The stonework of the church turned hospital is of the ornate Gothic kind - the kind intended to instil awe by sheer grandeur. But like a living thing, the years have humbled it. It's grand arches are feathered with ivy, their sharply carved features worn soft by rain and hard weather. It's limestone walls, once white and austere, are clothed now, grey and green, with lichen and moss that mark its many years of service. The lofty towers, once lording it over all, have been overhung by the very trees they once dwarfed. The grandeur is gone - but this new visage, quietly submissive to the powers of nature that have swirled around it, seems to suit it better.
But, as I said at first, it is the cooing that floats from the stone windows that tells of the work within.
Winding through the light-dappled passages, one finds oneself in a large hall. This was once the chapel, with rows of pews for worshipers to fill. Now rows of beds await the sick. The church has become a refuge for those who are beyond the hope of other medicines. And it's all to do with the birds.
Caladrius - a large bird, downy white. This is why the sick have gathered here. The birds, a flock of about 30 of them in all, are free to roam in the sick room. Some sit in the windows, taking in the sun, others roost on perches placed between the beds. But most are at their posts, sitting on the beds of the ailing, wings spread over them like blankets of snow. They are not trained to do this, it is their natural behavior. No one knows why the birds favor the sick, why they softly coo for the suffering or spread their wings over the feverish. But there are many speculations as to what they are doing.
"If the birds look into a patient's eyes, it means they can be healed," a fellow visitor whispers excitedly as we tour the sick room, "if they look away, then there's no hope. When they spread their wings like that, they take the sickness into their own bodies. Then they fly to the sun, where the sickness is burned away."
That is the story, as it stands. The birds are miraculous, and their appearance was equally so. Twelve years ago, during a terrible storm, the sisters of the church came out to find a flock of pure white birds on the lawn, grounded by the violent winds. They took them in, sheltering them from the continuing rain, expecting them to fly away when the skies cleared - but they never did. No one could identify their type, nor where they came from. Rumor spread that they were the legendary Caladrius, a bird rumored from medieval days to possess healing powers. The sick were brought to the church, first from the surrounding towns, then from around the country, now from around the world. The church was converted to a full-time hospital several years ago to handle to influx of the sick.
"It's the same work," she answers practically, "the only difference is where the hurt is. And don't think the birds do all the work. We do plenty. We've done all we can to prepare ourselves to serve the ones that come here."
Her slightly snarky reply leads me to ask her what her take on the bird's supposedly miraculous abilities is. I am surprised by the confidence of her answer:
"I absolutely believe that they have the power to heal. That they are miraculous. But perhaps not in the way people think. Do they take people's sickness by some supernatural power? Can they heal in that way? Probably not. But hope is one of the best medicines there is, and that they give in abundance. The legend is that these birds will not even look at a patient who's beyond recovery - but I've yet to meet a patient who the birds did not take to.
People are complicated, animals are simple. People may not believe what we tell them - we can tell them that there's hope, that things can get better - but they'll think that we're hiding the truth from them or just being nice. Too many of these people come here having been told there is no hope and they believed that. But animals don't lie. If the birds believe that these patients can get better, that's enough for them. They believe it too. That's a miracle, if you're asking me. As good as any."
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