Knowledge of Angels by Jill Paton Walsh

Author:Jill Paton Walsh
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781446423042
Publisher: Transworld

18

Without Josefa the child became recalcitrant again. She would not wear her shifts, she would not attempt to go upright, she sulked and snarled, and resumed the habit of skulking in corners. Sor Blancha tried to coax her back to her best behaviour, but truth to tell the sister resented every moment of it, because she was anxious about Josefa and wanted to nurse and coddle her. It was probably just fatigue that had led Josefa to tumble suddenly in a dead faint in chapel, but her lassitude had lasted now for days. The sisters took turns to sit with her, clucked over her, brought her little gifts of flowers, cherished her, and tried to evoke a wan smile on her face.

Meanwhile, the snow-child fretted and prowled, going again on all fours and trying to the limit the patience of whichever nun was guarding her. At first Sor Blancha took no notice of the funny snuffling and coughing sounds the child made while she sat with her. She had brought a task of grinding herbs, and sitting on a stool in the corner of the room to which the child had been consigned, and holding the pestle between her knees, she worked the mortar round and round, taking no notice. The child came closer. She was shaking her head violently, like a person who sneezes. ‘Ssfa! Ssfa!’ She crept close to Sor Blancha, and pulled at her hems. Then she lolloped to the door, and scratched at it, coughing away, ‘Ssfa! Ssfa!’ and whimpering.

Sor Blancha looked up. She tried to find some compassion for the poor wretch, so baffled and incapable, and now lacking her most familiar attendant. What was it she wanted, scraping the door and crying like that?

‘Josefa will be back . . .’ she began to say.

‘Ssfa! Ssfa!’ the child uttered.

Then, with her spine tingling, and her scalp prickling, Sor Blancha realized what she was hearing. She put down her mortar of herbs, and taking her skirt in her hand, and flinging open the door, she seized the child with her free hand, and ran with her, calling her sisters, calling the abbess. Like fluttered doves in a coop, the nuns came running at her call, flocking to the courtyard. The child loped around them, looking up into the ring of faces and whimpering. ‘Ssfa!’ she said. ‘Ssfa!’

‘Listen!’ said Sor Blancha. ‘Oh, listen to that!’

‘Praise be!’ said Sor Agnete, ‘She is trying to say “Josefa”. She is speaking to us at last!’

‘It must work,’ said the abbess. ‘She must find that it works. Take her to Josefa at once!’

When the door to Josefa’s cell was opened, the child stopped short, as though she could smell sickness. Then she loped in and brushed her face against Josefa’s limply dangling hand, and said again the ‘Ssfa, Ssfa,’ sound. Then she bounded up onto the bed and curled herself at Josefa’s feet. Josefa opened her eyes, and said to Sor Blancha, hanging over her anxiously, ‘Is it Amara? Can she

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