Nunnery (Fiction)
I’d never encountered a nun before, but I’ve heard about a community of them that lived in the woods. A small family of them, maybe about 7 or 8, had been seen roaming around.
My neighborhood wasn’t the type of place to make a big deal out of it. Oh, they’re just nuns. Live and let live. They aren’t in our habitat– we’re in their habitat! A little hippy-dippy for my taste, but I agreed. Most people would have called a specialist to take care of them, or animal control or something like that. This felt inhumane to me. Not worth it.
“Feral” ones are more common south of where I live. People think the ones that aren’t domesticated are these wild, frantic things, foaming at the mouth and ready to bite your children. Not sure if the idea of this is interesting to me. Perhaps some of these beastly nuns traveled north and into my backyard.
I walked out into the forest with my boots on. Even though I’m not really sure what to look for – droppings? Footprints? – I wanted to see if I could find them.
Now, I stand a few yards away, squinting at a dark shape lying on the grassy ground. Hidden in a copse of trees, nestled with her back curled up against a thick root. For a moment, I can’t tell if it is a dog or perhaps a malformed vulture. Its features and body shape eludes me. All I see is the black of her coat. Then, I take a step forward, and realize that I have found the family. A mother and her sisters.
The sloping curtain of her habit hangs to the ground. Swarming around her is the litter, sisters clustering at her teats. They mewl and whine little babbling, rhythmless hymnals as they feed. Each is maybe the size of a shoebox, squashed snouts and barely-open eyes, crawling on all fours. When the mother raises her head to see me, she’s clearly not afraid. I’m the one who is probably more spooked. Frozen, I watch the sisters feed.
Slowly, I approach. Even though I know she has seen me, I’m worried that any sudden sounds will shock the mother, make her flee. She does not. She continues laying on her side, looking at me with thin, dark eyes.
Her marking pattern is crisp and clear, incredible to look at up close. White trailing in a line across her forehead above her eyes, then wrapping behind her cheeks, down her neck, pooling at her breast. The rest of her is black and shiny, slick, like otter’s fur. Wet, greasy velvet. Where she weans her children, she is paler, pinker. The sisters hardly have gained much shape or meaning to their patterns at all. How old are they? Were they born recently?
I crouch, make myself smaller. Kneel in front of them like I’m at a pew. There is still a good distance between us– her haunches are not bent at the ready to spring away. Jaws pinched shut. Even though her habit does flare outward, slightly, like the hood of a snake, she does not growl or trill.
The mother is the least of my focus. I stare down at the babies. So badly, I wish to scoop one up in my arms and hold it to my chest, cradle it, evoke the image of the virgin Mary and her new blessed infant. But she is not mine. Instead, I quietly watch her sup from her mother. One is easily identifiable as a run, unable to push her way past the other cubs fully. Her habit is frail and thin, barely yet separated from her head. Poor thing.
Part of me thinks I should have brought them something. Maybe offerings are a good idea, some prayer beads or fruit. The mother doesn't seem too bothered by me, so I don’t worry. But still. My knees dig into the dirt. The sisters are not distracted from their dinner. I am the ignored interloper.
I wonder sometimes if there are any secret cloisters, habits shuffling under the earth. Dens of mothers and sisters braying in prayer. When I lay in bed at night, I feel as if I can hear their murmurs traveling through the layers of sediment. If there were a family of nuns living under my floorboards, or there was found to be an infestation inside my walls, I would leave them be.