A Napa Christchild; and Benicia's Letters Part 4

In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to a.s.sure Brother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a sudden illness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shook his head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen something supernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here." With that, he immediately made the Sign of the Cross and drew me into the chapel where he made some use of the Holy Water which I did not understand, nor did I care, for the sudden fright which had stopped my heart in its beating, now that all was over, sent the blood rushing through my veins with frightful rapidity making my head ache so terribly that I thought that I must die.

It was dark, the next I knew, the room was strange to me; A Crucifix hung on the wall, before which a single, dim oil lamp was burning, before this was a monk at prayer;--it seemed like a dream to me, it could not be real.

After awhile I moved, and the monk rose and came to me, showing, in the flickering light, the fatherly features of Brother Andreas.

"My child," he said, taking my hand in his, "I am happy that you are of our flock, for I can help you; I know your thoughts; it is well to think now when all is still. I will not urge you, but Christ is ever seeking for your soul; come to the true light of the Church where he may find you."

I made confession and received absolution, and he, making the Sign of the Cross, went from the room.

Presently I heard the monotonous chant of the monks in the Chapel and knew it was midnight. I have written this to you hurriedly on paper I have in my portfolio. The chanting is over and Brother Andreas' step is audible in the echoing corridor. Good Night.

Besa la mano,

JOAQUIN.

NICHOLAUS BERG.

30th October, 18--.

DEAR JOSe:

I am still at the cloister, though I have done nothing it seems to me during the past week but sleep, and am hardly strong enough now to carry the pen over the paper as I write to you.

The statue over the door stands there as it ever has, but it is too far away for me to see the awful eyes, so I can say nothing about them. But now my dear friend I have something more wonderful than ever to tell you.

Every night when the moon shines, this image of the Virgin comes down from her niche and wanders about the church; I have seen her four or five times, and she has often come under my window in these lone walks, and once I spoke to her, but the moment my voice sounded on the night air she was gone, and the same gray, stone image stood silent and dead in the niche.

What can I think of all this? I could not believe if any one should tell me of these things, but what I see with my own eyes I certainly cannot doubt.

The Brother Andreas is very good to me, and my box has been brought from the hotel to the cloister, so my room is as cheerful as possible with all your pictures around me.

How I wish that you were here, or I could hear from you, but never, my dear boy will that time come, I fear; I have given up the idea of ever having so great a pleasure in this world. I cannot write more now as I am too weak. Good night and greet Benicia for me.

31st October

It is very late, but I must write now or never. To-night the image was stranger than ever, and for the first time I heard its voice, and oh, it sounded too sweetly to me as I sat by the window and looked out over the city as the moon rose above the hills to the east.

The Brothers were chanting at the time, and their deep base came in ever and ever so beautifully between the stanzas which the Virgin sung, and as she sung, she came down from her station slowly, as if there were steps in the air and she could tread upon them. The words were as weird as the scene.

"The silver moon is slowly, slowly rising The night is clear and all the clouds are fled, Their midnight prayer the weary monks are chanting; Now I may leave my cold and stony bed."

Then the monks chanted in their low, measured tones,

"Sancta Maria, ora pro n.o.bis!

Mater Christi, ora, ora!"

"Cursed be my lot, but useless is repining, Here must I stay till dreary day is gone, Living only in the pale moon's shining; To-night my hated penance though is done.

Gaily, gaily, gaily I'll live Though I be but a spirit of air; Every pleasure the world can give Shall be mine while the moon shines fair.

The Devil in h.e.l.l has promised me That if I gain him a soul I shall be forever from that time free, So long as the Rhine shall run to the sea And the Maine shall Rhineward roll."

And from the heights above the echo came,--"Roll--roll."

Then running lightly to the wall, which is on the river side, she leaned over and sung in a high, unearthly, wild voice, while her dark hair waved in the night wind,

"Beautiful river rushing on, Touched with light by the silver moon, Grant me now this simple boon.

Let thy merry spirits come, And elfin dancers with beating drum, Here with me for the wild night long, To dance and whirl with eldrich song Till the moon shall faint and her light be gone."

Then running merrily to the other side nearer my window, she sung in the same wild key, as she turned her face to the forest,

"Spirits of the black larch-wood Come to-night to dance and sing, Come and all thy flowers bring, Come and gaily join our ring, Come upon thy fleetest wing, Come, oh come, ere the moon be fading."

The low chanting of the Monks ceased, and as I opened my window wider I could hear, like the higher notes of an organ, voices rising from the river and mingling in heavenly harmony; I could not at first catch the words, but the sweet, divinely sweet strains came nearer and nearer, and then with the same inexpressible gentleness, softly as if wafted from the angelic chorus came the rich, low notes from the forest, like the humming of bees, the sighing of hemlocks, or that sweet, strange sound we ever hear in the ocean sh.e.l.l. The voices came nearer and I could hear the wild, free words long before the singers were in the court.

"We are coming from the forest, All laden with flowers, With bright, crimson flowers All sparkling with dew."

Then from the river rose the song:

"We come from the water With bright, polished pebbles, With white, glittering pebbles, Our love-gift to you."

The singing now was in the very garden, but I could not see the singers, though I knew that they were there, for the strange creature-image whirled about the court, laughing and nodding on every side, while the music grew each moment louder and wilder, when suddenly all was still, and the image pausing in the middle of the court began with many odd gestures this weird song:

"What am I? Who am I? Where did I come from?

What, who and where--well, no human knows; Ye though my loved ones know what to answer, My pale face ye follow wherever it goes.

My home's in the forest, my home's in the city, Wherever the terror of loneliness lies, And woe be to him who when out in the moonlight Catches the glance of my soul-piercing eyes.

By day I am stone By night I have breath, And those whom I meet, know the sister of Death."