THE TEMPEST OF SISTER JAMES.

[dadio]

The bell rings from the cloister. Sister Ignatius opens the shutters of the infirmary with an unfolding of her arms, as if she were about to dance, as if steps of some ballet were on her mind. You watch her from your bed, watch her arms unfold and spread themselves outward.

"Morning, Sister James," the infirmarian nun says, moving to your bedside with a slow glide. You say nothing, but your eyes want to speak, want to say, oh what a bright day.

The nun moves on to another bed and says, "Morning Mother Margaret." The other elderly nun murmurs words, but they are lost on you, as if carried off by some wind.

"Hey, my hearts! Cheerily, cheerly, my hearts!" you say, lifting yourself from the pillows. The nun returns smiling, she smoothes your brow.

"Be with you in a minute, sister," she says.

"Tend to the master's whistle," you say.

"Won't be long, sister," the infirmarian says, moving to the other nun who needs her aid.

"Sister James is in good spirits, today," Mother Margaret says, moving herself awkwardly to the side of her bed. The infirmarian nods and helps Mother Margaret to the chair beside her bed.

A young nun enters the infirmary and stands by the door.

"Sister Elizabeth, tend to Sister James. We are to take them both down to the church; Mother Abbess has requested it," Sister Ignatius says with a hint of a sigh.

The young nun moves to your bedside, her plump face bringing a welcome.

"Morning, Sister James," she says. You gaze at her, at her plump features, her eyes magnified behind her glasses. "How are we today?"

"Blow till thou burst thy wind," you say. The nun smiles and helps you sit upright and moves you to the edge of the bed.

"Does she remember her days as Choir-Mistress?" Sister Elizabeth asks, lifting you carefully into the wheelchair by the bed.

"Seems not to," Sister Ignatius replies. "Seems lost in her youth as a young actress. She was quite good, so I have heard."

"An actress? Gosh, how marvellous," Sister Elizabeth says. She wheels you to the sink and begins to wash your face. There is a certain gentleness about her, a calmness. "How long has she been a nun?"

"She came in 1938 at the age of eighteen," Sister Ignatius says. She begins to help the elderly nun to undress, to remove her nightgown, and undo her other garments.

"She must be the oldest nun here," the young nun says, easing the flannel over your face, wiping your brow.

"Sixty-six years here and eighty-four years old," Sister Ignatius informs.

"There used to be Grand Silence when I was Abbess," Mother Margaret says grumpily.

"There still is, Mother, but here in the infirmary we have permission to speak," Sister Ignatius says, helping the nun to wash herself.

"I forgot," Mother Margaret confesses, "I forgot." In addition, a look of sadness skims over her features, floats over her eyes. "Forgot," she repeats," forgot."

The bell rings again. It echoes around the cloisters and seeps through the windows and into the infirmary. There is a mild movement in dressing, in preparation. The time is come. The hour is here. The Lord calls.

---------------------------

After mass, you are wheeled into the cloister garth and placed beneath the cherry tree out of the sun's heat. Sister Elizabeth settles you, gives a smile and leaves for other duties somewhere else, far beyond your knowledge or understanding now.

Flowers are spread around the border; their colours, smells and beauty are not lost on you, though words do not come for you to state such things or label things as once you would. The cherry tree is like an old friend, its old branches spread out over you like protecting arms and fingers. You may have remembered it being planted if time were not just a mass of days lost in a dark fog. You notice a nun working along the border at the top end, her black habit making her like a large crow digging for worms in the earth. You do not remember her name. Names are here and gone. They float pass you like summer butterflies. The sun warms your face; the sunlight makes you lower your eyes. Your hand moves to your lips, wipes away dribble. The nun stands by the border, stretches herself, gazes over at you, but your eyes stare down at the grass. Something about the grass, its greenness, its smell, draws your eyes towards it. There was grass once, you think you recall, the smell of it fresh cut, where you and another sat, but who it was whom you sat beside is withheld from you, just a memory lost, just a memory lost.

"Nice morning, Sister James," says Sister Norbet, standing over you in the wheelchair. She smiles nervously, as if she were concerned you may suddenly reply.

"The sun's enough to warm even the coldest heart," Sister Henry says walking up from the border.

"Whose cold heart?" Sister Norbet asks.

"A mere saying, Sister Norbet, a mere saying," Sister Henry informs. She moves beside your wheelchair and peers at you. "She loves the sun," she adds, tapping your hand gently as if you were a child.

"She's wrapped well in case it should turn cold," Sister Norbet says. She stands upright and looks over the green cloister garth. "She seemed happy to be in church today. Nice for her and Mother Margaret to be in church for mass."

"Mother Abbess thought it best," Sister Henry says. "Even if they cannot take part fully, their mere presence is good. A real community of sisters." Sister Henry gazes at your lips where a small dribble sits. Those lips, Sister Henry muses, sang so lovely once, a voice of an angel, the Holy Father once told her years back. The dribble moves and hangs over your lower lip. "She met the Holy Father in the 1980s."

"How marvellous," Sister Norbet says. "I wonder what he said to her?"

"He was overwhelmed by her knowledge of Plainsong and her voice," informs Sister Henry studying the dribble hanging like a dewdrop.

"Such knowledge she had," Sister Norbet says. "Gone now. I wonder what she remembers? Do you think she remembers such things?"

"Who knows. States of mind are an enigma. Somewhere in her mind such memories may still reside asleep." Sister Henry pauses, moves her gloved-hand and wipes the dribble from your lower lip. You raise your eyes to the nun whose rough gloved-hand has touched you. She smiles a stiff smile. Her features do not register, do not click. You look away; move your head to look across the cloister. Their words disturb you, buzz about you like summer flies.

"You taught me language, and my profit on it is, I know how to curse," you say suddenly, lifting your eyes to the sun.

"We need no curses, Sister James," Sister Henry says. "She often speaks such things."

"I don't know what to reply," says Sister Norbet. "I seem at a loss."

"She was an actress before she entered the convent. Some say she could have done well, but she chose Our Lord." Sister Henry pauses, gazes at your head, at the way your profile has aged. "Her memory of the stage remains strong, as if part of her still remains there."

"Why speaks my father so urgently?" you say. Sister Norbet bites her lower lip. She is uneasy.

"Your father has only your rest at heart, Sister James. Rest your eyes," says Sister Henry kneeling by the wheelchair, patting your hand.

"Did you know her father?" Sister Norbet asks.

"I humour her. Her father has long since died," Sister Henry says.

"This is strange," you whisper to Sister Henry.

"What's strange?" Sister Henry asks.

"I must obey," you say.

"Obey whom?" Sister Norbet asks leaning forward.

"My lord Sebastian," you whisper, lowering your eyes to the grass again.

"Who's Sebastian?" Sister Norbet asks.

"I've no idea. Some memory, perhaps," Sister Henry says. The two nuns stand over you gazing at your lowered head.

"Seawater shalt thou drink," you say, waving your hand by your cheek. The nuns move away. Sister Norbet to her tasks elsewhere and Sister Henry back to the border along the cloister garth. The crows have gone. The sun warms you, as if a kiss touches your upturned cheek, as if a memory awoke in you.

-------------------

Sister Scholastica takes you to the toilet and after a small meal break returns you to the cloister garth, where you sit once again beneath the cherry tree. The sister crouches by your wheelchair and gazes warmly at you. Her features are familiar, but familiar to whom, you forget. A light makes a small opening in your memory, but it closes again.

"Wonderful day," Sister Scholastica says to you. "The cherry tree provides just the right amount of shade." She looks up at the tree, her eyes catching a sparkle of sunlight. You look at her with a determination to converse, to make some connection.

"Remember I have done thee worthy service, told thee no lies," you say quietly. Sister Scholastica turns and lets her eyes move over your features. There is a warmth there, you notice, a gentleness, but who she is you cannot recall.

"You have done us marvellous service, Sister James, and told us no lies," the nun says.

"Made thee no mistakings, served without or grudge or grumblings," you whisper.

"You have served us and God so well," Sister Scholastica replies. She stands, places her hands on the arm of the wheelchair and looks at you.

"How's our senior nun today?" Sister Thomas asks moving onto the cloister garth.

"She seems well," Sister Scholastica says. "And conversing in her own way." Sister Thomas comes to the wheelchair and bends down. Her large eyes peer through her glasses and settle on you like butterflies.

"I miss her not coming into the library," says Sister Thomas. "I have her own books still on the shelf."

"She has contributed so much to the knowledge of plainsong," Sister Scholastica says. You look out across the cloister garth. Your ears hear their words, but it is all babble. Your hand moves to touch Sister Scholastica's hand. She smiles and taps your hand gently. Whose hand was it that I held once? you muse, looking at the hand tapping your own. Whose hand? So long ago. A long passage of time. You close your eyes. The voices are silent now. Only birds sing. And a soft breeze touches your cheek, like a slight brush of a hand. Whose hand? Whose hand? whose hand?

-------------------

After lunch, Sister Rose pushes you in the wheelchair along the path to the shore at the far end of the convent grounds. Sister Jude, the seamstress, walks along side, her hands tucked away in her habit. Your head shakes side to side like a puppet as the wheelchair travels over the uneven path.

" Sister Perpetua asked me to take her down to the shore to watch the ships pass by," Sister Rose says, her face stern, as if she'd heard bad news. "She makes me uncomfortable when she says things. I've no idea what to say in reply."

"Who? Sister Perpetua?" says Sister Jude.

"No, Sister James," Sister Rose replies moodily.

"I seldom see her," Sister Jude says, "only now and then in the refectory or in church.”

"She comes out with all sorts of things," Sister Rose says. "I don't understand her. I feel out on a limb." Her arms are stiff; her eyes stare out at the horizon.

"Best to humour her," Sister Jude says.

"All well for you to say, but I'm the one who has to cope," Sister Rose moans. You grip the sides of the wheelchair as the rocking gets worse.

"O, it is monstrous, monstrous!" you say. Sister Rose stops pushing and leans down beside the wheelchair.

"It's the ground, Sister James, not me," Sister Rose says.

"The winds did sing it to me," you say. Your eyes lift and gaze at the young nun beside the wheelchair. "And the thunder, that deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced the name of Prosper." Your eyes scan the features of the nun, but nothing comes of her name, or who she is, or if she means good or bad. You look away and stare down at the grass.

"See what I mean?" Sister Rose says. "What can I say? And who is Prosper?"

"Memory is a strange thing. Maybe someone she knew years ago," Sister Jude suggests smiling at you, as if you were some pet cat who needed words.

"I wish she'd sleep, better for me if she does," Sister Rose says. She pushes on; her arms rigid, the wheelchair swaying like a ship at sea. You close your eyes. The sway sickens you, as boat rides always did when you were a child. A boat, you muse, like the one I was in whenever it was, if ever it was, you think, unsure of what or when it was the boat came into it all. The sway is the same. The sickness also. And who was the captain? Whose boat?

The two nuns pause by the shore and set the wheelchair facing the sea. You smell the saltiness, feel the breeze, hear the gulls above you, though you do not look up, but open your eyes and set them over the horizon with its greenness and blueness.

"She was a great choir-mistress in her day," Sister Jude says.

"I've only known her like this. Hard to imagine her otherwise," says Sister Rose, looking down at your head, slightly tilted.

"She was well-known for her knowledge of plainsong," Sister Jude informs.

"And now reduced to this. I feel uncomfortable. How can it happen to one who was so bright and clever?" Sister Rose says lifting her eyes from your head, staring out at the sea, as if she looked for an answer amongst the waves.

"Things happen," Sister Jude says quietly. "Her mind maybe muddled, but her soul is what matters to God. The quality of her soul, not her mind is what matters to Him." Sister Jude stares down at you, wonders how much you hear and understand, how much is now lost to you.

"He does hear me, and that he does, I weep," you say emotionally.

"Does she speak of God?" Sister Rose asks, turning to gaze at you.

"Who knows of whom she speaks. We can only imagine it is God," says Sister Jude, bringing out her hands from her black habit, putting them gently over yours.

You feel the touch of her hands on yours. The face does not fit where it should. Faces come and go like shadows in and out of dark passageways. Whose face and whose hand? Whose? Whose?

"How fine my master is!" you say suddenly. "I am afraid he will chastise me."

"I'm unsure what to say," Sister Rose says.

"Humour her, sister, humour her," Sister Jude suggests.

"You will not be chastised. Your master loves you," Sister Rose mutters. She bites her lower lip. She is anxious of her own words. She does not know why or from where the words came. She becomes silent.

You recall a hand, a boat, a face in the sunlight, but whose? Whose? Whose?

-----------------

After the office of None you are wheeled into the cloister by Sister Blaise, she positions you so that you can see across the cloister garth. Her hands come together beneath her habit like lost friend. She stands beside you, her eyes settling on your profile like bumblebees on a flower.

"Best place to be," says Sister Augustine, walking slowly towards the nuns, her walking stick tapping beside her. "I have always loved this part of the cloister."

"Sister James can see all from here," Sister Blaise says. "Her eyes can follow the sisters as they pass, can watch the birds in the cloister garth and enjoy the flowers in the borders." Sister Augustine sits on a small bench along the wall of the cloister, her aged bones bending awkwardly.

"Now she must rest, but once she seldom sat and rested," Sister Augustine says.

"I've heard she was a bundle of energy in her younger days. Now she is a prisoner of incapacity, "Sister Blaise says.

"We are all prisoners of our bodies. She, however, had many options before she became a nun, "says Sister Augustine.

"Options?" asks Sister Blaise.

"She was a young actress with a bright future. She was much loved by Lord Sebastion Propero who used to take her out in his yacht, and if she married him would have been Lady Miranda. She told me of the large picnics they had on the lawn of his large house and how he had proposed to her there." Sister Augustine pauses, stares out across the cloister garth, catches sight of Sister Henry bending down in the border. She remembers the days when she too bent amongst the flowers in the border, breathing the smells and scents.

"She gave up all that for God?" asks Sister Blaise.

"She said she had her Road to Damascus experience while on the yacht one day and decided there and then that she would become a nun," Sister Augustine informs.

"What did Lord Propero say to that?" asks Sister Blaise.

"He thought her mad, she told me once. Even her father was against her entry to the cloister. He wanted the match to be settled, wanted his daughter well married and away from the stage." Sister Augustine pauses again for breath. She gazes at the rising form of the nun in the border, at the rising form spreading out her arms like a scarecrow. "She entered at eighteen with no one's blessing, with nothing to gain but God's blessing and maybe..." Sister Augustine pauses again for breath.

"She must have had a strong will," states Sister Blaise.

"Only in doing what she considered God's will. In herself, she was passive. She sought nothing that was not in the pursuance of the will of God. She has paid the price of aged flesh and mind, but her soul is God's," says Sister Augustine.

You lift your head to the sound of the voices. The faces are familiar, but to whom or where you fail to remember. Your hand rises to your lips and wipes away dribble. Your eyes move away from the nuns to the cloister. The sunlight has become weaker; a mild breeze enters the cloister.

"I fear a madness held me," you say quietly. The nuns turn to gaze at you. Sister Augustine frowns at your words.

"Not madness, sister, a tired mind," she says.

"If I have too austerely punished you, your compensation makes amend," you whisper to the elderly nun beside you. Sister Blaise looks away, unsure of the words. Sister Augustine takes your hand in hers and gives a gentle squeeze.

"You taught us well," Sister Augustine says. "Your wisdom still resides within us. I remember those things." She gives your hand another squeeze.

"Now my charms are all over thrown, and what strength I have's mine own, which is most faint," you say closing your eyes. The nuns gaze at your lowered head and closing eyes. Sister Blaise frowns, peers at your profile as if attempting to solve a dark mystery. Your head drops forward, the chin resting on the black cloth of your breast. You sense darkness overwhelm you, a slight light dims to your left. You sense a sinking into emptiness, as if falling endlessly through numbness.

"Feel for a pulse," Sister Augustine says releasing your hand. Sister Blaise reaches through the black cloth and fingers for a pulse, but finds none. She shakes her head. Her eyes widen and a sense of panic rises within her.

"Best go find Sister Ignatius, I will stay with her," Sister Augustine suggests calmly. The nun takes flight along the cloister like a disturbed blackbird, her arms almost flapping her to flight. "Take rest, sister, take rest, your hour has come."

There is a small stir in the cloister. Black figures move like crows to a feast. You are still now. Your body slumps at rest. Sister Augustine stares into the border of flowers. She smells the scent of flowers and death.

----------------------

[dadio]

Old story of mine. There is also elements from Shakespeare's The Tempest in here.

[neologistic]

WOW!!! That was amazing and full of human insight, wow

[dadio]

Thank you, neologistic.

[eugeneherman]

dadio, you only contend to be a poet per se... you are a singer... as I read your scribes i fall into hearing lines of breath and song outpour... just sayin'... fine singing...

[dadio]

Thank you, eugene.

[mnaz]

this is powerful stuff, so very well painted. such a skillful job of blending in "the blur" of lost voices and memory with those vaguely disturbing "crow" images at the fringe of the convent, and those moments of sharp clarity back through the years, near the end. excellent.

[dadio]

Thank you, mnaz. I forget when this was written; probably 2006. Borrowed lines from Shakespeare's The Tempest here and there, if I remember.

[mnaz]

i'm unfamiliar with 'the tempest,' (and how that is possible, i can't explain). and 'borrowed' is the way of the world. you breathed new life into an older conception, some soul, right to the end.

[dadio]

Thank you.