Vixen

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by Rosie Garland


  ‘She is mine.’

  ‘She is no one’s.’

  ‘God sent her to me.’

  ‘Ah, your convenient God. The one you no longer believe in.’

  ‘You cannot take her from me.’

  ‘I do not. She comes freely.’ At this, she looked at the Maid, smiling warmly. The Maid returned the smile.

  ‘She is all I have,’ I whispered. ‘Anne. Come back. To the house. Both of you. Things will be different. I promise.’

  She looked at me for a long while without answering, as though considering a particularly intricate conundrum.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said, when I thought the silence could not possibly continue any longer. ‘You are not listening. You never have. It is too late. I told you this.’

  ‘No!’ I howled, and flew at her. I thought only to sweep the Maid into my arms and bear her away from the stable, but found my hands upon Anne’s shoulders, slamming her against the wall. ‘You cannot have her!’

  I shoved harder, seized with a sudden desire to break her. I felt teeth in the back of my neck, small hands clawing at my face, but ignored the pain. I struck out with my free hand and knocked the Maid off my back; heard the thump of her body hit the floor.

  ‘You bitch,’ I hissed, to Anne or the girl I did not know. ‘I hurt you: see, I can hurt you.’

  At the words, Anne broke into laughter and would not stop until I struck her. She paused only to touch her hand to her chin, then continued to laugh until tears ran down the side of her nose. The Maid crept across the floor on all fours and wriggled into her skirts.

  ‘You do not frighten me,’ Anne glowered, voice steady. ‘If you could have bent before this, maybe you would not have broken. You are a snapped branch, Thomas.’

  ‘No,’ I moaned, my fury wilted.

  ‘I said goodnight. Go. Or would you have me call back the fine men of your parish and tell them how you threaten us?’

  I had no words to say. I fell out of the stable and went to the church. The vestry smelled of damp. I peeled off my cloak and sat in shirt and hose, listening to the leisurely trickle of water behind the wooden press, observing the seep of dark patches upon the plaster. A diligent priest would repair the cracked roof-tiles that allowed rain to enter and mildew the books. I wondered where I might find such a fine man.

  I knew that I was cold, and should put on my priestly robes and say the Office, but the dripping held me in a daze. Somehow I believed I must wait for it to stop before I was permitted to stir. It was trying to tell me something. There was some message, if only I was not too stupid to reckon it out. I waited for the length of time it takes to drink a jug of beer, and still did not understand.

  There was a great emptiness in the centre of me, as of my innards stolen away. I ached with the loss of them: a hollow man rattling with the words of a God who had turned away His face. He had vouchsafed the Maid into my care, only to take her away. He had sent Anne to my house, and she was no longer mine either. I did not know where I had erred. I could not bear this desolation. I went into the altar and knelt before the Cross.

  ‘Oh, Christ, forgive my sins. Restore my faith. Restore Anne. Restore the Maid,’ I whimpered. ‘I am lonely.’

  I felt no answering Kiss of Peace. I banged my brow against the stone, thumping harder, harder. With each crack I cried out: ‘I beg you, restore my faith. Let me believe again.’ The Cross remained a lump of brass. After a while I discovered that my tears had ceased. I became aware of how much my knees ached, so I stood, hands dangling. I did not know what to do with them if God did not want them pressed together in prayer.

  I returned to the house. In the outer room, Anne’s mattress sprawled next to the door, as if it was endeavouring to escape. Hurled on top was one of her under-dresses, a tangle of blue kersey. I smoothed out the wrinkles, laid myself upon it and pressed my cheek against its breast. There was the faintest trace of her sweat at the armpits. I took the sleeve between my lips, sucked on the linen, and closed my eyes.

  When I next opened them, the room was bright. The emptiness had not gone from me, and I cast about, thinking how I might fill myself. I remembered how I felt when I saw the icon. God was in it, and in me. Maybe it was not faith: maybe it was only my own desires and longings that flared up so brightly that day in the Staple. But I wanted that certainty again.

  If I prayed to the Virgin, that most merciful of mothers, surely She would restore my faith. I did not want to live without it. I could not live without it. If God were still my Master and Lord, then He would show Himself in the icon. That was as far as my reasoning took me, for my mind worked exceedingly slowly, and I did not wish to cudgel my brains into consideration of other eventualities.

  I decided to walk, rather than take the mare: there was no haste, for the hours of the day hung about me weightily. For once it was not raining. This late sun was too late to save the harvest, which had long rotted in the ear, but served to give the muck a firm crust. I strode eastwards with something near to a good will. I did not meet one man upon the road, and was thankful.

  Spiders’ webs shone in the early light, and nettles drooped with their burden of pearls. In the hedge I heard the gem-like piping of a goldfinch. Small rivers glittered down each side of the track and the brightness of God’s glory stirred a tiny flame within my breast.

  But in a breath the sky was slate, the cloud impenetrable. At last I arrived in Ashford. The windows stood unshuttered as before, but this time there was no scurrying of folk rushing to hide. The air was heavy with flies. I thumped my stick hard upon the ground.

  ‘Good day, I say to you!’ I shouted.

  As I looked about more closely, I saw there was no smoke, although it was too cold to be without a fire. I pushed my head through the nearest door, calling out greetings. The hut was empty: no bundled clothes, no food, no pots, not even a knife.

  The next hut was the same: nothing but the stink of rotten straw. And the next, and the next. I could not understand where the people had gone. Then I heard a deep grunting in one of the hovels. I rushed towards the noise, for I thought it a man in pain. The stink of corruption slapped me as I ducked inside, and I held my hand to my mouth. In the far corner of the room a sow was rooting in a mound of filth, teats swinging. As I blocked the light she raised her head and let forth a violent squeal, and I fell backwards out of the door.

  A tangle of dogs burst out from behind one of the huts, pursuing a cur with a chicken between its teeth. As they saw me, all stopped, the ones at the rear slamming into the backsides of their fellows. The leader tipped its head, swaying the dead bird back and forth. His tail quivered.

  ‘Here, boy,’ I clucked. ‘Here.’

  I held out my hand, rubbing thumb and fingers together. The beast’s tail fell, its lips writhed, and a deep rumble stewed in his throat. His brothers followed the example, setting up a whining and flashing their teeth, taking slow and slinking steps, paw over paw towards me. I waved my staff and the big dog shook his head, spraying feathers. The snapping and growling swelled.

  I stepped forward, yelling and swiping at them with my stick. At once they showed their tails and ran, disappearing around the side of the nearest dwelling. The leader paused, dipped its rump to the earth and pushed out a coiling turd. Without taking its eye from me, it stood, and with its hind legs kicked the shit in my direction.

  I hurried gratefully into the Staple. It could not have been more changed. The bustling thoroughfares were vacant save for an occasional person hastening along, bent under the force of a gale I could not feel. The streets were strewn with clutter, as though the houses had belched it out overnight: a brass bucket, almost new; a well-stitched boot, missing its pair; a baker’s tray, still half-laden with loaves.

  Outside the church was a straggle of people, each man standing a long way off from his fellow. I strode to the front without having to shove, for everyone moved aside as I passed, and came face to face with people from my village. We stared at each other.

  ‘Go
od day,’ I said at last. ‘God’s blessings upon you all.’ I heard the waver in my voice.

  ‘Indeed, Father, it is a good day,’ muttered one of them.

  His mouth set into a hard line, for what trifling insult I knew not, nor had any desire to. These peasants took offence for the most unaccountable reasons. The woman at his elbow tugged her kerchief across her nose. I raised my hand in blessing and they took a few steps back. I wondered if they thought I was about to strike them. The clouds curdled over our heads and it began to drizzle. Wetness found its way up my sleeve. I lowered my arm, there being no good reason why I should continue with the benediction. At last the doors in the south porch were opened and I tottered forwards. No one pushed, unwilling to so much as brush against his neighbour’s coat.

  Inside, I pummelled my eyes at the sudden black, darker even than my previous visit. As I grew used to it, I saw the cause: heavy blankets were nailed across each window. I looked about for the image of Mary, but it had been hidden. My heart hungered for Her. I concealed myself on the north side of the nave, beneath a dim painting of Saint Petroc and the miraculous shower of fish.

  There was a sound of shushing. John appeared from the dusk behind the altar, flanked by two boys with lit tapers. They stopped at the chancel steps, faces ruddied by the candle flames. John then climbed up onto a wooden platform newly built there. He stood so high that even I, cowering at the back, could see him clearly from the knees up. Then he raised his arms.

  ‘Let us see Her! Where is She?’ screeched someone, man or woman I could not tell. ‘Do not keep Her from us!’

  John licked his upper lip. ‘Do you dare threaten the Virgin?’ he growled. ‘Who are you to demand that She smile upon you?’

  The same voice cracked, ‘Oh, forgive me; forgive me, Mary,’ and collapsed into sobbing.

  ‘You have come here today to seek the healing power of Mary.’ John’s voice quietened to a whisper. We held our breath. ‘We ache for Her. We yearn for our Blessed Mother. But God holds Her away from us.’

  ‘Dear God, no!’ howled a man.

  ‘It is because of sin.’ John dropped his chin onto the gleaming gold of his cope. ‘I do not stand before you as one who is sinless. I am the greatest sinner of all. I am mired in sin.’

  No!

  Not you!

  He balled his hand into a fist and brought it crashing on to his breastbone. A female shrieked, as though it was she who was beaten.

  ‘O God! I am a sinner!’ John wailed, most grievously.

  As his tears flowed, so did ours for our own sins. I hated myself for it; knew I was a fish with a worm dangled before it, foolish to gulp so hungrily at the hook. But my teeth ground, and my tears fell. Then a voice spoke out from the twilight above our heads; a fatherly voice that had not been bawling along with the rest of us.

  ‘How have you sinned?’ it asked.

  All about me bones cracked as folk twisted their necks to right and left to seek out whence came the words.

  ‘I shall not lie,’ moaned John. ‘I cannot lie. This is my sin.’

  He pointed his finger towards the vestry door. Across it swagged a curtain: at once it bellied out like a female heavy with child, and a woman stumbled into the church. She was looking over her shoulder, so I could see only part of her cheek. But I knew her at once: Margret. The meagre congregation shrank away, clearing a space twenty paces wide.

  John’s voice soared again. ‘Did God not bid priests to be chaste? Were we not commanded to be as clean as Christ?’

  He let the silence hang over us for the time it would take to drink a small cup of beer.

  ‘Dearly beloved; I have offended both God and all of you; the faithful. I took Margret to my house and used her as my wife. I confess this doing was detestable before the face of God, and I am heartily sore.’

  Margret writhed against the curtain at her back. A lock of hair crept out from under her cap. Her breath was marvellously loud.

  ‘How can I lead you to cleanness when I have polluted myself? How can I show you the face of the Virgin when I have turned my own back on holy virginity?’

  None spoke. We had no good answers.

  ‘O God, I beg you to forgive my most grievous fault. O brothers and sisters, bear witness to my pledge. I will sin no more. I will cast out my sin.’ He shouted at Margret. ‘Tempt me not. Be gone, woman, and sin no more.’

  The space around Margret widened further. A gob of spittle splashed at her feet. John’s voice grew at once gentle.

  ‘She lives in the hope of forgiveness, as do I. Did not our Lord spare the woman taken in adultery?’

  ‘I am not tender-hearted like the Lord,’ hissed a man a few steps to my right, and his neighbours groused their assent.

  Margret shrivelled into the door arch, but the stone did not open up and shelter her. Her fingers scrabbled behind the curtain and I heard the rattle of a handle.

  ‘Be careful you do no sin against this wretched female,’ John called. ‘Did Christ not say, only the sinless may cast a stone? It is for God to decide who will be punished and who will be spared. It is not for us. I tell you now, let her go in peace and humbly seek the mercy of God.’

  Hinges squealed: a hand slipped out from behind the curtain and shoved hard. Margret staggered forwards. I saw fists clench; felt my own hands tighten with hatred. She took one step, then two, then raced to the south door. No one touched her.

  ‘Turn now to God!’ shouted John. ‘Come to security. Come to forgiveness. May the Lord forgive us and heal us. Look, we beseech you, on your people prostrate before your mercy.’

  Here he swept his arm down like a threshing flail and the gathering, as one body, dropped to the floor and kissed the stone.

  ‘Hear us, O God our Salvation! Hear the intercession of Mary!’

  ‘O Mary!’ shrieked one soul.

  ‘Yes, Mary! O Holy Virgin,’ I cried out too, made bold or mad I do not know.

  I could not understand why She was kept from us so long. My whole body trembled with the desire to see Her. My faith would return with just one glimpse. I craved it. As if in answer, there was a glowing at John’s back, as though the sun rose behind him. A host of lit tapers floated down the chancel, and at their heart two men carried a wrapped shape, staggering a little beneath its weight. I gasped. She was come amongst us at last.

  ‘O Holy Mother, look upon us now!’

  The men manoeuvred their burden to the top of the steps. John gripped the edge of the covering-sheet and gave a mighty tug. Her face smiled, sorrowfully. I waited for the rapture. It would come; now. All my doubts would be made certainties; every question would be answered, and I would be filled again. I held my breath. Held it longer.

  Nothing happened. I hammered my eyes into Mary’s face. Come, Mother. Take me to you. Please. I could not understand: I was begging most humbly. All I desired was to feel the Lord in my soul once more. Was I so distasteful to God?

  John’s voice boomed. ‘As you have cured the sick a hundred times, cure us. Say to the scourging angel, Now hold your hand. O heal us, and snatch us from our ruin.’

  Men and women writhed upon the floor like the grubs that swarm in the belly of a dead cow. Did God want this sign from me before He would show Himself? I threw myself on the ground and rolled around, yowled as loud as the rest of them. After a while I felt foolish, and got to my feet.

  John was not finished. ‘See how we mourn,’ he bawled. ‘Drenched in tears, weeping for our vices, stained as we are in sin. Are we not stained?’

  A roar of agreement was torn from every throat but mine. My breath came steadily, my head cleared of the choking fume I had endured for many weeks. I looked around, marvelling at the people rolling on the floor. John’s gaze fell upon me, and his eyes shone with recognition. I waited for him to shout a greeting, call me to join him on the dais. He stretched out his hand. I believe I smiled.

  ‘We are all mired in sin. Are we not, Brother?’

  Faces turned in my direction, curious
to see if this new person would be more entertaining than Margret. I heard my name hissed softly, echoing round the walls.

  ‘I have not sinned,’ I said.

  John drew his brows together. ‘Do you not also keep a woman, and you a priest?’

  ‘She keeps my house only.’

  I heard sniggers of disbelief, and realised that a space was growing around me, as it did for Margret.

  ‘Do you not fear that God will punish you?’

  ‘But there is no sin,’ I whined.

  John ignored me, his voice thunderous. He was no longer speaking to me, but to the whole gathering.

  ‘You took an innocent into your house and corrupted her. You could have spared her, but did not. Do you not care if the wrath of God falls upon her head? I am being merciful to Margret. I accept my grievous fault. I would rather put her away than condemn her to hell for my sin.’

  ‘But I am chaste,’ I insisted. ‘Let God strike me down if I speak a lie.’

  ‘Do you presume to command God?’ he snarled, to a chorus of indignant gasps. ‘You, who sneer at sinners, coming into our homes and feigning holiness; you, who conceal your own sin!’

  Eyes singed holes in my cloak. The only home I had visited was his.

  ‘I feign nothing—’ I began.

  ‘Behold this man!’ John interrupted. ‘This priest to a peasant saint. A saint who spent his life with swine. Can a pig be holy? See the true holiness that blesses this church. Turn now to Our Holy Mother and only true Protector.’

  He flourished his arm at the icon, and every head swivelled towards it. All about me the people howled, Mary, Mother, Mary, over and over until I thought She must bend down from Heaven with Her fingers in Her ears and tell us to hold our tongues. There was nothing more I could say. But I would not let them see me angry: I knew the truth of my chastity.

  When I emerged from the cave of the church I had to shade my eyes from the glare. Coming into such a dazzle should have afforded me hope but only gave me a headache. The light cast itself upon the town and, as if for the first time, I saw the deserted houses, the filth piled in the unswept streets, smelled the unmistakable stench of putrefaction. The stink of the Great Mortality.

 

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