Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [76]
She walks warily through town, past St. Clement's and the round church of Holy Sepulchre, past All Saints and St. Michael's. The streets are deserted, littered with old vegetables and the odd shattered pane of glass. She goes round the long way to avoid Market Square, in case of a mob. At the edge of Petty Curie a huge cart lies on its side, its wheels askew. Under it two men lie in a tangle; not dead, she sees, just drunk and snoring. Does this mean it's all over? Or are they only resting before the next bout?
She hasn't heard the bells of Great St. Mary's this morning, but when she reaches the church she hears the mumble of the rector saying Mass, as on any other Sunday, so she goes in and finds herself a place to stand at the back, behind the scholars' benches. Because this is what she's always done; because she can't think of anything else to do today.
She doesn't understand the Latin but she knows which bits to stand or kneel for. The congregation is small and subdued, dark around the eyes. Margery should have had her breakfast. When she feels a little weak, she squats down on the muddy stone floor. Her eyes rest on the altar cloths and the canopy and the holy cruets and the statue of the Virgin and the stone font with the wooden lid that's locked to keep the holy water safe from witches.
For the sermon, the pale-faced rector switches to English. He walks down the church and climbs the stairs to the pulpit. The people wait to hear the Scripture theme announced, but instead the rector knots his hands and speaks without preamble. "Today is Whitsunday, the feast of Pentecost," he begins in his quiet educated voice, "when Our Lord's Apostles in the upper room were blessed with tongues of (ire. But last night in this town a fire came down which was not a holy fire, but rather a sinful fire, a fire of rebellion and black treason."
Margery Starre stares up at him, her mouth dry. Not a sound from the congregation except the occasional cough.
"Men of this town have talked of grievances and deservings," the rector comments, only a little louder. "But I say to you, when and by whom were you told that you deserve anything? Everything you receive in this life is God's gift, and if others receive more than you, that is by God's will. We men of the cloth, we men of the book," he added, standing a little straighter in his bright robes, "have been placed over you by virtue of our greater wisdom. Whoever raises his hand against one of us is damned. I promise you all, whoever takes any part in this foul rebellion will go to Hell." He still speaks gracefully, as a poet might. "People of Cambridge, do you recall what you have been taught of Hell?"
Margery turns her head to look for a way out, but the floor is covered with kneeling bodies.
"Because light is reserved for God's chosen ones, Hell is the place of darkness, which rings always with the horrid roaring of blackened devils."
All at once she remembers what she never lets herself remember: the birth of her son.
"Because coolness is the reward of a clean spirit, in Hell there is eternally the necessity of burning."
He came out from her legs like a skinny little eel, past midnight. She was only twenty-three, young Goodwife Starre, but she knew enough to be afraid: this one didn't cry like proper babies cry. She bawled for her husband to send for the village priest to christen him quick. An hour passed, and the priest still wasn't come down. His wife (concubine, some called her) sent a message to say he was drunk and couldn't be woken.
"It is the place of weeping, and the gnashing of teeth, the crying of Woe, woe!"
How clearly Margery remembers, half a lifetime later, when she's forgotten so much else. The midwife wailed; she said she'd christen the child herself if she only knew the words. So Margery shouted for a basin of clean water and her husband brought it in. The tiny boy was sticky now, marked with his blood and the prints of her hands. Knowing no Latin,