Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay

blessing. ‘Oh, it is nothing, simply a trick the village children enjoy,’ I replied trying to sound dismissive, though I was secretly proud of my prowess.
    â€˜It is a great deal more than that!’ he said emphatically. ‘Besides, you have a truly remarkable voice and a wonderful way with nature. Will you not let me intercede on your behalf with the abbot, and perhaps he might find you a place in a convent as a novice?’
    â€˜Nay! I cried out. ‘If you please, Father, no!’ In my imagination I saw the boar with its head over my father’s stomach, a piece of his intestines hanging from the corner of its mouth, its great porcine snout covered in blood. I had used the boar too often to play the role of the abbot while I mimicked his furiously spitting sermons – now the prospect of being taken into his hallowed presence filled me with terror. As for becoming a novice nun, how could I ever entertain such an idea with the great burden of sin I carried upon my young shoulders?
    â€˜Ah, such a pity. Though, on second thoughts, burying you in a nunnery, while granting you salvation, would deny the world’s children the benefit of your extraordinary talents.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Now you must tell me, what is it I can do to help you, child?’
    I had never been spoken to with such generosity of spirit, but nonetheless I knew that I should not allow Father John’s kindly words to seduce me into thinking I was more than a terrible sinner with the practical intent of escaping the environs of the village. ‘You can give me a fair price for my father’s carpentry tools,’ I answered, in what I hoped was a businesslike voice. Then, rather cheekily, I held up the small bag of corn. ‘The kitchen monk has dealt with me unfairly, Father. My six hens were plump and good layers and the rooster in his prime! Yet he claimed they were scraggy old boilers, fit only for soup, and gave me this small bag of corn in exchange for them.’ Then, imitating the kitchen monk’s voice, I mimicked his words to me: ‘Child, be off! You are fortunate I feel generous today, the abbot will chastise me over the thin and watery taste of the soup these scraggly hens will make and the rooster is not worth fetching water from the well for the boiling pot. It has been a poor year and the corn crop has failed – you are well ahead in this exchange.’
    Father John clapped his hands gleefully. ‘Perfect! You have that miserable old fool down pat!’ he chortled.
    Anxious to press my advantage and desiring to stick to the subject of providing for my departure, I now said, ‘Perhaps, in return for my father’s carpentry tools you can arrange for a little more corn or even coin to purchase food on my journey, Father?’
    Father John sighed. ‘Alas, we are not allowed to handle money and only the kitchen monk has access to the corn bin.’ He looked momentarily distraught, then suddenly brightened. ‘A leather bag with straps for your back, a fine brass buckle I have recently forged to clasp it secure and a stout stave! If it should rain the bag of corn you carry will spoil! Yes, yes! A splendid idea!’ he decided, and without consulting me further. ‘A stave to protect you and help you over rocky ground when you embark upon your pilgrimage and a bag for your back so you have the means to carry what you gather on the way and protect it from the weather.’
    â€˜It is not a pilgrimage, Father,’ I protested. ‘I seek only to find somewhere else to go. Cologne perhaps, where I will find employment as a kitchen maid in a rich man’s house.’
    â€˜Ah, yes, but that is no less a pilgrimage. We may not all reach Jerusalem, but we are all pilgrims and life itself is a rocky road with the promise of redemption at its end if we remain pure in spirit.’
    I was not sure I understood him, thinking his words altogether too