Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  ‘Beauty lived there for many months, her every need taken care of, her mother’s ring protecting her. She wandered in his garden among flowers of every hue. After the first fall of snow the white roses started to bloom. It was nearly a year now since her father had given her away and in all that time not one word had she heard from him. When Christmas came, the table was laden with sumptuous foods but Beauty was too crestfallen to touch a single crumb.

  ‘The Beast was eating pudding with his paws when suddenly he stopped and sniffed the air. The door opened and in walked her father! Beauty ran to his arms. So delighted was she to see him, she did not notice at first that he carted behind him an enormous chest.

  ‘“Good evening, Beast,” he said. He looked miraculously well, rosy cheeked, dressed in a long coat with fur trimming to keep out the cold. “I have worked hard,” he said. He opened the chest and in it Beauty and the Beast saw gold from the Indies, bolts of silk, rare saffron, and a myriad of other treasures. “I suppose your unfortunate appearance prevents you from travelling abroad,” her father said to the Beast, “so I have brought the world to you.”

  ‘The merchant was pleased to see that the shiny, sparkling yellow things in the chest mesmerised the Beast. He pushed the chest closer to him. The Beast picked up pawfuls of jewels, caught his claws on the silk. “Yours,” said the merchant, “in return for Beauty.”

  ‘The Beast stood on his hind legs, straightened his smoking jacket, and bared his claws and teeth to the man. “You also have three drops of my blood,” said the merchant. It was to this blood that the man was appealing. The Beast’s head lolled to one side, it circled around, as one might circle a brandy balloon to release more of the flavour. Slowly his head bowed and the merchant realised that the Beast was acquiescing to his proposal.

  ‘When the Beast lifted his head again the strangest thing happened. His ears grew small, the hair fell away from his face and hands, his forelimbs turned into arms. He had become a man. He saw now that Beauty was hardly more than a child, far too young to be mistress of his house. He shook hands with the man and Beauty left with her father. They all lived happily ever after.’

  This was Margarita’s version of Beauty and the Beast. There was another version but she didn’t like it. So she added a bit here and there, cast on a few stitches, cast off a few others. At points in the storytelling Margarita changed her voice. She growled when she spoke the Beast’s words, made the merchant stutter with fear, boom with confidence when he came back with the chest. And she did not remain standing in the same position that she had adopted when she announced the title of her story. She took a little step back when the Beast reared up, moved her hands to show how enormous the treasure chest was. A couple of times she had to scratch her leg.

  Iphigenia’s nose was jutting into the air again.

  ‘What?’ said Margarita.

  Iphigenia realised with a start that the story was over. ‘Bed,’ she said.

  On very cold winter’s nights they all lay down together, huddling in the warmth of each other’s body like the sheep did. On very cold winter’s nights they would even lie down with the sheep. But it was Spring now and they were each in their own cell on a narrow strip of bed. Sheepskins underneath their backs and at least the smells and liquids were their own. Margarita felt the slow creaks of her body when she lay down on the ground, and the even slower creaks as she stood up again. The weight of years pressed down on her, as if her body already recognised its final resting place and wanted to nestle in it.

  So Margarita did not lie on the ground to ask the Lord’s forgiveness for what she was about to do, she simply lay on the bed. Forgiveness had been asked for many times in the past, and Margarita no longer expected bolts of lightning to strike her down, but still she did it. Then she took out the hair.

  That plait of dead hair, from her girlhood self, still shone bright and gold while the hair supposedly alive on her head was now grey and wiry. She had hung onto it all these years, the hair that had been cut from her head when she was accepted into the community. She had managed to find and keep this part of it. She hung onto it like a rope, the one remaining thread of her girlhood.

  She stroked its sleekness, arranged the plait into different shapes. Tonight, the night of Haircut Day, she would be bold. She’d keep it with her till morning. She coiled the plait around and placed the golden hair back on her head, wearing it like a crown.

  She thought the story had gone well, though she wondered at the end when she saw Iphigenia’s nose jutting into the air whether she had got a bit of it wrong.

  She picked up a book. It fell open where it always did, at the picture of The Knitting Madonna, a black-and-white reprint of an altar piece. The print was dark and sombre but there were lines of white, Our Lady’s halo, the embroidery of her robe, the curls of an onlooker, the collar and halo of the Infant, that Margarita imagined must be painted in gold. The Virgin Mary wasn’t knitting in rows as the nuns had done this evening, she had four needles in the garment, knitting the stitches around the neck.

  The Infant had a book open in front of him and was resting his chin on his hand. His face was turned to look up at the attendant who was holding a wooden cross taller than himself. It was hard to tell whether Our Lady was looking at her knitting or at the Infant, one being in line with the other in the composition of the painting. The ball of wool that threaded onto the needles lay in a wicker basket. The haloes of both Madonna and Child were ornate and had patterns worked into the edges, like the stand-up collars or headpieces of medieval women. Margarita knew these were the artist’s embellishment. The haloes of Madonna and Child were pure circles of light, with no need of ornamentation.

  She blew the candle out, let the book flop shut and slept on the golden plait of her girlhood, breathing in the tallow of the extinguished candle.

  Sugar and spice and all things nice. Majestic Zeus, Neptune with his tall trident—the gods in their glory. The motifs in Athena’s weaving. And Arachne’s? Sticks and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. The gods in their bestiality—Leda beneath the swan, Neptune the bull ravishing the Aeolian maid. As Carla worked on the garment, words and images swam by like gold-flecked fish.

  Her escapecoat was made from many things, wool, hair, the silk of spider web carefully spun and rolled so many times between her fingers that its stickiness was no longer a trap for her. But it trapped other things. It had the same lacy construction as the spider’s webs she’d watched being made, knitted on needles so fine they were barely thicker than a single strand of hair. It was now long enough for her to put over her head and reach to the ground. It was her capsule, her escape. She could put on the coat and disappear. No-one would find her inside it, it was a world of her own creation. There were petals knitted into the fabric, grasses, butterfly wings, scars and injuries she had received, pieces of cloud, wings of angels, coloured glass from the monastery windows that had fallen out.

  The monastery was the only world Carla knew. The grounds were big enough to romp in, everything was here—food, shelter, companionship, the sisters, the sheep, the courtyard flooded with the light of the Lord. There was everything here, except being elsewhere.

  The escapecoat had started with some slight from Sister Iphigenia, an admonishment for one of Carla’s many peccadilloes. Instead of washing away the sins, asking forgiveness and removing them from her existence once penance had been done, Sister Carla started saving them. Knitting them, with her own fingers, into this garment that grew into her escapecoat. And as it grew she wove into it not just peccadilloes but anything she took a fancy to. It was a tower she locked herself into, a gown she wore like a bride, it was her castle and her queenly robe, the web of her doing and undoing, the thread from the tight ball in her belly that filled her cell when she took it out at night to admire and to work on. Her magnum opus.

  On the bed was the piece of hair that her blood had dripped onto this morning, already turning a lovely shade of russet. It was part of last year’s harvest and sh
e could no longer tell whose hair it was. She hoped it was Iphigenia’s.

  Margarita, if she noticed the bloodied hair was no longer in the basket, wouldn’t say anything. She’d probably assume it had faded, or that it had never been there in the first place and her mind was playing tricks. Margarita would never think to come and look in Carla’s cell. Iphigenia might, if she had a mind to do it. But she would never find the place where Carla hid her secret web. More in Iphigenia’s line would be to give Carla a look or ask her directly. If she did ask, Carla would look mystified or say it was one of the sheep. Carla could feel the first quivers of laughter. One of the sheep. One of the sheep taking hair from the nuns. After all the years of nuns taking wool from the sheep.

  Carla sat on her bed shaking with laughter, feeling the little squeaks and creaks of the bed as she did so. She bit her lip hard, told herself, as Iphigenia might, that this was no laughing matter. She stood up, a little more composed, as if her life depended on not laughing. She kissed the blood on the hair and worked the piece into the garment. It was a hastily done job tonight but there was night after night to come back to it. She admired it briefly, folded the garment into a triangle no bigger than her hand and hid it away. Then she let go with it—peals of laughter that hit the walls and bounced off the stones, peals that turned to helpless cackles, the only sound in the midst of night. Then the laughter died down and in the silence came the answering shriek of a lone nightjar, thinking it had found its familiar.

  Iphigenia heard it and it wasn’t the first time. Usually she simply grunted and rolled over in her sleep. But tonight she wasn’t asleep, nor paying much attention to what came in through her ears. She was lying on her back, her nose subtly sniffing the air. Not taking great draughts of it, just gently tugging it up, trying to get the measure of it. It was quieter now than it had been, the smell that she’d noticed on and off through the day. At one point there’d been a big rush of it, the rush of odour of an animal panting, the sour smell of fear tensing its body.

  She remembered the precise moment this had happened. It was during Margarita’s story. Right at the point where the Beast stood on its hind legs and bared its teeth and claws to the man. Iphigenia thought at first that perhaps she had imagined the smell, that it was the Beast in the story. But she had heard this story many times and never smelled the Beast. This was a real smell, in her nose, not her mind.

  It was definitely the yeasty, custardy smell of a man. Boot polish, metal, hair oil, a petroleum kind of smell, she was distinguishing all these. When she got the rush of odour the smell had become a stench. He was afraid, sweating. The smell came higgledy-piggledy. He was stumbling, going round in circles. The rush had lasted till the merchant and the Beast had shaken hands. Then it had subsided. But still she’d kept her nose out, waiting for more. She checked all the rooms in the monastery, the cloisters, fields, all the way to the brambles. He was in the faint salty tang coming from outside, still far away but within range.

  Iphigenia’s eyes opened wide in the blackness of her cell as she realised—she was no longer thinking of it as just a smell. She had attached it to a body and was calling it ‘he’. And now came another odour, a brew of anticipation, disquiet, wariness. The smell her own body gave off when she sensed a storm approaching.

  She calmed her breath, closed her eyes and concentrated. The regular emanation of an animal at rest. He was sleeping. She lay there, her nose standing vigil. Perhaps it would blow over, stabilise or peter out before it got here. She imagined her nose as the centre of a huge circle, a field of sensation. She marked the distance from the centre that she perceived the man and his smell to be. She would check later for any change. Perhaps by morning it would have gone away and she wouldn’t have to burden the others with it. She nuzzled into the comforting lanolin of the bedclothes, snuffled a prayer into her vest, and tried to go to sleep. It would not be the first burden Iphigenia carried on her own.

  ‘Kill a lamb. Eucharist.’

  Sister Iphigenia made the announcement straight after Matins.

  Margarita was perplexed. ‘But … not till after Shearing Day. Scares the sheep.’

  Iphigenia showed her square yellow teeth. ‘Short memories. Agnes Paul is with child. Others. There will be more lambs. If it please you, Margarita.’

  It was all very well for Iphigenia to give the orders but it was Margarita who had to do it. Part of her chores. She had come in as a lay sister, with no dowry. The sheep trusted the docile Margarita, she could lure them into the chapel then click. Imagine a finger making a straight line across your throat, left to right.

  ‘Bottle of wine?’ Margarita suggested an alternative. Wine was perfectly acceptable for the Eucharist.

  ‘Tonight. With the roast.’

  Wine and roast meat. ‘Is it Sunday?’

  Mostly the nuns ate plants but on occasion they treated themselves to a nice leg of lamb or a chop. The sheep ate the grass and the nuns ate the sheep. Living things ate other living things in order to stay alive. The sun, the air, rain and earth were absorbed by simpler life forms and transmuted into sustenance for the more complex. Everything was food for something else and when eaten, became part of the creature that had consumed it. God in his wisdom had made the world thus.

  The nuns did live frugally, in a material sense. When things ran out, or were too hard to make, they simply rid themselves of the need for them. They had lamb’s meat, milk, blood and wool, they had vegetables, herbs and fruits, tallow. They had books in the library. They had clothes on their backs, they had their simple pleasures.

  Sister Margarita was at her task. Carla and Iphigenia sat in the courtyard and stared into the middle distance. Through their ears floated the coaxing bleats of Sister Margarita as she sung an unsuspecting lamb to the slaughter. Carla seemed a bit fidgety but Iphigenia was sure she hadn’t noticed the smell. It was much stronger now, closer, coming in regular waves, in and out like breathing.

  Its nervous little feet made a scraping, scuffling sound on the floor of the chapel, then they heard the bleating cries to its mother. Iphigenia breathed deeply as she smelled its fear then the warm mineral scent of its blood. She and Carla mouthed the words for the Killing ceremony, thanking their sister for visiting and letting her know she was now free to leave the little lamby body which they would honour and take unto themselves. Then they wished the soul God’s speed and safe journey.

  They used to all stand as witness to the slaughter of a lamb, the separation of head from body to let out the soul. But the more sisters in attendance, the more fearful the lamb became, even though the sisters were praying. Out of respect for the little creature, they averted their eyes from the actual killing and let it be alone with Margarita. Also, the less fearful the lamb, the more tender the meat.

  Margarita came out into the sunlight, the deed done. She had blood on her woolly apron and on her sleeves. It had been an effort lifting the carcass up to the hook. She whisked a fly away from her face, leaving a smear of the lamb’s blood on her cheek. Iphigenia and Carla smiled at her as she emerged, the encouraging, congratulatory smile grown-ups give children when they’ve done something especially brave.

  Margarita’s normally beatific face wore a scowl. It was all right for Iphigenia and Carla, they didn’t have to wash up after the deed. But they would treat her with respect for hours afterwards, she had that to look forward to. It didn’t, however, make up for the betrayal she felt towards Agnes Teresa and the others in the flock. The sheep treated her as one of their own and like Judas she betrayed them. Year after year. At least it kept her humble, she thought as she scrubbed her hands at the trough, living this ongoing guilt. So easy to succumb to the sin of pride when you just sat out in the courtyard congratulating yourself because you didn’t assist in the killing, didn’t even witness it.

  They entered the cool striped shade of the chapel, Iphigenia holding bread in her blood-free hands. They made the sign of the cross before the lamb hanging above the Eucharist table, dressed in a fi
ne cloth so that it could drip blood without being interrupted by flying insects and other forms of life that like to fasten themselves to the corpses of the newly dead.

  So much blood from one small lamb. Iphigenia broke off a chunk of bread then divided it roughly into three portions. Margarita lit the candles and Carla distributed blood from the sacramental vessel into bowls. The blood was still warm. Delicious. She wanted to dip her finger in and lick it straight away, but then that would end the thrill of anticipation.

  ‘Who eats my flesh, and drinks my blood enjoys eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. My flesh is real food, my blood is real drink. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood, lives continually in me and I in him.’

  They spoke the words in unison, though there had been no perceptible signal given to start or to finish. They knelt, heads lifted upwards to the patches of sky through the roof, to the eternal life all around them.

  The juices of Carla’s mouth moistened the dry bread balanced on her tongue. She cast her eyes down to the vessel of blood cupped in her hands. There were days when her belly was filled with blood. A bright flood of it, with chunks as fleshy as liver. In the dark mirror of blood she saw her own eye in the centre of the vessel. Through the eye her gaze seemed to penetrate, till she was looking at a reflection of her secret self. Though Iphigenia and Margarita were now beyond the days of blood perhaps they also paused before drinking, catching sight of their eye in this cup. Carla lifted the vessel to her lips, careful not to disturb the surface, careful to keep her gaze steady. Her eye looked back at her all the way, till she tilted the vessel and her reflection dissolved in the taste of warm blood.

  Wonderful. Nothing to do all afternoon and roast for dinner. Carla lay in the grass looking up at the sky, this time through the net of spider web. It was still there, decorated like Carla’s escapecoat with the occasional jewelled insect fixed into its warp and weft. But the spider was nowhere to be seen. A bubble of gas rumbled up from her stomach and exited out her mouth. She chomped her lips, snaffling the aftertaste of the Eucharist. She felt pleasantly sated after this morning’s offering.