Lambs of God

by Marele Day

  It didn’t matter that they had missed Lent, that they had not noticed the days growing longer. It was Easter and for the first time in many years they had a priest in their midst.

  Friday. The altar was bare, the cross removed from the chapel, and the everlasting candle placed in an alcove, out of view. The priest was propped up at the altar, celebrating the passion of Christ. Ignatius had spent the day reading the missal, going over the words he would have to say. It was not a knitting story this time, they had asked him to celebrate Easter.

  With his eyes closed he could be anywhere. During his training at the seminary he had often thought about his first Easter mass as principal celebrant. A grand mass in a grand cathedral, haloes of real gold around the statues, cloths of the finest linen. Bishops, cardinals, perhaps even the Pope himself present while Ignatius presided. His brethren prostrate at the altar in their red vestments, the rich tones of a full choir, each member holding a candle, and on the last note of the chant, the last candle being snuffed out and the grand cathedral hushed.

  Father Ignatius opened his eyes to his flock—three barefoot old nuns and a gathering of sheep. As the nuns knelt in prayer he caught sight of their white ankles. The soles of their washed feet were already dirty again. This crumbling draughty chapel, this motley congregation, he had never imagined that he would be celebrating mass in a place like this. Nevertheless. ‘Where two or three of you gather to pray in my name, there you will find me.’ The words he was saying in this remote outpost were the same holy words being repeated in the ornate cathedrals of the world. At this very moment, throughout Christendom, every church, be it lofty or lowly, resounded with the passion of Christ.

  ‘Jesus went forth with his disciples over the brook Cedron, where was a garden, into which he entered, and his disciples. And Judas also, which betrayed him, knew the place: for Jesus oft-times resorted thither with his disciples.’ Father Ignatius took his congregation along the path that Christ had taken, from Gethsemane to Calvary. The nuns, who knew the way very well, took up the refrain. So that when the priest asked, ‘Who are you looking for?’, the nuns became the guards sent by the Pharisees with lanterns and torches and weapons, and they answered, ‘Jesus the Nazarene.’

  And when Pilate asked, ‘What accusation bring ye against this man?’ the nuns said, ‘If he were not a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up unto thee.’ And when Pilate gave them the choice, the nuns became the crowd that cried, ‘Not this man, but Barabbas.’ When Jesus came forth wearing the crown of thorns and purple robe, the nuns cried, ‘Crucify him, crucify him.’

  And they crucified him.

  The chapel fell silent, the priest, Iphigenia, Margarita, Carla, the Agnes sisters, St Anne and the Blessed Virgin, everyone and everything in that gathering darkness reflecting on Christ’s suffering.

  Saturday. They cleared away the ash of the old fire and prepared a new one, gathering apple branches and throwing sweet-smelling herbs onto the stacked wood. Then they waited in silent contemplation.

  The moon was high in the sky when Iphigenia determined it was time to light the fire signalling the start of the Easter Vigil. Ignatius watched her bring the small flicker of candle flame to it. The others bowed their heads solemnly and breathed in the aromatic smoke. Then they lifted their heads again, faces soft with fire glow.

  Iphigenia handed the candle to Carla who led the procession. Margarita and Iphigenia lifted Ignatius into the sedan chair of their arms and carried him like a comical king into the darkened womb of the chapel. They deposited him in front of the altar. In this familiar place, Ignatius took up once again his priestly role.

  ‘May the light of Christ, rising in glory, dispel the darkness of our hearts and minds.’

  His voice echoed right to the vaulted ceilings of the chapel and out through the holes into the night. As he said, ‘Christ our light,’ and they responded, ‘Thanks be to God,’ Carla lit the candles clustered round St Anne and the Blessed Virgin, then the candles all around the chapel. Soon the darkness was filled with flickering light. The stained-glass saints came alive and the angels danced and voices rang out.

  ‘Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!

  Exult, all creation around God’s throne!’

  On went the Exsultet until Ignatius felt his song lift and soar with the congregation. A white dove opened its wings and his spirit was airborne. Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia. The breath started deep within him, aaaaaaaaaah, rose in his throat and up into his mouth where he lapped at it with his tongue, llelu llelu llelu. Then out it came, warm, resounding, shaped into words, winging its way back to God. Alleluia.

  Sunday. It was just before dawn when chanting ceased and the nuns came to stand before the priest.

  ‘And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome, had brought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him. And very early in the morning the first day of the week, they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun. And entering into the sepulchre, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, clothed in a long white garment.’

  Margarita stepped forward from the three, and picked up his hands. Gone was the ghoulish scowl she wore last time she had stood so close to him. Now her face was placid, almost beatific. She unwound and unwound the wool skeined around him, unwrapping the shroud of fleece. Ignatius kept his gaze on the faces of the other two nuns, not sure if he wanted to see what Margarita would reveal.

  He’d been reading about a saint, he couldn’t remember which one, who’d been burnt at the stake. He’d woken with a jolt to find his binds on fire, his hands circled in flame. He must have dozed off and knocked over the candle.

  He felt the slight touch of her hand against his. The bandages were off. He watched as awe filled the faces of the nuns. And now Ignatius looked at his hands. They were pink and new as baby mice. It was as if they didn’t belong to him. But of course they did. He stretched his smooth pink fingers, feeling the pull of new skin. He wriggled them, moved his hands as if wearing in a new pair of gloves. When he made a fist, his knuckles became shiny and the backs of his hands as smooth as soft kid leather.

  His nails were still long and curved but the fungal infection causing the discolouration had cleared and his nails were pink and shiny too. Margarita held the hands, turning them over in hers, gazing at them in wonder.

  The whole fire episode might have been a dream were it not for the faint mark where the binds had been. Ignatius had once seen the photo of a Hiroshima victim and vividly recalled the floral pattern of the dress the woman was wearing burnt into her arm like a tattoo. In the rings around his wrists were the imprints of his binds.

  Alleluia.

  The Lord’s right hand has triumphed;

  his right hand raised me up.

  I shall not die, I shall live

  and recount his deeds.

  Ignatius broke down and wept. He became every fluid thing, ebbed and flowed. The stilted fish he had been for so long now swam and rippled in the tide. He brought his new hands up to his face. Tears baptised them. For the first time as a priest, for the first time ever, he understood the meaning of resurrection, the eternal renewal of life.

  There was marinated cheese and toasted bread, potatoes and boiled nettles. A bottle of wine and gingerbread men. Ignatius wondered about the lack of paschal lamb then thought it was just as well. He felt a little squeamish at the idea of eating an animal he’d just said Easter prayers with. He seemed to have no need of fleshly sustenance. It was all he could do to manage a small mouthful of nettles.

  There was a lightness at the dinner table, a daintiness in the way they ate compared to the shovelling-in that had disgusted him at the first meal. Perhaps it was simply that they were all so tired. They had eaten little over the Eastertide, although there had been plenty of spiritual nourishment. Tired but happy. Ignatius smiled to himself, recalling the concluding phrase of school compositions about what he’d done in the holidays.

&n
bsp; And he noticed that Margarita was smiling too. A tentative fluttery little smile like a shy young child. As she lowered her eyes and reached for a gingerbread man Carla exclaimed, ‘Present!’ She got up and left the table.

  In less than the time it took Margarita to bite the arm off her gingerbread man, Carla had returned, with something hidden behind her back.

  ‘Eastre’s egg,’ she announced.

  He blinked. Surely she meant Easter egg.

  ‘Eastre’s egg,’ she repeated.

  No, he’d heard right the first time. Oestrus egg. She’d definitely said it. Ignatius wondered if he was blushing. He took a gulp of wine. He could always blame the blush on that. Oestrus was one of those words, along with gonad and uterus, that he and a group of boys had looked up in the dictionary one afternoon when they were supposed to be working on a science project. He particularly remembered oestrus because it was a difficult one to find. They’d looked first under ‘e’ then under ‘a’ and only as a last resort had they tried ‘o’. ‘A regularly occurring period of sexual receptivity in most female mammals, except humans, during which ovulation occurs and copulation can take place.’ The definition had engendered a whole new string of words that they were in the process of looking up when Brother Carmody had walked in, pleased to see them working so furiously and not making paper planes.

  Carla appeared to be telling a story. He’d missed the first part and had no inclination to ask her to repeat it. Something about a goddess who’d coupled with a serpent and produced the golden egg from which the world hatched. ‘And the people honoured Eastre in the month when spring returns to the world and the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ is named after her.’

  Ignatius had a niggling suspicion that what she was saying was true. Easter was not of Greek or Latin origin, like paschal. He had always assumed that it had something to do with the East, recollecting perhaps the Magi who had come from the East. But then that was another story. The most important event in the Christian calendar and it was named after a pagan goddess. He gulped his wine, even though he was already feeling quite light-headed.

  She brought her hand out of hiding and there cupped in the palm was an Easter egg, dyed red like the ones the Easter Bunny brought him and his sister. Ignatius laughed with relief, glad to be back in familiar territory. He thanked her for the gift.

  Perhaps it was because his new hands were so smooth and even but the egg felt oddly bumpy. He looked more closely and saw that he was holding a potato. Then he caught a whiff of blood. It was not red dye at all. He did not want to even begin to imagine the source of that blood.

  Now they entered the time between Easter Sunday and Pentecost that was called the Great Sunday. They sang alleluia and in the octave of days after Easter celebrated the solemnities.

  It had been such a beautiful Easter, the priest leading them in the mass, all tension dissolved, Iphigenia, Carla and Margarita a community again, that Iphigenia had kept her burden to herself. But now it started to weigh heavily on her. Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than a rich man to enter Heaven.

  It was midmorning, the monastery was at peace. The little assembly was in the courtyard, Margarita having a quiet chat to Agnes Teresa; the priest with yarn around his hands, Carla winding it into skeins. Iphigenia took herself off to the abbess’ office. The most appropriate place to think about her unwanted wealth.

  There was another reason as well. Though the priest had entered into the spirit of Easter, Iphigenia doubted whether he would give up so easily the sale of the monastery. Though she had come across the fateful letter announcing her inheritance, she still hadn’t found the lease. In the world the Easter break would be over and Mr Colquhoun back at work.

  Iphigenia was back at work too. She sneezed. It was so dreadfully dusty in the abbess’ office. There was no reason why she shouldn’t at least clean the cobwebs away. Whereas on her previous visit, she had gingerly pulled the cobwebs aside to reach the handle of the drawer, this time she gave one broad sweep with her hand and pulled a whole section of sticky greyness away. She wiped it off on her skirt.

  She had already looked through the top drawer and had been halfway through the contents of the second when she had found the Trust letter. She picked up where she had left off. Was she still a real nun if she had wealth, even if she had never seen it and it was a long way away, in several—what had Mr Colquhoun said—portfolios?

  She continued through the drawer, paying special attention every time she found a letter from the Bishop of Ferns and Manner. But it was usually something about repairs, although she did come across a note in response to the abbess’ enquiry concerning a gift of specially spun wool from the St Agnes convent in Rome. Iphigenia remembered the abbess’ announcement that they were receiving yarn from the very sheep who produced the wool for the Pope’s pallia.

  But it had never arrived. The abbess had said she would make enquiries. And now Iphigenia was reading the Bishop’s reply saying the matter was being looked into.

  No lease in the second drawer. Iphigenia went to the drawers on the other side. If she just ignored the wealth would that be all right? If the wealth remained out there in the world she could still maintain her vow of poverty in here. More letters about repairs. She had stopped looking at handwritten letters now, the lease must surely have been typed. Iphigenia wondered what a loophole looked like and whether she’d recognise it if she came across it.

  It was in the bottom drawer that Iphigenia came across something that wasn’t a letter at all. Not even paper. A short leatherbound handle with several pieces of leather thonging attached. She puzzled over it. Then amid the leather smell of it she picked up traces of blood. The ends of the thonging were discoloured with it. She knew now what the thing in her hand was—a whip for ritual flagellation. She dropped it back in the drawer. She had looked far enough into the abbess’ things.

  With another sweep she wiped the cobwebs and dust from the top of the desk. For how many years had dust been misting down, so quietly and softly that no-one had ever noticed? Perhaps the lease wasn’t here at all, perhaps only the Bishop had a copy. What were the other options, a heritage order? But that would bring people. Someone would have to come to estimate the value of the monastery. The worth of it. The wealth. Her nose was quivering. It was coming again. The same feeling she had when she decided to use the phone, when she first saw the Trust letter. Two birds with one stone. It was monumental. She hoped her quivering nose had not made a mistake.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant Easter, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Colquhoun. And you?’

  ‘Very pleasant indeed. I went to my country house. Too early for salmon, but we took some nice walks along the river. I presume by your phone call that you have found the lease?’

  ‘No. But I think I have found a legal loophole.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please remind me, how much money is my inheritance?’

  ‘A few million.’

  ‘Is that enough to buy the monastery?’

  He laughed. ‘Enough to buy the whole island, I would say.’

  ‘The monastery will suffice. Mr Colquhoun, I wish to make a purchase, I wish to buy the monastery. Please arrange this at your earliest convenience.’

  Mr Colquhoun’s laughter was replaced by shocked silence.

  ‘Are you there, Mr Colquhoun, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ She imagined him touching his bow tie, pulling it away from his neck.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, it’s just that, well … You certainly have found yourself one hell of a loophole, Sister.’ His voice became more businesslike. ‘Do you know which agent is handling the sale?’

  ‘Make discreet enquiries with the Bishop. The Bishop of Ferns and Manner. And please, Mr Colquhoun, I would like to buy it anonymously. Would that be possible?’

  ‘Of course. The Featheringale Trust is a legal entity, we would purchase it as trustees. We would simply
approach the vendor on behalf of an undisclosed principal. We sign the contract to purchase the property. In any case, the Bishop might never see the name on the contract. The Bishop would probably not concern himself with such detail. It is an agreement between us and the Bishop’s solicitor. Now, if I am to proceed, there are a few things we need to clarify.’

  They had just finished lunch. Carla and Margarita and especially the priest himself thought it odd that Iphigenia considered that he needed to have an afternoon nap. ‘I know you are feeling well now but sometimes after burns there can be a … delayed reaction.’ It didn’t sound very convincing but Carla and Margarita started to see that Iphigenia must have a very good reason for wanting him to have a nap.

  Once the priest was dispatched, Iphigenia brought her sisters out into the courtyard again. They sat waiting for her to tell.

  ‘She considereth a field and buyeth it,’ Iphigenia announced.

  They looked at her expectantly, waiting for more. ‘She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.’ They recognised the precepts for a virtuous woman. Proverbs, chapter thirty-one. But it was hardly portentous enough to warrant the trouble of carrying the priest back to bed.

  ‘My grandmother is buying the monastery,’ Iphigenia said finally.

  It made less sense than the first thing. Margarita was beginning to worry about Iphigenia. Many unusual things had happened of late. Perhaps they were all losing their marbles. How could Iphigenia’s grandmother still be alive? Margarita was sure she remembered them saying a requiem mass for Iphigenia’s grandmother, many many years ago.

  ‘A grandmother?’ said Carla. She never imagined Iphigenia or any of the nuns having mothers and fathers and grandmothers. They never talked about them, not to Carla anyway. She assumed the sisters were all gifts from God, foundlings like herself who just turned up on the doorstep of the monastery.