But the story of Perpetua spread, quiet as a church mouse, from convent to convent until one-by-one, nuns began to lose their composure, began straining to hear the sound of a single Harley prowling the neighborhood late at night. Their desires were answered by sleepless nights of seemingly eternal silence.
And die she did, but with each death followed a resurrection until the angels rolled the moon in front of the sun. The woman in white dropped to her martyred twin’s side, pressed her lips against her sister’s bloodied mouth, and inhaled her last breath. She wailed, her sorrow multiplying and transecting the wide river valley.
On the horizon stood every single sister from the convent armed to the teeth. In their alabaster hands they brandished clubs, bicycle chains, crucifixes ripped from the walls and sharpened on all points.
The vestal virgin apocalypse—their smothering cloaks flying and menacing weapons raised high—closed in around Perpetua. Mother Superior shot through their ranks, her black habit spreading behind her like expended rocket fuel from a missile.
But not a twin. For there was one difference between her and the Biker — an irreverence for silence. The Biker tossed her helmet aside, mounted her Harley, and gunned the engine. An apocalyptic din reverberated through the neighborhood, broadcasting lusty echoes off the nearby cathedral.
Sister Perpetua held the helmet for a long time, her hands shaking slightly and then handed it back to the rider and said in a whisper, “Who are you?”
Standing before her was a woman—not that the Lord can’t be a woman, Perpetua knew. But why did her face look so familiar?
Only Perpetua understood what happened to the hog. The deafening rumble of the Harley disturbed the quiet contemplation of the nuns in the Benedictine convent house. Sister Perpetua alone embraced the hog. She knew it seemed wrong to ignore part of her monastic vocation—to revere silence. Instead, she cherished the motorbike’s chanting cadence, the thrill that burned through her body.