Catherine, Called Birdy

by Karen Cushman

In our time as well, every one of us is limited in one way or another. You have shown us that while our daily lives might be subject to restrictions, our imaginations need not be—indeed, must not be. Many of us are not writers, but it is imperative to ourselves and to humanity that we all find a means to widen our worlds and our hearts. By reading the words you have shared, we can learn to push back against injustice, use whatever privilege we have to reach out to others, and fill our days with honesty, fortitude, laughter, and love.

What follows will be my book—the book of Catherine, called Little Bird or Birdy, daughter of Rollo and the lady Aislinn, sister to Thomas, Edward, and the abominable Robert, of the village of Stonebridge in the shire of Lincoln, in the country of England, in the hands of God. Begun this 19th day of September in the year of Our Lord 1290, the fourteenth year of my life.

There was a hanging in Riverford today. I am being punished for impudence again, so was not allowed to go. I am near fourteen and have never yet seen a hanging. My life is barren.

My suitor has come and gone. The day was gray and drippy so I sat in the privy to watch him arrive. I thought it well to know my enemy.

Last night the villagers lit the Michaelmas bonfires and set two cottages and a haystack afire. Cob the Smith and Beryl, John At-Wood’s daughter, were in the haystack. They are scorched and sheepish but unhurt. They are also now betrothed.

20TH DAY OF OCTOBER, Feast of Saint Irene, killed by a man because she would not love him

Even my lady mother was giddy and gay, laughing and blushing and acting much like a girl although she must be over thirty.

Omg

When I was little, I used to try to capture the colored light. I thought I could hold it in my hand and carry it home. Now I know it is like happiness—it is there or it is not, you cannot hold it or keep it.

But it occurred to me that what actually makes people married is not the church or the priest but their consent, their “I will.” And I do not consent. Will never consent. “I will not.” I cannot be wed without my consent, can I? They cannot bind me with ropes and force my mouth open and closed while my father says in a high voice, ‘‘I will.” I am told this has happened, but even my father could not be so cruel. I will not consent and there will be no marriage. Amen.

Smiling, she said, “Marriage is what you make it, Birdy. If you spit in the air, it will fall on your face. Patience, gentleness, and a willing heart will make the most of any union.

O dear Saint Margaret, protect my mother when her time comes. She is old—over thirty—and delicate.

Ouch

I have noticed lately how many male saints were bishops, popes, missionaries, great scholars, and teachers, while female saints get to be saints mostly by being someone’s mother or refusing to marry some powerful pagan. It is plain that men are in charge of making saints.