name is Susannah,” she tells me, and then she reaches out in my direction. “I would like to touch your face, that I might see you with my hands.”
I guide her reach, and her touch surprises me with its gentleness, its searching intensity. “Ah, you are young and lovely, just like your voice. But you are very tired. How have you come here?”
“By boat, my lady. I have tied up at your beach below. It was the first safe place I had found in many hours, and the storm is coming soon.”
“Aye, that it is. I am glad you found a haven here. Did you find St. Mark’s lion on the way up? How is he?”
My heart lets go its tension. St. Mark’s lion. I had hardly dared hope. But when I saw both the lion and the eagle, I had wondered . . . I finger the cross and speak quickly, “He is covered in moss, but his eyes are bright, my lady.”
“As it should be, as it should be . . . No one has seen him for many a year.”
I forge ahead in hope: “And St. John’s eagle at the grotto fares even better.”
And then she smiles, a broad smile that reaches to her eyes, even in their blindness. Her shoulders lose a bit of their bracing, relaxed into welcome.
“Yes, I care for him each time that I fetch my water. He and St. Luke’s ox are still within my reach. But I am forgetting myself. Come inside, sister of Anna, daughter of God, and I will give you rest.”
I follow Susannah inside. My first glimpse of the interior of the green house reveals a sense of order and tidiness that surprises me, given her lost sight. The front room holds shelves full of sculptures, smaller than those I had seen outside, but with the same elegant line, the same strength of vision.
“Are you the sculptor, my lady?” I ask, betraying my surprise.
Susannah smiles again. “Yes and no. My hands have worked the stone. But I think of them as God’s sculptures. I have the privilege to be the instrument he uses to bring them to light. Please, call me Susannah. We are sisters before God. And what may I call you, Anna’s sister?”
“My name is Gabriela. Sometimes Anna called me Brie.”
“Gabriela, you miss your sister very much, I can tell. Where is she? Did you have to leave her behind for your journey by boat?”
“No, she left me first, Susannah. She died last winter.” And the tears I have held back for so long break free as Susannah takes me in her arms and lets me weep.
I don’t recall much more of that evening. Against a background of heavy rain, rolling thunder, and occasional sharp lightning strikes, I see glimpses of tasty porridge, a small spare bed, a warm fire. Very soon the soothing balm of sleep enveloped me. That night I dreamed I saw Anna, riding St. John’s eagle, smiling and laughing as they flew above the storm. She had tiny starflowers in her hair, and she was no longer rail-thin as she had been in the weeks before she died.
I awoke to a strange sound: an irregular scratching and rasping. I opened my eyes just as a large black and white tom jumped from the floor to my chest, somehow managing to glare and to express curiosity at the same time. “And who are you, puss?” I asked aloud.
Susannah, who came in by a narrow doorway, laughed lightly. “Ah, has Ebenezer found you? Usually he sleeps on that bed during the day. He’ll warm to you if you scratch him just so between the ears and under his chin.” I did as she indicated, and soon a rich, throaty purr serenaded us. “You have a new friend, Ebenezer,” Susannah remarked. “Treat her well.”
After petting the cat a bit longer, I raised myself to sit on the side of the bed. “How did you sleep, Brie?” Hearing Anna’s nickname for me proved bittersweet, and I felt tears begin to prick behind my eyes.
“Very well, thank you. I dreamed of my sister.”
“A good dream, I hope?”
“Yes, it was. The only hard part was awakening, though Ebenezer did his best to soften the transition.”
Susannah moved quietly into the room and reached out to find a stool not far from the bed. Seating herself, she turned again to me, and her tone was different. “What are your plans, sister of Anna, child of God? Why did you set out alone by boat at a time of year when storms are frequent? I tried to puzzle out your story as I sat by the fire last night, and I came up empty. Your body bears no marks of beating that I could see with my hands; you are not sickened by disease or poverty. You know the Lord and carry his light with you . . .” A deep sigh escaped her, as though a painful memory had intruded, and then she shook her head.
“But once again I forget myself. Hospitality first, then the explanation.” She gestured out the door to the left. “You will find a tub of hot water in the back room, as well as some fresh clothing. It may be slightly loose on you, but it is clean. I’ve been drying your boots out by my front room fire; I’m afraid I don’t have another pair to offer you.”
“Thank you, my lady—Susannah. You have been so kind to me. God showed me your house in a vision yesterday morning; when I saw it just before sunset, I was hopeful. But I did not dare hope for such generosity.”
“Once I was in great need, and a couple took me in. I promised myself to do the same when the Lord asked it of me. That spare room has been waiting long years, while I wondered who would come. I didn’t think Ebenezer would be the only one to snuggle beneath those soft covers.”
She left me then, and I cleaned and dressed myself in a small, tidy room. The only ornamentation was a large sculpture of the woman who reached out for the hem of Jesus’ garment. He had his back to her but had just begun to turn his head in her direction. One of her hands was yet on the fringe, and the other was upraised in joy, her face overcome with delight at the change she was experiencing. After dressing, I went over to inspect it more closely. Somehow she had captured a gentle, knowing smile on the Lord’s face; it was beautiful to behold. Yet it was the face of the woman that fascinated me. The wonder and awe in the features reminded me so keenly of that last look on Anna’s face. Perhaps she also had felt the power of God surge through her, had been given the blessed chance to gaze upon him.
I gathered up my travel-tarnished clothes and carried them with me as I returned to Susannah. Her large front room met many purposes: sitting room, dining room, even a small kitchen of sorts near the large fireplace. But I saw then what I had missed the night before: a large alcove on the side of the house that overlooked the sea served as a studio. Several pieces were in process: one in stone, another in wood. I had not noticed any wooden sculptures elsewhere in the house, and so I asked about it: “You also sculpt in wood?”
“Yes, I’ve just started. Now that my blindness is complete, working with the stone is more difficult and dangerous. The wood is more pliable and forgiving. I don’t know if I will ever finish that last stone carving. It seems fitting somehow, though: it was to be the descent of the Spirit at Pentecost.” I looked more closely, and I could just make out several figures, each with a dancing, wavy shape above their heads. The faces were vague, but their hands expressed astonishment, eagerness, storytelling. And the flames seemed also to be wings, reaching upward to the heavens. It was beautiful just as it was.
Susannah and I shared a quiet breakfast, as Ebenezer wound around our ankles, wishing for a bite of fish. I had the chance to observe her more closely this morning. She was not so old as I had first thought: perhaps in her late
