Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  They drank water and tore chunks off the loaf of bread. Iphigenia looked at Assumpta’s walking stick propped up against the rock. Grandmother had a stick, a very fine stick with a brass handle. And she had picnics. On the lawn. The ladies wore hats and everyone was in their finery. After a cold collation the tablecloths were whisked away and the adults would play croquet. When somebody executed a difficult shot, the ladies clapped their hands and the men said, ‘Good show’. While the adults played, Iphigenia would lie on the perfectly clipped grass, propped on her elbows, staring at Grandmother in her big chair with a high back, just like a throne. She was always buttoned right up to the collar and her hair pulled back into a stiff white chignon. Despite the stiffness of her clothes and hair, her head was in perpetual motion, swaying from side to side involuntarily, as if she was always saying no. Iphigenia was fascinated by everything about Grandmother, especially the swaying head, and the hands. The prominent veins—which Iphigenia took to be the roots of her fingers—reached all the way back to the old woman’s wrist. On the grass, Iphigenia would examine her own hand, crook it over the way Grandmother held the walking stick, but she saw no veins in her smooth little child hand.

  She had veins now. Her hands looked older than Grandmother’s, rough-skinned, her fingers blunt. Grandmother’s skin was smooth, almost transparent. She often wore gloves. Iphigenia supposed her face was old and lined as well. There were no mirrors in the monastery. She had never seen her old woman face.

  Iphigenia looked at Carla’s face. Handsome, with a sweep of black eyelashes, a straight nose, full lips. There was still the child’s innocent cunning, but wrinkles fanned out from the eyes. The lines disappeared in the fullness of the cheeks then re-emerged to take up position around her mouth. There were one or two curly hairs on her chin.

  ‘What?’ said Carla, as if she was being accused of doing something wrong.

  Iphigenia felt a tiny silver dagger stab her heart.

  ‘Enough rest,’ she announced.

  Iphigenia felt sure they had descended far enough to have come to the village but she couldn’t see any signs of it. They had heard that the fishermen had gone across the water to the mainland. Perhaps the village had gone as well. Washed away by the sea, and relics of it stranded on the shore. The sea had given the island relics too, salvage from shipwrecks. A golden eagle, gold doubloons, figureheads of ladies and gentlemen, of saints, eternally leaning forwards as if they were about to fall. Sailors too came ashore from shipwrecks, walking out of the sea. Sometimes they stayed and gave the island babies with bright skins from other climes. The island also had babies from sailors who didn’t stay.

  Iphigenia knew about the golden eagle and other relics because some of them found their final resting place in the monastery. It was best these gifts from the sea were given back to God. Once the fishermen trawled up a crucifix. What fate might befall someone who hoarded a relic from a dead ship? Would the sea stretch out its icy fingers and claim a life in reciprocity? On the other hand, occasionally a lone fisherman would come across a relic and say naught about it. He could sell it on another island and the sea wouldn’t be any the wiser. It wasn’t as if he were stealing from her. If it was tossed up on shore the sea had no further use for it, did she?

  Apparently a coconut had once washed ashore, a gift from the tropics. So rare and exotic was it that the islanders never broke into it to drink the milk or eat the flesh. It sat among them when they gathered and they told stories of how it happened to end up here, an orphan kidnapped by pirates from the jewel-encrusted land of a king and queen pining for their golden child who was never seen again.

  There was the sea’s own debris too—clumps of seaweed, kelp and bladderwrack, dumped high on the sand like beached whales—that had missed the outgoing tide and could never get back. It was transformed into a land life, lay the winter on the villagers’ gardens and when its salt was gone, planted out with crops.

  From the rhythmic crash of the sea on rocks and the dance of spray arose a strange singing. It echoed everywhere. Unknown creatures calling to one another. Iphigenia’s nose was twitching uncontrollably. A salty sea smell but there was an oiliness too. Not the solid fat of lanolin, of the sheep, it was more the oiliness of seabirds. But it was not the song of birds.

  Carla picked up the sound and echoed it back. They came to a narrow passage where the cliff curved round. They took small careful steps, watching where they put their feet.

  ‘Angel!’ said Carla when they had rounded the corner. The angel was made of stone. A pair of gulls perched on her back, ready to take off.

  It was the Wailing Woman. Iphigenia remembered what the islanders called her. Leaning towards the sea, watching and waiting for a husband and son who would never return, scanning the horizon for them, her huge tears dropping into the ocean. Rain, wind and sun had washed over her and eventually she turned to stone. The Wailing Woman overlooked the village, they would come to it soon.

  Or what was left of it. They had wandered into it without properly realising. The roofs had blown away, windows looked like empty eyes. But it was not uninhabited. There was rustling and flapping, the ruins wriggled with movement. At the approach of these three new creatures, heads popped up from everywhere, looked curiously then scampered into the sea, mothers and babies, the little ones scurrying after the big ones.

  The village had become a seal colony.

  Carla ran down amongst them, delighted by their smooth round heads with snub noses, faces like bears, and whiskers like cats. One brushed right by her and she felt the roughness of that sleek body, raspy as a cat’s tongue. Another one came and looked at her curiously. She tried to pat it but it flop, flopped into the water. They took off as she chased after them, all heading for the safety of the sea.

  Carla laughed and laughed, mimicking their movements, flopping along. She lay down on her belly, making her limbs rubbery, stretching her fingers and discovering the tiny webs between them. All she had to do was inch herself up a little more, then plop! Over the edge and her head, round and cropped from Haircut Day, would be bobbing along with theirs.

  ‘Carla.’ Iphigenia was calling her back.

  Margarita was propped up against a wall, the buzzing of bees diving into the flowers making a soft halo of sound around her. It was difficult not to give in to the pleasant drowsiness. The walls held in heat and beamed it out so that the abandoned houses provided a haven. Spring flowers of every hue grew here, not just the gorse that had claimed the rest of the island. The droopy heads of purple and pink fuchsia, dogrose climbing up the stones, perfect shiny little buttercups in protected corners, pink clover and lamb’s lettuce.

  There were no people, no curtains in the windows. Iphigenia walked through the ruins to the cove. No boats, no music, no fisherboy with eyes as dark as plums. Gone. All that was left was a rusting anchor wedged in the sand, a crumpled lobster pot, some bottles, a wisp of net so flimsy that when Iphigenia touched it, it dissolved into dust.

  Margarita leant on the walking stick and pulled herself up. They were not here to enjoy themselves. Beyond the wall she had a clear view of the mainland. But all she could see on the shore was a small square of building.

  It was the public house. Margarita remembered when she first came here, waiting outside the tavern, with her fellow novices, Assumpta and Sister Cook, waiting for the low tide so they could walk across to their final home. It was a blustery day with the feel of snow in the air. The locals, nice people, invited them in for a glass of port. For the stomach, they said, for the warmth. But the sisters said no, they would wait outside. The priest went in, however. ‘Just for the one, mind you.’ Margarita remembered the cheery cheeks of that priest, his white hair. ‘Come in,’ he said, dispensing permission, ‘a hot lemonade, perhaps.’ But no, Margarita did not want to go. There were men in the public house, men who played cards and smelled of cigarettes and pipes. Men with white teeth and handsome black moustaches, gold chains across their portliness. Margarita wanted a life tha
t was too hard and cold for these things.

  ‘Car?’ Iphigenia put the word into Margarita’s line of vision.

  ‘No.’

  Iphigenia called Carla back from the seals once again. He had driven across, but where was the car? The three nuns spread out, extending their collective sight.

  They hadn’t gone far when Iphigenia felt her face flush. The smell of metal was strong. But it was Carla who saw it. A big glistening thing, black and glossy as a knight’s steed. It had fat wheels that gave the vehicle solidity, despite the fact that it was leaning at a precarious angle and one of the wheels was wedged in a crevice between rocks as black and glistening as the car itself.

  It was completely black, even the windows. Carla peered in. There was someone inside. She brought her hand forward to touch the dark face but found she could not touch the flesh, only the glass.

  Now she understood why the Lord had said, ‘Touch me not’, to his beloved Magdalene of the fleecy legs. Because in the garden when he had appeared to Magdalene he had already turned into Jesus of the stained-glass window, bright and luminous but cold and hard to the touch.

  Now Carla understood the miracle of the Resurrection. She gazed at it in awe.

  ‘It’s …’ Iphigenia wondered whether to leave Carla with her vision. ‘It’s a reflection, it’s yourself,’ she finally said. This was not to become a special thing. There would be no miracles surrounding the car.

  Carla knew it was a reflection, she had seen her face before, in pots and pans, the blades of knives. But those had always been distorted. In the dark glass she had found her most perfect reflection.

  She turned her head this way and that, examining herself from every aspect.

  Iphigenia felt the pull of temptation. To look, to see her own dark image. As well as the window there was a small mirror jutting out from the side of the car. Iphigenia was so close. She would only have to take one more step.

  But it was a vanity and already she could see how Carla was taken with it. Iphigenia pulled out the keys they had found with the priest’s clothes.

  ‘Keyhole, Carla.’

  Carla looked while Iphigenia sorted through the keys for the one most likely to open the car. Carla did not find anything that looked like a keyhole but she did find something. A small circle, and in the middle of the circle was a tiny panel. She poked her finger in. The panel moved.

  All of a sudden there was a high-pitched whirring. The car had become an animal, protecting its territory with a terrible screech. The nuns pulled back, hands over ears. From behind a rock they watched but the car didn’t move. The screeching went on and on, hurting their heads from the inside and drowning everything else out. They kept watching, but the car remained perfectly inert. Sound appeared to be its only defence.

  After a while, they approached the car and began trying keys till they found one that slipped in smoothly. With a small click the door opened.

  The screeching faltered and grew weaker, as if the animal had given up. Nevertheless, they proceeded with caution, sniffing around, in case it had another trick in store. Inside was a dashboard beyond comprehension. There were clocks and wheels and numbers, a pulsing red light, tiny icons. The whole interior of the car was black. Grandmother’s car was white and very long. It had a running board but Taylor wouldn’t start the car till Iphigenia was sitting in the back seat like a lady.

  In the space between the two front seats was a short stick with a shiny black knob decorated with white lines. There was a tray of coins and the smell of stale cigarettes. On the far seat was a shiny transparent folder, with a book and some other things.

  Iphigenia tried to retrieve the folder but the car was tilted at such an angle that she couldn’t reach. She didn’t want to climb in, afraid that her weight would upset the precarious balance.

  Margarita had an idea. She held the walking stick by one end and thrust it into the car. She managed to hook the handle around the folder and pull it carefully towards her. When the folder was close enough to pick up, she handed it to Iphigenia. It was slow, she had to repeat the process several times, but in this way she retrieved everything except the coins. Margarita was very pleased with herself. Now they could go home.

  Not quite. ‘Glove box,’ said Iphigenia. Grandmother often kept important things in the glove box. It would have to be approached from the other side. There was a narrow ledge but not much room to manoeuvre. If they could get the window open, they could reach a hand in without putting too much weight on the car.

  Taylor’s car had a handle for winding down the window but this one didn’t seem to have such a handle.

  ‘Excuse me.’ It was Margarita, this time holding the stick like a jousting knight. She leant into the car and tilted her lance at the passenger window. The glass shattered. Margarita could not believe how good she felt. She thrust again and again, till the window was just a frame.

  Iphigenia edged her way around to the passenger’s side. Gingerly she put her hand in and opened the glove box. Inside was a cardboard box with a soft piece of paper sticking out of it. She put it in her pocket. There was a battery, the same as the other one. By the time she had finished, the entire contents of the glove box were in her pocket.

  Now there was only one thing left to do. The car was already leaning towards its final destiny. They just had to give it a helping hand.

  Six weathered hands with yellowy nails edged with dirt, veins bulging from the effort. If Iphigenia had known it was wedged so securely she would have had no qualms about climbing into the car.

  There was a movement, a slight one, not enough to send the car over. They rested from their labours then tried again. It started to give.

  Suddenly the car was in motion, the wheels were coming up, the big black rutted wheels. Carla could see the underbelly of the car, its intestines. They stood back, and let it continue of its own accord. Over it went, crashing a chunk off the ledge on its way. It dropped through the air, the door flying open. It hit the sea with a big crashing noise. The waters parted to receive it. White foam danced up and then the sea closed over the shiny black car as if it had never been.

  Carla stood mesmerised. In the gap that the car opened up she had seen something else. She stood in the howling wind. Seabirds squawked, the seals dived under. Beneath her feet was the pattern the wheels of the car had made. She bent down and touched the miniature furrows and ridges. She found it very easy, with one sweep of her hand, to erase these traces. She would not so easily be able to erase the memory of her own dark face beneath the surface of the water.

  It was late in the day by the time they had dispatched the car. The soft grass inside the village walls looked inviting, but Iphigenia had said … back before nightfall. The words tolling over them like a bell.

  They had eaten all the bread and apples, drunk most of the water. They picked a few leaves of lamb’s lettuce for sustenance and set off, out of the village and up the hill again. When they reached the Wailing Woman they turned for one last look. There, in the ebb of the tide, was the sandbar.

  Carla was entranced by the bright and shining thing joining them to the mainland. All day it had remained hidden and now it was showing itself, like the legendary submerged islands that appear only once in a hundred years, islands over the horizon, to which warriors and knights sail when their quests are done.

  Carla scanned the sea, looking for the place where the car had entered but the only interruption to its rippled golden surface was the bob of seal heads. She gave them a little wave.

  The three pushed on up the hill. Iphigenia felt every step. The urgency for getting back to the monastery had left her, she had no impetus of her own and was dragged along in the wake of Carla and Margarita. Night came down, squeezing the golden mist into a thin bright line of horizon.

  By the time Carla had retrieved Uriel, the third tufty angel, they felt the wind change. Darkness rolled in across an ever-darkening sky, sheets of grey drifting like smoke, and finally they saw needles of rain pockmar
king the sea. They hastened along but could not avoid the incoming storm. After the cold moist wind came hard rain. They felt the heavy drops, one, two, then too many to count. There was nowhere to shelter, they had to go on. Progress was slowed because now the rocks were slippery. They prayed for safe deliverance, wet, sloppy prayers, hissing with rain.

  A standing stone loomed up before them. They sat down, pulled their vests over their bent heads and continued praying. Though Carla loved the rain, loved the drops splishing and splashing and making rivers on her, she was worried about the angels. What if, despite her careful twining, the remaining tufts of wool had blown away or dissolved in the rain? How would they find their way back? She knew every inch of the monastery but she didn’t know out here. Everything around was black and wet and windy.

  Carla wondered if Psyche got scared when she was out on the mountain, alone and shuddering in the darkness, with only faith as a shield and garment. But her Lord did deliver her, wrapped in his wings and his sweet murmurings. She lived in his house yet never could she see his face or ask his name. Carla and the nuns dwelt in the house of the Lord, their prayers kisses on an invisible mouth.

  It didn’t seem so windy now. Carla lifted her head out of her vest and stole a glance at these sisters who had received the yoke of the Lord and bore his burden, sweet and light. They looked small and bedraggled. As a child, sisters would sit Carla on their shoulders and run with her. She would like to sit Margarita and Iphigenia on her shoulders, carry them through the storm, but she didn’t know the way.

  The wind had dropped but the cold rain continued, hissing and splattering. It fell onto the spikes of gorse, descended in a slab down the standing stone and ran in rivulets around them. They were wet through now, their faces shiny with rain. They couldn’t get any wetter by walking.