God's Mirror

God’s Mirror appeared in Confluence, v16.1 and was the winner of the Confluence Prize.

I. Monday after the Ascension of the Lord, 25 Philip IV (1 June 1310), Paris

The hay cart rolled slowly through the cobbled road, jostling its single passenger so severely that if she had not been bound to the side rail she would have been thrown out of it.  The ox labored, shifting shoulders and hips against its burden while the driver struck its flanks with a switch, one side, then the other.  The ride from the Chatêlet, where Marguerite Porete had been imprisoned for the past eighteen months, to the Place de Grève, the marketplace where wine was brought into Paris and firewood and coal were sold, was an eternal stretch, a series of moments both elongated and collapsed upon themselves so that time did not matter.  Everything simply was.  Marguerite simply was.  A state of being that was as eternal as it was temporal.  Though her eyes were open and she saw, though she had ears and she heard, though she had body and she felt, it was all nothing but illusion, and so it could not trouble her.  Everything was just so.

It had rained the night before, an early-summer downpour with lightning that flashed in jagged streaks horizontally across the sky.  The guards whispered uneasily this morning about a bolt that struck ground just outside the prison.  A mark had been scorched into the soil.  Some—the guards who had contact with Marguerite—said it meant they should turn back from a grave error.  Others said it was a sign of their righteousness, that the bolt sought the prisoner.  Marguerite had remained oblivious to it all, the storm, the whispers.  She had not taken food or water or otherwise roused herself for nine days.  She had been roused, of course, by guards who escorted her to her trial and sentencing, but even there she seemed to remain in a trance of some kind.

“Devil woman!”  “Sinner!”  “Virago!”  The crowd jeered as the cart passed.  One did not cross the Church and expect to fare well, and this woman religiosae was the first in Paris to burn at the hands of the Inquisition.  A scraggly man with a soiled cale upon his head cried out, “Heretic!”  He gathered his saliva and spat, arching his entire body upwards and springing onto his toes as he did so.  The ball of mucous arced over the heads of those before him, elongating as it began its descent.  The wheel of the hay cart dropped into a hole with a squelching thud, and, as it lifted again to roll slowly on, the greenish phlegm struck Marguerite’s shoulder.  Droplets sprayed her cheek, but she did not notice.  She rocked with the cart in a soft stance that allowed her to sway and bounce with the road.

Marguerite had been wearing a chemise and simple tunic the day they arrested her.  The tunic of green wool was unadorned by trim or embroidery.  She had not removed it since.  In her cell it became dirty and faded, but Marguerite had maintained a degree of cleanliness unheard of in the prison.  She was not crawling with lice or fleas and her body did not emit the rank odor of her fellow prisoners.  Unless her unwavering composure was taken for madness, her sanity also remained remarkably intact.  Even when William of Paris came to stare at her through the small barred window in her door, she did not stir.  Her eyes never lost their luminous quality and that far-away, unseeing gaze.  The Inquisitor had looked at her as though she were some foreign creature brought before him in a cage, terrifying and repulsive, all the more so because he could not break the gaze.  “Had you but recanted….”  He shook his head, incredulous that anyone should refuse the opportunity to avoid the stake, should refuse even to speak when the council presented her with the chance to recant her heresy as though giving her a gift, which in fact it was, the gift of life itself.  “Stupid, arrogant, false woman.”  William of Paris, his throat red with anger, turned and left briskly.  There was no compassion in his heart for Marguerite; he had merely wanted to see how she fared this morning.  He wondered if she had come out of her stupor to quake with fear as anticipation set in.  He had been disappointed to see her completely unmoved.  In fact, if he did not know better, he would have imagined she felt a certain repose.

The rain had been too much at once, flooding the streets and backing up the sewers.  The city smelled worse than usual.  It would not be long before the cart reached the marketplace where everything waited at the ready, including a crowd that filled the field shoulder to shoulder, adding to the filth their own human condition.  This would be the sort of spectacle that excites the blood and turns a crowd into a mob.

For Marguerite, there was only one thought, a constant thought that repeated seamlessly in her mind while she remained tethered only loosely to this mortal world.  It was a name of God.

II. The Feast Day of St. Thomas the Apostle, 7 Philip III (3 July 1277), 32 miles southeast of Paris

The sky was streaked in layers of pink and blue and violet.  The sun, its orb-shape disguised, reached out over the landscape with orange and gold, over the sky with pastels and white, its center blinding.  The pilgrims, settling into their camp for the night, each felt that such a visage had been placed by God for them, both collectively and individually, that they might be reminded of His divine will.  Just as that heavenly orb had been placed in the universe by God to serve His especial purpose, so had each of them been brought to this place, this moment in time, by His plan.  Whatever their lives at home, they were now pilgrims, stripped bare of the trappings of their existence and united as spiritual seekers.  Those who would not deign to bump shoulders in a crowd with each other found themselves companions and helpmates, united by their abiding faith in Christ Lord Jesus and their common purpose to tread the paths of the saints and seek redemption for their sins.

Thus ran the theme of the monk’s sermon.  It had begun spontaneously as the pilgrims gazed upon the sunset, and on it ran.  Marcel thought it would be a miracle and a true blessing if just once he could lead a company of pilgrims to the Holy Land that did not include a man of the Church prone to sermonizing or a woman religiosae prone to ecstatic hysterics.  Marcel and his men had to sit still, feigning a suitable degree of piety, while the blessed fool shared his inspired wisdom.  Time would be better spent erecting tents and getting the supper while there was light in the sky.

The Dominican friar drew in a deep breath.  “Until you next see the banks of the Seine, you are all paupers on the road to the center of the world.  The way of the pilgrim is known to be difficult, yea arduous, with little bread and little meat.  But Lord Christ Jesus sayeth, Take no thought, saying what shall we eat?  What shall we drink?  Your Heavenly Father knows of your need and will provide.  Seek ye the Kingdom of Heaven, for that is all you require.”

Marcel and his men were largely decent, God-fearing folk.  If there were any heathen amongst his men, they knew enough to keep such to themselves.  Marcel’s company, though not adverse to carrying goods and correspondence, specialized in pilgrims, whom they referred to as “our special parcels.”  Marcel was cautious to strike a balance between a sympathetic devotion and exerting the militant authority necessary to keep the pilgrims from bodily harm.  He had seen enough injuries and even death on these trips to know God’s hand was not everywhere at once, no matter how glorious the sunset or how eloquent the sermon it inspired.

“Amen,” the travelers intoned together.

Immediately Marcel ordered men to fires, tents, cook pots, and begged the pilgrims stay out of the way.  He took the friar aside.  “Friar Amiel, a word?”

“Certainly.”  Friar Amiel wore the black robes of his order and a rope belt tied with three knots, one for each of his vows.  He was a pinched-looking man, his face narrow and angular, skin pitted from a bout of the pox.  His tonsure had silver mixed with sable-brown, giving the impression of a mink curled around his pate.  The eyes were a perfect accompaniment to the hair.  His two best features, hair and eyes, were ruined; the first by a vow to disregard fashion, and the second by a setting that did them no justice, like placing sapphires in a scrap of tin.  Marcel approved of his slender build: it was only right for a man who had taken a vow of poverty.  The last monk to travel with his group had been a great sponge of a Carthusian, all soft and springy, and prone to sniveling.  This monk looked capable of real work, even if the Order of Preachers was known for books and lectures.

“My men and I have need of daylight for our work.  As much as we would surely benefit from your sermons, we must care for everyone’s practical and bodily needs.”

“Of course,” Friar Amiel said without a hint of surprise or disagreement.  “When there is work to be done I shall not keep you from it.”

“Thank you, Friar.”  Marcel moved away quickly to engage in his labors.  It was not long before a plump little widow prone to skin rashes, a reaction to the plants she handled in dye making, approached the friar to make her introduction.  She stood before him, scratching the back of her hand through her gloves.

It was the pilgrims’ first night together.  After failing to find rooms at an inn, they pushed on a few more miles and set up a camp.  The pilgrims had come from throughout the northern Frankish country to assemble in Paris that morning.  Friar Amiel had but to leave the convent of St. Jacques after lauds.  Eustache de Montpellier, his wife, Dame Félise, and daughter, Marguerite, had left Tournai eight days before and traveled on foot with a rented mule for their trunks.  The merchant arranged for the family to travel as far as Paris with one of his transporters moving a caravan of woolen and silk cloth.  Thus their safety was assured by the transporter’s armed guards to fend off highwaymen.  Another family from the County of Hainault had arrived at the rendezvous upon horses, each of them their own.  The Lady Linnet was dressed in a fashionable and finely made cendal robe of deep azure.  The garment hung to her toes and was trimmed with bands of silver vair at the sleeves and hem.  The weather hardly suited the wearing of fur, but sumptuary laws allowed for one of her class to wear as much of the squirrel as she liked, and the thin bands of it made no mistaking her rank.  The Lady sat on a small stool, the fingers of her right hand stroking the trim of her left sleeve.  She appeared uninterested in any of the commotion around her.  Her daughter, Heylwig, sat beside her watching everything, her eyes like spindles.  “Heylwig,” her mother snapped, “a lady never gapes.”

The cook set his tripod and kettle on the fire while his assistant brought water from the river.  The dozen pilgrims divided into clusters to further introductions and seek amiable companions.  Lord Wilhelmus, Lady Linnet’s husband, spoke to Friar Amiel, while the widow now stood with the merchant and his wife, scratching her forearm. Two company men set up their tents.  A groom removed the horses’ saddles and checked their hooves.  Heylwig turned on her stool to face the river.

Down the bank, Marcel had his own horse separated from the others.  He stroked its neck and let it drink.  Heylwig scanned the river and settled on watching the groom’s assistants, two boys not much older than her, perhaps thirteen years of age, each leading three horses to the water.  Between them was that other girl.  Heylwig stood up to see better.

“Sit down, Heylwig.”

“Yes, my lady.”  She obeyed her mother, but perched on the edge of the stool, envious of this merchant’s child.  She glanced around and it seemed no one, except the boys with her, had noticed her wading into the river with one of the horse’s reins in hand.  Heylwig longed to run out there with her own horse, but she dared not move.

Marguerite’s horse stepped farther into the river.   The young stallion seemed to like the feel of cool water flowing about his knees.  Marguerite liked it too.  She held her tunic and chemise bunched in one hand, the horse’s reins in the other.  She spoke softly to the horse, who had his head bent to the water, oblivious to her.  For each step he took, she took three.

Ma’amoiselle,” one of the boys called, “not so far.”

Marguerite lifted her head and looked over her shoulder.  She had no idea they had separated from the group by so much.

Heylwig stood up again to watch.

Marguerite turned and gave a tug at the reins to lead the horse in.  He did not respond, and she tugged harder.  Then harder still.  The stallion whinnied and jerked his head high, sidestepping away from Marguerite as he did so.  She was pulled off balance and stumbled.  Suddenly there was nothing beneath her feet, only water rushing her away.  Her clothes became heavy and bound her legs and arms in knots of cloth.

Heylwig screamed, “She shall drown!”  A moment later, everyone was running for the river bank.

The current pulled Marguerite’s head down beneath the water where it was cold.  It propelled her entire body away.  She flung her arms and twisted.  Her face broke the surface and she gasped before being dragged down and over, tumbling against rocks.  Marguerite realized she was helpless to save herself, and it was an oddly comforting feeling.  Whatever happened, it would not happen by her will.  Her mind emptied of all resistance.  The water rushed her along like a leaf in rapids, giving and bending according to the current’s demand.  Marguerite let go completely…let herself be annihilated by the will of the river…became part of the river….

Marcel heard the girl scream, and knew in the same instant that a body, one of his own charges, rushed toward him.  He dropped a wineskin from one hand, but kept his other gripping his steed’s reins.  He stepped into the water, his eyes fixed upstream, searching.  First he saw a hand, fingers splayed, reaching, and a snatch of yellow sleeve.  It disappeared, but Marcel kept his eyes on that color, that yellow becoming gold and olive in turns as it bobbed beneath the surface of the river.  He stepped out again, praying for a foothold.  She came, yellow and green, up and down, sweeping toward him, one chance only.  As the body neared, he pulled against the reins that tethered him to something sure.  His horse, his horse he trusted to resist, to hold steady.  Marcel plunged, spreading his fingers as to make a net.  Anything…anything….  His body strained, his shoulders ripped in their girdles, the current pushed against him.  He felt something on his palm and closed the net, fingers wrapped about a limb, a wrist.  Marcel pulled.  He groaned and dragged the body against the current, in toward him, using the reins as a line to shore.  He caught Marguerite about the chest and stumbled backwards, collapsing in the mud and rocks.  His horse, now freed, retreated as the entire party of the pilgrimage rushed in to surround Marcel and the unfortunate girl.

Dame Félise threw herself down beside Marguerite, quite hysterical.  Friar Amiel, who was the infirmarian at St. Jacques, knelt and rolled Marguerite onto her side.  He thumped her between the shoulder blades.  She sputtered and vomited.

Eustache de Montpellier stood at the front of the group and stared at his daughter, at a smear of mud on her cheek.  His face contorted into a look of helpless terror; she would either live or die, no matter anything that might be within his power.  When he saw her coughing, writhing, breathing again, his wife and the Friar looking after her, he turned to Marcel.

Marcel lay on the bank, his chest heaving, his eyes frozen wide.  “Marcel?” someone said.  “Monsieur Marcel?”  He turned his head only with great effort.  It was the merchant, the girl’s father.  Marcel could only stare for a long moment before waving a hand in a loose gesture of recognition.

Eustache de Montpellier knelt beside Marcel, compelling him to prop up on an elbow and better meet his gaze.  Master Eustache clapped a hand on Marcel’s shoulder and patted it awkwardly, before giving it a firm squeeze.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Thank you.  I am in your debt.  She is my only child.  You….  I….”  He squeezed Marcel’s shoulder again briefly before letting go to pull a ring off his other hand.  He pressed the ring into Marcel’s palm and closed the hand around it.  “Thank you,” he repeated, before finally attending to his daughter.

Marcel opened his hand.  For the first time, he realized how dark it had become.  He brought his palm close to his face and inspected the sizable garnet set in an ornate gold band.  At least, he thought, if he was going to risk his own life for some stupid little girl, he should find it profitable.

—end—