The Miracle Thief (11 page)

We reached that evening's hospice rather late, as the sun was in its decline. The bells for vespers were already ringing, and there was a great knot of people at the entrance to the church. I had still not grown used to the push and crush of thronging crowds, and I was jostled to and fro by the people. I confess I stayed close to the man who had been my walking companion, for at least he was known to me, but the crowds soon parted us, and I ended by standing in the chancel among strangers, clasping my knotted cloth to my chest.

This church had been built of stone just as the others had been. It had the same high, soaring roof and the same sort of few, small windows, which failed to let in light. But I had become accustomed to searching out God in the dark. And how glorious was that service. I closed my eyes as I listened, imagining the priest to be the voice of God. The incense to be the scent of heaven, and the chanting monks to be the voices of angels. The offices were soon finished, and I shuffled into the hospice with the other pilgrims. I did not see the man I had walked with, but I soon located the woman, Rosamund, I had spoken with the day before. She caught my eye with a wave of her hand. As had been my habit, I waited until the others had been seated before slipping along the wall and finding a place for myself at the darkest corner of their table. Thus situated, I had learned that by the time the remainder of the food had reached me, the others were intent upon their own meals and I could eat with my left hand without any of them remarking upon it. Happily, when I sat, it was next to Rosamund.

Unfortunately, I was served first.

“He who is last shall be the first.” The monk spoke the words with a nudge and a wink as he set a large kettle of steaming fish and a piece of bread beside me.

I smiled, or tried to, as I shook my head. But he stopped my protests with a gentle hand. “Go on. Take some. Eat while it's yet hot.”

The others were looking at me with frank admiration…and impatience if I read their looks correctly.

“I should wait, for the others.”

“The others will all have their turn. There is enough here for everyone. To serve the least of you is to serve Our Lord Himself.”

Which was worse: to reach for the food with my left hand, to show my misshapen right hand, or to insult the monk by failing to eat at all?

“If you haven't any hunger, then send it on down this way!” The man who spoke the words smiled, but his flash of teeth looked anything but forgiving.

I had to eat; I was famished. And I would not last the next day on the road if I did not. We were all of us pilgrims, were we not? All of us in search of something. All of us in need of saving grace. Lifting my right hand, I let the sleeve fall back, and then I used it to hold the bread trencher still as I dipped my spoon into the kettle for some fish.

Conversation ceased as everyone at the table looked at me, their gazes fixed on my right hand.

I tried to smile, but the monk had pulled the kettle from me and was wiping the side where my sleeve had brushed it with his own sleeve. Stepping past me to Rosamund, he bent to offer it up to her. She slid down the bench, away from me, before she took the food he offered.

As I put my spoon to the fish, I glanced at Rosamund and braved a smile, but she was intent upon her meal and did not see me. Later, as we filed into the dormitory for the night, I asked after her meal and her day's journey, but she must not have heard me, for she did not reply.

I caught what fleas and bugs I could before the lamps were removed, and then I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped the hem of my mantle about my feet. Head on my cloth pack, listening to the night go still about me, I put a hand to my neck. At least I had memories of happier days. I closed my eyes and imagined Mother's arms about me. But as I drew the cord from my tunic, I discovered it was severed. Mother's pendant was gone.

***

I asked the monks the next morning if they had not found it.

“A pendant upon a cord? And you lost them?”

“I lost the pendant, but not the cord.”

His face was a mixture of bepuzzlement and bemusement. “If you have the one, then how did you lose the other?”

I opened the palm I held it with. “It was cut.”

He took it from me, examining the ends. “If it was cut, then surely someone must have taken it.”

“But why would someone take it? They would have had to have known it belonged to me. I wore it about my neck.”

The monk closed my hand around the cord. “Child—”

“And if someone took it, then where did they put it?” Why had they not returned it to me?

“When I said someone took it, what I meant was they must have stolen it from you.”

“
Stolen
it?” I had heard of stealing before, but never had I expected to experience it. “I do not know anyone here. How could they hate me enough to steal something from me?”

“Hate is not required by a thief. Only opportunity is needed, along with envy and greed. You, dear child, had not one thing to do with it.”

“But I need to find it! Will you not help me?”

He patted my hand. “It would be a fool's errand. Whoever has it is probably far away by now.”

“But, it was taken from me
here
. At this hospice.” I did not know why he would not help me.

“Misfortune finds us all.”

“But I have only been among the pilgrims. I have not gone out around thieves.”

“Ah, but if we knew who the thieves were, then they would never be able steal from us, would they?”

“It was all I had left of my mother's.” Tears began to prick at my eyes, begging for release, but I had been taught tears were useless.

“You have your memories still, do you not? And no one can ever take those from you.”

“But my pendant does not belong to whoever took it. It belongs to me!”

He gestured toward the door. “If you do not start soon, the others will leave without you.

I hesitated, wanting to search the place, but I could not deny the cord had been cut. And for what other reason would it have been done than for the purpose the monk had said?

I remembered the man I had walked beside the day before and how he had asked about it. Had he been the thief? But how could he have stolen it from me? I had told him it was from my mother. Why would he have done it? Besides that, he had called me pretty.

Worse…I had believed him.

***

I found my group, joining up with them as they were leaving the hospice. They must have slept as little as I, for there was not much talk among them. As we walked along, I quickly fell to the back. Only this day, there was no one to walk beside.

As we rested, I hoped to sit beside Rosamund. She had been so kind to me, but there was no room on the rock she chose to rest upon, and the others made no move to accommodate me. I ate the crust of bread I had taken from the hospice alongside the road as I admired the bright, cloudless sky. I had not known it to be so large.

When we reached the hospice that evening, I made my confession and then spent some time before the altar on my knees, praying for the soul of whoever had taken my pendant. I prayed also for Saint Catherine's favor to rest upon me.

That night at dinner, there was no room at the table, so I sat with a different group as they made a place for me among them. The next morning, when one of the monks saw me hobble in my step, he sent me to the infirmary for an unguent to salve my blisters. The monk there washed and dried my feet and then put a cooling poultice atop them.

“You should stay here until the blisters have healed.”

“But I am bound to visit Saint Catherine at the abbey at Rochemont, and they say the snows are coming. I cannot afford to wait here.”

“Saint Catherine will still be there in the spring when the snows melt.”

“I do not wish to wait.”

“Your feet may not let you go.”

“They've carried me thus far.”

He removed the poultices and then dried my feet and salved them. “At the very least, perhaps you could purchase new shoes.”

“I have no money. These will have to last the rest of the way.”

“Then take this.” He handed me the small jar of unguent he had used. “And this.” He gave me a length of gauze as well. I went from that place with his gifts in my hands. Though the trip to infirmary had delayed my leaving, many of the pilgrims were still milling about. As I tugged at the knot on my cloth, I saw my group leave. It took me a moment to place the monk's gifts inside, along with my other things, and then I struggled with reknotting it, and as I picked it up, the contents spilled. As always, my efforts at haste were useless.

Despite the monk's treatment, each step I took still chafed. My group must have struck out quickly, for they had disappeared from view by the time I passed through the monastery's gate.

It was lonely, walking the road by myself, but at least I could hear them in the distance. The wind threw snatches of their hymns and recitations back to me.

The road was steeper this side of the city and covered with rocks as it began its climb toward the mountains. By midmorning, I was leaning into my steps, and for the first time, I wished I had a pilgrim's staff. Still though, at midmorning, I had almost caught up with them. I feared to present myself, thinking they might have left me behind on purpose. Although Rosamund had been so kind; perhaps they thought I had left without
them
. In that case, I supposed I should hasten in order to make amends.

But my poor, aching feet would not allow it. The faster I tried to walk, the more they protested. And so I let my pace slow, knowing we would end in the same place that night, and there I could tell them about my visit to the infirmary. At midday I could see them stop ahead of me at the top of a hill.

By that time, I could not take another step, and so I sat along the wayside in a rocky place and opened my cloth to take up the monk's gauze. As I wiped the blood from my feet, I sent glances up the hill. They did not look as if they planned soon on leaving, so I tucked into my bread and let my feet feel the warmth of the sun. It was such a lovely place, situated away at the side of the hillock with a view out into a valley. I had all of the warmth of the sun and none of the chill of the breeze. As I sat there, waiting for the group to start up again, my head nodded, chin falling to my chest.

I blinked awake and stood. It would not do to fall asleep. Not now, not here, so far from the next hospice. But as I glanced up the hill, I saw the others were still there, looking as if they had nothing to do but eat and talk and rest. So I returned myself to the rocks and determined to keep myself awake by reciting prayers.

It did not work.

When I next awoke, the warmth had left the rock I was seated on, and the breeze had wormed its way into the hollow. A shiver brought my wits back to me. Stretching, I dipped my hand to my mouth to cover a yawn.

Was the group still there?

Standing, I shook out my tunic as I looked up the hill.

There was no one. Not one form was outlined against the clear, blue sky.

Fear pulled at my belly as I reassembled my things with a quaking hand. They must have gone while I had been dozing. I started out at a brisk pace to close the distance quickly. The road had not felt too terribly lonely while I had been able to hear them. But now, I confess, trepidation began to whittle at my resolve.

I wavered for a long moment.

Perhaps I should return to the hospice and set out again in the morning with new companions. Or even return this way in the spring. Although I had no other place to go, no home to return to. I had no other thing to do. And besides, the group could not have gone far in the little time I had been asleep. Once I gained the hill, I was sure to see them. And if not, at least I would be able to hear them once more. And as long as I could hear them, they would be able to hear me should I need any aid.

I must accomplish what I had set out to do; I had no other choice.

After leaning into the incline to advance my steps, I finally topped the hill. As I peered down the other side, I expected to see them on the road beneath me. They were not there. But the road curved away down at the bottom and disappeared into a stand of trees. Perhaps they were just hidden from my sight. I stood a moment longer, listening for sounds of prayers or of singing, but I heard nothing save the whistle of the wind.

Descending was far easier than mounting the hill, and it provided some relief to the blisters at my heels. My steps followed each other more quickly as well. I followed the turn in the road as it dove into the stand of trees, expecting at any moment to happen upon my friends, but they were not here either.

The wind stripped a handful of orange-colored leaves from the trees' branches and tossed them in my face.

Quickening my pace left me panting. But beyond the next turn, the road lay empty, and beyond the one after that, still I saw no one. At least the road had turned toward the sun once more by then. I welcomed its warming rays, though I put up a hand to block them as I strained to see into the distance.

How long had I slept?

No matter my sloth, the sun was clearly in decline. I had to hurry if I hoped to make the next hospice before nightfall. I vowed to affix myself to the group that night no matter whether they accepted my apology or not. Intent as I was upon catching the others, I could not help but pause some time later as I came to a bend at which the world seemed to drop entirely away from my feet. Down in the valley beneath me, I could see a village nestled between the trees, the spire of a church, and the sparkling ribbon of a stream. Between myself and the village, crosses had been placed at the top of every hillock and glen.

This must be the place. The one where I was meant to leave my cross.

If I left off my journey though, for even the few minutes it would take to place my cross among them, I might never catch up with the group. But if I did not leave my cross, then how could I expect Saint Catherine to incline her ear to my prayers?