by Marele Day
It was so quiet. Even the Agnes sisters were hushed. Margarita was sitting in the courtyard staring at the fire. Vespers had long been over. She was not going to make bread this evening, she was not going to open her mouth, even to eat dinner. The sun had gone from the sky and still no-one came. She threw little sticks into the fire, saw devils jump up. She closed her eyes and prayed, seeking the comfort of the Lord. ‘Blessed be God, the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.’ The words have become dry as dust, there is no spirit moving in them. Her immurement was complete. She is totally and utterly alone.
‘Hello? Hello?’ His voice. They were in his room again, playing games. Too engrossed in them even to come out for dinner. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ She took a candle and went along the cloisters.
She wasn’t going to say anything, just stand in the doorway.
But there was no-one in the room. Except for him.
He bares his teeth. ‘I wondered if everything was all right.’ Margarita doesn’t say anything. ‘I mean, would you like a hand with dinner?’
‘No dinner.’
‘Oh well, I’m not that hungry.’
They have stopped feeding him. Ignatius is aware that something has happened. He suspects Carla has told Iphigenia about the special phone game and they are discussing what should be done. He is trying to put a brave face on it, but he suspects it will be a long time before he wears that garment. All of it unravelled in one stupid game.
‘Looks like an early night, eh? I’ll read a few pages then nod off. Thanks for bringing the candle.’
She comes into the room, right up to the bed. It would be so easy, he would not be able to stop her. His moustache is getting brushy, he has hair all around his mouth, down his neck. It is sprouting on his shoulders and back. She is staring at his hands, at the brown claws.
‘They need cutting, I’m afraid.’
‘No!’ Margarita does not trust herself with the candle. She leaves it behind and runs out.
She gropes her way along the corridor, she has to get back to her cell. There is no-one else here. They have left her in the house alone with him. She needs to be in a very small space.
She clutches at the wall, scraping her nails on the stone trying to get a hold. The corridor goes on forever. She wades on through the darkness till she finds her cell. She closes the door behind her, then crawls to her bed. She can do nothing now but wait. She knows he is going to come for her. She cannot forget the nails, the buffed nails and the black hairs coming out of the starched white cuffs.
He is primped and preened for the occasion. She smells the hair oil and eau de cologne lying heavily on top of sweat. She clipped his nails for him, as instructed, so that he would not claw her fine white skin. It was she who had put the oil into his hair, the cologne, starched the cuffs. She had done all these things because she belonged to him and this is what he wanted.
‘Beauty, my Beauty.’
She remembered the crystals of the chandelier, the way her tears made them kaleidoscope. How could her father trade her for a promise between men? How could a gentleman’s agreement be worth more than a father’s love? She lay on the bed like a single white rose, in the white dress with the blue sash, her best white stockings and shoes. A little doll in a big coffin, trying to imagine she was back in her childhood, her mother alive and her father still Daddy.
They had a hot meal at an inn. The man winked at the innkeeper who led them to a booth behind heavy red curtains. Dinner was a stew of some kind and the man offered her red wine. It started as an offering but soon became an insistence. He smiling with his wine-stained teeth and purple tongue, she with her hand on the crucifix, a keepsake from her mother. His paw passed over her heart as he removed her hand. He squeezed her budding breasts, feeling for ripeness. Then he curled her fingers around the wineglass.
‘Drink, Beauty, drink.’
Her nose drew back at the dull sour smell of it and he laughed at her childish game. He dipped his finger into the wine and worked it into her mouth.
‘Drink, my Beauty, drink. It will give you an appetite.’
Now that he had made an opening between her lips, he introduced the wine. The cheap glass chipped against her teeth. Wine and blood came tumbling down. He admonished her till tears came tumbling down as well, admonished her for being a child and what would her father say? But in truth it was the child he wanted.
He smiled his wine-dark smile, thinking of the sweet plum that would burst forth its juices. Yes, it was the child that he wanted. Another year or two and she would be a fat pig. He knew this type, a brief blooming. ‘There, there.’ He produced an enormous checked handkerchief, dipped the corner of it in a glass of water and dabbed at the stain, spreading it even further. ‘We will have to get baby a bib next time,’ he joked. She felt the stain grow cold on her chest, sitting impassively in the stuffy, smoky atmosphere, her back as straight and wooden as a chair.
He finished his stew, wiping the plate clean with a crust of bread then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the soiled napkin. He ignored her while he picked bits of stringy meat from his teeth and swallowed them. When he was through they left the inn and mounted once again in the horse and carriage.
Had anyone given her a look of kindness, of pity even, she might have flung herself at their mercy, but no-one did. ‘My niece,’ said the man, as he paid the bill. The innkeeper smiled, said something, and both men laughed. It was an inn where uncles often brought their nieces. As Beauty jolted along the potholed road she held tight the crucifix around her neck. Oh Father, why hast thou forsaken me?
In her memory the house was brown and heavy with furniture. As the horse and carriage pulled up a thin-lipped woman in drab colours was leaving the house. ‘Mrs James,’ he said without lifting his hat. ‘Sir,’ she nodded. She cast a sideways glance at Beauty and her lips tightened even further. She mounted her bicycle and trundled off down the road without looking back.
He told her first that she would get to like it, then that it was her duty and what her father wanted. The chandelier so grand in this dull brown room, the faceted surfaces of the drops glistening like a glass palace. Oh for a message from her father, his face in the looking glass, that he was sick and needed her. If only the man would let her go. Just for a few days. But there was no message, nothing to move her from this bed.
‘Beauty, my Beauty.’ He unbuttoned his jacket, took off his cufflinks and laid them carefully on the dresser. Undid the straps of her shoes, peeled her stockings down, ran his hands down those young legs as if planing wood. She kept her eyes on the chandelier, saw her own reflection in the crystals, a fly trapped in amber. She felt the cold air on her thighs and belly as he lifted the white lace skirt. She was as he had instructed—bathed, dressed but without bloomers or any undergarment, except the stockings. He crouched at the end of the bed holding her skirt up, examining.
She tried to tug the skirt down but he held firm. Then he flung it up so that she was entirely exposed. ‘Such a pretty Beauty,’ he said. He parted her legs as if arranging a knife and a fork. Her body rolled a little as he brought his elbows down on the bed, making a place for himself between the arranged legs. The chandelier sparkled and shone, a fairy palace. A palace of ice. Cold hands on her, parting her, stroking the quivering young folds. A finger introduced to open her lips. Poke, prod, a magical ice cave, each crystal a heavenly angel. She lay there stranded, her skin peeled off. Hosts of angels in their glass gowns.
The rustle of clothes, the sharp buckle of a belt pressing into the leg then a shaft of pain as her body was torn apart. She wanted to remain lifeless but the pain pushed a gasp out of her. His hand came up to her mouth, a hand that smelled of blood. Chandelier swaying madly now, a city of glass, its angels beckoning to her, their voices tiny splinters. His body heavy on her, the sick smell of his pomade greasing her dress. The bristles of his moustache rasping against her neck and the angels giddy. If she kept them in view, never blinkin
g, she would not die. His thrusts pushed her up the bed, her head banging against the iron bars. Then the fast breath, the pigsty grunt, the dribble of saliva in her ear as he squeezed the breath out of her, squashing her so tight she thought she would suffocate.
Then it was finished. Everything went limp, the animal spent. The chandelier was still, the room shocked into silence, not even a clock ticked. Beauty did not even feel the weight lift off her.
‘Wash.’ The word came from far away. She flinched as a wet cloth hit her belly. ‘Wash,’ he ordered. She douched herself with the vinegary water, the sop stinging her. He left the room.
She climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up over her head. Her mother was in the room now, cooing and comforting but she did not want her mother to see her like this.
There were more nights, she did not know how many, when he would come into the room, carrying a candle and whispering, ‘Beauty, my Beauty,’ and it would begin all over again. One night she carried the candle to his room, crept in silently, not even a whisper. She trailed the candle under the curtains, around the perimeter of the bed. When it was good and crackling she ran through the flames and into the arms of the nuns.
She can smell the fire and hear the terrible, terrible screaming. Margarita runs and runs.
The moon is huge, almost full. Iphigenia has gone right down to the village, following the smell trail, before she sees Carla. On the rocks where the car had disappeared, playing with the seals. Those smooth heads silhouetted against the silver moonlight, Carla’s crinkly one. ‘Carla!’ Iphigenia cries with relief, making her way towards her. On hearing the interruption the flippered creatures plop into the ocean. And before Iphigenia can reach her, Carla plops into the ocean as well.
‘Carla!’ But the scream does not stop her. She passes by Iphigenia’s vision intent on one thing only. Down she goes. She doesn’t roll over as the car had done but still the white foam dances up to meet her as she hits the water. A shout comes out of her, her body so surprised by contact with the cold wet black. The water fills her open mouth, then she disappears.
It was so slow. Iphigenia saw every detail. ‘Carla!’ Every instinct in her rushed to the child. Iphigenia was airborne, flying into the sea. It hit her with its cold wet slap and she instinctively moved her arms and legs to stop from sinking. She looked and looked but could not see Carla. Where was she? Where was she? She could feel the icy water rippling past her. Iphigenia swam back to the edge and hauled herself up on a rock to have a better view. She looked in the direction the sea was moving, the way Carla would be drifting. Why didn’t she surface, come up for air? Iphigenia waited, keening. It was too long. Iphigenia had lost Carla’s smell. But she saw the face in the water and dived into the sea again.
The water was flooding down Iphigenia’s legs, a great mystery occurring beneath her clothes. She could no longer recall the pain, as if her mind had anaesthetised her against it. She remembered weeping in her exhaustion, weeping for love of the baby she held in the darkness. She buried the afterbirth, surprised by its delivery, as if this lump of flesh was the baby’s twin. She buried it, wrapped in the cloth on which she had lain.
She lay in the field, the baby on her breast like a small marsupial. The sheep nuzzled at them both, in awe and empathy. Iphigenia prayed to God and the Virgin Mary and thanked them for the divine gift of a child. Love poured out of her.
Very, very early in the morning, before the first office, Iphigenia kissed the baby’s dear little forehead, swaddled her well and took her to the gatehouse.
Empty yourself so that you can fill with God. Iphigenia had severed the flesh-and-blood cord with her own teeth but she had never been able to sever the spirit cord to Carla. Through sternness and distance she had managed to keep it coiled up in the pit of her stomach like a sleeping snake. When she saw Carla fall into the sea the cord had unravelled and shot into the sea after her. Iphigenia felt it as it snaked its way up inside her.
The islanders said that saving a drowning person was difficult, they panicked and fought with you and tried to scramble up your body to the highest point, like seals clambering out of the water onto a rock. But Carla had not struggled and Iphigenia feared she had found her too late. She held Carla to her the way animals held their dead babies, knowing the soul has already floated away but needing to hold onto something.
She kissed her forehead, kissed her blue lips. Iphigenia was breathing in short sharp bursts, not only from exertion. For so many years she had turned longing and yearning into prayers, had given the love to God and to the community, had not gone near the baby though her breasts wept milk for her.
It happened in chapel, she smelled it, her downcast eyes saw the stain. It was Assumpta who came that night. She touched Iphigenia on the forehead, surrounding her in softness. ‘Fear not. It is the miracle of Magdalene. God has given you milk for the baby, you are blessed Sister Iphigenia.’ Then she cast aside her walking stick and showed Iphigenia how to milk herself. Expressing, she called it. Then took it away in a cup.
Let her go to God. But Iphigenia could not. Holding the child to her breast, her head and knees supported, Carla’s arm loosely out to the side, her face towards Heaven, a look of utter peace. Pieta. Iphigenia’s tears rained down on Carla.
Let go. She laid the body down and felt around for the heart the way they did with lambs who had had a difficult birth. Faint, irregular, but still beating. She pressed on the lungs. Breathed in and exhaled as her hands pressed down on Carla, showing her how to do it, breathing her breath and her prayers into Carla’s body. She sang the lamb song to coax Carla’s spirit out of the dark corner where it lay small and limp. ‘Lamb of God, oh blessed lamb of God.’ Filling the air with sweet noises that couldn’t help but enter into Carla.
Carla’s mouth opened and a greenish liquid spewed forth. Iphigenia’s tears fell in warm wet splashes on Carla’s face. Carla coughed and more liquid streamed from her mouth. Her eyes flew open. She turned on her side and vomited once more, letting the water flow down the rock and back into the sea.
Iphigenia rubbed Carla’s cold hands, her cold feet, Iphigenia shivering too, the tears still streaming down her face, a whole accumulated dam of them. Carla was filled with awe at the sight of Iphigenia’s watery face. She reached out and touched it.
‘Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself; handle me, and see, for a spirit hath nor flesh and bones, as ye see me have.’
It was midmorning when Iphigenia and Carla got back. It had rained in the night and they had sheltered together in the ruins of the village. The monastery was quiet. Too quiet. The very air itself was hanging in shreds. Something terrible had happened.
‘Fox?’ suggested Carla.
Iphigenia remembered the time a fox took one of the Agnes sisters.
‘A fox,’ announced Sister Cook, who knew the habit of foxes. Stealth in the night. Iphigenia knew the habit of foxes too. On Sundays after mass there was the hunt. She had never thought of the fox as the predator. It was the one that was chased. The dogs bayed, cornered and slavered over the fox. The people came on their horses and bagged it. One particularly handsome red fox had ended up around Grandmother’s neck.
What had greeted them all that morning was a scene of carnage. Carnage was the word the abbess used to describe the shocked stillness, the sight of two inert bloodied sheep, one a lamb with its head torn off, bits of its wool everywhere, a trail of blood leading into the bushes. The rest of the flock cowering, fleeces trembling with more knowledge of what had happened than the sisters. ‘Sheer carnage,’ said the abbess, looking to the sky for an explanation.
Iphigenia sniffed the air. ‘Not a fox.’ It was a different stench that hung over the monastery. It was fire and smoke. It was burnt flesh.
They hurried to the buildings. There was no-one in the courtyard, no-one in the chapel. Margarita’s cell was empty.
The smell was coming from the priest’s room, so strong that Iphigenia thought she was going to be sick. Near the door
way lay a smouldering blanket. An overturned candle on the floor. Lives of Saints and Martyrs was no more than a pile of black, flecky ash. The body of the priest lay uncovered on the bed. Most remarkably, his hands were bandaged in wads of fleece big as boxing gloves.
Carla stomped the remaining smoulders out of the blanket while Iphigenia examined the priest. He was still breathing, there was movement under his eyelids. Beside the bed was a bowl with the remnants of a sweet-smelling, green unction. ‘Carla?’ Carla came and sniffed at it too. It smelled like the mixture she had applied the first time to his burnt hand.
In the courtyard the fire was still going, a wisp of steam coming from the kettle. Margarita had attended to everything.
‘Kiri, kiri.’ Carla and Iphigenia walked through the overgrown lanes of crosses beneath which lay the earthly bodies of deceased sisters. Everything was wet with last night’s rain. ‘Kiri, kiri.’
In a far field by the brambles, they espied a clot of sheep. ‘Kiri, kiri.’
The sheep looked up and bleated in response but were hesitant to move. Iphigenia and Carla approached, their feet squelching through the spongy grass. Why were they huddled like this? On the air Iphigenia could discern only sheep and the aftermath of rain. No, there was something else. A faint trace of blood? Was one of their number injured or was it another creature? ‘Baa,’ bleated Sister Agnes Teresa. ‘Baa,’ bleated Assumpta.
Iphigenia parted the flock, laying a hand on each head as she came to it. She gasped when she saw what was in their midst. Fat hind legs, forelegs out at each side forming a cross, the bedraggled fleece on its back. The distinctive Margarita smell was lost in grass and wet wool. But it was Margarita, transforming into an Agnes sister.
She was lying so still, soaked into the grass. Iphigenia and Carla got down on all fours and sniffed at their sister, touched her skin. There were faint little words coming out of Margarita, the lips barely moving. ‘I acknowledge my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I acknowledge my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid.’ Her soul, spirit, heart, blood, liver, muscles, everything, all had forsaken their familiar places and were gathered at her mouth in service of these words.