Sanctuary
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Sanctuary
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters
"I know who you are," said Mother Sophia. His hair hung loose instead of
pulled back in a slick ponytail, and he had wispy hairs on what had
always been a clean-shaven face, making it just look dirty. But it was
unmistakably Esteban Moya, son of Carlos Moya, the dictator recently
deposed.
"I hope that I have entered a Christian place, where there is mercy and
compassion before vengeance," he said, showing that despite his
disheveled appearance he still spoke with the assurance that comes with
privilege.
"I thought that your father's revolution had no place for Christianity?"
she said.
"You are wrong." Then Esteban decided to be more measured: "Forgive me
for correcting you, but my father said that there is no place for the
Church in politics. He has never shared his faith with the public. For
me also, my faith is private. But do not assume that we do not believe
in God."
"I will not ask you what you believe, Senor," said the nun. "I only ask
that you respect the sanctity of this place if you are to stay here, and
that you keep your presence here a secret."
"That is exactly what I want," said Esteban. "I just need a place to
hide. I cannot expect you to protect me from those who might come to
find me. I just need a little time for the hatred and anger to subside,
and the I promise, I will be gone from this place."
"Your problem may not be from the outside," she said. "My sisters will
not say anything, but we are in the minority here. The problem is that
there are many women who visit or who are resident in this convent, who
are your victims. Well, if not victims of you, then of the culture of
abuse that you represent."
"What are saying?" Esteban was becoming worried.
"This is the modern Church," complained Mother Sophia. "At 54 I am one
of the youngest nuns. Only two are younger than I. And we care for the
very few that remain, some in their eighties. There are no replacements,
and I can hardly blame your father's Godless regime. It is the way of
many Catholic countries in the Europe and Latin America. Rome recognizes
that orders devoted to prayer must adapt to the world as it is. In our
case we are not trained or equipped as a school or a hospital. We can
pray, but we can also accommodate the oppressed. In our case we have had
to open our doors to the women who have suffered at the hands of you and
your followers. I can ask them to be silent as to your presence, but I
cannot promise that they will be."
"Reverent Mother," said Esteban. "I have nowhere else to go."
"I will not turn you away from a house of God," she said. "But you must
do exactly as I say."
***
He looked in the mirror and he was not convinced. Somehow Mother Sophia
had been able to remove his beard completely, and now that the initial
inflammation had subsided, his skin was smooth and pale. She had trimmed
his eyebrows, but they still appeared natural. His hair she had combed
and trimmed, but it was still long. As a novitiate it was visible under
the head covering. It was still him.
He had a sign around his neck reading 'I am observing a vow of silence'
and was instructed to keep his head down, and walk with small steps, but
he wondered if he could convince anybody. It was explained to him that
he was not pretending to be a woman, just not to be a man. There was no
room for a man in a convent.
When he was out of his room he carried a bible and a rosary, and stuck to
the shadows. In the dining hall he had a place with the nuns on the
table below the window, with his back to the young women. The nuns were
old and quiet and spoke only of prayer or administration issues when they
did speak. Whereas behind him the young women who there for refuge
rather than prayer were in raucous conversation and occasional laughter.
They would recognize him immediately if he did not keep his head down.
To hide in his room was not an option. Only the old and the sick would
not take their meals in the dining room.
The other place where he could go without fear of recognition, was the
chapel. There he could sit in the front row with the nuns and keep his
head down. It was peaceful and cool. He did not pray. He did not
believe in God. God had not saved him from the mob. He had done that
himself. He believed in himself.
When it came down to it, his entourage had gone. There were those who
could (perhaps) deny that they knew him and seek forgiveness from the
mob. And there were some who were too deep in, to close to him and too
much in the public eye, to get away with that. They were bound to leave
the country. Many of them could count on family to shelter them along
the way. But not Esteban. All of his family were marked for vengeance.
And he knew it.
Carlos Moya was dead - lynched by the mob. Strung up in the Capital's
main square. Even if he believed I God, Esteban doubted that he would
pray for the soul of his father. He was just as cruel to his youngest
son as he was to his people.
Of course, Esteban had enjoyed the trappings of power. More than enjoyed
them, he had sought them out and relished them. Immunity from rape
charges had encouraged him to break simple rules of decency, that was
true. But what had driven him was anger. He was angry at his father;
angry at the pathetic public who had supported him for so long; angry at
those who had not stepped in sooner. His father's personal actions
should have goaded the security forces into acting earlier. But the old
man knew who to look after in order to stay in power.
His older brother was dead too. Killed in battle. A rear-guard action
at the palace on the hill. So typical for him to go out like a hero.
Esteban chose the palace on the coast which allowed a getaway by sea,
before a run to the border. Now here, still 30 miles short. And by now
being allowed refuge in any neighboring country seemed problematic. No
nation welcomed a member of the Moya family.
What was needed was time. He needed to keep his head low.
***
"So, you know its him?" There was rising anger in the voice of Susanna
Marques, the recognized leader of the women taking refuge.
Mother Sophia looked at her charge intently. She explained: "My problem
is that he has requested sanctuary, and I have given it, in the same way
that I protected you when his father ruled this country. If you tell
anyone that he is here, then there are people who will break down our
doors to seize him. I must resist those people, even if I dislike him
and everything he has done. If necessary I will die holding the door.
The sanctity of a House of God must be protected."
"If you won't let us exact a penalty then I cannot answer for the
others," said Susanna. "Two of them have been raped by him personally.
If they cannot take their revenge then they will tell the people, and
open the door for them too."
"I did not say that you cannot take a penalty," the nun said.
Susanna stared at her, a little confused. She said: "Are you saying that
we can kill him provided that we tell nobody?"
"Goodness, no" said Sophia. "There will be no life taken in this place,
other than by God himself. There is another penalty that you might
consider. It is because we allow only women in this place, and some of
us are uncomfortable that there is a man here, dressed in the robes of a
woman - a nun. We cannot mutilate him, but we feel that God will forgive
those who might be justified in taking such an action."
Susanna was shocked.
Sophia continued: "Such an action would need to remain within these
walls. The identity of the target individual would need to remain secret
for the protection of everybody, and for this house of God. If you wish
to extract your revenge, you must leave God's creature to God. As an
order we would have honored our obligation of sanctuary, and he will
rendered unable to do further damage. Then 'she' would be able to stay
in the convent as long as 'she' may need. Perhaps, in time, with prayer,
God might allow 'her' entry to heaven."
"As you know, one of our number has some surgical skills," said Susanna.
"But you cannot make a man into a woman with a machete. You understand
that?"
"What you do is your business," said Sophia. "But I suggest that you
should not be so violent. I am only offering you the offending organ."
To Sophia it was offensive. While she had fought her hatred as a sin
before God she had always hated men. Ever since her father had raped her
as a child she had been repelled by even the thought of the male organ.
In her life she had dealt with men only by deliberately shutting out the
thought of their bodies. At the earliest opportunity she had sought to
become a nun, and live a life without men. She had succeeded until the
arrival of Esteban Moya. Now his presence, or the presence of his
maleness, consumed her. Susanna could cleanse the convent, without
taking a life.
"To make him a woman would be too good for him," said Susanna. "We are
women and proud to be so. But it seems that we are too often prey for
people like him."
"I suggest that you fix that," said Sophia. "Perhaps he will never
understand what you felt. Maybe if he were a woman in a man's world,
outside these walls, he may know the fear that you know. Or perhaps that
is impossible. How can you fear for your life without valuing your life
through self-respect? And if he has no virtue, there is no value in
losing it."
"Are you suggesting that we give him a vagina?"
"Praise God, in these times all seems possible". Sophia raised her eyes
to the ceiling.
Susanna was not sure whether the Mother Superior was very wise, or
insane.
...
(just the first part}
© Maryanne Peters 2019
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