Chronicles of the Unseen:
The Nun
I remember it quite clearly.
It was on the same night that my training had finished. After twenty-five years of being a novice and learning from the Bishop, I had finally become a full fledge nun at the age of thirty-two.
We were just about to have dinner when the Bishop spotted someone wandering the streets in the dark.
The Bishop invited him in, telling him that he could share our food and roof for the night, for he had been traveling and wandering for so long and he needed rest.
The man had messy black hair and only wore a leather coat over black and white rags that were too big for him. His only possession was a leather messenger bag.
I had the servant set the table with the silver plates and goblets that the church had provided for us. The plates had, only, day old bread and the goblets were filled with the cheapest wine. These were better than starving.
As the men set down to eat (women eat separate from the men in the monistary, so the servant and I did not join them), I noticed that the man was about to eat without sharing in our prayer of grace.
The servant looked sidelong at me and I knew what she was thinking; Is it really a good idea to let this man stay here.
I, also, felt that this man was not trust worthy but, in the end, it was the Bishop's decision and the Bishop always knew best.
I portrayed this to her with my light smile, which, I sure, still had a hit of nervousness in it.
With that, we left the Bishop and our guest to their dinner.
….
I was forced awake by the sound of police whistles and a crowd, just outside the monistary.
I ran through the hallways, eventually meeting the servant along the way.
We both ran to the door of the monistary. The Bishop was already there. Our guest was on the coblestone with his bag at the feet of the Bishop. Two policemen stood over our guest, looking accusatory. A crowd of people gathered to make sport of the scene.
The policemen were telling a story that, apparently, our guest had told them.
He said that the Bishop had invited him to stay for dinner and, then, once dinner was done, the Bishop had given him the silver from which they ate and drank from and, then, sent him on his way.
The Bishop, the servant and I all knew that this was, of course, a lie and we all knew what had really happened; our guest had stolen the silver from us when we were asleep.
The servant was shaking her head, shaming the guest while I, merely, start to pray for his soul. He would need prayers in jail.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The Bishop said that our guest was telling the truth; that he had given him the silver as a gift.
But he said that he had forgotten something in his rush to get back on the road. He walked into the monistary and came back with the silver candle sticks. These were the best things that monistary had given us.
The servant and I looked at each other in shock. Was this the Bishop's way of forgiving him?
With that, the Bishop sent the policemen on their way and the crowd thinned to nothingness.
The Bishop told servant and I to return to bed and that he would take care of the man.
We were reluctant but we did as we were asked.
I walked back into the monistary I looked back at the two men. A Bishop and a Theif.
And heard the Bishops reasons for giving him the silver.
"You must use this precious silver to become and honest man."
…
Eight years later.
I was forty.
I had been transferred from the monistary and asked to work at the hospital in Montreuil-sur-Mer.
I hadn't even been there for a year when, one day, the Mayor of the town, Monsieur Madeleine, came in and asked us to take care of a woman who couldn't have, even, been thirty.
As I took the woman into my care, I noticed that the mayor looked, somewhat, familier to me. I just couldn't think of where I had seen him before.
I got her a bed and got her settled in and comfortable.
Suddenly, she started coughing into a handkerchief. Which was covered in blood.
I had seen this many times in my first year at the hospital.
Turberculosis.
No one survived it.
And, to add to it, she was delerious. She saw things that no one else could.
One day, not long after she had been checked in, the Mayor came by to visit her. Perhaps he knew that she didn't have much longer.
I went to her bed making sure that she was comfortable before the mayor came in.
I found her on the floor again, playing with the daughter she often spoke of but no one ever saw.
I smiled sadly as I, gently, to her hands and supported her back to her bed. I lifted her feet onto the matress and pulled the quilt over her before adjusting her pillow.
With that, I invited the mayor in.
Stood at the head of the bed, mopping up the woman's damp forehead while the Mayor tried to talk to the woman.
He promised her that he would take care of her daughter from now on.
The woman asked him to tell her daughter that her mother would see her when she wakes up.
With that, the woman died with a on her face.
I began saying a prayer for the dearly departed and for the Mayor and new guardian to this poor soul's daughter.
But during my prayers I heard something disturbing.
A new voice had entered the room and started threatening the Mayor, for who he had called Valjean.
According to the mayor, this accusing man was Javert, the head of the police department.
The Mayor starting pleading with Javert. He said that he need just three days. In those three days, he would find a safe place for the woman's daughter and, then, the Mayor would return to Javert.
Javert would have none of it, saying that 'men like him' couldn't change.
By now, I had completely halted my prayers and started in shock and intrigue as the Mayor and the Police chief started circling each other, threatening one another.
Finally, the confrontation climaxed.
And in those moments of great tension, I, suddenly, recongnized the Mayor.
Eight years ago, the Mayor stole the silver from my monistary. And, just like the Bishop told him to do, he used it to become and honest man.
Suddenly, the Mayor grabbed a chair and used it to keep Javert away from him.
I ran from the room, fearing what fight would break out.