The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  What went unremarked about Ophelia, though it was so obvious, was that she never revealed or confided any personal detail about herself. Whereas like King Midas’s barber everyone she spoke to had a need to whisper at least one secret, she had perfected either naturally or by design a technique of jetting off squid-like behind an inky cloud whenever her own polite inquiries about a person’s health or circumstances were reciprocated. Those who asked her how she was, instead of receiving some trite response were treated to a backhand return of serve with the spin of more detailed inquiries that were more personal than before, which had the effect either of ending the rally or eliciting a one-sided offense of autobiography.

  In church Ophelia’s voice, normally low and a little breathy, rang out as clear as the bell that had summoned her parishioners to Service, without a hint of brazenness, before settling into a honeyed intonation that glazed the surface of the occasion and made it special. The audience was wooed and lulled and there was a smile on every face. Even those who objected on principle to women at the altar, unless it be for the purpose of getting married, felt compelled to attend her services, where they listened, hypnotized, as the impurities and poisons within their systems were dissolved and purified; as they were cleansed of the hatred, anger, frustration, jealousy, meanness, annoyance, and pettiness with which they had besmeared others and been besmeared during the week. When the service was over, and they had left after Effie completed the ritual with tea and coffee and cake, it was to that same scene that their minds reverted in their moments of quiet, as in their minds they ran back like children to hear again the words that seemed to envelop them in an immortality of care.

  Chapter Eight

  Ophelia was not a morning person: like the Green Knight of Middle English literature she grew stronger as the day progressed. It was this that had prompted her insistence that her only service of the week, excluding baptisms, weddings and funerals, be held at eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. She assumed that the world sat up with her late at night, and it was not uncommon, if one was esteemed to be a supporter in her corps de l’église, to be awoken by the telephone in the small hours with an inquiry into one’s health, or as to how one was bearing up under some stress or other; or called at commencement of the cocktail hour when one was mixing a martini or martinis, or uncorking a wine bottle, and looking forward to suspending mental activity for the day.

  As if by way of an afterthought she would throw in an oh-by-the-way-I-wonder small request; and only in the morning did it dawn on one that she was possibly not the distracted misfit that some might take her for, and that what one had unthinkingly agreed to was actually going to involve rather a lot of work. There was no getting out of it, for Ophelia could bleat like a lamb when denied or thwarted, in a faux-naïve way, and would not hesitate to announce the slight during service as if it were less catty to air her grievances in public—without naming any names, of course, but everyone knew who she was referring to.

  And she was far from discreet, sharing detailed confidential accounts of individuals’ financial, marital, medical and mental histories, even their indiscretions, during her weekly performances from the ecclesiastical stage and during her perambulations on the Street. Though she denied that laborious mnemonic practice had anything to do with it, for someone who insisted that she was barely in control of her faculties she had an astonishing memory for names. Without wheedling or winkling she became privy, and then very privy, to the details of the lives of every person in her congregation, as well as those of the diaspora of sheep who did not flock and would sooner off themselves than darken the doors of a church.

  En passant during her joky monologues, which she protested too much were not sermons, she would let slip items that even the curtain-twitchers and most ardent gossipers in the village did not know about. The people loved her for it, though each was vulnerable, and they hated to miss an instalment to the extent that they would not go away on holiday, and if they had to be absent asked that someone must be sure to take notes for them. As a result Ophelia’s attendance figures, which she monitored assiduously whilst asserting that the presence of a single person constituted a gathering worthy of holding a service, rocketed to first place in the county for comparably sized communities. Her church was never less than three-quarters full, and that was no small achievement in an age when congregations were fast dwindling.

  They could have been larger still, she maintained, and many an atheist would get religion, her religion, given certain creature comforts. She was obsessed with the inadequate heating in her church, to which everyone but herself came warmly dressed. She would complain if there was a smudge in the print of her folksy monthly letter to parishioners, or if the volunteers were late in distributing it house to house. She considered the absence of toilet facilities at the building to be a disgrace, and maintained that incontinence was decimating her would-be worshippers, and causing the loss of many souls to the other side who could otherwise have looked forward to putting their feet up in Heaven where the bathrooms were plentiful.

  That the scatty Ophelia lived with such an ebullient individual as Effie as her companion or putative consort, partner, or paramour was the source of endless debate, rumour and jealousy, and contributed greatly to her allure. Opinion was divided as to whether the pair was a genuine couple, or courting notoriety as a means of boosting their public profiles, or whether Effie had adopted Ophelia as a means of keeping her from being besieged by suitors who were not put off by the clerical collar that she never wore. The latter was the notion favoured by the still hopeful males of the parish, both those who were married and those who were not, bachelors, divorcees and widowers, as well as not a few of the women; but even Effie, who would be the best source of clarification, remained button-lipped on the subject and nobody dared to try and draw her out.

  In a community where a raised voice was enough to set up a breeze of chintz and lace on the Street on a windless day, the villagers were delighted to have such an intriguing ménage on their doorsteps. It distinguished them from run-of-the-mill parishes, and they proudly retailed their distinction to visitors and in their letters abroad. Many fruitless hours were spent in speculation as to the relationship between the two women. That they were soul-mates nobody could doubt, but the only certainties were that there was no evidence in their association of the disaffection that was evident in many a connubial alliance, and that they enjoyed each other’s companionship and shared the housekeeping.

  In the privacy of Effie’s cottage, conversations ranged between the telepathic and the cryptic, and much of what was discussed over the ever-present pot of tea and plate of cakes in the kitchen would have been unenlightening to any eavesdropper:

  Ophelia: ‘The lack of proper heating is an absolute scandal, you know. We could have frozen to death last week for all that anyone cared.’

  Effie: ‘I’ve got a few people in mind who I’m going to...’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was on the verge of talking to old so-and-so the other day.’

  ‘We’re so lucky to have him. But I worry about his health.’

  ‘I thought you would have been the first to...’

  ‘Which ward is he on?’

  ‘He’s at the place they put those who have tertiary syph...’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Nowhere near here I hope.’

  ‘There’s one collapsed and died the other day.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Mrs Nagg’s field.’

  ‘Using one horse to plough so many acres of clay, just to save fuel…I reported her to the RSPCA last year.’

  ‘Steeplechaser, retired for donkey’s years.’

  ‘It had nothing to live for.’

  ‘You’ve a lot on your plate. Rock cake?’

  ‘I can handle it. Thank you.’

  ‘After your ordeal at the Rectory.’ Pouring tea.

  Munching. ‘You?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You off
ered.’

  ‘You took.’

  ‘It’s only my second.’

  ‘Third.’

  ‘How wonderful it is not to have to watch one’s weight. I watch mine and all it does is go up.’ Dabbing crumbs with a moistened forefinger. ‘She’s a demon, you know, I’m convinced of it. Mrs Diemen, I’m calling her, with an i-e. as in die-man. What do you think? you’re the expert.’

  ‘As in Van Diemen’s Land, home of the Tasmanian devil.’

  ‘That’s worse than a demon, isn’t it?

  ‘In spades. A true abomination.’

  ‘I was considering Cruella de Vil, as in One Hundred and One Dalmatians, but it seemed too Disney.’

  ‘I think it was Dodie Smith, originally. The Hundred.’

  ‘She has a tail. What a giveaway. She admitted as much to Hob when he asked, which was brave of him, and she made no bones about it. I thought devils also had goats’ horns and cloven hoofs, and wore red suits and carried pitchforks. Perhaps she perms her hair to cover the horns and wears striped galoshes. And that Father Thingummy who has joined her, a greedy man of the cloth,’ Chomp. ‘…he’s headed in the wrong direction fast. Dark, Fletcher A. for Abraham. They’re calling him Flabby in the village. He eats biscuits and pastry.

  ‘Mmph. Then there’s her manservant, and those unnaturally large dogs and cats…her familiars. I can’t think what we did so bad as to deserve her. But we’ll see them off somehow, won’t we? and everything’ll be dory-hunky again. The atmosphere at the Rectory, it’s quite the opposite of how it was, all down-at-heel but homely. There’s something horrible there now that fresh paint can’t hide. They’re obviously in cahoots and hatching something.’ Slurp.

  ‘Cahoots?’

  ‘Diemen and Dark.’

  ‘Dark is still on the lighter side of the dark, remember that, Effie. Should he care to reform.’

  ‘Pigs will fly. The only re-forming of that man is his waistline. But how did Mrs Diemen get here? And why? Who or what sent her?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to find out. Have to, it’s my job. The way I see it, either she was bred to the task in Hell, or she started here and went down there, and then got sent back again.’

  ‘You mean she might once have been human…a human being? Can she be…’

  ‘Exorcized?’

  ‘And could you do it, or would you have to bring in a professional?…exerciser, that is.’

  ‘You mustn’t go back to the Rectory, Effie, it’s too dangerous. Promise me.’

  ‘It’s not your responsibility, don’t think it is, not on a curate’s pay. I can take care of myself. Me, Hurricane Effie, as I heard Mrs Ponsonby call me in the post office while I was in line behind her waiting to get stamps. OK, I promise. Or at least not to go without you. Someone told me they’d read a book about exercising, some terrible things happened.’

  ‘If Mrs Diemen was once human…well, she isn’t any more. I dare say coming here is like being in the army, a posting. Some devils are more powerful than others, I imagine, harder to get rid of. The former human ones less so. We must hope. The way I see it, if she was human once, she can’t not have…yearnings.’

  ‘Yearnings?’

  ‘“Hope springs eternal in the human breast”’. Alexander Pope, the poet.’

  ‘She’d better not yearn anywhere near mine. A pope? Figures.’

  ‘Mrs Diemen, her yoke can’t be easy. Devils probably have production quotas set for them, and it goes hard…harder…for them if they fall behind. She can’t be here just to enjoy herself.’

  ‘It did occur to me, she might be amenable to warming the church up for us. We wouldn’t want to be obliged to her for anything, of course, but she has an expense account, she told me, so it wouldn’t cost her anything.’

  ‘Think what you’re saying!’

  ‘Well, doing up the Rectory must have come to a pretty penny, and a few extra quarterly bills wouldn’t…come to think of it, maybe she gets heat, you know, like, piped up.’

  ‘Effie! We don’t want that kind of heat.’

  ‘What is brimstone, by the way?’

  ‘Sulphur.’

  ‘’S’pose not then. It would be murder on the complexion, and I’m in the market for a miracle moisturizer as it is.’

  ‘I do wish there was something we could do to help her.’

  ‘What! Mrs Diemen? What on earth or places below for? The woman’s a devil! Perhaps not the very Devil, but still a devil.’

  ‘Sowing the seeds of reversal is my duty.’

  ‘Too late for her, surely.’

  ‘Probably. Nonetheless. Shakespeare wrote, “Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ th’ mind, leaving free things and happy shows behind”. “Free” meaning care-free. Mrs Diemen is alone, except for her servant, and there’s nothing care-free about her existence, there are no happy shows for her. “Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it”. Mephistopheles says that in Marlowe’s Dr Faustus.’

  ‘We live in Hell?’

  ‘She does. It’s portable. Her punishment is endlessly renewable, and ever present. But even though she is already literally in no end of trouble, if we were to alleviate her pain just for a moment, a moment they wouldn’t be able to take away from her in a million years, wouldn’t that be worth it to get rid of her?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that your ministry included being charitable to devils. I’ve an image to keep up. I’m Hurricane Effie, I am.’

  ‘We do need a plan, of course. A means, a method.’

  ‘And that right speedily, O. There’s nothing more important than this, for all our sakes.’

  ‘Yes. No.’

  ….

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  Ophelia’s fingers, which had been stalking a macaroon, changed course and headed for a rock cake, then stopped. ‘Soon. What will we have for supper?’

  Chapter Nine

  It was not long before Ophelia encountered Father Fletcher Dark for the first time. The DL’s disciple had been charged with making an evaluation of his curate, and seeking her out as soon as possible. So one morning during the week, when he understood that it was Ophelia’s practice to hold a hebdomadal version of Sunday school for the younger children, the reverend huffed and puffed his way on foot to the farthest village. On the way he hailed a man driving a pony and cart full of mangel-wurzels, and asked for a lift; but the driver merely cupped an ear and shrugged and kept going.

  Though the weather was mild, Dark mopped his brow as he walked through the lychgate, up the short path through the churchyard, and entered the raftered flinten porch. There he paused in front of a faded card that requested patrons and visitors to keep the ancient iron-studded door closed, in order to prevent mice and birds from getting inside. To foil such intruders on those rare warm days when a current of air was desired and it was impractical to comply with this, in front of it there was a latched wire-mesh screen on a squeaky spring hinge. Some human vermin had attempted to hack away the cross-grained oak round the iron mortise, in an attempt to enter one night when the place was locked and the key secreted in its well-known hiding-place, with the object of ransacking the place for any items of value…a forlorn hope since fear of looting made it common church practice for anything precious to be removed for safekeeping, or sold off, leaving nothing more than a catering-size tin of instant coffee and some stale biscuits in the cupboard that used to hold, in this case, a pre-Reformation chalice.

  A flycatcher swooped into the rafters, delivering nourishment to its brood of wheezing chicks; and, behind a notice board on the porch wall, loosely mounted with rusted screws, a rustling sound betrayed where a small colony of pipistrelle bats was roosting.

  From inside the church the reverend could hear a babel of infant voices, and a lower, slower voice rehearsing them in their catechism.

  ‘All creatures great and small, created He them, blah blah blah,’ growled Dark.

  Pulling open the metal screen door, Dark propped it wide with his foot and grasped t
he circular iron door handle. The jolt of an electric current made him drop the ring. He felt nauseous, his pulse raced and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. After waiting for the shock to recede, he wrapped his cloak around his hand and tried again, gritting his teeth and giving the handle a sharp twist as he heaved a meaty shoulder against the portal.

  This time the door opened with ease and his momentum carried him into the interior. Compared to the glare of the outside, the light within was soft and diffused by that admitted by the stained- and plain glass windows, and it took his eyes some seconds to adjust. Motes of dust swirled in the amber light and sifted down. Peering altar-wards he made out the figure of a handsome woman standing below the chancel. Her arms, which had been raised as she gestured to illustrate something to the children, dropped to her sides as she stopped in mid-sentence, becoming as still as a heron disturbed at its fishing, and trained a beady eye on the source of the irruption. The children turned from the benches they were seated on and regarded Dark with curiosity mingled with instinctive dislike of his swarthy mien.

  ‘Ah,’ croaked Ophelia, cracking her beak. ‘Father Fletcher, I presume?’

  ‘None other, madam. And you must be Mother Ophelia, and these your little charges. Please to pardon the interruption.’

  Ophelia paused. ‘Children, say good morning to Father Fletcher.’

  A straggly group of voices chimed dubiously as requested, as if to convey that, if it had been a good morning up to now, it was no longer.

  ‘Father Fletcher is an important man, children, more important than I am, man though I am not, and you must be as nice to him as you can. He comes with the Church, or goes with it, does Father Fletcher. I’m not sure which.’ The youngsters did not know what to make of this, and did not care.