Free Sylvia by Bryce Courtenay Page A

in the market. In an attempt to lighten his mood I laughingly said, ‘All it would have taken was the priest’s blessing and I would have been well on my way to sainthood! Saint Sylvia of Uedem.’
    â€˜Ah! I see why you doubt!’ he cried, somewhat mollified. ‘I hope later to prove the truth of each tale I relate to you. But if you will not accept my word, then if we should find a church I will swear it on the altar Bible.’ He paused and looked at me, a small smile curled about his sweet lips. ‘Will that suffice your doubting?’
    â€˜Hmm, we shall see,’ I replied, still playing the doubting Thomas. ‘The entire village was willing to swear in the name of the blessed Saviour Himself that they had seen a miracle, but that did not make it so.’
    I could see that my reply did not fully satisfy him but yet he smiled. He was a gifted teller of tales and no doubt well accustomed to an audience who listened without question, enchanted all the while by his silvered voice and the playing of his wondrous flute.
    â€˜Not a saint but still an angel, a chosen one?’
    â€˜Alas, neither! A poor peasant girl at very best.’
    â€˜And the fish?’ he asked. ‘What say you of that?’
    I shrugged. ‘A birthmark.’
    â€˜You doubt too much, my fair maid. You are yet a child and you possess the cynicism of an old frau.’
    I could see I had asserted myself too much. I had yet to learn that the male ego is best puffed up by using my ears to pretend to listen, my mouth to smile approval and my eyes to express sincerity, even if I should think him speaking twaddle. ‘I am sorry, I protest too much,’ I exclaimed. ‘It is just that I do not wish you to take me for a dullard or some skittish, wide-eyed maid. I have truly loved your tales and eagerly await more.’ I smiled and then, adopting an expression of pleading, said, ‘You promised to tell me of the first pilgrimage to the Holy Land? The trials and tribulations and the terrible things that happened?’
    â€˜And you will believe me?’ he asked, teasing.
    â€˜Of course!’ I said unstintingly.
    He stopped in his tracks and frowned, seeming to be deciding. ‘Although perhaps I should not.’
    â€˜Should not what?’ I asked.
    â€˜I think you too young for those true and most horrific happenings.’
    â€˜No, please!’ I begged, realising that now the game of doubt was his to play.
    â€˜Perforce, I must abstain from telling you this grand story. There are in it many parts to God’s great glory but yet other bits too gruesome and too gory for sweet young ears.’
    â€˜Why?’ I protested. ‘I am old enough! Did you not just say I was cynical as an old frau?’
    He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no . . . I dare not!’
    â€˜Oh, please, you must!’
    â€˜Look!’ he commanded, pointing to his ears.
    His ears began to move as if of their own accord. ‘I once almost lost them!’ he said, looking serious.
    â€˜Lost them? Your ears?’ I asked, knowing it for a joke to come.
    â€˜The gruesome parts! The gory parts! When I first heard them my ears became so agitated that they jumped from my head to scurry into a dark corner where together they lay whimpering and cowering, trembling like butterfly wings!’ He wiggled his ears once more. ‘See, they are yet ever on the alert and ready to flee.’
    â€˜Aye, and how did you return them to your head?’ I giggled, playing along.
    â€˜Well, alas I did not,’ he said, giving me a look of mock concern.
    â€˜I kept them, both in my satchel, until this very morning.’
    â€˜And then what happened?’
    â€˜A miracle!’ he exclaimed. ‘I came across an angel sitting in the autumn sunlight beside a silver stream, a golden halo about her head and a pretty pink fish engraved between her shoulderblades. Alas, as I drew closer I could see