Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  She couldn’t miss Sext. Despite the jabbing stars before her eyes, Iphigenia stumbled down the corridor to the chapel. She knelt beside Margarita and Carla, and as she bent her head in prayer, she toppled over into a night full of stars.

  Fresh, full, round. Warm. Beads of soft green bursting on her lips, her nose. She moved her head. Her eyes were open but she could see only blurs. At her back she could feel the stony skirt of the Blessed Virgin. ‘And the angel came unto her, and said, Hail, thou art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women.’

  Margarita came into focus, holding up a mug of tea which Iphigenia wrapped her hands around and drank. Liquid dribbled down her chin. Through the refreshing antiseptic green of sage she smelled blood. Her forehead was sticky with it. Her ears were ringing with an aural version of the tiny stars she’d seen earlier.

  Her sisters rippled in the steam rising from the tea. She heard bleating and in the light and shadow of the chapel saw that a couple of the Agnes sisters had come to pay their respects. Iphigenia felt like Baby Jesus in the manger.

  She put the mug down and made an effort to get up, leaning heavily on Margarita and Carla. They led her out to the courtyard where she sat in the sunlight, the flagstones warm under her feet.

  ‘Sick?’ There was a great disturbance in the voice that landed on Iphigenia’s ears. Was Margarita concerned or gloating? Iphigenia could smell both. She looked up. Margarita loomed ominous as she had appeared that night in the doorway. Iphigenia blinked. The smell of gloat faded. She looked again. It was just the way Margarita was standing, with the sun at her back.

  ‘It will pass,’ said Iphigenia. She was taking too much upon herself. Not only did she have to make a conscious effort to remember to attend chapel, but she was being Grandmother on the phone. She spent half the night talking to the priest and the other half doing the work Margarita was undoing. She had to … what was the word in the book? … delegate.

  Iphigenia was so lovely in these moments when she was sick, her nose quivering like a little grey mouse. Carla could pat her, treat her like a pet. ‘Ecstasy?’ she whispered softly onto Iphigenia’s cheek. Iphigenia normally frowned sternly at Carla’s ecstasies, but this time she smiled. ‘Did you see the Blessed Virgin?’

  Not the Blessed Virgin, but Iphigenia had seen something. ‘And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.’ Perhaps it was talking to Mr Colquhoun, but it seemed to Iphigenia that she was seeing for the first time what they had done to the priest.

  It was a terrible thing, imprisoning him in plaster, putting him in the holding pen and leaving him there. They never made the Agnes sisters stay in the holding pen overnight. Iphigenia wanted to go to the brambles and hide herself from the presence of the Lord. They had to right the wrong they had done. They had to make the garment that would free him from his plaster, turn him into their brother in Christ. Only then would they regain their former shapes.

  Hadn’t things improved now that he had a candle and reading material? In Lives of Saints and Martyrs was a picture of St Agnes with a lamb by her side, the sword of martyrdom at her throat, virginal hair cascading like a bridal train. Arrested as a Christian at the age of twelve, chaste Agnes endured martyrdom rather than renounce her faith. She underwent many trials and tortures with pincers, shears and other instruments. Finally, holding fast to her faith, she is executed. Various accounts have her being beheaded, burnt to death, pierced through the throat or a combination of all three.

  Such gory deaths they suffered. He had not taken particular notice of it before but Christianity seemed to be splattered with persecution, described in such detail that it was almost … well, pornographic. Gory bloody deaths involving desecration of the body: decapitation, hearts pulled out of living bodies, bones smashed till the marrow spurted, dressed in animal skins and torn to pieces by dogs, used as human torches. Even his namesake, Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, facing execution ecstasied, ‘I am the wheat of God; and I must be ground by the teeth of wild beasts to become the pure bread of God.’ Such willing victims.

  Ignatius shifted uncomfortably on the bed and wondered whether it was possible to be itched to death. He tried to turn it into exquisite pleasure. It was a different matter during Roman times when Christians were persecuted. It was their enemies who inflicted the persecution. It solidified and strengthened the early Church. As their holy reward, the martyrs were welcomed with Heaven’s open arms. Go right on up, no hanging around in Purgatory for martyrs. But self-inflicted pain and martyrdom, in light of contemporary psychology, made Ignatius feel uncomfortable. It could all so easily get out of control. Those clandestine clubs with whips and harnesses and fancy dress. He had heard that some of them dressed up as nuns and bishops and inflicted punishments on themselves and each other.

  He tried to make his legs comfortable. He had not succeeded in transforming this torture into pleasure. Perhaps he was being impatient, but progress on the garment was interminably slow, each night’s work seemed to have advanced only a minuscule amount from the night before. For some reason they were spinning it out. He did not smile at his little joke.

  The candle cast a warm light in the room. Though of course smaller and made of unlined stone blocks, without central heating or glass in the window, the cell was not unlike his room at the palace. He almost felt at home. He took one last look then blew the candle out.

  There had been moments when he had felt desperate loneliness, he remembered this all too well. Lonely because God had forsaken him, lonely in the midst of these creatures who didn’t even belong to the same species as he. But they were human, as he was, they shared a common destiny. He snuggled down under the blanket as best he could. They had become more bearable, companionable even.

  When they had gone to their cells that night Iphigenia had come by, a thing she hardly did, and said, ‘Let’s play Shoemaker and the Elves.’

  Carla was only too pleased to have a game but, ‘We have no shoes,’ she pointed out.

  ‘We have knitting. We can be knitting elves. Who work away all night, knitting and knitting. We can have the garment finished in two shakes of a lamb’s tail and then it will be Robing Day.’ Then Iphigenia did a thing she had never ever done before. She tousled Carla’s hair. It made Carla feel warm and cosy. Iphigenia was becoming so nice. The more she practised playing, the more she seemed to enjoy herself. And fancy playing at night.

  So if Carla had expected to see anyone in the knitting room it was Iphigenia, not Margarita.

  She sat down beside Margarita and picked up some work, turning her head and smiling. Margarita was so grumpy nowadays. Carla wished the sheep’s wool would grow quickly so that she would have something to shear. Margarita sang such a nice soft song on those days and she was happy. Carla listened for Margarita’s clickety-click so that she could join in. But she did not hear anything. When she looked at Margarita’s work she saw that it was all unravelled. Margarita was threading it back onto the needles, her head bowed as if in prayer.

  Ah well. Carla started up her own clicking. Knitting away merrily, nimble fingers dancing along the needles, her little elves at work, knitting and knitting. A row of plain, a row of purl, a pattern of feather stitch and two of moss. Her finger elves bending and straightening as they looped wool around the needles, transferring the stitches from one needle to the other.

  ‘Shoemaker’s elves, eh Margarita?’ It was not good to break the Great Silence with idle conversation but Carla wanted to bring Margarita out of her own little silence. She always used to play games with Carla. Carla wanted her to know she was still her friend.

  Margarita said nothing.

  ‘The shoemaker cuts out the leather and in the morning there’s a beautiful pair of shoes already made up. What a surprise, eh Margarita?’

  Margarita grunted.

  It was not a very exciting story, there were no spells, no wicked stepmothers but Carla enjoyed
it all the same. She bunched the stitches up to the front of the needle and began a new row. She liked to feel the way the work grew under her hands, in the web between her thumb and forefinger, how the residue of lanolin made her fingers soft and shiny.

  Carla’s elfin fingers knitted on. Margarita had all the work back on the needles but she was knitting so slowly. Pulling the wool, stretching it. Carla began to hum a little nursery rhyme, a fast one to hurry Margarita along. Humming wasn’t the same as singing. In singing the sound came out of her mouth. Carla had her mouth closed but the sound was still coming out. She put a hand up to her face to find where. Her nose, of course. Under her nose she felt the warm hummed air.

  She had turned the needles perhaps a dozen times or so when Iphigenia entered the knitting room. Softly, gently, barely creating a ripple. She sat down and picked up Carla’s rhythm. Carla hummed away merrily. Wasn’t it nice for them all to be here together, three shoemaker’s elves working the night away.

  Iphigenia tried, Carla tried, but Margarita was growing more and more taciturn. She answered only when necessary but the answers were so brief and curt that the others were reluctant to speak to her at all. She had immured herself in silence, was so far inside its walls that she regarded any attempt at communication as an intrusion. She was punctual, she never missed chapel, she attended to her chores. She knelt when they knelt, stood when they stood, but she did not acknowledge their presence. She was not with them. It was only God that Margarita allowed into herself and so Iphigenia prayed to God to guide and care for Margarita and bring her back to the community.

  Lauds. Out of the darkness and into the light. Lauds heralds the gift of a new day, even a day shrouded in mist. Lauds was Carla’s favourite office. The chapel would start dark and echoing, and gradually while she watched, light would come streaming through the stained-glass saints, through what was left of the rosette. St Anne, Margarita, Iphigenia, the Agnes sisters, the leaves on the floor, the Blessed Virgin’s viny hair, all would be caressed with the light of the Lord. The spirit that breathed in every living thing. Lift up your hearts and sing.

  Some days, after Lauds, after Prime, Carla ran to the wild places, lay on the grass with her skirt up, knees apart, waiting for the light of the Lord to come tumbling down. Oh how Carla loved those days when the sun shone and there was not a cloud in the sky, oh how the Lord loved Carla on those days. She had secret places all over the monastery grounds where the angel of the Lord touched her, different places for different times of day. The sweet moist grass beneath her, the shaft of light entering her body, the way it entered the Blessed Virgin. She felt his warmth quiver on her. On such days God’s favourite angel shone in the firmament. He was made of light and fire. Lucifer. Such a bright and dazzling angel that he outshone all the others: the seraphim, cherubim and thrones; dominations, principalities and powers; virtues, angels and archangels. When Carla gazed at him, her eyes would fill with his radiance till she saw nothing but light.

  It was afternoon now and Carla was lying on the grass having a little think. Phone, phone, phone. Where could it be? She had the dead battery but apart from making a noise when you banged it, it didn’t do anything. Didn’t move and didn’t change. At least a properly dead thing developed a smell or had maggots, its skin turned papery thin. A little dead bird for example would change every day you looked at it, its feathers then its skin would disappear till finally all that was left was its fragile cage of bones.

  Carla was so excited when the man, all by himself and without any prodding, had suggested a game. ‘Do you like secrets, Carla?’ Yes, oh yes. ‘This is a secret game,’ he said. ‘A game for you and me. We won’t tell a soul, will we?’

  She looked in the abbess’ room, through all the car relics but it wasn’t there. She looked at the people in the picture, the man’s people, to see if they had the phone but they didn’t. She went back to the place where she had first buried the phone but it wasn’t there either.

  Could it possibly be outside? She stood up and pushed open the door to the infinite blue. Such a wind, such a wind! Blowing hard in her face, pushing her lips back, making her eyes screw up tight. It pushed her clothes against her body and she could see outlined her breasts, the round of her stomach, her thighs. The wind even blew through the hairs on her legs. They rippled in waves like wind through grass.

  When she got brave enough she took another step and looked down those giddying heights. Her heart beat fast. The sea below was crashing, sending up white foam. She leant forward, trying to see where the foam landed in case it was a soul being born.

  It would be easy to keep going, to bow her head and fall. She could lift her arms and the wind would buffer her up again. She came back in, the wind pushing her inside the ancient door. The phone was not outside.

  She went back to the man’s room. ‘Can’t find,’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘There is one place we haven’t thought of.’ She liked it when he said ‘we’.

  ‘Tell.’

  Was it buried beneath Iphigenia’s voluminous clothes? Did she carry it around with her or was it hidden somewhere? If only he knew when she was going to pay him a visit. If only he could say now Carla, go now. Search her room. There seemed to be a lot of nocturnal comings and goings of late. Ignatius recognised their different footfalls. The heavy then light tread of Margarita, the gait that protected her hip. The scurrying of Carla. And the silence of Iphigenia. He hardly heard her at all. The gaoler’s privilege of dropping in on the prisoner wherever and whenever she wanted. He would not be aware of her till she was right there in his room, had tucked in her wings and settled.

  Carla was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell.

  He felt almost triumphant. ‘Iphigenia.’

  ‘Iphigenia?’

  ‘Her cell.’

  This is not a place on Carla’s map. She knows every nook and cranny, every tree, plant and stone but Iphigenia’s cell is just a door. It is like the abbess’ office. She shakes her head. She cannot go there.

  Oh God, don’t stop. Not now. He only needed five minutes with the phone. Not even that. Day or night, it wouldn’t matter. ‘But Carla, I will show you how to speak to the world and the world will speak to you. I promise.’ He watches her closely, smiling all the while. She likes it when he smiles. She is thinking about it, tempted. But not enough.

  He leans towards her, as if he’s telling her a secret. ‘At night Iphigenia leaves her cell. You could go then.’

  ‘Night knitting,’ she says, explaining why Iphigenia leaves her cell.

  Iphigenia is a bigger block than Ignatius imagined.

  ‘But before the knitting, Iphigenia comes here.’

  Comes here, to the man’s room? Iphigenia? Iphigenia did not come straightaway to be a knitting elf as Carla had done.

  Doubt has been cast. The block will crumble. They took his legs, they took his arms so he will slither on his belly like a snake. He slides into her mind and bites. ‘She comes here and asks many questions about the phone. Iphigenia has it, that’s why you can’t find it. I want you to have this treasure, Carla. Iphigenia is not your friend. She tricked you. She tricked you into getting the phone and now she’s keeping it all to herself.’

  No, no, no. Her baby fists pound the air. No, no, no. She does not want to hear it. Carla runs from the man, runs to her room. Iphigenia tricked her. She tricked her into handing over the phone, she tricked her into night knitting. Just when Carla thought she had become her friend. Iphigenia was a witch. She offered Carla the sweet rosy red apple of a game. Carla should have remembered that it was poisonous.

  She gets out her escapecoat. It is a long time since she has seen all the tight little knots of Iphigenia’s hurts. She throws it aside, a dusty old cobwebby thing. She runs into the fields. Running running running. But no matter how fast she goes the trick thing follows. She feels her face twisting up, her body shaking. She hears a strange windy sound, like the coming of a storm. It is howling through the trees, c
oming closer and closer. She is shaking so much her leaves are falling off.

  She drops to the ground, scrambling through the brambles. She is outside now, running down the hill, into a sunset the colour of blood. When she stops running, she will stop being Carla. She will become a speck of foam, splashed up on a rock in a place where Iphigenia will never find her.

  ‘What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.’

  The sun was almost down when Iphigenia realised Carla was missing. She had seen her run past, smelled her turmoil. She had not come to Vespers. Sometimes Carla played games by herself, put herself into a story. She would be Hansel and Gretel, she would be Goldilocks shrieking through the forest with bears running after her. Then she would become Carla again and help them get the dinner ready. It was different this time.

  She was not in her cell, she was not in the chapel, she was not in the courtyard. Iphigenia walked into the fields, her nose jutting in the air. No brightly coloured clots of Carla. She thought she could detect her faintly but wasn’t sure if it was a real smell or the indelible memory of it.

  A tunnel had recently been cleared through the brambles and the door to outside was open. Iphigenia followed where the scent led her, sniffing for Carla, trying to get her nose above the smell of her own anxiety.

  Iphigenia looked down to the sea below, straining her eyes for sight, straining her ears for sound. There was nothing to see but the sea, nothing to hear but the wind and squawking birds. Carla. Carla.

  ‘Kiri, kiri. Carla?’ The wind ripped Carla’s name right out of her mouth.

  Iphigenia starts to descend. She will find Carla. She will not come back without her.