[Chapter Six Crying]
“For darkness covers the earth, and thick darkness the peoples; but the Lord will arise upon you.” Isaiah 60:2
After staying in the convent for a long time, certain things will come to find you on their own.
Not because you ask, but because you have become quiet enough.
This is how the legends of the convent arise. They are never mentioned in the daytime, only at night, when the candle flames burn too short and shadows climb the walls, flowing in whispers. No nun will formally acknowledge those matters, yet their silence itself is a kind of tacit agreement.
Some say that far too many nameless children are buried beneath this convent.
Not corpses, but the result of existences being erased.
Others say that in the early years when the convent was founded, it specially took in women who had committed grave mistakes. They were required to pray ceaselessly, washing away the filth of their bodies through labor and fasting. Among those women, some never left again. As time passed, their names were erased, leaving only the rules behind.
Rules live longer than people.
The first time I heard these words was in the laundry room. The sound of water there was loud, easily covering other voices. An intern nun older than me lowered her head and told me not to wander about at night. If I heard any sounds, I should not respond.
She gave no reason.
But her hands were trembling.
I kept these words in mind, yet did not fully believe them. Because to me, what was truly frightening was not the legends, but the things that happened every single day. Compared with invisible curses, I understood more clearly how this place gradually whittled people away.
That night, I was alone in my room saying evening prayers.
The room was small, holding only a bed and a low table. A cross hung on the wall, appearing especially long in the candlelight. I recited the scriptures in the usual order, trying to keep my voice steady. Prayer was something required to be completed; once finished, one could sleep in peace.
Just as I was about to extinguish the candle, I heard a sound.
At first it was faint, almost mistakable for wind. Intermittent, as if someone were learning to breathe. I held my breath and listened for a while before realizing it was not the wind.
It was crying.
The cry of a baby.
My first reaction was fear.
Because I knew there should be no infants in the convent.
The crying came from deep in the corridor, stretched and blurred by the walls. I stood in place for a long time, my heart beating so fast it nearly drowned out the sound. What surfaced in my mind was not the legends, but the children taken away in Chapter Five.
I told myself it was only an illusion.
Yet the crying did not stop.
It neither grew louder nor softer; it simply continued to exist. That presence made it impossible to ignore, as if someone were reminding you that certain things had not ended.
I lit the candle and pushed open the door.
The corridor seemed much longer than in daylight. The walls curved in the candlelight, the shadows of the arches stacking one after another, as though without end. I walked forward step by step; with each step the crying grew clearer.
Along the way I passed the prayer room.
The door was half-open, the interior pitch black. I recalled a nun once saying that special prayers were conducted there. When a woman was deemed to require stricter discipline, she would be taken inside. She would kneel on the floor, hands spread open, required to repent for her body.
I dared not stop.
The crying led me to the oldest wing of the convent. Few people went there ordinarily; the air carried a damp, cold scent, like a basement that had long remained unopened. Standing in the middle of the corridor, I realized the crying was nearby.
At that moment I suddenly understood: this was not a cry for help.
It was the sound of something left behind.
The candle flame flickered in my hand, and the shadows on the wall twisted with it. I saw a faint light seeping from the crack of one door. The crying came from there.
I reached out, yet stopped before touching the handle.
I thought of the words about curses.
Of how a woman’s mistakes must always be repaid with her body.
Of how the convent taught us to believe that suffering is a necessary process.
The crying grew urgent then.
As if urging me on.
I finally pushed the door open.
There was no infant inside.
Only a small stone bed with an old blanket upon it. The blanket was sunken in the middle, as though something had once lain there. A difficult-to-describe smell lingered in the air, reminding me of a room after childbirth.
The moment I stepped inside, the crying ceased.
In its place came an almost complete silence.
I stood where I was, feeling a chill climb upward from the soles of my feet. It was not from cold, but because I suddenly realized this place did not exist for life.
I did not know how long I stood there.
Only when the candle was nearly spent did I hear footsteps behind me.
I did not turn around.
Because I knew that whoever stood there would give me no answers.
After that night, the convent looked the same as before.
The bells rang as usual, the nuns assigned work as usual. No one mentioned the crying, nor asked why my face was pale. I began to understand that the terror here did not need to be spoken aloud.
It had long been written into daily life.
And we were merely required to learn not to hear it.
#NovelCreation#Religion#Gender#MisogynyPlot#Faith
****Author’s Ramblings****
It took nearly a week to produce one chapter; I’m hopeless. Then my old habit struck again, and I started thinking about writing a new story….
The rainy days up north really can’t produce any fun, sunny articles!!!!