“It seems I must have been more fertile than most to have taken that wind-blown thistledown softly-spoken word into my body and grown big-bellied with it. Nor was I the first: there had been rumours of such goings-on before my turn came—tales of swansdown. Mine had no wings of feathers actually but it was hopeless trying to convince them. They like to think it was mystical encounter, although they must know I am not of that fibre—and to say I was ‘trouble’ is laughable. What I do remember is a great rejoicing, my body’s arch and flow, the awe, and the ringing and singing in my ears— and then the world stopped for a little while. But still they will keep on about the Word, which is their name for it, even though I’ve told them that is definitely not how I would put it. I should have known they’d try to take possession of my ecstasy and swaddle it in their portentous terminology. I should have kept it hidden in the dark web of my veins . . . Though this child grows in me— not unwanted certainly, but not intended on my part; the risk did not concern me at the time, naturally. I must be simple to have told them anything. Just because I stressed the miracle of it they’ve rumoured it about the place that I’m immaculate—but then they always were afraid of female sexuality. I’ve pondered these things lately in my mind. If they should canonize me (setting me up as chaste and meek and mild) God only knows what nonsense they’ll visit on the child.”