The Small Miracle (5 page)

But Father Damico, who was a poet and to whom St. Francis was a living spirit, cried, “Open it, I beg of you! All who are here are humble. Surely Heaven’s plan has guided us to it.”

The Abbot held the lantern. The mason with his careful, honest workman’s hands deftly loosed the bindings and pried the lid of the airtight box. It opened with an ancient creaking of its hinge and revealed what had been placed there more than seven centuries before.

There was a piece of hempen cord, knotted as though, perhaps, once it had been worn about the waist. Caught in the knot, as fresh as though it had grown but yesterday, was a single sprig of wheat. Dried and preserved, there lay, too, the stem and starry flower of a mountain primrose and, next to it, one downy feather from a tiny meadow bird.

Silently the men stared at these objects from the past to try to read their meaning, and Father Damico wept, for to him they brought the vivid figure of the Saint, half-blinded, worn and fragile, the cord knotted at his waist, singing, striding through a field of wheat. The flower might have been the first discovered by him after a winter’s snow, and addressed as “Sister Cowslip,” and praised for her tenderness and beauty. As though he were transported there, Father Damico saw the little field bird fly trustingly to Francis’ shoulder and chirrup and nestle there and leave a feather in his hand. His heart was so full he thought he could not bear it.

The Bishop, too, was close to tears as, in his own way, he interpreted what they had found. “Ah, what could be clearer than the message of the Saint? Poverty, love, and faith. This is his bequest to all of us.”

Pepino said, “Please, lords and sirs, may Violetta and I go into the crypt now?”

They had forgotten him. Now they started up from their contemplation of the touching relics.

Father Damico cleared the tears from his eyes. The doorway was freed now, and there was room for boy and donkey to pass. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Yes, Pepino. You may enter now. And may God go with you.”

The hoofs of the donkey went sharply
clip-clop, clip-clop
on the ancient flagging of the passageway. Pepino did not support her now, but walked beside, hand just resting lightly and lovingly on her neck. His round, cropped head with the outstanding ears was held high, and his shoulders were bravely squared.

And to Father Damico it seemed, as they passed, whether because of the uneven light and the dancing shadows, or because he wished it so, that the ghost, the merest wisp, the barest suspicion of a smile had returned to the mouth of Violetta.

Thus the watchers saw boy and donkey silhouetted against the flickering oil lamps and altar candles of the crypt as they went forward to complete their pilgrimage of faith.