[Book 1.12] Margery’s Burden

Margery was 20 years old when her first child died at birth, and when she had her first vision. The young woman would lie on her back quietly among her sheets printed with cloves and seeds with curious intentness. She sought no one, though indeed she had once when she met her husband, John. He was less than adequate in profession than her father, the mayor, but served her quite well. Her father was amiable and gentle; when he was not the mayor, he was the coroner, the justice of the peace, or a respected member of parliament. Like her husband, his name was also John. John Brunham, a burgess. 

The husband, John, always had tenderness and compassion for Margery, even when this creature was absolved of her wit. However, his presence now brought about great sorrow and dread, and she felt herself suffering from the debt of matrimony. Although loved by Margery in a manner reserved for strangers, her husband’s presence sent the fans of her waters to rush and clash through her. When they sat together for dinner, opposite her husband, the table covered with a fleshy linen tablecloth, he would ask his wife, “Would you rather I be slain than to lie naturally with you as I had before? If a man would smite off my head with a sword, tell me truthfully and do not lie—for you say you won’t—would you rather my head to be smote off or else suffer in meddling with me again?” 

“Truly, I would rather see you slain.” Margery would look at him coldly, a candle between them casting a yellowish glow around their faces and necks. 

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From time to time, Margery would linger in her memories to get back to the earliest of her consciousness so she could recount the years. She proved herself to be insurmountable – each time she reached further, the shapes that made up the fabric of her being seemed to vanish if approached too closely. Once she embarked on this descent, her sails would swell until fully submerged. Margery was rushing along again, concentrating all her powers on the shapes and straining against the light of day – closing herself off diligently in an effort of will. She seemed to hover above the expanse of the room. Margery had experienced this before; it meant she had begun to mount what she most desired. It did not disturb her when the figures would come, dripping slowly, bringing in their setting. Slightly at first, with only a faint imposing suggestion, there was a sudden downpour with a continual and lofty slap, slap, slap, in the middle of the daytime. 

Margery seemed suddenly delighted to spread herself throughout her room, clutching at her bedside. “There, she’s awake,” called a young maid in a rose-colored dress. She led the way to Margery’s side with two others following behind her, a more petite girl of four in a bright printed dress that danced in and out of Margery’s view and another she did not recognize. 

“I ask for a ghostly Father, a Priest,” said Margery. She needed to confess the sin that crept into her consciousness. For she was ever mired by the devil, her enemy, saying to her, When you are in good health, child, you have no need for confession. God is merciful enough for you to do penance alone, and all will be forgiven. And when you are at times sick, you should be damned, for you are not absolved. Margery often fasted on bread and water in complete will with devout prayers but never showed her sin when in confession, for the devil spoke sweetness into her soul to bind her lips shut once confronted by a priest. 

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[Book 1.15] Margery’s First Vision

Her first child had been born, and the sickness of labor had pained and debilitated her for the entirety of carrying him until his last breath. While lying in her bed-chamber waiting for the priest, abysmal shadows poured and collected in floods where her body lacked weight. Her distended belly caught most of the light, casting the rest of the shadows to enlist in the depths of what was left of her. Despairing for her life and how the birth and death of her son may very well be what takes hers, Margery alighted at what her conscience bore. Both the dread of damnation and sharp reprovals of her illumined the spirits of her conscience into tormenting visages. For half a year, eight weeks, and odd days, the creature was amazingly disturbed by her tormentors. 

Margery then made her way to the narrow staircase.

“Where is she off to?” asked the youngest in the bright printed dress.

“Girl, come here,” said the maid, motioning with swift hands for her to come closer. 

“But she’ll fall through.”

“Get out of here with you. Call for the Father downstairs,” the maid said with one last lofty suggestion.
           
The bright dress fluttered at the very top of the stairs and then fully issolved as she made her way to the bottom.

Margery considered how far back she’d gone in the house of her past before reluctantly falling to her knees on the cold wood floor at the top of the stairwell. She stared at the crosses on the wall and thought of the devil opening his mouth, all full of flames, drawing closer as if to swallow her in. She thought of her enemy begging for her, Forsake your Christianity. You know neither virtue nor goodness.

Her confessor came sharply, a fleeting physical presence bounding up the staircase, hastily reproving her before she entirely said her intended words. Margery no more said what she ought to have – only biting at her hand instead. Once alone, the being would wonderfully use her body as an instrument to confess her sin, tearing at her skin grievously against her heart with the tips of her fingernails. Kneeling still before the priest, she laid her face against the pungent woodiness of the planks beneath her, the same lumber that made the bed where her strength would be bound so she could no longer keep her will. 

“Tie her,” the priest barked as the maid tied a rope around her wrists and fastened them to her bedposts. Sheltered in the same pale blue frock, Margery smoothed her hands beneath her restraints, pricking at the small print of cloves and seeds. Margery’s hair lay in black braids among her flimsy sheets, staring at the dark corner before her. Heaps of winter rushed in, colder than any stone, making the air seem multiplied and whispered. As the devils spoke to her, forsake your beliefs, deny your God, his mother, your family – she did. “I would kill thyself at every chance had I not been bound,” she screamed into the darkness while slandering her husband, all that loved her and herself. “All I desire is wickedness,” she spat, “no virtue nor goodness.” 

And when again in witness of the priest, she said no more but bit at her hand more violently than before. With tiny, teeth-curved pockmarks, a scar lay that would stay with her for a lifetime. 

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[Book 1.20]

At once, the creature thought herself bound to God again and proceeded as his servant. Asking God for mercy, she did great bodily penance with furious sobbing. She wept when in company, when in private, in the streets, and at any time in prayer. She was ever entangled in the wallow and the sorrow that had her by the tail, weeping loudly and ferociously. Tears came easily, softly at first, then streamed in warm torrents until her eyes became slits. Hot static welled behind her eyes where she would collapse into the current. 

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When Margery felt herself about to cry, she held her breath until her face turned the color of lead. When her body could no longer endure the effort of holding it in, she burst with a spiritual outpouring of unspeakable love, crying wonderfully loud. Seething tears fervently fell freely. 

She said to her Lord, “The maidens and virgins dance in heaven; shall I not do so? I have run away from you, and you have run after me.”

“Daughter, how often have I told you that with my own hands once nailed to the cross, I take your heart from your body with great delight and melody? With the sweetest smells and sensations, you shall be fulfilled with all the love you desire, for you have given my mother, my father, and all my saints in heaven something to drink many times with the tears from your eyes.”

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[Book 1.30] Margery Receives Her First Token

Then, when she was afraid, the Lord said to her, “Daughter, by these tokens, know that God speaks in you and that you have many angels about you. Be not afraid, for the heat is the heat of the Holy Ghost; the fire of love will burn away your sins. No evil shall have power over you, for you have fully the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost in your soul. You now have great cause to love me and greater cause than before, for you now hear what you have never heard, see what you have never seen, and feel what you have never felt.”

While at Mass, the young man and a good priest beheld the sacrament above his head – weighted with a heavy cloth, hardly glancing about him – the wafer shook to and fro like the flickering wings of a dove. And as his draped arms held up the chalice, it, too, turned in his hands as though it should thump to the ground. When the consecration finished, the girl had great marvel in the whites of her eyes, turning up her brows to see if it would happen again. 

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Sometimes, the girl felt the sweetest smells with her nose: sweeter than new grass, soft spring blossoms, and dust from freshly washed curtains when the wind caught beneath them. Sometimes, she heard with sudden ears sounds and melodies that she might not be able to listen to what one said unless she asked for him to speak louder. These sounds always seemed to linger even as the days grew, in the slow fading darkness, and most especially when in devout prayer; her fingers incredibly clutched, soothing her, giving her cues of completion and imperfection, assisting her in her devotion. 

Margery saw things flying about as thick as dust in the sun; they were subtle and contended. Around her, they danced and swept like no ordinary thing, but what took her was that they came in the darkness and light while she prayed, at a meal, in the field, and when her robe was tucked around her waist. 

She also felt a fire in her breast that stirred her profoundly. Much to her surprise, the fire stood out clearly and distinct, as if a man should feel the physical fire if he put his hand therein. The flame was ever-increasing and wonderfully hot, for the weather never seemed cold. It was never wasted and always comfortable. 

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[Book 1.37] Margery’s Marriage to Christ 

“Daughter, you have given me great pleasure. Your belief in the sacrament and of the Holy Church, and especially of your compassion for my son, have granted your hand in marriage to my Godhead. I shall show you the secrets of my council, and you shall dwell with me without end.” 

Margery had no knowledge of the Godhead, for her passion was with Christ, and all her affection was set on his manhood. She answered not in her soul and, therefore, kept silent. Her inner being began to stir. Her eyes opened to the linear shoots of the sun splitting at the seams once hitting the slats of her window. A second voice answered his Father, “Please excuse her; she is young and unaware of how she should answer. She is not yet instructed.” Margery closed her eyes again. 

She perceived that she would cry. Oils were on her eyelids, lips, and folded hands—tears would bend and rush straight to her weary feet. Yet the child sat fattened with strength, growing in her agreeable reverie. 

The Father took her knotted hands placed quietly beneath her heart, and there in her soul before the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Mother Mary, saints, holy virgins, all twelve apostles, and a crowd of angels, said to her, “Yet here you are, Margery, I take you as my wedded wife, for richer, for poorer, as long as you remain submissive. For, daughter, there has never been a child so obedient to the Mother as I shall for you, both in sickness and wellness, to help you and make you sure.”

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[Book 1.40] Margery, a Dutiful Wife

“I will not, daughter, be displeased with you whatever you think, say, or speak, for I am always well pleased. And if I were bodily on this earth as I was on the cross, I would take you by the hand among the people and would not be ashamed of you as other men are. I should make you welcome so they know I loved you well. It is suitable for a wife to be quite plain when with her husband. Right, so it must be for us to lie and rest together in peace. Therefore, I must be unpleasant and lie with you in your bed. Daughter, you desire to see me boldly. Take me as your wedded husband, as your worthy beloved, as your son, for I will be loved as a son should be by his mother. I will that you love me, daughter, as a good wife ought to love her husband. And therefore, you may take me boldly in the arms of your soul and kiss my mouth, head, and feet as sweetly as you will.” 

The being thanked God with all her heart, so she went forth where he would grant her blessing to kiss the sweetness of his lips, answering her thought. Then, for the peculiar delight she felt when taking in the dalliance of her Lord, spreading her arms broadly, she cried aloud as though her heart should burst. Before her, in her soul, she saw plainly the city of Jerusalem, the city of heaven. When she came unto his neck and the blissful smell of sweat, she affectionately put her hand on his stomach, pressing her thumb as if counting for a pulse. She thought she might not bear the grace that God fashioned in her soul; she thought she might not admit herself to stand or kneel but instead wallow as her body curled to the floor. She knew little of what she felt—his feet were bare and brown, the toenails smooth to the touch—but her eyes remained somber and crisp as his taste carried her quietly in awe. 

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The awakened woman felt rushes of wind blowing in her bodily hearing with puffs of air that shot straight to her belly. Another was the sound of a dove that came in thick whispers. These voices grew and jumbled within her, singing lustily from dark corners. And from the jumble, a deafening procession stirred and muffled the clamor steeped in silence. The manor of the sound shook into the voice of a small bird. Smiling and with eyes closed, she drew into herself the full-bodied call, a distinctly mellow and sweet warble that picked sharply at her right ear. 

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One night, as her keepers were away, she saw verily with sunken cheeks a bent figure appear from the darkened place before her, leading himself with conviction. The figure bending over her was considerably muscular, growing in nature even as she watched. Mechanically, he moved closer, bowing his head over her poor body easily, gently. Keeping her thoughts away from the shroud of silence around her and from the cross dangling from his neck, she lay pale with beads of sweat pooling at her temples, feeling the warmth from the fire at the edge of her room. Soft, blue night poured in through the windows. Her frame shrank beneath his, clad in purple silk, seating himself beside her. 

“Daughter, why have you forsaken me, though I have never forsaken you?” 

A glow of warmth pulsed through her frozen body. Her heart clutched to her breast as if suddenly conscious of some inherent, distinct function. She looked at him with wild eyes. “And anon, I see you now as bright as lightning,” she said through parched lips. 

For a time, he stood, passing his hand over her tired forehead and pressing on her chin. He looked for a minute at the undersized body and noticed how she shook. The girl was steady in her wits and reason as she watched him rise back into the silence, not with haste but easily, stirring himself into the depths so she could behold him in the air until shrouded with silence again.

“I’d like to have the keys to the buttery,” she asked John, her husband, as he had come to her just then. “I’d like to get my food and drink as before.” John’s tenderness and compassion for her shone through as he told the maid approaching, “Give her the keys.”

Standing still in the buttery, her feet planted on the wooden planks, the same pale blue frock and the last remnants of her braids, Margery grabbed fistfuls of cabbage, garlic, and bread, spooning pottage from the day prior with cupped hands.

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