The Ordeal of Mark
by Spanner
Alice didn't like water at the best of times. Combined with the knot of tangled nerves in her stomach, the gently rocking boat brought the tension high into the back of her throat, and it took all her strength - and faith - not to pull the habit from her head and vomit her fears into it.
She clung to the pillow and pressed her eyes shut, knowing it would all soon be over and she'd either be back at the seminary preparing for her final vows or packing her bags for the short journey home.
Right now, at this particular moment, she could honestly say she didn't care which; she just wanted the Ordeal of Mark to be over.
She clutched the feather pillow hard to her chest as if it were the sweet baby Jesus himself. As she drew in a long, consolidating breath she opened her eyes to see the thin pool of water in the bottom of the boat soaking into a corner of the light fabric covering.
Quickly, she rescued the pillow case and wrung it out over the side of the boat, her mind briefly released from the torturous journey to the middle of the lake. There she must face her final challenge before becoming an ordained sister of St Harriet's Parish of the Overly Literal Translation. Flicking the grey water from her quivering fingers, she caught the uncertain eye of her contender huddled in the bow.
Gwyneth was nervously checking the corners of her own pillow case for any creeping dankness. It was dry and crisp, as if it had fallen from the mangle only seconds ago. The lump returned to Alice's throat, and dropped heavily into her stomach.
For the first time in her eighteen years, she must relinquish the tangible security she had felt from the Lord and go forth alone.
Sister Anastasia broke her from a tense reverie as she dropped the row boat's small anchor and climbed into a similar vessel with the other witnesses. Alice and Gwyneth crossed themselves and struggled to their terrified, uncertain feet. The old craft jolted as their weight shifted apprehensively about its slick interior, hunting for desperate purchase.
Sister Anastasia and the two other nuns stood, clasped their hands in prayer and closed their eyes. The timid novices did likewise, clutching their pillows under shaking elbows. The dusk set in as Sister Anastasia spoke the traditional prayer of the Ordeal of Mark.
"And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full. And He was in the stern of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake Him, and say unto Him: Master, carest thou not that we perish? And Jesus arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea: Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. Amen."
All present repeated the word of praise. With a deep, peaceful breath, Sister Anastasia looked up.
"The words of the Gospel of Mark are sacred to our order, and those who give their lives to the Lord's service must prove themselves worthy by Ordeal. Do you both understand what must be done?" The timorous youths replied in unison, both struggling to force their replies through taut throats.
"We understand, Sister."
"Then begin."
Cautiously, they unhooked their pillows from under their cold arms and knotted the corner of the cases around white knuckles. A look of impending fear and desperation crossed between them as the deafening silence of the lake rang in their ears.
Jagged plumes of frozen breath blustered from Gwyneth's mouth as she mustered her final reserves of courage into a weak blow. The weight of her pillow, with almost no force behind it, was enough to make Alice stagger in the shallow depth of the old boat. It rocked violently as she grabbed the side in an attempt to steady herself.
Gwyneth's fear turned suddenly to purpose. As her friend and colleague clung to the brim, her balance failing, she landed another and yet another blow against her exposed back.
The small boat bounced fiercely against the black water, tipping so far that Alice felt the lake's icy bite against her left hand as the edge of the boat broke the surface. Her right hand felt no such cold, and as the dead weight of a thousand feathers smote her brow, she looked at the wet material wrapped around it.
She squeezed the wet cloth in her hand, and kicked her heels against the sides of the craft, swinging upwards with all she had left. Gwyneth caught the blow squarely as her own raised weapon tipped her balance. She stumbled backward and crashed into the bow.
Had the breeze, once silenced by Jesus' word, exhaled even the lightest breathacross St Harriet's duck pond, it would have loosed Gwyneth's failing grip and finished the Ordeal.
Looking down at her fallen competitor, Alice tightened her grip for the finishing blow. As she lifted the pillow, her heart broke to see another follower of Jesus so diminished, her eyes closed tight, pushing hot tears out onto her flushed cheeks. She stood still, overcome by pity and love, unable to strike her fallen sister in Christ.
Gwyneth tenuously opened her eyes to see why she had not been cast from the boat and a life at the service of the Lord, to see her friend offering her a shivering helping hand.
Her brow furrowed with the same resolve that had begun the Ordeal, and instead of accepting the offer of help that would have seen them both expelled from the Sisterhood, she swung the sodden weight hanging from her cold hand. The rashly thrown pillow missed its target, and pulled Gwyneth from her unstable position as it swung out of control.
With a resounding splash, Alice's life as a nun of St Harriet's Parish of the Overly Literal Translation began.
The violent rocking of the boat no longer shook her confident stance or the wake of calm that washed over her as she quietly reflected on the words of the Gospel of Mark.
"And he said unto the sea: Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.
"Somewhere, across the darkness of the water, a duck quacked.