding the knife as she had seen her father do it, she moved the blade slowly over the surface of the page.
Nothing happened.
“It doesn’t work.” She looked up hopefully.
“Like this.” The canon placed his hand over hers, applying pressure with a small lateral movement of the blade. Another letter disappeared. “Try again.”
She thought of Aesculapius, of his long hours of labor making this book, of the faith he had shown in her when he entrusted it to her. The page blurred as tears rose to her eyes.
“Please. Don’t make me. Please, Father.”
“Daughter, you have offended God with your disobedience. In penance, you will work day and night until these pages are wholly cleansed of their ungodly contents. You will take nothing but bread and water until the task is complete. I will pray for God to have mercy upon you for your grievous sin.” He pointed to the book. “Begin.”
Joan placed the knife on the page and scraped as her father had shown her. One of the letters flaked, paled, and then disappeared. She moved the knife; another letter was obliterated. Then another. And another. Soon an entire word was gone, leaving only the rough, abraded surface of the parchment.
She moved the knife to begin on the next word. A’λήθεια. Aletheia. Truth. Joan stopped, her hand poised over the word.
“Continue.” Her father’s voice was stern, commanding.
Truth. The round lines of the uncial letters stood out boldly against the pale parchment.
A fierce denial rose within her. All the fear and misery of the night gave way before one overwhelming conviction: This must not be!
She put down the knife. Slowly she looked up to meet her father’s eyes. What she saw there made her draw her breath in sharply.
“Take up the knife.” The menace in his voice was unmistakable.
Joan tried to speak, but her throat constricted and no words came. She shook her head no.
“Daughter of Eve, I will teach you to fear the tortures of Hell. Bring me the switch.”
Joan went to the corner and retrieved the long, black stick which her father used on such occasions.
“Prepare yourself,” the canon said.
She knelt on the floor in front of the hearth. Slowly, for her hands were shaking, she unclasped her gray woolen mantle and pulled off her linen tunic, exposing the bare flesh of her back.
“Begin the paternoster.” Her father’s voice was a low rumble behind her.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven—”
The first lash struck cleanly between the shoulders, parting the flesh, sending a piercing shaft of pain up her neck into her skull.
“Hallowed be thy Name—”
The second lash was harder. Joan bit her arm to keep from crying out. She had been beaten before, but never like this, never with such relentless, implacable force.
“Thy Kingdom come—”
The third lash bit deep into her torn flesh, drawing blood. The warm wetness trickled down her sides.
“Thy will be done—” The shock of the fourth lash jolted Joan’s head upwards. She saw her