Neomythology - Tapestry

The girl’s voice echoed through the halls as she scrubbed the convent floors. She would sing hymns and she would hum, and as she got lost in her work the humming began to take shape and she would sing her own words.

She sang the stories of the convent, the songs of the little spider that would spin a thin thread down to meet her at eye level and the songs of the living mold giving color to cold stone. She sang for her sisters when they were ill, softly chanting for their health to return.

The Prioress never paid much attention to her songs, until one day she overheard the girl singing to a young boy who had come into the sisters’ care. He had been thrown from his horse and broken both of his legs, and they weren’t healing the way they should.

Being the fifth son of a moderately wealthy man, he had been sent to the priory not just to heal, but to become accustomed to the monastic life he would soon be expected to take up. He felt abandoned, and the girl wondered if this might be the reason his legs wouldn’t heal. What good were legs if he had no desire to use them?

“Such pain, such injustice, this world makes you feel,” the girl sang to the sorrow in the boy’s eyes. “Know that you are strong and you will walk again.”

At that, the Prioress pinched the skin on the girl’s upper arm and dragged her away from the sick bed and out into the hallway.

“What is this sorcery you are trying to perform in God’s house?” the Prioress asked, cold anger shining through her eyes.

“It’s not sorcery,” the girl responded, trying to control the hot rage flaring inside of her. “I’m singing the truth to him. He is hurt, and he needs to heal.”

The Prioress slapped her across the face. “You stupid girl. You’re inviting the devil into you if you think that way. Your voice is a gift from God, and if you sing for his mercy, you might find his favor.”

“My voice is my own,” the girl said, “And if that boy can walk again, am I not doing more good than harm?”

“You are a proud little fool who can’t appreciate what you were given,” said the Prioress. “If you can sing prayers, you will be blessed, but if you try to sing to the world, and forget that you are nothing but dust yourself, God will curse you for your lack of grace.”

The girl’s face flushed. What good would this gift be then? It felt more like a curse if she was shamed for trying to use it. Maybe this is pride, she thought, or a demon making my heart burn with anger, but am I really so wrong?

“Are you afraid I will sing to the world?” she asked. “Are you afraid I will sing to the mold on our bread, to the fact that Sister Therese cries herself to sleep every night for being unwanted? Are you afraid I will sing to the Abbot as he rides into town to see whores every Friday, giving himself a day of rest before trying to bless us with his filthy hands? Maybe you are afraid I will sing to you, Marie-Claire? So lost in your role as our Superior that you’ve lost anything that might make you a Mother?”

The Prioress stared in shock at the raging storm pouring out of the younger girl, unable to respond even when called out by her name. She had never seen a case of demonic possession, and it terrified her to be so close. Silently, she prayed for her own safety as she watched the girl’s face contort in monstrous ways.

“You ask me to sing to God,” the girl finished, “But God doesn’t need my songs. The world does. This is my voice, and if God wants to come sing his own praises to this suffering boy, let him do it himself!”

The Prioress, to her credit, did not let her fear show as she confronted the demon. “You will go to your room, and you will pray for God to show you mercy,” she said with icy sternness in her voice.

“That is all you have to say?”

“That is all.”

The girl went to her room while the Prioress went across to the Abbey to seek guidance. She did try to pray, but all she could find was resentment and tears as she cried herself to sleep.

The Prioress told the Abbot what the girl had said, and she asked if he thought an exorcism might be necessary.

“No,” he said. “She is too far gone. You can’t turn a spider into a honeybee, it will only infest the garden with its venom.”

The Prioress opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it and looked down. It was not her place to question this.

“I will pray for her soul,” she said softly.

The Abbot nodded. “Remember,” he said, “She did this to herself.”

The girl was hanged. The Prioress prayed. A tiny spider crawled up the side of the Abbot’s leg as he nodded in satisfaction. He never felt the bites, but the bumps that they caused were enough to keep him inside with his books that Friday night.

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