Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Read Free Book Online Page A

wicked village than submit myself to Father Pietrus for the ritual of exorcism.
    â€˜You have a week to leave us, Sylvia Honeyeater!’ Frau Anna said and then added with a final snort, ‘Good riddance!’ With this the women departed as though they were a gaggle of geese, well satisfied with their morning’s work.
    I felt myself to have no choice but to seek a new life elsewhere as my stay in the village was over. If I were to stay I would always be lesser than the rest of them, tainted by the demon’s occupation and forever forlorn. So I took my only possessions, the hens and the rooster, together with my father’s carpenter’s tools, to the market hoping to sell them. But now people, seeming to enjoy my fall from grace, declared the hens not worth feeding and the tools no longer fit for use. One fat frau, whom I’d previously dubbed Frau Horse’s Arse, sniffed at the hens and said, ‘ Ja , maybe also these hens share the same food as the pigs?’ This brought an all-round cackle and further discouraged any customers.
    Having failed to sell anything at the market I decided to try the nearby Monastery of St Thomas, where the kitchen monk complained bitterly that the hens were aged and possessed no meat and were suitable only for the soup pot. It wasn’t true – my hens were young, in good health and steady layers and the rooster was a lusty fellow. Greed, I was discovering, lives in every man, lacks a conscience and grows fat on the misfortunes of others.
    The whining monk was no different to the peasants at the market. Finally, complaining all the while, the monk exchanged the chickens for a small bag of corn, sufficient if I was careful to sustain me for no more than a week on the road.
    The tools I took to the monastery carpenter’s shop and foundry where the carpentry monk, an older and altogether kindlier person who introduced himself as Father John, examined them, then inquired closely why they were for sale, perhaps thinking I had stolen them. I told him of the death of my father and explained my circumstances.
    He placed his hand on my head and sighed. ‘ Orphanus ,’ he said, consoling me. ‘We have heard of the Miracle of the Gloria . You are that blessed child?’ he asked, surprised.
    â€˜It was not a miracle, Father, only some stupid villagers making up stuff they think they saw.’
    â€˜So you were not a mute who was gifted with an angel’s voice?’
    â€˜I have sung to God’s glory since I was a small child,’ I replied.
    â€˜And now what will you do?’
    I shrugged. ‘Leave the village and go somewhere else . . . somewhere far away.’
    â€˜I see, a pilgrimage maybe?’
    â€˜If my sins may be forgiven I should like to do that, Father,’ I answered, remembering my father’s mocking words in the pigsty.
    â€˜Ah, yes . . . sins. We all have those. How old are you, child?’
    â€˜Eleven years . . . I think.’
    â€˜And what sins have you at such a tender age? Have you stolen? Have you used Christ’s name in vain? Have you dishonoured the memory of your mother? What sins have you committed that would merit the trials and tribulations of a pilgrimage?’
    â€˜Sins of the flesh and sins of the spirit. I am condemned to the everlasting fires of hell,’ I replied emphatically, wondering what he might say if I confessed to murdering my father.
    â€˜Oh dear, that bad, is it?’ Father John seemed to be thinking for a moment. ‘I am but a humble carpenter monk and so cannot take your confession, maybe you should see your village priest?’
    â€˜No!’ I cried, suddenly afraid. ‘Father Pietrus thinks me a mute and an imbecile and, because of the false miracle, claims I am possessed and have blasphemed in the eyes of God.’
    The elderly monk shook his head sadly. ‘ Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the