The Salt Madonna

by Catherine Noske

  *

  Hannah watches her mother shunt silverbeet around her plate. Fresh, home-grown, cooked with butter and lemon juice. She has eaten nothing. The house is rattling, creaking in the storm. The moon is frighteningly large, casts odd shadows in the moments between cloud. She can hear the trees thrashing and twisting. Every now and then, lightning stands stark in the sky. Her mother looks up and catches her watching.

  ‘Have a nice afternoon with Darcy?’ Her tone is peevish.

  Hannah forces a smile. ‘Lovely. It’s been a while since I just sat and talked with him.’

  Her mother nods and looks back at her plate.

  ‘Did you know he’s stopped drinking?’ Hannah asks.

  ‘Of course,’ her mother says. ‘It won’t last.’

  There is a crack of thunder like a gunshot, and instantly the rain comes down. Outside, the black horse screams from the yard. Hannah has locked him in, not willing to take chances. She winces, tries not to think of him, his rump turned into it, head low and ears pinned.

  ‘He’s miserable,’ her mother says.

  ‘He’s safe,’ she replies.

  Her mother looks at her with one eyebrow raised. ‘He’s exposed!’

  Hannah just shakes her head. ‘He’ll be okay.’

  Her mother places her cutlery on her plate. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Darcy sent them for you,’ Hannah tries.

  ‘No. I just can’t,’ she says again.

  Hannah sighs. ‘Mum, we need to talk about this, about . . .’ She stalls, tries again. ‘Sophie suggested you could go over and stay with her. She can look after you better than I can, could help with the pain . . .’

  Her mother stares at her, stony-faced. She folds her hands in front of her, knuckles swollen on the edge of the table.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You’d be more comfortable!’

  ‘I’ve been here longer than almost anyone on this island. Darcy and I, Edward . . . No.’

  ‘He stayed for you, didn’t he?’ Hannah asks. It comes out like an accusation and she forces herself to meet her mother’s eyes, softens her face. ‘He could have left, found work elsewhere. Am I right? You’re the reason Darcy stayed?’

  ‘What do you think?’ her mother replies. ‘Of course it was for us. Not just me, you girls too. And I’m glad he did, when you both left me.’ Her tone cuts. ‘He could have gone. I wasn’t keeping him. He wouldn’t, though. He loves this place. More than he loves me, probably.’ She pushes herself back from the table and walks from the room, bent at the hips as though she can’t force herself from the shape of the chair.

  Hannah sits and lets the storm rattle around her.

  In the night, Hannah turns in bed and feels the island come loose, detach itself from all reality. Sand shifts at the bottom of the bay. The front comes in from the west, picking up the swell and throwing it into the channel. The rail bridge shrieks and sleepers tear away to fall into the madness of the water. Down on the point, the Virgin stands with her hands open to the storm. The water rises, creeps past high tide and licks at the dunes. The wind tears the top of each wave, and sends the salt airborne to kiss the Virgin’s skin. Her soft wood drinks the ocean, sinks further into the softened sand, leans back into the gale. Again and again, the waves come to her on the wind, drape themselves over her, baptise her, salt in the name of the Father, salt in the name of the Son.

  *

  When they find the Virgin, the morning is pale and weary with deliverance. She is made new, the salt blessing solid and white over her entire body, each crystal refracting the light.

  ‘My God,’ Mrs Keillor murmurs. It is Frank the ferryman who has brought them – knocked on her door and asked for her. The phones are down. The stern of the ferry is just visible across the bay, sunk at its mooring. But Father John is there, and Val. They all step back from the Virgin’s presence, find in looking at her that they can’t breathe. She has become something impossible, something larger. Somehow, she is alive. A shining pillar of salt, so bright as to almost seem a mirror. Father John says nothing.

  ‘Tell everyone,’ Mrs Keillor whispers. She kneels, her head bowed. ‘A miracle. They must all see it. They will have to believe, now. They must all come.’

  *

  Hannah leaves for work before her mother has woken. She sets out a bowl of cereal, her pills, her painkillers, everything ready for her before she goes. Outside, she wears gumboots over her trousers to feed the black horse. He is cold and miserable in the yard, head down, rug hanging to one side. She changes the rug, opens the gate and piles hay out for him, leaves him a bucket of feed, but he ignores her, doesn’t move. Eventually she chases him out, slapping his rump and yelling. He looks at the feed but doesn’t eat.

  ‘Fine. Go hungry then,’ she mutters, and leaves him.

  Coming down the hill, there is a blanket of sea mist which clings in the corners of her vision, tucks the village away. Her classroom smells dank with salt when she opens it, seeping up through the carpet with the wet air. There are broken limbs in the trees outside. She resets the tables, organises and tidies. When everything is ready, she sits. There is nothing she needs to do. But this, this sitting, feels fragile. Out the window, she can see Mrs Culliver marching towards her door. She doesn’t deviate, comes straight in.

  ‘You got through the storm?’ she asks. ‘No damage at your place?’

  ‘We were okay,’ Hannah says.

  ‘Phone tower’s come down,’ Mrs Culliver tells her. ‘And the lines are out somewhere in the bay. I warned you it’d be a big one, didn’t I? No TV, no radio, no phone. They won’t be able to fix it for weeks.’

  Hannah stands in the absence of the children and digests this. She has a sudden, overwhelming desire to call Sophie. And then she hears the voices in the car park, doors slamming, children calling.

  ‘Well,’ says Mrs Culliver. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Within seconds, the first of her pupils clatter up the steps, yawning and chattering about the storm.

  ‘Good morning,’ Hannah says. ‘Did you guys enjoy the storm?’

  One of them looks at her strangely. ‘It tore the roof off our shed. Dad was pissed.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Hannah says, awkwardly. ‘That’s no good.’

  It’s only a small group – the older boys together at the back of the room, and a couple of the younger kids. A couple more filter in as the morning rolls on, making excuses about the storm, damage, fallen branches. At least three families are still missing by the time they get to recess. She can see Mrs Culliver’s group is even smaller. Hannah exchanges a questioning glance with her across the playground, but the older woman just shrugs and keeps walking.

  The students are quiet, in the second session.

  ‘Miss,’ one of them asks, fidgeting, ‘is it true that the ferry’s sunk and we’re all stuck here?’

  Hannah sighs. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I haven’t heard that.’

  ‘Oh, it is!’ Ben insists, maliciously. ‘You could see it from the jetty. We’re not going anywhere.’

  Hannah frowns at him and opens her mouth but is distracted by Mrs Culliver appearing on the step outside, looking strained. She gestures to Hannah, waves to her to come out.

  ‘Keep going, guys,’ Hannah murmurs, and closes the classroom door behind her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Val Matthews just dropped in,’ she says. She is strangely fervent. ‘There’s been some real damage. The ferry’s sunk. And the Virgin . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ Hannah interrupts, ‘it’s true, then?’

  ‘The ferry? Yes. Who told you?’

  ‘They’re all talking about it.’

  Mrs Culliver grimaces. ‘We might have to let them go home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Virgin on the point. Val said something strange has happened to her. They’re all down there, everyone is.’ She is looking over her shoulder as she says it, towards the village, as though she might catch a glimps
e of them. Hannah waits for her, tries to hide her disgust.

  ‘We can’t close the school because there’s been some damage to a statue,’ she says, slowly, when Mrs Culliver finally looks back at her.

  ‘It’s not damage,’ she begins. ‘She didn’t say exactly . . .’

  ‘We still can’t close the school!’

  A girl comes running across from the other classroom, with one of the young kids in tow. It takes Hannah a moment to recognise her, she looks so different, excited.

  ‘Mrs Culliver,’ Jade shouts. ‘Marnie says I’m to take Pet and Sam. We’re going to see the Virgin.’ She pushes past them and sticks her head through the classroom door. ‘Sam! Come on!’ The room erupts. The boy jumps up and hastily gathers his things, stuffs his worksheet into his schoolbag.

  ‘Hold up, hold up,’ Hannah says, pulling open the door, but the girl ignores her, turns to Mrs Culliver again.

  ‘Marnie said to say she couldn’t call ‘cos of the phones.’

  Mrs Culliver nods, and Hannah swings on her, outraged, but the children have already pulled away from her, and are running across the playground, out towards the car park. Mrs Culliver just points. The dirty yellow station wagon is sitting there waiting for them. Hannah looks back into her classroom, and other children are standing now, yelling, grabbing bags and coats, ready to leave.

  ‘Should we let them all go?’ Mrs Culliver asks again.

  ‘What?’ Hannah shouts over the cacophony, her head swimming. ‘No! We can’t just let them leave!’

  ‘We need to find out what’s going on,’ Mrs Culliver mutters, already turning away. ‘I’ll go and find out. Stay here, get them inside. Take the little ones into your room, please.’

  She clatters down the steps and walks away. Bewildered, Hannah lingers a moment too long, and before she can stop them, a handful of kids are out the door and gone, running after her.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ she thunders, and the rest hesitate, scattered across the room. A couple of them start to put their bags down, but outside the younger children are running across the playground and she can feel herself losing control. Hannah panics. ‘You’re staying,’ she yells, striding over to block the door. ‘You’re staying with me!’

  She closes it behind her firmly, and darts outside to gather the little ones. They come together into a group happily, excited and flush-faced. She herds them back towards her classroom, and up the steps. Two of her own group are again halfway to the door. The older boys have disappeared.

  ‘SIT!’ she screams, livid. ‘Bags down. Back to work.’

  ‘Miss Mulvey . . .’ one girl starts.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Hannah says, ‘you can go after school.’ Her tone is ice. The kids all sit back down, pick up pencils, look concertedly down at their tables. She brings the smaller children in to sit on the floor, plies them with paper and drawing materials. They are chattering, but calmer now. The older kids are all still watching her, but not moving from their desks, sitting in a forced silence. She contemplates leaving them all a moment and going back to check the other classroom. It takes her a few minutes to build up the nerve, and even then, she has to resist the urge to lock the classroom door. When she looks in, the other room is completely deserted, the playground empty.

  The day is frenetic with the energy of holding her little group together. She is exhausted by the time it is done. But driving home, she somehow finds herself going past the church. There is no one there. It feels ominous.

  At home, her mother is waiting in the kitchen. For a moment, Hannah thinks she is talking to Sophie, feels the breath catch in her chest and rise to overtake her. But her mother turns, and the phone is dead and silent beside her. The tears start down her face without her being able to do anything about it.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she says, through them. She wipes at her face. ‘The school, Mary, you. It’s too much.’

  Her mother just stares at her. ‘You know you don’t have to stay for me,’ she says. ‘You needn’t be here.’

  Hannah inhales. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I want to be here. I’m just . . .’

  Her mother says nothing. Her lips are a tight line.

  ‘Really,’ Hannah says again, desperately trying to control herself. ‘I want to. I’m just exhausted, and it’s all . . . Today was crazy.’

  Her mother just sighs, drags herself upright. ‘You know the ferry’s sunk?’ she says. ‘And the phone’s down. Mrs Keillor called in. She was going round to everyone. Will you take me down to the village? I want to see it.’

  Hannah feels herself sinking. ‘See what?’ she asks, but she knows what is coming.

  ‘The Virgin on the point. She’s changed in the storm. They’re saying it’s a miracle. Like Lourdes. Take me. They’re all down there.’

  Her tone is fierce, certain. Hannah looks at her mother standing in the kitchen, just there, timeless, as she always used to be, and has to resist the impulse to rest her forehead on her mother’s shoulder. I’m sorry, she wants to whisper.

  She sighs. ‘Okay. We’ll go.’

  *

  Father John stands on the edge of the point. The sand around him is damp and heavy. Before him, the Virgin is leant back, her face looking to the heavens, and the light brilliant from her skin. Around her feet, the women are again bent in supplication, kneeling as they did for the parade, but this time no one smiles or laughs, no one complains of knees or hips, there is only a thin keening and murmured prayer. Something has shifted, he realises. His wife is there, her face drawn with the ecstasy of it. She is standing beside them not him, with them not him, and it scares him. The procession of bodies presses on, people coming and kneeling, rising, stepping back, coming forward again. Cars pull up, more people arrive. Some hang back, most clamour forward. They are like waves, he thinks. They come before him, too, bow their heads for his blessing. The sun crosses the sky, and the afternoon tears on. Still he stands there, still they come. The Virgin bakes and shines.

  This is not linear, he thinks. There is no progression. They circle around him and before him, around the Virgin. They murmur in surprise, whisper prayers and incredulity. They come again and again.

  Mrs Keillor approaches him. ‘Please,’ she says, her hands reaching past him to the surf, brown and uneasy. ‘Please, I want to be new again. Baptise me. I want to be baptised again.’ Tears are running down her face; she is vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen her before.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and turns, and the whole body of them follow him down to the edge of the water. He wades forward until he is thigh deep, and the waves make him stagger. Mrs Keillor follows, and he holds her and tilts her backwards into the wash. She gasps, shudders, and he brings her to the surface. It is freezing cold.

  ‘Water cleanses,’ he says, and she is limp in his arms. ‘Water purifies, refreshes, sustains. Jesus Christ is living water.’ He pulls her upright, draws the cross on her forehead, holds his hand there above her brow. ‘Through baptism Christ calls us to new obedience: to love and trust God completely, to live a new and holy life, for baptism is the sign and seal of God’s eternal covenant of grace with us.’

  She is crying openly as she lurches back out to the beach. Betty Smith comes forward. Above them, the Virgin is a beacon. He starts to shiver. Again he dips her, again he says the words. More come forward. The surf rises and pulls at his legs, the sand slips beneath him. There is a moment, standing clear, his clothes wet and clinging to his body, when he realises distinctly that this has not been planned. There is nothing holding them in place, no one telling them what to do. They are not small anymore, they no longer need his guidance. They are more like cattle, heavy with impotence, dangerous in their weight. Waves come in and out. Still, the people gather. Hours? Days? He cannot stop seeing them as animal. Their faces blur, and he realises he knows none of them, these people are all new, all strange to him, still coming, always coming down into the water.

  Mary appears at the water’s edge. He sees her again dressed in
the blue robe of the parade. They bear her down to him, two of them, carrying her; gently, gently they lay her in the water.

  ‘Water cleanses,’ he says.

  She has sand down her face. She is rigid in their arms.

  ‘Water purifies. Jesus Christ is living water.’

  On the shore, his wife looks down at him. She is pleading, begging him, her arms open, shining with light.

  THE SALT, THE SALT. It was a powerful sight. I drove down there with my mother stiff in the seat beside me. I pulled the car in as close as I could in the chaos of vehicles lined up along the road. There were cars, bicycles, people, no order. A man I didn’t recognise helped me take her up to the Virgin, gave her another arm to lean on.

  ‘Come on, come,’ he was saying. ‘You have to see.’

  I felt my mother relax against me as the statue came into sight, I felt her yield and surrender. The Virgin was like a mirror – we all saw in her what we wanted to. Mrs Keillor saw her as a miracle. Darcy told me later he saw her as something unnatural, something growing wrong, like a cancer or a mutation coming out of the earth, the water. Salt-borne and strange. He wouldn’t go near her. I saw her as ancient and tired. I couldn’t stop seeing how it had changed her face, made it sharp, clear and unblemished, but old, so old.

  Mary would be over thirty, now. It is so difficult to see it – to imagine her face as adult, worn, wrinkles and blemishes to her skin. Or perhaps she is still a mirror, and it is myself I am struggling to imagine.