Air filled my lungs as I revelled in the purity of the world around me.
Above me, clouds as white as snow were suspended in a sea of ocean blue. The view might as well have flown off of the pages in a children's book. The breeze weaved itself through my hair and tickled my cheek and I let my head slowly fall back. It was idyllic and I had never appreciated it until today.
Around me, an ancient building rose up from the earth on four sides. Built from bricks and spotted with lovely vines of ivy, it was almost as grand as a castle. The sky met the steeple, the highest point of the building which was designated with a cross placed in the same way as with an angel on a Christmas tree. Below it was the clocktower with a bell that chimed loud enough to induce a migraine.
The cloister hallways that surrounded me would echo with every step and an archway in the middle of each of the four walls granted access to the gravel path where I was sat. The path was surrounded by the greenest grass you've ever seen, always perfectly cut and it had never been walked on. Which made it all the more tempting to do so.
I was in the center of the courtyard — a garden designed to be a 3 foot tall maze of flowers took up most of the open area. The colours that made it up could give the rainbow a run for its' money. Between the lavender, the roses, and the dashes of other attractive flowers that I did not know the names of, the senses were so overwhelmed that they eventually evened out to become somewhat subtle. I hardly noticed it anymore.
Though it wasn't a particularly complicated maze, my younger self would attempt to zoom through it as if racing an invisible playmate. My goal was always to reach the middle, where a stature of Mother Mary rested. For some reason, I found comfort in sitting and looking up at her. Perhaps, because I'd never known my own mother and wasn't Mary supposed to be everyone's mum?
I'd never bought into religion much, despite being raised half my life by a faction of nuns. I had tried, really I had, but the fantasies in my head provided me more structure and satisfaction. The nuns never pushed belief on me and I think I'd be more devout if I had been introduced to religion as a child than as a pre-teen. Still, I followed the daily schedules and attended mass and prayer (most of the time). It was a part of my life and while my life was lovely, it wasn't enough.
I still had Mary and she was there whether I believed in her son or not. The first time I found her I was crying and alone. When I had discovered her in the middle of the maze, I'd been so struck with fascination that I had stumbled into the flower beds behind me. Rose bushes.
The nuns found me a few minutes later, where I was still staring up at her with thorns in my hands from trying to catch my fall. One or two in my shoulder and my legs. They fretted over me and tried to carefully pluck them out when they noticed that I had no reaction to the feeling.
It was called CIP - congenital insensitivity to pain.
My entire life, I'd lived without ever experiencing physical pain. Which is great — in theory. In practice, however, dangerous and literally, scarring. When I was three, I ended up with third degree burns after leaving my hands on a stovetop without ever realising that I was burning the skin off of my hands. I wasn't clumsy, it was just that bumps and bruises were almost as natural as meal times for me.
To put it into perspective for you, here's an example. The part of your brain that rationally reminds you to not punch a wall because it would hurt does not exist for me. If you did punch a wall hard enough, you'd get bruises, maybe blood on your knuckles if you were angry or strong enough. But, you would feel it because it would hurt. Maybe you wouldn't be able to write with that hand for a bit or brushing it against your bedsheets would make it sting.
That pain wouldn't register in my brain. I could keep punching the wall until I broke every bone in my hand and I wouldn't feel a thing. To be completely straight with you, the life expectancy for people like me wasn't particularly high due to the accumulation of health issues and injuries. Still, there were benefits.
Before leaving me at the abbey, I'd traveled the world with my father. He was a brilliant man, with the brazen and charming contradictions of a showman and a pattern of opportunistic behaviour. My father was a notoriously avaricious cannibal — a con man, who cleverly used my condition to his advantage.
When I was growing up, we'd create cons centred around my inability to feel pain, finding guilt and pity to be excellent motivators to throw half your salary at a stranger.
There was an awful lot of risk involved for me, despite my condition, as traditional cons such as "The Flop", involved stepping in front of a car and exaggerating what was really usually only a minor hit. My youth meant less hesitation on the target's part and typically more money. For those that were reluctant and insisted on calling an ambulance, my medical history included an extensive list of injuries that helped rake in the insurance money.
Since I couldn't feel the pain from being bumped by a car, we were able to take steps to make it more believable and I'd just be fixed up by the docs. Was it reckless? Absolutely. Did it work? 78% of the time.
Maybe he wasn't the best father, but he loved me.
When he left me with the nuns of Santo Domingo de Silos, he promised to come back for me. Only, it's been five years and no one has heard from him since. The easy answer would be that he'd abandoned me, but I knew this couldn't be true. With each day my hopes only grew, until I had decided that I was sick of waiting.
Presently, I picked at my fingernails and lifted my head back up to eye the stone woman. I always found Mary's statue when I was lonely. It was a disparately one-sided relationship but I still considered her to be a friend, of sorts. I'd spend hours sitting beside her, entertaining myself with a book or a puzzle. Despite its lack of privacy, the garden maze was where I went to be alone.
This is why I was resting here at the moment. I was settling myself in the ease of the world and reminiscing about my time at the abbey before I left it behind. Mary was physically weathered and silent as always as she gazed down at me. In my mind, she was whispering words of encouragement. But she was only stone.
Footsteps on the gravel alerted me to approaching company and I raised my hand to block the sun from my eyes as a voice lilted through the air.
"Are you ready?" I nodded, spinning around and lifting myself to my feet. "You've got your passport? Toothbrush? Money for the train?"
"Yup, all that's left is Mary here. Help me stuff her in my bag, will you?"
Sister Misha's lips pursed as she gave me a sour look that suggested she was clearly not impressed. Though she was one of the youngest of the nuns, she'd entered the convent not long after her twentieth birthday. From the day I arrived she acted as my guardian angel, using her free time in between mass and prayers to care for me.
My early days at the abbey are filled with memories of her plaiting my hair while humming a psalm from the morning mass. Bedtime stories were her own recounts of history and she would fill my bookshelf with worldly adventures, classics, and Shakespeare. None of the other nuns were quite so refined or old fashioned, even the older ones. It was just Misha.
She sighed, a hint of a smile growing on her face as she raised a hand to cup my cheek. "Just don't go looking for trouble and it won't find you." It wasn't a fair thing to ask of me and she knew it. The very nature of my mission was going to require some skills I hadn't used in a long time. Skills that were less than honourable but with good intentions, and that was enough for me. I had nothing to lose.
"I'm not familiar with that passage — is it Luke?" She lightly tapped my cheek in a fond form of comeuppance. She was far too used to my witty comments and while she tried to appear unamused, I had no doubt she found it too endearing to not appreciate my humour.
"Cheeky girl," she marvelled. However, she was still frowning as she asked me in a breathy voice, "Saffiya, are you positive that you want to do this?"
"He could be in trouble." Every time I said it I'd be gifted the same pitiful look, doubt evident in their eyes. For nuns, they seemed to have such little faith. I knew my father was out there. I just didn't know where.
The day he left was a blur. I can remember hushed voices before I was swept up into the arms of one of the nuns and promptly carried away from my father. No explanation, no proper goodbye — he was just gone. Every day I waited for him to return. But he never came.
A tug on my shoulders brought me back to Misha as the nun pulled me into her arms in a tight hug. I laughed, dropping my bag from my shoulder and wrapping my arms around her in return, "I'm going to miss you."
When she finally released me, she reached out and clutched my hand, noticing the gauze taped loosely to my palm. I had kind of been hoping she wouldn't notice, but I knew it was a long shot. She gasped, flipping my hand over to examine it. The night before, I'd tried to make soup and while reaching above the stove for a pot, I'd set my hand down for a few seconds. Alright, maybe a little more than a few seconds, but it wasn't the worst injury I'd ever had. "It's fine. I promise."
I wasn't sure why she was still surprised when I appeared with a band aid on my arm or a few bruises on my legs. She'd treated enough of them herself to be prepared for such an event. Misha mutters something incoherent in Spanish and gently drops my hand. Side by side, we made our way to the front of the abbey where the sisters had gathered to see me off.
There were no more hugs exchanged, but many of them whispered a sweet word or two, a "good luck" or a "stay safe". Sister Anne, a nun in her early sixties, brushed my hair out of my face with a gentle smile. A few others performed the sign of the cross over me with no words. It was a gesture that made my heart swell despite myself.
After I'd given a goodbye to each of the nuns, there was a beat before they began to part like the red sea as another woman joined us. They moved as if it had been choreographed and a few of the nuns reached out to touch her, as if she were an antique that you took off of the shelf maybe once a year, if only to admire its existence. Though each step she took matched pace with her cane, she hardly relied on it as she shuffled elegantly through the nuns.
Misha stepped aside, allowing me to meet the faded green eyes of the Mother Superior. Lines decorated her face like an expressionist painting. The short, deep lines above the bridge of her nose made it appear as if she were squinting. Her eyebrows, thin ivory hairs laced with a darker silver, brought closer to their twin with age. Perhaps her ageing youth had provided it, but there always seemed to be a glow around her. She was like a light, full of wisdom and the epitome of integrity.
I knelt my head in respect and recognition, "Mother Abbess." Before I could offer it, she took my hand in her own, paper thin and withered, and I realized that I would miss the transparent veins and spots on her hands that I'd studied so much as a young girl. Out of childish jealousy I had wished for my own while she gave a throaty laugh, promising that one day I would.
She watched me for a moment before the noachian woman enveloped me in a warm embrace. I eagerly returned it, as affection such as this was rare from the Mother Superior. I had spent years attempting to attain an interaction like this and it only made the moment more bittersweet.
I regained my composure once she'd pulled away, watching as she delicately lifted her rosary from her neck and placed it over mine. "So your new life will know that God watches over you. And so you may never forget where you are from." I began to blink quickly as I lifted the cross of the rosary. I swallowed as I gazed upon the small, pale pink pearls and my chest felt like it was going to implode. This was all a lot harder than I had expected it to be.
"Thank you," I managed to croak out. Beside me, Misha grabbed my non-burnt hand in a final goodbye. "For everything." I lifted my bag over one shoulder from where I'd placed it on the ground and waved awkwardly at the group of women.
Then, I began my journey. Yet, every step towards the front gates of the abbey seemed to be harder to take. As if each time I took another step, my foot sank into an invisible puddle of mud. Every step out felt like a suction cup out of the mud, requiring strength I barely had. I knew I shouldn't look back because I wasn't sure if I could leave if I did.
I had hardly set foot outside of the abbey since the day I arrived. It had never truly occurred to me how desperately I longed for the rest of the world. The people, the food, and because my father and I had essentially lived nomadically, there was always an adventure around the corner. I longed for an adventure and this was it.
I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder to take in the miraculous place I'd called home the last few years and the women who made it so. I bit my lip, stopping in my tracks.
It was then that I noticed the Mother Superior's face had become graver as she issued me a final piece of advice. "Be careful, Saffiya. Not everything is as it seems."
I nodded, making to turn around before she spoke again, "and for goodness sake child, stop biting your lip." A few of the nuns began to giggle as I was chastised for possibly the last time.
I felt my face widen into a large grin, my courage returned to me as I left the abbey behind.
I don't remember if I planned to return. I like to think I would've, if only for a visit. Reader, I'd be lying if I said that I was glad I didn't know the end of my story that day.
Yet, I know that even if my fate were crystal clear, nothing would have stopped me from finding my father. Even if it cost me my life.
And as I now know...it would.
