Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  It was midmorning when Ignatius awoke feeling so much the better for his long sleep. There’d been a dream, a faint memory of children lost in the woods. He tried to track it down but it disappeared in front of him. The old crone in the corner had gone and the three nuns were once again beside him, with tea, bread and cheese. His bladder was full, as it always was first thing in the morning, but his initial impulse to leap out of bed was quelled by the realisation that he was still naked.

  ‘Can I have my clothes back?’ he demanded, as if he were in control of the situation.

  ‘Need mending.’

  ‘Need mending?’ First it was washing and now it was mending.

  ‘A tear. When we removed them.’

  As if it wasn’t bad enough to be lying naked under the covers they had to remind him of how he came to be in that state. He fell back into the pillows. ‘I need to go outside.’

  ‘Go outside?’

  ‘I need to urinate.’

  ‘But the pot,’ said Margarita, somewhat affronted that he had passed the pot by.

  ‘I’m feeling perfectly well, I am not an invalid,’ he assured them. ‘Now, if you’ll just return my clothes.’ He stared severely down the line of nuns. He was not to be trifled with.

  Iphigenia broke the thickening silence. ‘Blanket.’

  It was better than nothing. He sighed. They did not move. Was it too much to ask that they wait outside? Apparently. He gathered the blanket about himself, swivelled around and placed his feet on the floor, quite pleased with the manoeuvre since at no time had he exposed any part of his body. The floor wasn’t as cold as he expected. He looked down to see that he still had his socks on. Why had they left the socks, he mused cynically, when they had been so thorough with everything else?

  They moved aside to let him pass, Carla in the middle holding the breakfast tray. The bread they’d heated up on the fire had grown cold now but its warm aroma still hung in the air. A little wobbly on his feet, a little encumbered by the blanket, he managed to walk out of the room and down the corridor.

  The padding of large feet told him he had not made the journey alone. He turned. There they were, the three of them, following him like a train of anxious children.

  ‘Well?’ he challenged them.

  ‘In case you fall.’

  Oh, he’d had enough of this. ‘For God’s sake, I’m only going for a piss!’ he shouted at them.

  They jumped back. He continued on his way, leaving his voice behind, a flame-thrower keeping them at bay. Finally he felt grass pricking through his socks. He was outside.

  The urge to urinate had returned in full force, after momentarily subsiding in his efforts just to get to a place where he could actually do it. He could not see them but he felt their eyes watching him from somewhere. He kept his back to the building, held the blanket with one hand and urinated gloriously. He splashed his socks but ah, he was feeling almost human again. He stood there long after he had finished, enjoying the crisp morning, the bleat of lambs, the swirl of sunlight and the chirp of birds. An idyll. What a location.

  ‘Father …’

  The voice seemed far away but it was a form of address he responded to. He turned back to face the buildings. There they were, much as he had left them, offering the breakfast tray. Trusting and innocent as lambs themselves. Humility and self-effacement in the service of the Lord. He softened. Perhaps he had been too harsh, the very peculiar circumstances in which he found himself had affected his judgement and his temper. It would be churlish of him not to accept bread from the handmaidens of the Lord.

  He followed them to the table in the courtyard. Well, one more day. His clothes would be mended and he would be off. His stomach took hungrily to the food and drink, with no ill effects this time. His hand was perfectly well, as if nothing had ever happened to it. Nevertheless, he took pains to steer clear of the fire.

  Sorting and picking. They sat at the table in the courtyard, dealing with one pelt at a time, plunging their hands into it, picking up clumps of fleece, enjoying the feel of lanolin and suint. The work was done in silence, the actions dedicated to God, leaving minds free to be absorbed in contemplation. They picked out seeds and other debris that might interfere with the processing of the wool—the carding, teasing, spinning and finally knitting. Some of the imperfections they left, to add texture and interest to the finished work.

  Iphigenia found the priest’s smell much more agreeable now that it was surrounded by their own woollen blanket instead of that damp inky odour. Though the smell in no way resembled them, the blackness of his clerical garb, the white collar, made Iphigenia think of their habits. She recalled the bodice with the long sleeves, the underskirt with the big pocket in front. They had kept this pocket in their later homespun clothes, so practical for carrying all manner of things. Then came the scapular, the tunic that covered the robe, right to the ground. And in pure, pure white the headdress with the wimple wrapped round the head under the veil. Bodice, scapular, wimple, veil. Iphigenia rolled the words around in her mouth. A string of old beads spooled around a life that had weathered as they had weathered, by a running down of things, by clocks that stopped ticking and were never fixed, by a discipline whose crisp defined edges started to blur, by spiritual sustenance that came from the Earth as much as the Heavens. By sisters who had stepped out of bodies as worn and threadbare as their clothes and were resurrected as frolicking lambs.

  Now it was Agnes Teresa’s fleece on the table. Iphigenia remembered life under the rule of the first abbess, when Sister Teresa had momentarily let her singing soar above the choir to reveal a voice like an angel’s. Then Teresa lying prostrate in the cloisters, arms out like a crucifix; the nuns on their way to Compline, walking over her as if she wasn’t there, forbidden to cast their eyes down and acknowledge the body their feet were trampling.

  The black-robed sisters whose bodies lay under the grass and whose souls hovered in the living community filed through Iphigenia’s memory. She saw the mass of them assembled at prayer, a black night sea, heads bowed, the ripple across the surface, the white capped waves as they lifted their heads and rose, the swift flow of them on the way to chapel, the clack and swish of rosary beads as they answered the bell, the call of the Divine Shepherd reaching with His crook of faith to haul them into His loving care.

  She saw individual faces, young, old, fat, thin. The sea-blue eyes of Sister Hilary, the wispy hairs on the chin of the sacristan, the abbess, face lined like the grain in polished timber. Faces alive in memory and shining with God’s love and the sweat of daily toil. All cloaked in similarity, to annihilate the individual self, a work continued in prayer and the discipline of bells. Iphigenia herself in that tide of nuns, her secret self hidden beneath the anonymous robes.

  A waft of lanolin, suint, the nutty flurry of small seeds invaded her nostrils as the last fleece was spread out. The dead returned to their realm and Iphigenia found herself gazing at Carla methodically sorting the debris into neat little piles. She was mouthing verses over them, and had kept aside a yellow buttercup petal.

  Margarita smiled indulgently at the neat little piles—burrs, bits of bracken, seeds, miscellany. It was Margarita who had found the mewling child, red and angry, tiny fists punching the air, reaching out to God. Just inside the heavy gate, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by straw.

  Margarita used to imagine that the prayers cascading from her mouth were lifted by the wind to be carried to those most in need, landing on their doorsteps not unlike the appearance of wee Carla. Up till then the world for which she prayed, the sick and needy, was an abstraction. Behind the heavy gates and grilles, with little contact or news from outside, it was hard not to think of the world as such. When Carla arrived the sick and needy became flesh.

  Of course, what her origins were they could only privately reflect on. Carla was a gift from God, an infant given to them to tend and care for as they would for the Lord Himself. She was Christ among them, a holy pure innocence, no matter in what
mysterious way God had placed her here. They fed the infant on watered down ewe’s milk, took turns watching over her at night. The abbess and the body of sisters waited for a sign from outside concerning the child but no sign came. No-one came to fetch her or enquire after her. Eventually there was a christening and Carla entered into their holy community.

  Margarita looked at the visitor, sitting there wrapped in a blanket like baby Carla had been. Both had turned up unexpectedly, in an extraordinary way, a test to her Christian charity. It had been easy with the sweet defenceless Carla, the little body struggling to be free of its swaddling. But he was different. It didn’t seem right that he should join in, to enter so easily into a life hard earned.

  Three days went by, a round of prayers, chores, stories and knitting and still his clothes were left unmended. He had even offered to do it himself, not that he knew how to mend. Soon Ignatius began to see that the clothes would not be coming back.

  The only way he could escape was to steal away and leave his clothes behind. Leave everything behind. He would have to be clever and choose his moment well. They took turns sitting with him through the night. ‘In case you need anything,’ they said. What he first thought of as misguided beneficence now took on a more sinister shadow. The nuns had become wardens.

  By day, if he strayed too far from the courtyard, one or other of them would miraculously appear by his side, asking if he needed anything. Apart from everything else, if he didn’t get away soon they would kill him with kindness.

  He would go at night, a night of no moon. He would feel a lot better once he was outside the monastery. If he could find the gate, climb over the wall, he would be safe from them. The nuns wouldn’t come after him once he was outside. He had seen their reaction, they wouldn’t break enclosure. Would they?

  Though getting out of the monastery was his first priority he had to think about the rest. Even if the nuns did not follow, he was not looking forward to the journey back. The way up had been bad enough. Then he had only really stumbled in by accident. But finding his way down at night, no map and no light … The leeward side of the island had safe havens but on the windward side insatiable waves crashed against black forbidding rocks. He could easily fall.

  He no longer had the passport of his clerical clothes to give him immediate, unquestioned assistance. He couldn’t very well walk naked across to the mainland. The car keys were with his clothes and the boot of the car, with his holiday gear, was locked. He could not believe that he would ever find himself cursing his own efficiency and attention to detail. He was somehow going to have to break into the car, smash something. Damage property.

  First, he had to get out.

  He was more clever than he imagined. He didn’t need a complete night of no moon, he only needed darkness till he was out of the monastery. Then the heavens could light up like New Year’s Eve. All the better to find his way down the hill.

  The nuns had just brought in his dinner. The idea hit him with such a bolt that he quickly transferred his attention from the square of night framed in the window to one of the pictures on the wall, in case any of them noticed. The picture was of a maiden with very long hair which covered her in modesty. Her hands were joined in prayer. Six angels with feathery wings bore her aloft. ‘Saint Mary Magdalene. Tilman Riemenscheider, limewood, fifteenth century.’ It was the tall one, Iphigenia. She sounded like a museum guide. ‘Magdalene in her ecstasy, repenting of her sins and stripped of her finery.’ He peered at it appreciatively then abruptly sat back. Beneath those tresses Magdalene had curly fleece and furry thighs.

  He gobbled up his nettles and turnips, trying to move things along. He told a story and then Carla insisted on telling one. It vaguely resembled ‘The Three Bears’ but something unpleasant happened to Goldilocks in the end. All the time she was telling the story he kept his eyes closed. She had by far the sweetest voice and if he blocked out the matted hair and devouring eyes he could imagine the voice belonging to an angel in a flowing gown, hair the colour of gold tumbling down into the snowy white feathers of wings. When she had come to her version of the ending his impulse was to protest. But he brought his mind to the more important task. Everything must appear harmonious. He must be lulled to sleep by the sweet voice, the rhythms and repetitions of the tale.

  Carla and Iphigenia picked up their knitting and bid him goodnight. That meant it was Margarita who would be minding him. Excellent. She slept heavily and made noises that would provide cover for any he might make. He sighed dreamily in his feigned sleep. As he did, he recalled the story that he had told them. On the surface it was a standard rendition of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’—he was Granny sick in bed and they were Red Riding Hood triplets. Except that Ignatius had entered the story with the cunning of the wolf. He needed things. He asked for some strands of good strong wool so that he could arrange it on his head and simulate Granny’s hair. They were delighted with this detail and clapped their hands like children.

  ‘Oh what big eyes you have,’ they said, playing the game, furiously clicking their needles.

  ‘All the better to see you with,’ squeaked the wolf in a falsetto of Granny.

  ‘And oh, what big ears you have.’

  ‘All the better to hear you with, my dears.’

  ‘And oh, what a big mouth you have.’

  ‘All the better to eat you up.’

  But the wolf did not attempt to leap out of bed and devour them. He finished the story with a cough, said he was feeling tired and thought perhaps he should go to sleep. Upon which Carla pleaded for one more story, oh just one, she would tell it softly and sweetly and it wouldn’t take long.

  ‘Very well, my dear,’ he smiled showing his teeth.

  The clicking of knitting needles stopped and the room was quiet. Margarita grunted a few prayers then arranged herself in the chair for the night. With his eyes closed, other senses were heightened. He heard a soft muffling as she arranged her blanket, the squeak of the wicker chair as she searched for a comfortable position. Heard the whoosh of air as she blew out the candle and waited for the tallow smell that followed. He felt the breeze from a draft on his left cheek. He smelled the damp in the walls, the mustiness imbued with a faint smell of incense that must have pervaded the whole place at one time. Heard the tiny sounds outside—crickets in the grass, a bleating that finally wound down into silence.

  Heaviness descended on him. He focused on all these things because in the Great Silence he had to stay awake. Alert. In the preceding days, he had reconnoitred as best he could under the watchful eyes of his captors. He tried to impose the map onto his visual recollection. He knew the layout of the buildings quite well from his initial exploration. Although, he reminded himself, he had appraised it as a piece of real estate, not as a place from which he would have to escape.

  The thicket of bushes and brambles must once have been the shrub-lined path leading from the entrance up to the cluster of buildings. Now it was more like a forest. How much easier it would be if the bushes still resembled those neatly clipped clumps on the map, the path clearly marked and the gates wide open. But ah, perhaps there still was a path through the forest and when he entered, he would find it. He had to be careful to take the right direction. Although on the map the monastery faced west, the nuns’ lives faced south, following the daily passage of the sun. Their gardens were on the south side, as was the cemetery, a grassy patch through which the sheep grazed, working their way around the obstacle course of crosses. Their table in the courtyard was arranged so that when they sat at it they faced south. It was the natural direction any of them would walk when they stepped outside the courtyard.

  But Ignatius would go west. He had found a way in, he would find a way out. He would like to have taken some tools, weapons, a knife perhaps but he couldn’t risk the delay in wandering around looking for things. And then he thought of it. Something right in this room. The pot. It was brilliant, an excuse and a protection. If Margarita woke he could say he needed to urinate. An
d wouldn’t she be pleased he was using it at last? Yes, he was going to use it—as a shield to forge his way through the brambles.

  He listened for the sleep rhythms from the corner, the old woman’s wheezy breath, her snuffles and snores. There was not another sound in the world. Under the blanket he felt for the lengths of wool that had been Granny’s hair. He pulled one of the sheepskins out from under him and lay it on top, then picked up the ends of the skin he was lying on and tied it to the top one with the wool. Sheepskin front and back, the woolly side out.

  Without a sound he lifted the blanket and swung his socked feet to the floor. Shoes would be a better protection on his journey down the mountain but they would make a noise along the cloisters. Considering the option, as if he had a choice in the matter.

  He dropped on all fours, silently as a cat landing, and retrieved the pot. The old woman snorted and chomped in her sleep. He stayed there, still as a table. Satisfied that she would not wake, he stood up. Too suddenly and not mindful of his new clothes. The sheepskin tunic slipped and dropped to his knees. Damn. She snorted and chomped again, rolled her head from side to side. She grunted. Ignatius stood stock-still, tensed, the pot in his hand. He realised for the first time that he was prepared to knock her unconscious, should it come to that. She was old, it wouldn’t take much. He watched, her head etched in the dark light coming through the window.

  She did not stir. He hitched up his dress, he would secure it later when he was out. He moved gingerly past her, never taking his eyes off her face. Which was not the most sensible place to be looking, as it turned out. In passing, his sheepskin brushed—ever so lightly but nevertheless brushed—and caught her blanket, the one wool adhering to the other for a fraction of a second, then dropping it just as swiftly. But enough to dislodge it. The blanket slipped down her arm. ‘What big eyes you have,’ she slurred sleepily. He froze, his heart thundering. He waited for a shout, a movement, but nothing else came. Would the night air on her arm wake her up? His hand reached out. Should he adjust her blanket or not? He decided not. ‘All the better to see you with, my dear.’ It was only a whisper but he could barely believe it had come out of his mouth.