Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Read Free Book Online Page B

kingdom of God ,’ he quoted. Then he said quietly, ‘The Lord Jesus does not punish children for sins of the flesh and of the spirit and they do not become possessed and are not blasphemers, but he does forgive them what small sins they have committed. From what I have heard of this so-called miracle, you have only used it as an opportunity to praise our Saviour in hymns to His glory.’
    â€˜Yes, but I may not sing anywhere near the Church as I am unclean and burdened with sinfulness.’
    â€˜Hmm . . . I see . . . awkward then.’ He smiled. ‘You would be a child sinner singing to the oh-so-pious peasants.’ Father John seemed to think this notion quite amusing. ‘Well if you can’t confess you really are in a bit of pickle, are you not? You have been given a glorious voice to praise the Lord but now cannot use it near His temple.’
    â€˜Only alone in the woods,’ I allowed.
    He clapped his hands. ‘Ah, such innocence! A child alone in the woods singing to the glory of God.’
    I corrected my previous statement. ‘No, never quite alone.
    I call the birds and we sing together and sometimes the village children are present.’
    He looked doubtful. ‘You call the birds?’
    I nodded. ‘They like to sing to the glory of God.’
    He looked at me quizzically, then mocking me gently asked, ‘Hymns . . . Gloria?’
    â€˜No, Father, birds have songs of praise of their own. We exchange hymns, theirs are much the sweeter sounding.’
    He laughed. ‘You have a lovely imagination, child.’
    The carpentry shop together with a small casting foundry was set within the monastery garden and now after harvest, when the remaining fruit and corn were ripe, it was filled with birds. I stepped outside and listened, deciding on the nature of the birds I could hear. Then, taking a small handful of corn from the bag the kitchen monk had given me, I began to exchange their various calls using a pattern I had come to know through a process of trial and error and starting with the chattering magpie. The monk came to stand beside me and I bade him stretch his arms wide and open his palms to heaven whereupon I placed a little seed in each. As I continued the calls, birds began to gather in the tree above us. Quite soon the tree was filled with birdsong. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I changed my voice from the carolling of a songbird into the first words of the Gloria in Excelsis , keeping it high and pure so that the birds above me continued in their own hymn of praise to Almighty God. A magpie, the cheekiest of all the birds, came to sit upon the monk’s left hand, pecking at the corn. Soon a robin hopped from a branch and settled on the right, its breast scarlet in the autumn sunlight.
    While I had often performed in the woods with the birds for the benefit of the village children, no adult had ever been a witness to the swapping of hymns of praise. In my experience, purity and innocence is soon sullied or exploited in the hands of adults. The false Miracle of the Gloria was just such an example: those who witnessed my singing in the marketplace could not accept it as a child with a pure, clear voice singing a hymn of praise, but must necessarily turn it into a miracle. Father John I hoped might be different. No adult had ever spoken to me in the compassionate and understanding manner he had adopted, nor treated me with such respect, and I thought him worthy to be the first adult to witness the Gloria of the Birds.
    â€˜Miraculous!’ he exclaimed, at the conclusion of my singing, the sudden sound of his voice sending the birds in a wild flurry of wings from the tree and the robin and the magpie from his hands. ‘I should not have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes,’ he declared. ‘You are truly blessed by God.’
    I laughed, despite myself, having had my recent fill of being blessed I wished for no more such