The Anchoress

By J. L. Dean

The Office of the Dead continued, its ringing tone slipping between the cold stones of the church to settle with those buried below. Agnetha remained inert, becoming to a corpse, even a breathing one, as it passed from the life it had known. Hands grasping in the dark; too many hungry eyes on her, and her fortune. She kept her eyes on the bishop, her uncle, whose oft-professed love for her had taken on a different hue when she had asked her favour.

The taste of him lingered in her mouth. Yet the favour had been granted. She had taken her vow; she would remain here, in this cell attached to the church. As anchoress, a living saint, she would be left to decay in piety without the corruption the world demanded.

Above the chanting, she heard birdsong. Her heart broke even as it lifted. The natural world thrummed around her in all its sustaining beauty. She mourned, but saw no alternative. Her parents were dead and there were too many wolves in the forest.

Her uncle’s voice took on a mournful tone as she was led into her tomb. A bed, an altar and a crucifix. She did not face the door as it was sealed though she flinched as the bishop added his mark.

The rite was over. A hatch in the church-side window opened and her uncle himself pushed through her fare of bread and wine.

“Forgive me. I was weak for you are fair.”

She took the goblet and swirled the wine around her mouth, its sweetness replaced the bitter taste he had left. Her eyes pierced him until his lowered then she turned to the night-soil bucket, and spat.

284 words