The Edge

Father John was well liked in the parish, he was kind, educated and friendly yet he was also a local man. He had gone away to train as a priest and had served as a missionary for ten years before coming back to take up the position of deacon at the same church where he had been an alter boy. He had lived in the priest's house with the then Father Peter who was in his sixtieth year. The priests house had a small but pretty flower garden in front, a kitchen garden behind and he often could be found, when off duty, hoeing the potato patch or seeing to the produce. When Father Peter had suffered a slight stroke and decided to retire, Father John had taken his place as Priest in our parish. His first act had been to buy, with the diocese’s money, a large plot of land for the poorer family’s to use as a kitchen garden of their own. The land had come with an old barn which Father John had renovated to use as a small alms house for the least fortunate of the community, which also served as a charitable hospital facility. He went twice a week to the small school to teach and was regarded as a true benefit to the area. My late father in law had enjoyed his company and he had often been invited up to the Hall for dinner and to talk with Lord Robert after the meal. Father John was forty, with a short frame and rather round, though not fat. His face, with its full cheeks and his smile which was that of a choir boy, made him seem young and added to the illusion of roundness. His dark hair was always kept neatly brushed and his dark eyes were kept covered by little round spectacles. Because of these and his priests robes I had often thought he looked rather like a kindly mole.

He now came in quietly, shut the door and sat beside my bed. He took my hand gently and felt my pulse. Once assured that it was steady he asked me what he could do for me. As a member of the clergy who was used to visiting the sick, he did not flinch from looking at my face. I asked if he would hear confession from me. He nodded and sat waiting.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been guilty of the sin of vanity. I looked in the glass for the first time not half an hour ago and I could only think of how hideous I am now and how people will think of me.”

“I think that no sin in a woman who has been suddenly wounded as you have been. It is only natural to mourn the loss of your eye, I would say it is healthy too. It would be more unnatural for you to be unmoved by the change.” His voice was quiet and soothing. It made me want to have him hold me, to comfort me further thought I knew he never would. I was silent and he spoke again.

“I do not think you have committed the sin of vanity. However I do think that you feel you ave committed some other sin, more shameful than that, which you wish to tell me of and which troubles you much. Speak of it, I pray you, relieve your soul. We will be undisturbed.”

His kindness and perception made me feel even more ashamed of myself. This quiet, good man, a former missionary and a priest who had dedicated his life to doing good. How could he possibly forgive my crimes? He seemed to read my thoughts.

“You think I will not understand, that your sins have been too great? My daughter, I have travelled far from this green land and heard many hundred sins from all people. I assure you that I will not judge you. That is between you and the Holy Father above. As his advocate here, I again ask that you give up your sins to me. It will ease your mind of the burden it carries.”

These words softened my pride. I finally managed to begin.

“Father I think that my punishment, my loss of looks is punishment from God. I have been guilty of...of many things and at last I have been struck down in a way that I shall carry my whole life. This past year a man entered our family circle as a trusted servant and was treated with equality by all of us at the Hall. He showed interest in me beyond that of friendship, I was a silly girl and flattered by his interest in me. I succumbed to lust and not once but many times. We used the trust and time alone to have carnal knowledge of each other and though his interest waned the deed was done.” I stopped, out of breath, tears stinging my cheeks. The priest gently wiped away my tears with a handkerchief. His bright eyes looked into my dark one.

“My lady, let me ask a question of you. Is that child in your womb begot of your husband or of this other man? No, do not answer. I see that it is so. Let me ask another question then. Did your husband know of this affair and was this what lead to your injury’s?”

I nodded.

“He did not know until that night when he beat me. Before then he had just suspected and had kept me upstairs for months because I displeased him. He did not like me doing work in the community, he did not like how I had become so close to his mother in place of his sister and he seemed to change in his perception of me when our son died. It was that which made him keep me out of sight but the man, Michael, he wrote to me and begged my forgiveness because he is to marry, will have married by now and he wanted to apologise. My husband read the letter and then he.....he came to my room and sent everyone away. He beat me and then he....he whipped me. He was like a man possessed. He.....he....he was.....” I could not carry on, the memory of that day, the pain and the fear were too much. Father John leaned forward.

“And had he behaved like that before? Had he, at any time, shown violence towards you?” I remembered that night when he had raped me, months ago. The way his eyes had been wild and how he had seemed like a stranger. I told the priest of this and he shook his head.

“The actions of a very disturbed soul. Some times a man can be calm and reasonable in all things but a sudden loss of control and he behaves like a beast. It is in his blood sometimes. Your husband's great grandfather was also such a man. He had a lot of the beast in him. He was a soul in torment, may the Father judge him justly. I think that your husband may have a touch of it too. Might I ask, how did he come to read your letter?” I considered this and realised I did not know. It had been addressed to me, how had Michael come to open it? Father John shook his head again.

“I fancy that someone must have opened your letter and shown it to him. It was not in his habits to open your letters was it? No, I see not. So someone else must have been opening your letters, waiting for this chance. It was not God who has punished you but another. Put thoughts of that out of your head. My daughter, you have committed sins against your husband. He has punished you himself rather than turn to the law. The law is changing. In the past hundred years it has changed much and I think it will continue to do so. The law can now protect you against violence. I will not pretend to understand the law. I will ask only that you tell me the truth so that I can advise you in a spiritual way.” I nodded. I felt like a child before this man.

“My daughter, do you repent of the sin of adultery? Do you truly repent and wish to redeem yourself? Then tell it true. Why did you break with your marriage vow and turn to another man?”

For the first time I let my head go blank. I let my words free. I was tired of keeping everything hidden.

“Because I was lonely. Because I was bored. Because I did not love my husband and because I knew I could not have the life with him that I wanted.” The priest's voice was gentle.

“What life did you want?”

“One of love and companionship. One where I would love and be loved truly for who I am. One where I knew my husband inside and out, as he knew me. One where I was no longer alone.”

The priest shook his head.

“So many marry for those reasons. What did you find when you were his wife?”

“That life was the same as before yet now I had a ring on my finger. It did not change me. I was still alone. I was just expected to obey my husband instead of my father.”

The priest was silent for a while. He stared into the middle distance, looking at nothing. He seemed to shake himself and turn to me again.

“Freedom seems to be the thought which reigns uppermost in your mind. I think you are like a caged bird that tears at its own plumage and breaks its wings on the bars of its cage rather than resign itself to captivity. I ask myself, how much would you sacrifice to be free? Your beauty? Your rank? Your life?”

I looked at him, with my remaining eye and could only whisper that I would give all of this and more. It was the truth. I would give anything to be free. He did not turn away again. He kept my gaze and imprisoned me in his honest dark orbs.

“Your life, then. There are some birds that do this too, did you know this? Some birds can never be caged because they will dash themselves against the bars or starve to death rather than stay a prisoner. The type known as a Red Cardinal, for example. Freedom is a powerful elixir and one can chase it all one's life but never find it. Only a slight taste can be obtained.”

I had to interject.

“By men. Only men can taste this elixir, it seems. Women can never reach it.” The priest held up a hand.

“Not so. We can all chase after what we want, if we choose. Most find that they prefer their prisons, however. The prison of marriage or society or etiquette or class. Instead they find a way to feel freedom, by finding happiness in other things. In family, in children, in drink or travel or food. Most of these seem sinful but then we are selfish creatures and created imperfect.”

“I had those things. I had money and rank, I had a husband and a fine home. I had a beautiful son and should have been happy. Now my son is dead, my husband despises me, I will be cast out of society if any know my sins and my face is ruined forever.” I spoke bitterly, I felt the injustice of life pressing on me. I could never feel freedom as a man could, even as a priest could, who was created to serve!

“You are a priest and have spent your life serving the Lord yet you have travelled far and wide, you have tasted freedom and now have elected to be here in this remote place. How can you understand my feelings?” The sad look was back in his eyes as he held mine.

“Is that what you think? That I am free? Well, it may be that you are right but not for the reasons you think. Do you like story’s, Imogen?” His question surprised me as did the use of my name. I could only nod my head like a dumb animal. Father John considered me for a moment and then poured me a glass of the spiced wine which was before the fire. He took a glass himself and settled himself again in the chair beside my bed.

“Let me tell you a story then. It is one which has never been told before except in part to my own confessor. Listen and consider it.”