Salome: Episode 5.

Polidori.

Welcome to chapter 5 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is set in the late 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.

Last week, Salome learned arrived in Liverpool, and tried Scouse for the first time.

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Sister Bridget was short, round and delightfully warm toward me. An older lady, the creases around her eyes were deep, because she was one of those people who smiled as often as was possible. I still believe to this day that our souls can speak, and hers spoke to me kindly. I received a brief, shaded tour of the building before she escorted me to my own room. There were so many stairs. Hard, stone stairs that were incredibly steep, and five staircases. I was young and fit, but I did wonder what would happen to sisters here as they grew older. It was more like a very large house at the front, but at the back there was a warehouse, a library, a gymnasium and several workrooms. She showed me the refectory—a long, glass-ceilinged dining hall. This was where all meals would be taken. The dining room I ate supper in was usually just for guests or private meetings between the Reverend Mother and other superior members of the clergy. The refectory was still pleasant enough; carpets were laid out across the stone floor, with some parlour palms adding character to the blandness. I imagined it would look more welcoming in the morning. We briefly stepped into the kitchen where I was shown the adjoining laundry room. I understood from Sister Bridget’s gestures that this was where we gathered our water for washing. She pointed to a pewter pitcher and basin, nodding when I went to it and picked it up. I was to carry it to my room, I understood. In my mind, I tried to make a note of where everything was in this labyrinth. We passed more rooms with closed doors, and she didn’t open them for me. I assumed they were of no significance at that moment, and could be explored another time. At this point, my purpose in this great house was still not abundantly clear.

The corridors were dark and still lit by sconces. I later learned that while electric light was available in some buildings in the city, the sisters did not have it within their allowance to install it in Norfolk Street. Despite the strange, new surroundings and the occasional thought of the demonic Cecilia bleeding onto the floor of her room, I was able to sleep for some of the time I spent in my new quarters.

In the darkness of the previous night, I did not notice that we were mostly surrounded by factories, with the river on the right when you looked out of the main entrance. In the daylight, it was a very industrial scene. There were no red rooftops like in Genoa. Everything was grey, or black. Even the sandstone which Father John informed me had once been tan, or even red, was now brushed with soot from the chimneys. The window in my bedroom was thin, and rather than wake to the sound of birdsong like I did at home, my morning herald was now the sawmill on the other side of the street. In my first week of living there, I felt the only trees around were the ones that were now being sawed up or fixed to the passing ships in the form of masts. I felt so small in such a large, busy place.

The nearest church was St Vincent de Paul on Jamaica Street, but Father John informed me that although we could go along to services and take confession there, we had a small chapel downstairs on the other side of the courtyard. We did not work in any particular church or chapel. We did not work in any particular workhouse or school. What we were supposed to be doing remained a mystery to me in the first few weeks. I had arrived in the middle of Lent, so I joined my sisters in prayer and fasting as we prepared for Easter.

I met the other sisters across the course of the first couple of days. Most of them were English or Irish, and aside from me now being able to say the English pleasantries such as good morning, good evening and the customary please and thank you, the language barrier prevented much further engagement. We would sit and sew together in silence, and of course prayer outside of Church was in our own languages, but I found myself listening intently in the hope of recognising patterns.

Language, I discovered, was only a small part of making friends.

Sister Catherine accompanied me during many of my tasks. She was Irish, long-limbed and regularly chastised for talking during periods of contemplation. Catherine was not disobedient; there was nothing rebellious in her demeanour, but she struggled to follow the strict rules of the convent most of the time. A raw impulsiveness was her personality rather than the desire to object. She had been there for two years longer than I had, and I think Sister Bridget understood her well. Rather than use the cane, Sister Bridget would simply instruct her to say more prayers in isolation, which she always did. Catherine could not speak a word of Italian, and my English was far from conversable, but there was an invisible thread that held us together as we washed, laundered and cleaned rooms. She was a plain-faced girl, sometimes with a vacant look across her eyes, especially during lectures. I wondered where she visited during those long hours. Sometimes when she was confined in isolation, I would sneak a biscuit or scone through the hatch. I knew that she liked them, and she often missed dinner because of her inability to sit still or be quiet for long periods of time. Sister Bridget caught me coming down the corridor once, but she did not challenge me, even if I truly had no business there. I always had a damp cloth in my hand, ready and waiting to testify for my plea of dusting out of hours. Sister Bridget, although she never said anything, knew it was a ruse; the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Mother Hildegard Van Den Berg was not at home for a few weeks, and I depended on Sister Bridget for direction of my daily tasks. I did not require instruction when it came to scrubbing the floor, dusting or making beds; I had done as much in Turin. They did not like me opening the windows when I was cleaning though. One morning, a cold gust of wind blew in and knocked a vase of flowers over. The embarrassment was enough to ensure that I was more careful in future.

It was agreed that I met with Father John for two hours a day in the private dining room for study. He had chosen an English book for me to read. Though it was only short, it was a strange book, by a man named Polidori. With an Italian surname like that, I naively expected the book to be written in Italian, but it was written in English. Father John insisted that it was a suitable text for our studies, and that I’d grow to find it of use. The Book Of St Scholastica would have to wait. Father John read beautifully, always patient and checking to see if I was still following. As he had predicted, I found the story entrancing, and listened intently as he read.

It was always with the same unchanging face with which he generally watched the society around: it was not however, so when he encountered the rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish seemed fortune’s law—this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse.

Now it was my turn. Learning English was arduous. Father John would read a passage to me, and then he would show me the words, reading them slowly. I started writing them down in the hope that they would register easily, but he assured me that it was only when I started reading aloud would I get a feel for the language.

Aubrey’s eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, though thoughtless girl.

I saw again in my mind the girls laughing as they ran out of an alley in Genoa, and my eyes widened. I did not see the young man’s face that night, because he was hiding it from us. I remembered that I had seen eyes reflecting light, blinking at us from the darkness. What did Father John mutter? He must have been keeping us safe, and perhaps even the girls. Whatever he had said did not change the fact that I had seen one! A vampyre. The mix of fear, excitement and adrenaline bubbled in my stomach.

“They have always been around you,” Father John said. He could not read minds, he said, but he could read faces, and a face such as mine was an open book. “Since the dawn of time, there have been monsters,” he said. I thought of Sister Cecilia again. An Agent of Chaos, hiding in plain sight. Temptation lurking within the ranks of the most devout.

I continued reading with Father John.

His character was dreadfully vicious, for that possession of irresistible powers of sedition, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society.

“Father,” I asked, “are all vampyres… men?”

“Not always. They can be women also. In fact, a female vampyre can present a greater danger. Women, we see as gentle, and would let into our homes or near our children. If a woman is a daughter of Eve, the vampyress is a daughter of Lilith.”

“Can you tell me about Lilith?”

“I will, but now, we will finish this story.”

I found myself entranced by Polidori’s tale of the vampyre, and like a child I wanted to ask question after question. Father John assured me that there would be time to discuss the story afterwards. It was a dark tale, fictional of course, but I sensed there was more lurking between the lines.

“How did Polidori die?” I asked at the end.

“Polidori? The story is not about Polidori?”

“What if it is?”

Father John looked at me askance, “Lord, what have I done?” he asked. He sighed and closed the book. “Polidori was found dead in his home aged five and twenty.”

I gasped.

He nodded gravely. “They suggested it was natural causes… but Polidori was also a gambler.”

“The vampyre bled him dry,” I said.

There was a pause before Father John erupted into laughter. “Very good.”

I didn’t understand why it was so funny, until he congratulated me on my first use of an English idiom.

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