Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  ‘Kiri.’ They whispered their warm breath onto her cheek.

  She kept on with her litany, oblivious to her sisters.

  ‘Margarita.’ They touched her hair, her arms, held her hands in theirs.

  ‘Lamb of God, oh blessed lamb Margarita.’ Whispered it into her ears.

  ‘I acknowledge my … my …’ The litany dwindled away to silence. Their whispers had altered the rhythm, broken the trance. One eye blinked open. She took in an audible breath of air, made a snuffling sound, as if rousing from sleep.

  Iphigenia and Carla gently rubbed her arms, massaged her legs. She tried to move but she wasn’t ready. The Agnes sisters gathered around and nudged her, breathing their warm lamby breath onto her. Iphigenia and Carla set about lifting her, the weight of the wet wool making the task even more difficult. Eventually they got her to her feet then Margarita, Iphigenia, Carla, and the flock of Agnes sisters made a long slow procession back to the courtyard.

  Carla dropped some restorative herbs into the pot. Special tea was made but none of them was able to drink more than a few sips.

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Margarita.

  ‘God knows, Margarita, we’re all tired.’

  And so, in the middle of the day, in the middle of spring, the three sisters all took to their beds.

  There was no Lauds celebrated, no Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers or Compline. The life of the monastery, each round fitting exactly into the path made by the round before, the globe that spun with such perfect equilibrium it appeared to be still, had lost its balance and wobbled to a halt. It lay inert, discarded like a child’s toy.

  They had laid down the burden of community. The chapel was empty, the only movement the uncurling of the Blessed Virgin’s viny hair. A veil of mist descended and in the midst of spring the monastery slept, every creature in it hibernating. Even Ignatius was in a cocoon. There were moments in his soft ecstasy when he would stir, almost float up to the surface then drop down again.

  He was in a taxi, being driven through a street that was golden, brilliant as light bouncing off metal. Indeed, the sky was a canopy of gleaming metal sheeting. Neat verdant trees lined the street, the houses had a somewhat Germanic quality with fretwork on the eaves. Clones of gingerbread houses. The street was wide, deserted, and the taxi driver, who never turned around, kept saying, ‘I want to show you something,’ as they drove further and further away from the priest’s destination. It was not till he saw a clock in a tower with big Roman numerals that Ignatius realised he was twenty minutes late for his appointment, though what the appointment was he couldn’t remember. He found it not at all surprising that the taxi driver was wearing big white boxing gloves and had a tail like a fish. Each time he woke, Ignatius felt compelled to sleep again, at least till he’d finished his journey.

  ‘There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.’

  Iphigenia arose to a fresh breeze and sunlight streaming in the window. The pall of smoke was gone. The air was pure and the birds were singing again. There was a flutter and a plop at the window. A gull had landed, white and plump and neat with its grey trim. It had a piece of food in its mouth. Dry food.

  Iphigenia went into the courtyard. The fire was out and the kettle had boiled dry. How long had she been asleep? One day, two? She went into the chapel. The everlasting candle was almost burnt down to a stump. Three days?

  She fetched a new candle from the stock they had made over the winter, and lit it on the old one, the fresh candle almost as tall as St Anne herself. She chumped her chops, ran her tongue around her mouth, growled in her throat to release the morning phlegm. Iphigenia was thirsty. She drank rainwater from a bucket. All the buckets were full and overflowing. It must have rained so softly in her sleep, she didn’t even hear it. She scrounged around in her pocket looking for a crust of bread and found the phone. She sniffed at the air, saw where the sun was. Yes, in the world it was close to morning-tea time. Time to give Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews a call.

  Her fingers tapped out the number. ‘Mr Colquhoun, please,’ she said, clearing her throat once again.

  ‘Sister. How are you?’ He was greeting her like a long-lost friend. ‘I have made some investigations.’

  ‘Is it morning tea?’ asked Iphigenia.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Cakes and tea. Wide china cups with curved handles. Saucers.’

  ‘Well, actually I usually work through till lunch. My secretary will make me a cup of coffee occasionally.’

  ‘Are you drinking coffee now?’

  ‘If you really want to know, I am drawing circles and filling them in. An old habit, it helps me concentrate.’ Iphigenia drew circles on the table with her finger, to get the feel of it. ‘I have made investigations on your behalf, Sister. If the Bishop owns the property, he can dispose of it at his will. However,’ he added quickly, his tone brightening, ‘we have a few options available to us. You could lodge a complaint, I could write to the Bishop on your behalf. We could find grounds. Is it an historic building? We might be able to apply for a heritage order.’

  ‘Heritage order?’

  ‘Of course it would take some time, we would have to approach the appropriate bodies, there would probably be some press coverage.’ He explains to Iphigenia what this means. She understands. People would come, photographers. One visitor is bad enough.

  ‘What are the other options?’

  ‘There may be a legal loophole. Could you send me a copy of the lease?’

  ‘Lease?’

  Iphigenia had already broken the seal of the abbess’ office but still she felt as if she was breaking something else by going through the abbess’ papers. Lease. A contract by which a property is conveyed to a person for a specified period, usually for rent; to grant possession of lands, buildings etc., is what Mr Colquhoun had said. Such a document would have to be in the abbess’ desk. The desk wasn’t locked. No need. No sister would dare to do what Iphigenia was now doing. Even all these years after, the last abbess long dead, even though she had recently taken a book off the shelf, Iphigenia still felt sly and secretive about going through the abbess’ drawers. Nevertheless, she parted the cobwebs and pulled open the first drawer, letting out the odour of old glue and ink, the hempen smell of paper.

  There had been three abbess deaths in Iphigenia’s lifetime. She hadn’t really thought of it before, but she wondered what form abbesses took after their human death. They never seemed to come back as sheep. At least, none of the Agnes sisters ever displayed the strong qualities of leadership that characterised an abbess.

  It was in the course of searching for the lease that Iphigenia came across something curious. A letter bearing the copperplate letterhead of Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews. She stared at it. How had Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews ended up in the abbess’ drawer? She thought at first her mind was playing tricks, that she only imagined the letterhead, so recently after the phone call. But no, she was feeling remarkably well after her long sleep, a little hungry perhaps, but quite clear-headed.

  It was even more curious to find the name Featheringale in the letter. Featheringale Trust. The letter was addressed to the abbess but the subject of it was the late Mrs Featheringale and her granddaughter.

  ‘According to her will, lodged with our firm, Mrs Featheringale has instructed us to act as trustees for her estate, with the authority and power to invest monies as we see fit. Her granddaughter, Sister Iphigenia of St Agnes Monastery, is entitled to take her share under the will absolutely or any proportion thereof at her instruction to us. Yours faithfully, Richard Banks.’

  The ink had faded, dust had gathered in the folds of the letter but it seemed to vibrate with life in Iphigenia’s hand. Of course Iphigenia knew what trust was but the Featheringale Trust, with a capital T seemed to have a meaning all its own. She did not fully understand, but discovery of this letter seemed as important as the discovery of the
head of St Agnes, a weeping Virgin, Christ’s shroud. Iphigenia left the abbess’ office, taking the letter with her.

  She sat in the courtyard eating an apple, chewing slowly, trying to digest the meaning of the correspondence. Margarita and Carla had still not appeared, but Iphigenia didn’t think they could understand this letter any more than she could. Yet still she sensed the weight of it.

  She took it to her cell and lay with it on her chest. The words were dense and colourless but beneath the dust and faded ink of the letter was a bright and shining thing. Her nose quivered as she traced the scent. She felt that same exhilaration she’d felt when she first decided to use the phone.

  ‘Mr Colquhoun.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he’s still here. Who shall I say is calling?’

  It was the same girl she’d spoken to this morning. Iphigenia knew her voice, didn’t she recognise Iphigenia’s?

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister.’

  ‘Mr Colquhoun, I have found a letter.’

  ‘The lease.’

  ‘No. A letter from you. At least, correspondence from Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews. Concerning …’ Iphigenia put her finger under the words and read them out, to make sure there was no mistake, ‘ … the Featheringale Trust.’

  ‘Ye-s,’ he said carefully.

  ‘What is Trust with a capital T?’

  ‘It is an arrangement whereby a person or persons to whom the legal title to property is conveyed, holds such property for the benefit of those entitled to the beneficial interest.’

  ‘I am still no wiser. Please make yourself clear,’ she chided him.

  ‘Sister, I’m not sure exactly what you wish to be made clear. The Featheringale Trust is your inheritance. You would have been informed of the details of the Trust and our position as trustees when Mrs Featheringale passed away. I assumed that it was in full knowledge of this that you had telephoned in the first place.’

  ‘I have only now come across this letter. It is addressed to the abbess.’

  ‘As would have been the custom,’ he said. ‘But did she not explain it to you?’

  It was Epiphany when the letter came telling her that Grandmother had passed away. After morning mass the abbess had called Iphigenia to her office and said that while she was permitted to attend the funeral the abbess strongly advised against it. ‘The journey would be long and upsetting. I think it would be wiser if you paid your respects to your Grandmother here.’ The memory of Midsummer Night was only six months old, for Iphigenia and the abbess. It was not Iphigenia’s fault that she had to go to the mainland looking for the bonesetter, not her fault that it had taken so long. The abbess had not made her do penance but she knew something had happened to bring Iphigenia back wild-eyed, her habit in disarray. She did not want the girl going out again.

  A few days after Grandmother’s funeral a letter came announcing that apart from the house, which had been left to the faithful Taylor, Iphigenia was Grandmother’s sole heir. They held a special mass for Iphigenia’s grandmother and the abbess offered to write to Grandmother’s solicitor to regulate the legal affairs.

  Iphigenia remembered that meeting with the abbess, the strained circumstances. She remembered the word ‘wealth’ but what was its context? You are a wealthy woman. Your grandmother died a wealthy woman. Did the abbess say something like this? Did she mean the richness of their spiritual life? In the vow of poverty with day-to-day needs taken care of by the community, freedom from the responsibility of ownership, worldly wealth had no place. Iphigenia had tried to concentrate on what the abbess was saying but she was too full of grief for Grandmother’s passing to have taken it in properly.

  ‘Exactly what is my inheritance?’ Iphigenia ventured.

  ‘Well, exactly, I’d have to go to the files to find out,’ replied Mr Colquhoun. ‘But I’d say that roughly, you’d be worth a few million pounds.’

  ‘Is that a lot?’

  He laughed. ‘Sister, you are a very wealthy woman.’

  No, she couldn’t be. She was a nun, with a vow of poverty, she couldn’t be wealthy.

  ‘Sister, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me a call on Tuesday if you find the lease. We’re closing early today for the break.’

  ‘The break?’

  ‘Easter. Though I suppose it’s not a break for you,’ he joked.

  Easter? Mr Colquhoun in the world was telling her it was Easter? Iphigenia let the phone fall to the ground. How could it be so suddenly? How could they have missed the subtle indications that the days were growing longer, the pattern of the moon? Iphigenia recalled now the fullness of it when she’d gone after Carla. Was it just the disturbance to their routine since the priest had come, or had they been out of kilter for years? They hadn’t even started Lent yet. The more she thought the more frantic she became. To find out not only was she wealthy but that Easter had crept up unawares. Was it already Lent when the priest had arrived, when they had eaten meat?

  She calmed her breath. God would understand. She had eaten nothing at all during her long sleep. This total abstinence would make up for Lent. Easter. It was not too late. They could start afresh. Iphigenia began preparations.

  When Margarita awoke she found herself lying in a sunbeam. The room seemed different. Lighter, sparser. It had a pulse, like the quiet, slow tick of a grandfather clock. On Sundays after dinner they would all have an afternoon nap. Mummy and Daddy, her brother Tom, all scattered around the house in their favourite nap spots. Margarita would put an angel either side of her, close their eyes and sing them a little song. Then it would go very quiet and all you could hear was the big clock. Tick tock, tick tock.

  Carla rubbed her eyes and stretched. She could smell dough and currants. She hurried into the courtyard. Margarita and Iphigenia were there, arms floury like Sister Cook’s. On the table was a tray full of gingerbread men.

  ‘Easter!’ exclaimed Carla. What a long time she’d slept, the whole of Lent. ‘Sunday?’ she asked, worried that she might have missed the Passion and the Vigil. Then she saw the bucket and the sop ready for the washing of the feet. Lovely. She’d woken up right at the beginning.

  At Matins bound; at Prime reviled

  Condemned to death at Tierce;

  Nailed to the Cross at Sext; at None

  His blessed side they pierce.

  They take him down at Vesper-time

  In grave at Compline lay,

  Who henceforth bids his Church observe

  The sevenfold hours alway.

  Ignatius was fully awake now, with a slight headache and a dry mouth. Even the delicious smell of baking wasn’t enough to get the saliva working. He moved his jaw from side to side, swallowed a few times, trying for some moisture. How long had he slept? It felt like several days judging by his powerful hunger. Yet he had no sense of time passing, just a journey in a taxi and being late for some fading appointment.

  He heard chanting, his gaolers were at prayer. It was getting dark outside. Vespers. But what day?

  He looked at his wadded hands, saw a flicker of flame. But the memory receded when he tried to look at it straight on. The taxi ride and his lateness for the appointment were much more firmly imprinted. Annoyance at being late on the one hand, and marvel at the shining canopy and gingerbread houses on the other.

  The Vespers songs were sweet but the rhyme that had jingled through his head as he had woken left a sour taste. He had been bound and reviled. Now it was Vespers, time to take him down. And at Compline? His hands had been bandaged, there was an ointment of some kind by the bed. They had at least tended to his wounds. They were good at tending to his wounds, he reminded himself grimly.

  Another whiff of baking. Were they ever going to come and feed him? What was on the menu? He wished for meat. They would come soon, with a big plate of lamb, roast potatoes and onions, green beans and gravy. A pudding to follow with brandy butter, coffee and after-dinner mints. Silver platters with silver dome covers, carried by rosy-chee
ked butlers singing a little song. Merry nursery-rhyme butlers, stockinged legs, chequered waistcoats and shoes with silver buckles.

  He looked around the room. His wounds had been attended to but that was all. There was a burnt blanket in the corner, a pile of ashes on the floor. There’d been a fire in here and they hadn’t even bothered moving him or bringing a new blanket. It simply wasn’t good enough.

  ‘I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you.’

  Margarita was wiggling her clean new toes and chanting the antiphon, Iphigenia kneeling in front of Carla with the sop, when the washing of feet was interrupted with, ‘Hello, hello?’

  Everything stopped. They looked from one to the other, wondering at this strange yet familiar voice.

  ‘Father John!’ exclaimed Carla. They had all forgotten about him. ‘A priest for Easter!’

  The halo of light that had surrounded Margarita when she’d awoken, that had lasted all through the preparations and the washing of the feet, now evaporated. It all came back to her, the fire, the penance in the grass. She had not meant to do it, the flame had leapt from her memory and spread out of control. ‘There’s been … I …’ The sop in Iphigenia’s hand was dripping on the ground. ‘There was an accident. He. The … priest got burnt.’

  ‘Only his hands,’ said Carla. ‘You took care of him. We have seen. Come.’

  They took Margarita along to his room, stood at the doorway and looked into the place where he lay.

  ‘I was just wondering about dinner,’ he said.

  Margarita thought she had killed him. Here he was, resurrected. She was filled with wonder. She looked at his bandaged hands. But surely that would have been Carla. Carla shook her head. You, Margarita.

  They lifted the priest off his bed, brought him out into their company and fed him with their hands. Then Iphigenia knelt before him. She couldn’t very well wash his feet, encased as they were in plaster, so she washed his face instead. Dipped the sop in the water, squeezed it out and gently wiped his brow, around his eyes and down his cheeks. ‘Faith, hope and love, let these endure among you; and the greatest of these is love.’