Sister Mary Agnes greeted the new day as she had every morning of
the world that she could remember. Realizing, at her advanced age,
that she didn't quite remember every morning she had witnessed caused
her no disquiet. If she were meant to remember everything, she would
have done just that. Her bathing accomplished, Blessed be the
Virgin!, she hadn't slipped on the wet floor; her clothing snuggly
fastened against the chill winter winds, she bid the eastern horizon
adieu and left her small room. She had, for her entire life, rebelled
against calling it a cell. Just one of Sister Mary Agnes' little
'quirks'.
The hallway was quiet, as many of the older sisters inhabiting
this wing did not always make it to chapel. Well served, the Blessed
Virgin granted the sisters due rest. Many here had seen years less
comfortable than those given the working sisters who now bustled along
the halls of hospital. But Sister Mary Agnes liked the walk to chapel,
discomforts outweighed by the trek itself, and had long known she would
not die in her bed.
The North wind was especially cruel this morning, whipping, as it
did, through the aged silver-barked pines. She shivered involuntarily
as she left the lee of the building, striking out across the lawn toward
the cobblestone walk. Soon her feet found those familiar stones and the
wind was at her back. Lovingly she examined each smoothed rock beneath her
feet, remembering. This, daily segment of a reoccurring pilgrimage,
offtimes had caused her to be late for breakfast. It seemed, as time
gathered more into the stones themselves, the memories held more worth.
Here was one she, herself, had scraped her knee upon as she ran and
tripped, most unbecoming, to catch up with another. That one, speckled,
had seen the last living perch of an elderly robin. This one had taken a
tear on the death of her beloved friend Mary Lucina. Mary Agnes stopped,
suddenly, surprised at her own movements as she slowly bent to touch a
finger to that stone. "Sister," she whispered, standing erect again.
An unnoted tear froze on her weathered cheek as her vision seemed
to clear. Never one to question, too deeply, the blessings bestowed upon
her, she lifted her eyes from the path to view the eastern horizon,
blinking at the increased clarity. Her eyes panned south to the belled
tower of the chapel looking past the fountain which stood at the center
of the grounds. There, to the west, rode a pale moon as it left the day
to the sun's light.
"Remarkable," she commented, resuming her way. "Miracles abound,
Lord, and the children do not see them. Why do you suppose that is?"
Her eyes once more on the path, she shivered at the wind's touch.
Stepping onto the deep black of asphalt brought her wandering mind to
bear on the day's prayers. There would be a special one, as they all
were, for the child who had come through the infirmary yesterday.
Safely admitted to Hospital during the evening for treatment though
she was, Sister Mary Agnes worried for her care. Surely the doctors
would tend her small body and cure the ills there, but the ills of the
mind the child bore, the bruises to her small soul.... 'Other hands,
other duties.' she quoted silently.
* * *
Her foot touched a large flat stone unexpectedly. She blinked and
rubbed her eyes with a cold fist, stopping. Large, flat and definitely
where it did not belong. Perhaps, in her meditation, she had wandered.
Examining the area adjoining the misplaced rock, she saw that it was true.
In some unexplained manner she had come to a large circle where there
should be none. From the rock at her foot a row of smaller stones led
toward the center of the circle. And from the center, in a perfect cross,
three rows of stones lead outward to terminate in larger stones identical
to the one at her foot.
"Holy Mother of God!" she exclaimed and swiftly covered her
mouth with boney fingers. "What on earth.....?" Her feet seemed to
move of their own volition toward the center of the circle. Quite
large was the circle, she realized. It seemed she walked so slowly,
so far to reach the center stone. For stone it was.
Three times the size of the one she had almost stumbled upon,
knees height, this one had a concave center as smooth as polished
wood. Standing at the center she turned slowly to measure the size of
the thing. "Blessed Virgin! I am quite undone, you know," she said
and sat on the edge of the center stone, her fingers drawn to her
lips. Her Rosary found its way into her hands, comforting in its
familiarity. Scooting back from the edge, suddenly drained by the
experience, she closed her eyes in silent prayer.
The stone upon which she sat seemed warm, somehow. Her barely
fleshed hinter area should have been quite chilled. The illogic of
the situation presented itself to her at the end of the prayer. No
answer to this puzzle had come. She did, however, feel a renewed
sense of vigor. Perhaps, if she continued in the proper direction, she
could still make chapel before morning prayers began for the working
sisters.
As she raised her head to divine direction a woman stood before
her extending a sun brown hand, palm down. Sister Mary Agnes' eyes
widened in surprise. Focusing her vision on the hand she found her own
reaching out, palm up. The fingers of the other uncurled and a feather
dropped into her hand. Quiet large and beautiful it was, too. Once, she
felt, she had known which bird this feather might come from. She had,
years ago, learned to accept the facts age brought to the body; one,
quite simply, forgot some of the finer details.
Raising her eyes to the woman before her, feeling the slight
weight of the feather within her hand, Sister Mary Agnes recognized the
face. The coloration was slightly darker, though. The rich brown braids
and high cheekbones altered the face of her dear friend Sister Mary Lucina
slightly.
The woman's hand touched her's. A shaft of light fell through
the the gnarled branches of the pines to light upon the contrasting
hands. Mary Agnes saw the strange clothing the other wore, beaded
bib, bright colors enlivening the smooth leather, grass stains at the
hem, where she, the woman, had dropped suddenly on her knees to tend
an emergency, and wondered aloud, "How can you come here?"
"How can I not?" answered the other. "This is a medicine
wheel. " Her arm lifted as the other hand flowed smoothly in a broad
arc to encompass the circle. "We are medicine women. We are met."
"Met?"
The woman's head dipped forward once in acknowledgement. She
smiled softly, dark eyes reflecting tenderness. "Met, Sister."
"Ah," said Sister Mary Agnes, politely. "And where is it that we
are met?" Prompting the woman as a child seemed best, considering the
circumstances. One could never go wrong treating their fellow human
beings as a favored child. It was an unwritten law of nursing, and of
life.
The woman's smile broadened, as she covered Mary Agnes's hand more
fully, the fingers curling to caress the outer edges and sooth the
cold within the older woman's bones. A warmth seemed to flow through
the silvered pines, surrounding them both in a tiny whirlwind. Sister
Mary Agnes breathed deep of the scent, having missed that smell for many
years. Something to do with her sinus membranes losing their elasticity.
Modern medicine was rife with delicate explanations for the aging body.
She smiled at the woman.
"Come," said the other, drawing slightly to assist Mary Agnes to
her feet. "I'll show you."
"Ah, but let me smell the pines just a bit more," the older woman
requested, quite comforted by the feel of the place.
The dark haired woman moved to sit beside Mary Agnes on the stone,
managing with the agility of youth to scoot into a position back to back
with Mary Agnes. The warmth of the pine scented wind soothed whatever qualms
Mary Agnes might have regarding the unseemly appearance they two must
present to the watching world. She smiled into the sun and closed her eyes.
The other woman began a wordless singing....
* * *
Sister Rosalia, novitate, carefully penned her daily journal
notation:
There was quite a stir at evenmeal. Tears and whispered
questions filled the hall. The venerable form of Sister Mary
Agnes, former director of nursing at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital,
a kind and wizened woman of greatly advanced years, had been
found this morning, quite frozen, sitting in the bowl of the
fountain which had been the center piece of the order's garden
for over 100 years.
In her hand had been clutched the feather of an Eagle.
Copyright 1993 Gay Bost
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Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine.
Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri
with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She
installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new
worlds since. Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came
when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an
end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking.
You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines.
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