Birgitta the Nun

Part 8 - Pristine

As it would be, running in the other direction, Birgitta ended up in the monastery library. The library with its book-maze was a good place to hide, and Birgitta slowed down to catch her breath. Thinking she was out of social danger, she at first didn't notice the little old nun, already residing among the book-rows. The very gray nun occupied herself with some heavy cleaning - dusting, polishing, sweeping, scrubbing, yes, all the flavors of a good tidying up - but Birgitta, who believed these kinds of chores no more part of the duties of a nun than receiving visitors, all but cursed on seeing the effective sister.

"We're nuns, not slaves, dear Sœur—" Birgitta hesitated, searched her memory for a face and a name.

"Pristine," the nun filled in, in a voice cracked by age.

"Oh yes, Sœur Pristine—of course, I knew that," Birgitta rolled her eyes. "We're nuns, not slaves, dear Pristine. Why are you breaking your back in this way?"

Pristine looked like some hundred years old. Her back stood out in a crook - indeed already broken - the surface of her face lay white as snow, and her the remaining of her teeth were counted in no time.

If things would have been different, if the old nun hadn't been covered in dust and furniture polish, Birgitta might have noticed her out-of-place vestment, and found her presence very odd. As it were, however, Birgitta had no interest in her fellow nuns.

"But you like a clean floor, don't you, Birgitta? Then whom do you expect to take care of it, if not us, the residents of the monastery?"

Birgitta looked gloomy, searching for a reply— "Maybe Petra? She's a servant, isn't she?"

"She's a cook, yes. A servant NO—" Pristine raised her voice. "Don't vent such monstrosities out loud. She's a delicate figure, very fine, wearing an apron and all. She's got feelings, and ears—"

"I can imagine—" Birgitta shrugged. The vanities of a delusional cook were none of her concern. Her mind was focused on escape and her heart wasn't into the argument.

Pristine stopped her sweeping. Her hands tightened their grip around the poor broom shaft.

Birgitta payed no attention. The matter had slipped her mind already. She went away on her toes, tried to pick some book from a shelf, ignorant of the impact of her wicked words.

Then, after a slight delay, the outburst of Pristine would came. She pushed forth her shaft, the head of the broom slid in front of Birgitta's feet, in the most unpredictable manner—

"You crooked old woman—" Birgitta tripped over the thick brush, and almost fell on her nose. "Watch your cleaning. You're only proving yourself useless—who invited you anyway? Let me alone."

Pristine gave Birgitta a chilling look, her eyes dim, as if holding some secret abyss of malevolence. "Well—maybe I'm old," she said between her teeth, "and my back might be crooked. But at least I've got character. I don't want to end up a stereotype nun, and behave as if drawn with a straight ruler and a crayon - square indeed."

"Wha-at?"

"I would say, I'm sure Petra would spit in the Sunday soup, weren't it for some of us worthy members—" Pristine warmed to the subject, painted before her a cook creating a revolution.

Birgitta stared at the apparition. These were heavy insults, indeed, wrapped up in rage. Never before had she received such a bundle. She took a deep breath— "You're a nasty one. What did I ever do to you?"

"CLEAN—" Pristine thundered. Her voice was deep and hollow, giving to her command the depths of a deafening echo. In its wake, the whole of the monastery seemed to be demanding, "CLEAN—"

Birgitta cleared her throat, interrupting the mesmerizing echo. "When do you have time to read then, Pristine? Aren't you supposed to be studying some texts? Cleaning takes time and effort, and this is a large place to keep after—"

"If everyone helps it will work." Pristine put her broom away, folded her arms. "Even the abbess does her bit."

Birgitta snorted. "Really? I've been living here for centuries, and never have I seen the abbess lift a finger."

"Then where are your eyes at, dear Birgitta?"

"Turned upwards to heaven, as should yours be." Birgitta let the comment fall into place. It was a good one, wasn't it? Very pleased with this honorable maneuver, she was sure to have put an end to the conversation.

But Pristine, stuck in her agony, persisted. "It that so? I bet they're stuck on that sorry cat of yours, talking and posing. It can't be good for her. The curse of words upon a cat—"

"Now, dear Pristine—there's no need to be rude. Your jealousy is ill-suiting. I'm sure she would give you some of her lovely attention, if you'd only be kind enough to offer her a nice word or two."

"Flattery, you mean? And perhaps a bribe in the form of some food? She sure does love food—"

"And intelligence," Birgitta kept her voice calm. She let out her hands to demonstrate the pedagogy of her words.

"If you say so." Now it was Pristine's turn to shrug.

Birgitta's mouth was smiling, but not her eyes, as she replied in a calm voice, "You keep your broom to yourself, and I'll stick to my cat."

Pristine returned the grim smile. But then, she seemed to change her mind. She put her guard down, and picked up her broom. Her hands shook slightly as she clasped and unclasped the shaft. Some strands of white hair dangled in front of her face, tossed out from under her wimple.

"Look," she straightened her back as much as her old figure would allow, "there's plenty of us—we'll manage the cleaning together. For example, while I take care of the library, if you would be so good as to clean the bathrooms—?"

But Birgitta was gone, again running in the other direction.