11
The Thorn Convent
At last they found Rosa’s hut. But she was lying on a cold table, sprinkled with white ashes, laid out as if for a funeral, and Calibur’s heart froze within him. He silently opened the door and approached her where she lay. ‘Rosa, I have returned!’ he whispered, praying to hear her stir. She did not move. He bent over and kissed her brow; it was cold. Outside, dawn was breaking, and the convent was waking. ‘Please, don’t be dead, my love!’ he cried, and held her hand. She stirred and turned her face towards him, but her eyes were still shut.
An old woman appeared at the door, holding a knife of flint. Its chipped edge glinted razor-sharp in the cold light of dawn. ‘Who are you to disturb one who gives up her womb and so passes blameless to her eternal rest?’ she asked in a deep voice. Her deep-set eyes glared, and her skin was stretched like parchment over her skull, and her hair was smeared with white ashes. For she was the Phagzagira, the Wombcutter of the convent. Chiseller growled, the hair standing up on his back, for he sensed the presence of death. And Calibur felt himself falling into a black void at the centre of which was the wombcutter’s haggard face.
With an effort Calibur averted his gaze from the horror of the Phagzagira. ‘I am Rosa’s husband, and I have painted her this!’ he replied, and with shaking fingers he unwrapped the icon. As he opened the panels, the dawn rays of the sun shone in the door of the hut and illuminated the face of Rosa-as-Ainênia nursing the blessed child, and the gems on the frame sparkled. The Phagzagira’s power was broken. She stepped back, dropping the knife, her hands over her face as if the sight had blinded her. Suddenly she turned and ran off, wailing and cursing, with Chiseller nipping at her heels.
Rosa sat up and held out her hands to take the icon, and Calibur gave it to her. She gazed long at it, then at Calibur. She reached out a pale hand and touched the image of the child, and a tear ran down her cheek. She smiled a little, and the colour seemed to flow back into her face under the coating of ash. ‘I think I want to go home now,’ she whispered. ‘Do you know the way, Calibur?’ Before he could reply, she fell back in a faint. He caught her in his arms and bore her outside, still holding the icon, her white dress fluttering in the morning breeze, and none dared touch them.
But when they reached the gate, the guards demanded to hear from her own lips her wish to depart. ‘For we cannot keep any novice here against their will, but she must confess her apostasy herself,’ they said. And Rosa awoke and motioned to Calibur to set her on her feet. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looked up at the guards and said, ‘I have come even to the gates of death, and know that beyond is rest which cannot be had in life. But for the sake of love, I choose life with my husband. For he has painted the Goddess, and in her face I see myself through his eyes, and I know that I am beautiful, and that I am loved, and that love is stronger than death. I choose to keep the womb, and call it blessed, even though I may never bear a child!’
And the anger of the guards blazed, and their third eyes opened, making Calibur reel back. But Rosa held up the icon, and it shone with a clear beauty, and the guards hid their faces, crying, ‘The accursed witch whose womb brings life-in-death!’ and they opened the gates and cried, ‘Be gone, woman, in the name of the Void!’ And they shook the dust off their sandals over her and cursed her. But as Calibur went to follow Rosa through the gate, they arrested him, and shut the gate on Rosa. She screamed, ‘Give me back my husband!’ But they replied, ‘You, apostate, we were bound to release, but not this man. For he was found trespassing in the convent on the holiest day of the year. He must be punished by death!’
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