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Women in this world are vulnerable; only reputation can keep them from being crushed.
Sister Ælfhild dies of scrofula, her poor neck swelling until it chokes her.
Life was so fucking brutal for most of history
Animals are closer to god, of course; this is because animals have no need of god.
Small fires are used to battle a whole forest afire, she says aloud,
How strange, she thinks. Belief has grown upon her. Perhaps, she thinks, it is something like a mold.
For this community is precious, there is a place here even for the maddest, for the discarded, for the difficult, in this enclosure there is love enough here even for the most unlovable of women.
