Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  She was still prostrate when first light awoke her, a trail of saliva on the floor. She lay there, afraid to put her body through the moves necessary to stand up, unwilling to pass yet again through the gauntlet of pain. She heard the cry of the first birds. The darkness lifted. It was Prime. She had to go to the chapel and pray. She would pray with her sisters, do her chores, contemplate the Light of the Lord. She would do her best to ignore the visitor.

  She wiped her chin and prepared to stand up. It was every bit as painful as she expected it to be.

  It was between Nones and Vespers. Carla was off somewhere, Margarita was in the chapel praying. She seemed to pray a lot lately. Iphigenia was walking around the cloisters, in and out of the yellow afternoon.

  This had been a religious house for centuries; it had an everlasting life unbound by temporality. There was a round of days and nights, light and dark, sun and moon. They had lost track of the secular days, the months, even what decade it was. There was a round of years marked by holy days, by Easter and Christmas. Easter was the first full moon after the spring equinox, Christmas in the low ebb of winter solstice, Shearing Day when the new wool pushed the old wool out. They went to chapel and chanted the canonical hours in the same way they went to sleep. Taking in the play of light, the movement of the sun across the sky, the moon, changes in temperature, moisture, the air on their skin. Instinctively knowing when it was time.

  She stepped out into the courtyard. Iphigenia could hear the steady murmur of Margarita’s prayers, the occasional ovine bleat. Though it was a round of days not everything came round again. Iphigenia’s bleeding had stopped and never returned. Her sight had dimmed and her smell increased. The Agnes sisters would never return in human form. Tiles fell down but did not fly up to the roof again. And some days she felt better than others.

  Now they had a priest who didn’t come and go but stayed. Iphigenia knew that Margarita resented the priest in their midst but it was not the first time that both sexes lived together in a religious house. In the great double monasteries of medieval times lay brothers worked in the fields and priests ministered to the nuns. Such monasteries were ruled by abbesses. There were rich and powerful abbesses then, who owned lands, conferred with kings, sent knights into battle.

  If they had an abbess now, what would she do? Would she gather everyone up and hide in the chapel? Or would she have been prepared for the intruder and stood her ground? Would she have said, ‘Rubbish, young man. If your Bishop thinks he can turn this monastery into some kind of holiday hotel he has another think coming.’

  Perhaps they needed more than prayers and a persuading garment.

  Iphigenia cast her mind back to their first encounter with the priest. At the time they had been shocked, taken aback by his invocation of the Devil. ‘Had the Devil’s own job locating it.’ But now Iphigenia remembered the rest of what he said. ‘Actually, I was led to believe that the property was uninhabited.’ He had come assuming there was no-one here. But then he talked about the retirement home. That didn’t come from the Bishop, he made that up himself. Being inhabited, by a religious community, must make a difference.

  Would the abbess have been able to stop it merely with the tone of her voice or were there other ways? The sisters knew only prayer and chores and contemplation of the Lord. But the abbess knew other things, rules and regulations, duties and privileges. Consecrated ground had to be deconsecrated. There had to be a … procedure.

  For the first time in many years Iphigenia found herself standing outside the door to the abbess’ office. Even now, long after the last abbess had died, none of them ever came to this part of the monastery. The abbess’ room, where they’d first put the priest, was different. In her cell the abbess was a nun, like the rest of them. But in the office she discussed the affairs of the monastery with the outside world, with priests and Church dignitaries. This was the place where rules and regulations were made. And to which nuns came to be admonished when those rules were broken. It was to this room that Iphigenia was summoned when she returned without the bonesetter.

  Iphigenia stood looking at the grain in the timber, reluctant to put her hand to it. It was to such a door that Briar Rose had come. Did she too hesitate before crossing the threshold? Iphigenia pushed the door.

  The entire room was furred in dust, like an old grey mouse, and there were spider webs everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling, the shelves, the abbess’ desk. The Blessed Virgin in the alcove had been spun into a cocoon.

  The room had no smell. Everything was still, suspended, covered in a shroud of sleep. No leaves rustled, nothing scurried away at the opening of the door. Iphigenia stepped in, dust flurrying up into her nose even though she trod cautiously. She made her way along the wall of books, peering at the titles. So many books, their ribbed spines identical. Iphigenia remembered staring at that wall of books staunch and unmoving while the abbess circled, question after question, coming round to the same ones, time after time. ‘Was it altogether necessary to go over to the mainland? What would your grandmother say? What would the Bishop say? And what, Sister Iphigenia, would God say?’ And then the silence when the questioning finished. But it was not the end.

  Iphigenia lifted the veil of cobweb and pulled a tome from the shelf, Canon Law Governing Communities of Sisters. Mustiness escaped like a moth. She read:

  In what manner may a religious institute, papal or diocesan, be suppressed or become extinct?

  (1) by the egress of all its members

  (2) by the death of all its members

  (3) by uniting with another religious institute

  (4) by act of legitimate authority.

  If the suppression is on account of the egress or death of all its members, one hundred years must pass after the egress or death of the last of its members before the suppression becomes a legal fact. Suppression by union with another religious institute or by act of legitimate authority can be brought about only by the Holy See.’

  Not every word was comprehensible to Iphigenia but she understood the solemn and irrevocable tone. Extinction. As if they were animals who had been hunted or had died off because the world had changed and they hadn’t changed with it. But they were not dead. Here in the rocks and stones of the monastery was eternal life. The vows they had taken were forever and timeless.

  The community had not died nor joined with another religious institute, nor did they intend to do so. Egress. It sounded like a bird. They had gone out, but only for one day. What was an act of legitimate authority?

  She turned a page, holding the book steady. Warmed by her hand its faint leather smell began to come through.

  What is to be done with the property of a suppressed institute?

  All temporal goods, both movable and immovable belonging to a religious institute are Church property. Therefore in case of suppression of an institute its property may not be divided among its members; nor may the members divert it to other pious or charitable works, even though they should have the consent of the Bishop of the diocese to do so. Neither may the Bishop claim it or any part thereof for his diocese; but the entire property is subject to the disposition of the Holy See.

  What did this mean? What would happen to the Blessed Virgin and the stained-glass saints? They couldn’t be diverted and they certainly couldn’t stay in a holiday resort. The words were like a secret code. Iphigenia felt like a young child again, hearing the words her grandmother used when the solicitor came to visit.

  The solicitor sat in the study with his back upright and his briefcase on his lap, as if he was afraid to put it down anywhere. Taylor would often be in the room, Grandmother’s friend and confidante as well as her housekeeper. When the solicitor was there it reminded Iphigenia of the grown-up games of bridge where special words were used. Grandmother used special words with the solicitor—settlement, estate, my affairs, titles, deeds. Property. That was one of Grandmother’s words too. She remembered Grandmother telling the solicitor about the Fullers, who bought some proper
ty, a wedding gift for Nancy, only to find that the sharefarmers adjacent were driving their horse and cart right through the middle of it. Well, the Fullers went to see them, told them they were trespassing. And the sharefarmers told the Fullers they had right of carriageway. They had sought legal advice. Can you imagine, Mr Banks!

  Banks. That was the solicitor’s name. ‘You can always bank on Mr Banks,’ said Grandmother as she sliced open an envelope with the carved ivory letter-opener. Iphigenia remembered the beautiful copperplate letterhead on the solicitor’s correspondence. Iphigenia would say this word under her breath, ‘correspondence’, as if it had special powers. It was much more ponderous than ‘letter’. She imagined old Mr Banks was ponderous. Iphigenia was too young to remember old Mr Banks but she did remember young Mr Banks, his briefcase with the gold latches that snapped open and shut. He was a snappy kind of man, too, brisk and bright in his movements. Iphigenia imagined that the priest in their safekeeping would have a briefcase like that in the outside world. He would also use these heavy, weighty words.

  ‘Mrs Featheringale here. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you,’ Grandmother would say on the telephone. Then Mr Banks would come. After his visit, Iphigenia played solicitors. She would get a case from the cupboard and sit at the table. ‘This correspondence requires your signature.’ Then snap open the case and take out imaginary correspondence. Once she persuaded Betty, the youngest of the Fuller girls, to be the solicitor but she didn’t do it properly. When Betty snapped open the case she said, ‘It’s full of forks.’

  ‘Hand me the correspondence,’ Iphigenia prompted.

  ‘But we’ll get into trouble. It’s your grandmother’s best cutlery.’

  ‘She lets me. Hand me the correspondence.’ But Betty wasn’t keen. At the Fuller house they were never allowed to play with grown-up things, they had to play either in Betty’s room or out in the garden.

  But at Grandmother’s, Iphigenia could wander in and out at will. Because Iphigenia was Grandmother’s pet, like white fluffy Puddles who died of old age. She thought dying of old age must take a long time but it didn’t. One day Puddles was dead. Iphigenia had seen foxes and ducks that were dead. They had been killed by hunters and there was always blood on them. But Puddles just lay on the kitchen floor, extremely still.

  ‘It is the hand of God,’ said Grandmother. ‘It is sad for us but God wants Puddles to be with Him now.’ Grandmother wiped her eye with the edge of her lace handkerchief. Barney dug a hole with his big spade and his big boots and laid the body to rest.

  For days afterwards Iphigenia kept looking at the sky, looking all around her. Who would be next—Grandmother? She fretted and even wet the bed. She knew Taylor would scold but she couldn’t help it.

  At night she left the candle burning and tried not to fall asleep in case God was sneaking around in the dark. But she would fall asleep and then wake with a start. The candle would be out and Iphigenia swallowing blackness—what if God was coming for her? She wanted to run to Grandmother’s room but was so frightened she could not even let out a scream for help.

  Iphigenia’s behaviour did not go unnoticed in the household and Taylor proposed that they send for Dr Foley. This scared Iphigenia even more because often when the doctor came people died. Grandmother said, ‘Nonsense, the child is just going through a phase.’

  Grandmother began to stay with Iphigenia at night and eventually Iphigenia told her what the matter was. Grandmother was quiet for a while, the hint of a smile settling into the corners of her mouth. Then she reached her arms out and Iphigenia snuggled into her embrace, sinking into her lavender smell and soft papery skin.

  ‘God was probably lonely and wanted Puddles for His pet. God won’t be taking a crusty old lady like me, and He won’t be taking you, not if I have anything to say about it,’ she said in her voice that meant business. She squeezed Iphigenia tighter to her, squashing the child’s nose in the wool of her crocheted bedjacket, bouncing her wobbly chin on the top of Iphigenia’s head. They said a prayer together.

  In the morning Iphigenia was no longer afraid of God’s invisible hand. Never ever again afraid of God. Because in her prayer she had told God that when she was old enough she would go and stay in His house. What she didn’t tell God was that if she lived in His house she could keep an eye on him and he wouldn’t be able to sneak up unawares.

  To seal the pact, she thought a small offering appropriate. She went to Grandmother’s dressing room and pulled the fox fur from its hanger. It had a head on one end and paws on the other, and smelled of mothballs. It must have been a fox that had also died of old age because there was no blood.

  In the misty morning she went to the shed and got out Barney’s spade, careful not to disturb any of the other spick-and-span tools. She thought about opening up Puddles’ burying place—as God had already received one animal through that channel He might take another—but she was afraid of what she might see. She found a separate place and started digging the way Barney did, putting her foot on the spade and pushing down on it. It was a lot harder than it looked, she was even having trouble breaking through the grass. So she decided to bury the fox in the rose garden because the earth had already been dug over and the ground was softer. It took her a while but she managed. The hole didn’t have to be as big as Puddles’ because the fox, had no bones or insides, just a shiny satin lining.

  It was not till Christmas that anything was said about the disappearance of the fox and by then Iphigenia had forgotten all about it. ‘I can’t imagine what’s become of it,’ Grandmother said to Taylor. ‘I’ve probably left it somewhere and can’t remember. Oh well, at least it’s not the ocelot.’ And went on to other things.

  Though nothing changed within these walls, the world was temporal and things changed. The books lining the wall of the abbess’ office were not about adoration of the Sacred Heart but law pertaining to worldly aspects of religious life: administration, acquiring and disposal of property. Perhaps they were no longer valid, even if she could understand them. She could show the priest one of the books and demand to know what legitimate authority he had to come here and announce dissolution. But how would she know, with his self-interest, if he was telling the truth? She needed legal advice of her own.

  Banks. It was Banks, something and something. Iphigenia tried to recall the letterhead glimpsed so long ago. Banks, then a longer name starting with … C. Something odd about the spelling, a group of letters in the middle that you didn’t pronounce. She tried and tried to recall it but she was thinking too hard and it wasn’t letting the name come. A name from so long ago needed to arrive at its leisure.

  Perhaps she could write a letter to Banks, something and something. But how would it be delivered? And how would she get a reply? Perhaps make a journey into the world to look for them. But of course she couldn’t leave the monastery, not now.

  C. What were some names that started with C? Christopher, Cyril, Casimir, Catherine. Iphigenia could only think of saints. She was still trying too hard, pushing the name away.

  She made her way to the abbess’ cell and started browsing through the car relics again. Negotiation Skills. A big book with a picture on the cover of a lot of people sitting around a table talking. Women wearing the same sort of suits as men. Iphigenia flicked through it. Here was a whole new set of phrases: non-verbal alert, personal space, persuasive strategy, synergy, bottom lines, worst-case scenario, teleconferencing.

  It was a whole new world, a whole new vocabulary. Iphigenia examined all the relics. When she came across the battery in its plastic casing her nose started quivering. Not all the relics were here, there was one that he brought himself, in his pocket. The telephone! There was no need to write a letter, no need to make a journey. All she had to do was place a telephone call. Banks, C … and … Collard. No, not quite. Her mind was circling around it now, she was quite close. She picked up a pencil and started writing on a piece of paper. The C first, as if she had found the end of the thread and a
ll she had to do was to tweak it out of the tangle for the rest to unravel. Col … Collins. No. Callaghan. No. But it was like this. Letters in the middle that you didn’t pronounce. COLQUHOUN. Yes! This was it. Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews. The Andrews came quickly. ABC but not in that order. She saw the copperplate letterhead in her mind as clearly as if it were printed on paper. Iphigenia was filled with a rush of exhilaration. She didn’t think about the fact that Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews were all probably dead, that the man’s phone didn’t work and she didn’t even know where it was. At the moment her exhilaration was such that she could overcome any hurdle.

  As he ate his dinner that night, Ignatius savoured thoughts of his rescue. They had come looking, they would continue to look. It vindicated him that the Bishop knew his secretary hadn’t just skived off like Brother Terry. He wondered how widespread the search was, whether he was in the paper. ‘Priest Missing’, no, ‘Bishop’s Right-Hand Man Missing’. ‘Hopes Fade in Search For Missing Priest’. No, not that.

  Though he wanted desperately to be found he did not relish the thought of being found in plaster, eating dinner with his hands tied together. Everyone would be concerned for a while then the whispers and sniggering would start, he’d be the butt of palace jokes for weeks. He shovelled a piece of turnip into his mouth. There was an air of excitement at the dinner table, as if they were giving him a birthday party; his captors racing through the paltry meal, eager to get started on the new project.

  Ignatius wondered what sort of garment they were concocting for him. He didn’t care. As long as he could walk out of here in it. He could be out tomorrow if they just gave back his clerical clothes. Obviously that wasn’t an option. He was on trial, some sort of test. ‘The time it takes to make the garment.’

  Dinner finished, they cleared off the table and went through the preliminary prayers and chants. His legs were itching like Hades. He had a terrible vision of his pale atrophied limbs crawling with maggots. So damned itchy, but he couldn’t get down into the plaster. He scratched his stomach instead, reaping the benefit of his growing nails. He normally kept them short and clipped so he’d never noticed before how they curved like bird claws. The thumb and forefinger of his left hand seemed to be thickening, going brown. Probably a vitamin deficiency or a fungal infection.