Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Page B

belly not to weaken my resolve to walk a hundred furlongs each day. On the fourth night my bag of corn was almost gone and I hadn’t found anything to gather worth eating. Hungry and becoming concerned that no destination had yet presented itself, I crept within a wood for protection. I found a dry hollow deep within the roots of a giant oak tree, said my prayers, adding a despairing but not overly hopeful request for food, before wrapping myself in my blanket to slumber.
    When I awoke, as if by a miracle, a dozen or so plump mushrooms had pushed up among the fallen leaves at my feet. I offered up my thanks at once to a merciful God, wondering meanwhile what it was I had done to persuade Him in His infinite mercy to come to my aid. I cooked and ate some of the mushrooms and saved what remained for a later time. With the rare pleasure of a full belly my spirits soared and my strength returned. I regained the road to continue my journey to the mythical blazing hearth, warm loaves and hot soup I had so set my mind upon.
    By mid-morning it had begun to rain and the ruts in the road soon filled with muddy water. Soaked to the skin I lost my morning courage and became quite miserable, though I continued walking as the surrounding countryside consisted of open fields and rolling hills without a wood in which I might take shelter. I came at last upon a peasant farmer’s cottage and knocked on the door.
    The frau opened the door. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she asked, looking at me suspiciously.
    â€˜I seek shelter from the rain this night, good mother. Perhaps in your cow shed?’ I asked meekly.
    â€˜Ha! I knew it! You are looking for food without work.’
    â€˜No, mother, just shelter from the rain.’
    â€˜You lie, child, they all say that. God does not feed idlers or beggars and nor do I.’
    Exasperated by her tone I foolishly pointed to my bag. ‘I have food of my own, a little corn and some mushrooms.’
    She looked me up and down, tight-lipped, one corner of her mouth turned down, as though examining a scrawny goose at the market. I was soaked through, so that my patched and mud-splashed dress clung to my ribs. With muddy feet, my hair wet and scraggly and me scrawny and dirty, I must have been a pathetic sight. ‘Ha! In that bag you have food you have stolen! You are a thief and now you ask for charity?’ she scolded.
    â€˜No, mother, only a place to shelter tonight from the rain. The food I came by honestly and I ask for no sustenance from you.’
    She thought for a moment, then pointed a stubby finger at the splendid leather bag on my back that Father John had made for me and said slyly, ‘If you give me that bag we will give you shelter.’
    â€˜Good dame , ’ I begged, ‘I cannot part with it, it has been blessed with holy water and made by a kind monk to suit my needs on the road. Will you not show God’s mercy? “ Suffer little children to come unto me ,”’ I said rather pathetically, repeating the line I had learned from Father John in the vain hope it might soften her peasant heart.
    â€˜Ho! I am not so easily gulled. God has no time for vagabonds and children who carry expensive leather bags and steal corn from the pious poor. It is not yet winter and you are already wet. Be gone from my doorstep! Be on your way!’ With this she slammed the door in my face.
    â€˜Bitch!’ I shouted, much to my own surprise. Then, suddenly elated by my unexpected vehemence, declared further, ‘May you ride in the night with the devil and may his vile seed give birth to a changeling!’ It was the first time I had ever cursed anyone and it felt very good. I continued walking in the rain and it was true: the raindrops, heated by my anger, seemed no longer cold. As the evening progressed the rain turned to soft drizzle and towards the end of the twilight ceased altogether. I found a hedgerow thick enough to shelter me; wet and