Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Page A

profound for such as me. Anyway, if I correctly understood him, it was a bit late for me to remain pure in spirit as the rocky road in life had long since stubbed my toes and skinned my knees and elbows and in the process, I felt sure, crushed my poor spirit. ‘Thank you, Father, it is a generous exchange, the stave will protect me well and the bag is just what I need,’ I said, wishing to be polite, although I would have much preferred a bigger bag of corn.
    He seemed pleased. ‘Come then, we must measure you for both, the bag must sit comfortably upon your back and the stave must not be too unwieldy for you to handle.’
    Some hours later and after he had shared his midday meal with me, bread and wine and a bowl of boiled cabbage, he completed the bag and the stave. The leather satchel stoutly stitched and fitted with a strong brass clasp sat comfortably enough upon my back but Father John tut-tutted and fiddled, adjusting it carefully until he was satisfied that it was a perfect fit. Whereupon he reached for the stave, a lovely silvery colour that seemed cut from a yew tree, at its one end a metal tip and at the other, where I gripped, a cunning plaiting of leather most comfortable to my grip. The monk frowned, his head cast sideways to rest upon his neck. ‘You are too young and, besides, too small to protect yourself by the defensive use of a stave. So I have fashioned it somewhat differently for your use. Use it only when you are threatened by the likes of knaves and robbers.’ Whereupon he twisted the leather handle to the left and pulled from the top of the stave a dagger of sharpened bronze. ‘I had forged it for a kitchen knife, but now have changed it to make a dagger. It is blessed by sprinkling with holy water and should not be put to flippant use. Each time you use it, when you place it back you must pray to our Saviour and thank Him for protecting your life.’ Then he replaced the blade and putting his rough carpenter’s hand upon my head pronounced, ‘God be with you, my child. Remember always He has said, “ Suffer little children to come unto me . . . for such is the kingdom of God .” Those are the words of Jesus who has seen that you have a way with children and with nature and He will ever guide and bless you.’
    I was leaving a past I had no reason to remember and to which I had no wish ever to return. As I had told Father John, I vaguely thought that my journey to somewhere else might end up in the great city of Cologne, where I imagined myself indentured as a kitchen servant in the grand house of the Richerzeche , perhaps one of the senatores , in return for food and lodging. It would be a place where a fire kept me warm in winter, where plump round loaves, warm from the oven, were placed before me and a perpetual pot of soup simmered on the hearth. It is with such fairytales that poor motherless children remain hopeful and it just goes to show that, with the encouragement I had received from the kindly monk, even at this darkest moment I remained optimistic.
    But for the chill in the air, travel wasn’t difficult and the first two days passed without mishap. I would find a place in the woods and using the flint I had taken from home I would gather twigs and light a fire to cook my evening meal. I possessed only one blanket and after the fire died down it would grow bitterly cold at night, but I would soon grow warm with walking once the sun rose and I had regained the road. A few people passed me but they kept to themselves. There was no advantage to be gained from a passing acquaintance with a barefoot child in a patched gown; misery always begets more misery and an eleven-year-old girl has no amusing stories to tell to while away time spent on the road.
    Even in late autumn there were still some green herbs to gather in the fields and lanes to supplement my small bag of corn and, while constantly hungry, I had sufficient gruel and green in my