Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [9]
2
THE wooden stylus moved swiftly, forming letters and words in the soft yellow wax of the tablet. Joan stood attentively near Matthew’s shoulder as he copied out the day’s lessons. From time to time he stopped to wave a candle flame over the tablet to keep the wax from hardening too quickly.
She loved to watch Matthew work. His pointed bone stylus pushed the shapeless wax into lines that held for her a mysterious beauty. She longed to understand what each mark meant and followed every movement of the stylus intently, as if to discover the key to the meaning in the shape of the lines.
Matthew put the stylus down and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. Sensing an opportunity, Joan reached over to the tablet and pointed to a word.
“What does that say?”
“Jerome. That is the name of one of the great Fathers of the Church.”
“Jerome,” she repeated slowly. “The sound is like my name.”
“Some of the letters are the same,” Matthew agreed, smiling.
“Show me.”
“I’d better not. Father wouldn’t like it if he found out.”
“He won’t,” Joan pleaded. “Please, Matthew. I want to know. Please show me?”
Matthew hesitated. “I suppose there is no harm in teaching you to write your own name. It may be useful one day when you are married and have a household of your own to manage.”
Placing his hand over her small one, he helped her trace the letters of her name: J-O-H-A-N-N-A, with a long, looped a at the end.
“Good. Now try it yourself.”
Joan gripped the stylus hard, forcing her fingers into the odd, constricted position, willing them to form the letters she pictured in her mind. Once, she cried aloud in frustration when she could not make the stylus go where she wished.
Matthew soothed her. “Slowly, little sister, slowly. You are only six. Writing does not come easy at that age. That is when I started also, and I remember. Take your time; it will come to you in the end.”
THE next day, she rose early and went outside. In the loose earth surrounding the livestock pen, she traced the letters over and over again until she was sure she had them right. Then she proudly called Matthew over to witness her handiwork.
“Why, that’s very good, little sister. Really very good.” He caught himself with a start and muttered guiltily, “But it will not do for Father to find out about this.” He scuffed at the dirt with his feet, erasing the marks she had made.
“No, Matthew, no!” Joan tried to pull him away. Disturbed by the noise, the pigs started a chorus of grunting.
Matthew bent to embrace her. “It’s all right, Joan. Don’t be unhappy.”
“B-but you said my letters were good!”
“They are good.” Matthew was surprised by how good they were; better than John could do, and he was three years older. Indeed, if Joan weren’t a girl, Matthew would have said that she would make a fine scribe one day. But it was better not to put wild ideas in the child’s head. “I could not leave the letters for Father to see; that is why I erased them.”
“Will you teach me more letters, Matthew? Will you?”
“I have already showed you more than I should have.”
She said with grave seriousness, “Father won’t find out. I won’t ever tell him, I promise. And I will erase the letters very carefully when I am done.” Her deep-set gray-green eyes held his intently, willing him to agree.
Matthew shook his head in rueful amusement. She was certainly persistent, this little sister of his. Affectionately he chucked her under the chin. “Very well,” he agreed. “But, remember, we must keep it our secret.”
AFTER that, it became a kind of game between them. Whenever the chance presented itself, not nearly as often as Joan would have liked, Matthew would show her how to trace letters in the earth. She was an eager student; though wary of the consequences, Matthew found it impossible to resist her enthusiasm. He, too, loved learning; her eagerness spoke directly to his heart.
Nevertheless, even he was shocked when she came to him one day carrying the huge, wood-bound