The Nun's Tale

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Joanna hoisted her pack and trudged through North Bar, entering Beverley as the bells of the great Church of St John rang out. She had been walking since sunrise; the sun was now overhead and the coarse weave of her habit chafed at her clammy skin. The city’s streets curved snakelike along the Beck and Walkerbeck, and as she walked Joanna glimpsed the fast-flowing streams through the houses. She imagined shedding her clothes and sinking into the cool, rushing water as she and her brother Hugh had done as children in the river near their house.

It was a damp, cloying heat. Though this day was sunny and hot, it had been a summer of torrential rains and the dirt streets were waterlogged. Where the sun shone down between the houses, steam rose up, creating a fog that blurred Joanna’s vision. She found the dreamlike effect disorienting. The houses shimmered; lines dipped and spun. She clutched her Mary Magdalene medal and whispered prayers as she walked.

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