by Marele Day
Margarita was staring at him, making him feel self-conscious. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if they had any qualms about scratching themselves.
He offered his knitting services. An excuse to get those hands free, to spirit away a needle to reach in and scratch. He might find a knitting needle useful in other ways, too.
‘Oh no,’ said Margarita, ‘this is our gift to you.’ She smiled, offering her charity. It was the tone of voice the man imagined the thirteenth fairy used at Sleeping Beauty’s christening.
‘Tell a story,’ said Iphigenia.
That was his role in the piece, a story. For the laying of the foundation stone of his garment, the story should be carefully chosen. Something with significance. They were fond of fairy stories but the occasion demanded something with a little more weight and substance. Something biblical would be appropriate. He could hardly go wrong with a Bible story. Something that would find its way into the fabric of the garment, an invisible thread, a prayer. His contribution. Not the life of a saint or martyr, they always came to a sticky end. A story with a happy ending, as he still hoped his was.
They were waiting, poised like musicians in an orchestra, instruments in hand, waiting for the conductor. The skeins of wool were all lined up and in front of them was the basket of his own black curly hair. It still gave him an odd feeling. His hair over there, away from his body.
He began his story.
‘There was once a man who had several sons and the youngest son, knowing that he would inherit a portion of his father’s wealth, asked that he could have his share now.’ The clicking began and took up the rhythm. Despite his itchy, itchy legs he was overcome with a feeling of pleasant cosiness such as a winter fire induces. He thought of winter fires at the palace with the Bishop and the other priests drinking port, being offered cigarettes from the Bishop’s slim gold box, a gift from a parishioner. Ignatius had not been a smoker till he had become the Bishop’s secretary.
In the refectory after dinner, the priests would stand with their backs to the fire warming their buttocks or sit in comfortable leather chairs that squeaked when you changed position. They talked of politics—Church and world—or, more to the point, of politicians and those of their brethren who had cases of sexual abuse pending. Sometimes when the Bishop was absent there’d be jokes about it. ‘An After-Eight or an Under-Eight?’ Ignatius felt somewhat uncomfortable when talk turned this way. He wondered if, as a child, he might have been, well, not exactly abused but whether the brothers had been overfamiliar with him and he hadn’t recognised it. ‘More port, Ignatius?’ The After-Eights were on a silver tray left by Mrs Grogan. He liked the chocolate-brown envelopes they came in, the wafer-thin squares of chocolate and the cool penetration of the mint when he bit into it. But he always felt that it was a guilty pleasure, especially after the jokes. He chuckled sometimes but never offered any jokes himself. Sometimes he suspected he laughed in the wrong places. Ignatius had his sights set on higher things. He would be one of the brethren but he would not be reduced to smut. Another sip of port to get over his unease.
‘Make a holiday of it. Remember, even God took a break,’ the Bishop said with a twinkle in his eye. A pity there weren’t more young men like Ignatius entering the priesthood. Initiative, meticulousness, ambition and strength of will yet deferential to his superiors. ‘Hire a car, take the mobile phone. Take your bathers. The sea will be brisk but it’s good for the soul.’
‘And so, not many days after, the youngest son gathered his things together and began his journey to a far country. It was on the other side of the sea, a strange land with strange creatures. But this was the place he had chosen to make his fortune. The land offered many diversions and he lingered, enjoying its pleasant fruits. But he found, when the time came, that he couldn’t leave and he lost the things of his father and he was reduced to nothing, lower than the animals of the field where he was obliged to sleep while they looked on. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him.
‘But by and by the people of that land saw his plight and they fed him with their food and clad him in their clothes and let him return to his father’s country. And when he approached his father’s house the servants said, “Sire, there is a beggar on the road”. And the father came to the door in his robes and he saw his son in his strange new apparel and came out to greet him. The son knelt before him and asked his forgiveness.
‘“Father, I have been wayward, I went into the world and across the sea and I have lost the things you have given unto me. But I have completed my task and I am returned to be your faithful servant always. If you will not have me in your house, lodge me with your animals.”
‘But the father was joyous to see him and he said to his servants, “Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet: And bring forth the fatted calf, and kill it: he was lost and now is found. And they began to be merry.”
‘Now the other sons heard the festivities and one of these called the housekeeper and asked what these things meant. And she said, “Thy brother is come and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath receiveth him safe and sound.” These other brothers were stern and angry, they who had tended the father’s flock all the time the youngest son was absent. They knew that the father had given him special things, things that belonged to all of them. But the father said unto them, “Sons, thou are ever with me and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again, and was lost, and is found.”’
Clickety click.
And again this time, once started on the journey Ignatius found himself going along with the story, entering into it and being mesmerised by it, oblivious to the knitters. It was only when the clickety click stopped that he became aware of them again. Knitting was hanging down from their needles. It was still too early to tell what the final shape would be but he was thankful that they had chosen black. He didn’t want to go back to the palace looking like Joseph in his coat of many colours. Who knows, perhaps they would knit him fine woollen trousers and a worsted jacket very similar to his original clerical clothes.
Margarita, usually the most furious knitter, had done the least work. ‘A wasteful, wilful child,’ she said without looking up, ‘he should have been punished. Punished! Wasteful philanderer.’ She kept her head down, closely examining an imaginary speck in the wool.
‘Lord, who shall abode in thy tabernacle? Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? He that walketh, and worketh righteousness and speaketh the truth in his heart. He that back biteth not with his tongue nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour.’ The words were out of Iphigenia’s mouth before she knew it. Admonishing Margarita with the words of God. She had meant to hold her tongue. She had to be careful with Margarita, she did not mean to chastise her in front of the priest. But the words rumbled and rolled out of her like an unsuspected burp.
It caught him up hearing the ancient tongue of the Lord. It was a sign, God had spoken to him through the nun. God had not forsaken this Prodigal Son and though he was still captive in a strange land, he would return to his father’s house and be welcomed with fatted calf. God had looked favourably on his story.
Ignatius saw himself as both the Prodigal Son and the one who stayed by his father’s side. He was punctilious and keen, worked to the best of his abilities, courteously trying to pre-empt the Bishop and carry out orders before they were even given. He was a man who always crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s. A man who tried to stay above criticism. As far as he could see there was nothing about his behaviour or personality that others could find fault with, although he supposed at times he was a little humourless. If he came into a burst of laughter in the common room the atmosphere would change as if he’d brought a clammy mist in with him.
He had always wanted to ask one of the others why he wasn’t more … po
pular, but somehow the fact that he needed to ask only contributed to the problem. Anyway, he counted his blessings—the Bishop appeared to be pleased with his efforts, giving him more and more responsibility. ‘You know, I believe that boy is after my job,’ he’d joke with the priests. They would laugh politely and shift uncomfortably.
If Ignatius had a fault, apart from being humourless, and that was hardly a fault in the Christian sense, it was that he found it difficult to extend indiscriminately the compassion of Christ. He found it much easier to align himself with the just and fair God of the Old Testament. His traditional point of view on the Prodigal Son was in fact not too different from the one Margarita had so vigorously expressed. He did consider the youngest son to be a waster. Squandering his father’s resources, an addict of instant gratification. The other brothers had stayed at home and worked. They deserved their inheritance, the youngest one plainly did not. It simply wasn’t fair that the youngest son should go off, squander his inheritance, have the hide to come back with not a penny to bless himself and be taken in again to the bosom of the family. Not only taken in but positively regaled.
Ignatius wondered what fatted calf tasted like in the mouths of the other brothers and whether they were biding their time till the old man died or turned his back before they delivered to the favoured brother his just desserts.
But his current predicament was showing him a more charitable view of the Prodigal Son. Perhaps the things that had happened to the Prodigal Son were not entirely his fault. He might well have set out with the intention of increasing his father’s fortunes, as Ignatius had when setting out for this place. He had fallen into bad company, much against his will. He was naive and unwary but dedicated to his purpose. He had come back to his father eventually, hadn’t he? Crawled back in strange apparel, with nothing to show, needing his wounds licked. He was prodigal, wasteful and extravagant, but his father had forgiven him. Utterly and completely.
His legs itched in their plaster cast. The room was cold and dank, he could feel fog and mist rolling in off the fields. He couldn’t even conjure up the glow of the palace hearth, the sweet warm taste of port. There was no justice or fairness about being kept a prisoner when he’d done nothing wrong. Fairness no longer entered into it. Ignatius would have to go back wearing the rags of humility and in full view of the others ask for his father’s forgiveness.
Carla was planting seeds. She drilled a hole with her finger and dropped one in. She liked sticking her fingers in the ground and putting things in. To let them be nurtured in the quiet dark place. Things happened to seeds in the ground. They would stay the same for a while then by and by something would break out, a tiny baby yawning and stretching its body. Its roots pushing further into the earth and its head popping up above the surface, finding the sun and turning its face to it. Once she put a seed inside herself and waited for it to sprout. She waited and waited. It was a moist dark place, like soil, but nothing came forth. Some seeds can lie dormant for years.
Carla loved the way plants could change shape. This little seed she was planting now would turn from a tiny hard brown dot to a big leafy green. She especially loved how potatoes grew. From one piece of potato would come a whole plant—dark spreading leaves on top and under the earth, crisp new baby potatoes. Where did those leaves come from, were they hiding in the piece of potato? That piece did not look at all like leaves, it wasn’t even green. At harvest time Carla liked to dig her hands in, find the baby and brush the dirt away from it the way the Agnes sisters licked their newborn babies clean. She wondered if she would ever have a baby to lick clean. Her tummy felt a bit funny, maybe there was a baby in there now. She pushed a little. She brought her legs apart to have a look and when she did, she saw on the ground a fresh glob of dark-red blood. Miraculous. She felt so happy to see it. There hadn’t been any blood since the winter. Maybe if she felt around she would find a spring lamb in there as well!
No lamb, just soft squishy blood. But that was good. So many things to do with blood. First she licked it off her fingers. The Agnes sisters always ate the big glob of blood that came after the newborn lamb. She reached in for some more and spread it on the garden to make the plants grow. Then she took a spare piece of fleece from her pocket and put it inside herself. When it had absorbed all the blood she would take it out and watch the newly dyed fleece change from bright red to rusty brown.
Blood wasn’t the only thing that changed. Grubs went into cocoons and came out again as butterflies. The spirit of the Lord descended to Earth and was born as Baby Jesus. Who in turn became Christ Our Lord. Once upon a time plants and gods and people and animals readily slipped from shape to shape. Gods became bulls, eagles, flowers and swans. Athena turned Arachne into a spider. You just had to be careful that a witch didn’t curse you and trap you in the same skin forever.
Carla could change skin. In her escapecoat she could be anything, become any shape she wanted. Dead sisters slipped into the skin of sheep. The live sisters took the wool off the sheep and knitted it into skins for themselves. And now they were knitting the man a skin to change him from a fish into a legged creature.
After the Prodigal Son story last night she had held up her work to show him. To show how she had flecked his little tiny hairs into the knitting. It was all going to be knitted in, she wasn’t going to keep any for her escapecoat. He seemed quite pleased when she showed him, he smiled. It was time to do the next step in taming.
A treasure. What taming treasure could she give him? His old skin? No, that would spoil the gift of the new one. One of his car relics? That didn’t seem right either. Iphigenia might get cross. What about something that he’d brought, his new friend Carla bringing him one of his old friends. The cigarette packet? Carla couldn’t remember what happened to that. The phone? But she’d buried that a long way off. Then Carla thought of it. The battery. That was his true treasure. On the first day he didn’t leave it on the table with the phone, he put it in a special place.
The battery burial place was not far. By the garden wall near a dried brown clump of ferns that had died off over the winter. Live fronds were so delicate and soft but in death they were dry and brittle, like a hedgehog. She tamped it down with her hand, breaking the fronds into a short crop. Now it was like a thick dense forest. She peered at it closely, looking for any little creature that might have been disturbed when her big hand boomed down. No little creatures but ah, hidden in the forest were two tiny shoots—delicate, pale transparent green like insect wings. On top was a leaf curled as tight as tight could be. Spring had come to the fern after all. Soon it would be Easter, when everything that had died off would rise again. Maybe even the battery had sprouted a green shoot. She started digging.
It was marvellous the way shoots would push up through almost anything—gaps in rocks, between the stones of the chapel, this garden wall. Vines were spreading out over the garden wall too, rampant with spring.
Spring had brought the man crashing through the thickets and brambles. He had unfurled like the fern’s green shoot and stood up. She was so pleased he had come. Sometimes Carla felt sad. When she heard the cry of a lone gull she felt as if the sound was coming out of her. She had the sisters, the sheep and birds and plants and God, Jesus and all the saints but there were no other Carlas. The little hedgehog must have felt like that too—the only hedgehog in the world. It had run away. Now God had sent the man. She would tame him, make sweet noises and hold out grain to him. She would be so nice to him he would never want to go.
In the black earth she felt the hardness of the battery. She smoothed away the soil and was a bit disappointed to find that it hadn’t grown roots or any green shoots. She put her finger out to the baby fern frond. It was so small and delicate she could hardly feel it. She could stop the spring right now if she wanted, scrunch those fronds around and break them off. But that wouldn’t be nice. Such a dear little baby thing, she would let it grow and grow. And maybe one would grow inside of her as well.
Iphig
enia turned away but the picture remained clear in her mind, clearer in her mind than the blurred version her eyes saw. Carla squatting on the ground, prodding around inside herself, almost toppling over in her effort to see inside. ‘Kiri, kiri,’ she signalled her impending arrival. But Carla was absorbed. ‘Ho there, Carla,’ Iphigenia tried again, using the greeting of Carla’s childhood. Iphigenia was quite close now, looking down on Carla who had at least raised her head.
‘Firewood?’ queried Carla, wondering what Iphigenia was doing out here. She and Margarita came out to collect firewood, work in the garden, attend to the sheep but rarely did they just wander.
‘Game.’ Iphigenia squatted down to her level. The black curls of Carla’s hair had started sprouting again. They looked so springy that Iphigenia wanted to touch them. She didn’t.
Game! Carla was surprised but pleased. Iphigenia rarely played games with her, even when she was little.
‘Guessing game.’
‘Rumpelstiltskin?’
‘No.’
Ah, the game had already begun.
‘Animal, vegetable or mineral?’ asked Carla.
The simple question flummoxed Iphigenia. She did not know what it was made of. ‘Not animal or vegetable,’ she decided.
‘Found indoors or outdoors?’ was Carla’s next question.
‘Both.’
‘Something you can carry?’
‘Yes.’ Iphigenia’s answer was quick and encouraging.
‘Bigger or smaller than a missal?’