Salome: Episode 6.
It was a strange feeling: homesickness mixed with anger and paranoia.
Welcome to chapter 6 of Salome, a Muldoon spin-off story. This is a Gothic Horror novel 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 the story of Polidori’s The Vampyre in an English lesson with Father John.
As different as it was from life in Turin, my life in Liverpool was starting to fall into a rhythm. The days began early, and they ended late. I was frequently tired, but happy in my work.
It was an ugly city even in spring: the sky always a metallic grey, or when clear and blue, always windy. On the streets, we frequently saw beggars, some incredibly young. I had been given a map to guide them to the nearest hospitals or poor houses, but they already knew, and simply did not wish to go to them. The realisation saddened me, but we could only guide. I had no desire to force them, and nor did my sisters.
We would frequently walk around the area and return with watering eyes from the bitter wind. My veil flapped about so unceremoniously that I felt I couldn’t walk without one hand on my head and another clutching my robes. The walk up to Jamaica Street often resulted in a visit to the church, which was a welcome change from the breeze outside. Inside, the flames of the candles remained still, and their stained glass windows demonstrated no stress with the elements outside. I liked coming here. Sometimes Father John stood in for the priest and delivered mass; and as a few of us followed him everywhere like a gaggle of goslings, we went along too. It was a way of us getting to know the local congregation, not that we would serve them directly. I was always within a pod of the younger nuns; Catherine and myself, and five other girls.
Strongly encouraged by Sister Bridget to explore the city and take exercise outside like our older peers did, we would channel our reluctance by strictly sticking to the same perimeter of streets and return home as quickly as we could. Sister Bridget, not impressed with the short duration, would then take to sending us on various errands: the chandlers, for more candles, the grocer’s shop for wine, and the butcher’s for some chicken livers for the cat. She could not understand why we were so reluctant, and we could never tell her that our nervousness stemmed from one incident a few days’ prior near a row of warehouses, when we crossed paths with an unsavoury character. The assailant was a very drunk man who, whether he realised or not, opened his coat mid-ramble, revealing all the likeness of Adam under there. Sister Celeste screamed and made a run for it, the candlesticks swinging and smashing into each other as she altered her gait. The rest of us followed in shock, falling over ourselves as we tried to retrieve loose candles from the pavement. Sister Catherine, after a few days, joked that he would not have done that to the older sisters, for she was sure they carried thick slippers as well as sharp tongues.
Looking back now, I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all. One would hardly believe that we were there to fight demons and vampyres, but a naked drunk man was enough to send us running home screaming. The folly of youth! Our silent promises to do better we made to each other by way of collective courage on the next outing, and the next. We never saw the drunk man again, but we were always prepared when we turned each corner. I was determined to help him, should I see the poor wretch again, but I never did.
The noise from the Mersey was a lot to get used to, as was the noise from the warehouses and factories around us. The thick smoke gifted me a persistent cough, but thankfully I was not ill. Perhaps the place had hardened me. I pined for medieval stone walls, old churchyards and woodland walks. I took silence for granted in Turin; now it was as rare as a white fly. Finding no such thing as quiet in this empire of steel and smoke, I busied myself with getting to know as many of my peers as possible, and by familiarising myself with every corner of this great brick house.
This building was never empty. My sisters were of all ages: the youngest being fourteen and the eldest in her eighties. Sister Therese, being the oldest and no longer able to go around the city on duty, served as the librarian, although I had never seen the library she professed to be managing. She seemed friendly enough, although she never responded to morning greetings if she wasn’t looking at you while you said them. Sometimes when the incessant whirr of the sawmill made me clench my teeth, I envied Sister Therese’s blissful gift of hearing loss. I wanted very much to go into this mysterious library and apprentice myself to her, just for a change of scenery. I suspected that it was behind one of the locked doors I’d passed on my first evening here, for Father John never came downstairs with his books; he always entered the dining room from the corridor.
Our house was not ornately furnished; it was as it was meant to be. The rooms were welcoming enough, and it was comfortable. We ate good meals in the refectory: eggs, porridge, broth and our own bread. Sometimes we would have a hard, crumbly white cheese they called Cheshire. It was mild in taste but it was served with everything. It lacked the tang of soft goats cheese, but I grew to like it. On particularly hard days, if I heard that we were having scouse, my soul lit up. I started to crave the mysterious brown bowl, whether it had meat in it or not. I still could not decide if I preferred the pickled beetroot to the cabbage, however. Sister Catherine would smirk when I scooped a tablespoon of each onto my food.
The other sisters slept in the dormitories that made up most of the other bedrooms. There were five or six dormitories on each of the upper floors. Father John had his own guest room on the ground floor near the kitchen. I was on the first floor in a tiny room. I wondered if I was kept separate until I was sure that this was the right place for me, or if the Reverend Mother was sure if she wanted me to work there. The little cat, Jethro, often visited my room, spending some time on the bed before doing the same across the dormitories. He was a wild but friendly little thing. It was only when I was bringing bed sheets up to the second floor once that I noticed he never went near the third floor staircase. Neither did I, but only because I was never instructed to go up there. It was not my home yet, and I gave it the same lack of independent exploration as any good-mannered guest. Jethro hurried past the bottom stair, or if he did stay, he would look up the steps with caution, sometimes darting away with a bristling tail. Every now and then, I myself stood at the foot of the staircase, but it was dark up there, and I was not invited. Storage, perhaps.
I used the time waiting to meet the Reverend Mother by learning more conversational English, reading some Latin, and when my mind was tired of that, I spent the rest of it listening to Father John read from the book of St Scholastica. He had insisted that I should try and read some of it independently, but his voice was soothing, even if the topic we were reading was not.
After a considerable amount of English lessons, I was able to learn more about my peers and their lives. Catherine was one of twelve children, five of them given to the Church. Her brothers were both priests in Ireland, and one of her sisters was also serving as a Benedictine nun in Liverpool, but not with us. She worked in another convent. Catherine asked about my brothers and sisters, to which I told her what little I could remember of Francesco.
“It is fortuitous that you dream of him,” she said one day, sweeping the kitchen floor. “I cannot remember my brothers. They were much older than I am.”
I told her that Francesco was probably still in Italy, but I knew nothing. “You are very easy to read,” she said once. “It saddens you.”
I could not deny it. I wiped away a tear and nodded. Catherine stopped sweeping for a moment. “I will pray that he is living with good people. Perhaps he even has a family of his own.”
“Perhaps he does.”
“Why don’t you try and write to him? Did you say that he is in Turin still?”
“Turin is where he most likely would be. Or Genoa.”
“Perhaps you could write to your Reverend Mother. Maybe she knows.”
If she did know, she kept it a secret from me for over ten years. The thought sat heavy as I wrung out my cloth.
It was a strange feeling: homesickness mixed with anger and paranoia. What if she knew? What if she knew and decided to never let me see him? I dismissed the thought. She would never keep such things from me. Reverend Mother loved me like a child, and I trusted her as I would trust my own mother. The separation was poisoning my thoughts and memories. I quickly brought the damp cloth back into one hand and went to work.
I would find out all I needed to know about my next phase of work when I finally met Mother Hildegard van den Berg.
When she returned to Norfolk Street, I was downstairs in the chapel. Two votive candles flickered on the stand: one for my mother, and one for my father. I did not have time to light more, as Sister Bridget came down to collect me not long after I’d finished my prayer.
Mother Hildegard’s office was on the first floor, the view from her window consisting of Queens Dock and the great, grey river. She was standing over her desk when I entered.
A tall, severe-looking woman, Mother Hildegard was silhouetted by the morning light outside of her window. “Good morning, Sister Salome,” she said, her voice high pitched and heavily coloured by her Dutch accent. She came from behind the desk and nodded to me. I replied in English, and her face broke into a smile.
“I see you have been learning English,” she said, “very good.”
I nodded.
“I have questions to ask you. Would you like me to fetch Father John to translate?”
“If it… if it is all right, Mother, I can try.”
“Very well.” She pointed to the chair and invited me to sit, returning to her own chair opposite. On her desk, there was a vibrant bloom of cut flowers in a glass vase. They were bright yellow, each with large petals and a frilled orange trumpet in the centre. I recognised them, but I couldn’t remember the name. Although with their colour they brought me an immediate sense of joy, they did not smell particularly pleasant. I tried not to notice them.
My impulsive tongue wanted to ask what was on the third floor, but Hildegard was no Father John, and I sensed I would not be permitted so many questions, especially when she had many for me.
She had been reading through Father John’s notes on my performance. I had not been aware that such a thing existed, but she read through it and raised various points with me. “You encountered a demon in Turin?”
“I did.”
“And were you afraid?”
“Mostly.”
“That demon came quite close to you, did it not?”
“I suppose so.”
“A yes or no will do.”
“Yes.”
She seemed quite satisfied and crossed her hands on the desk and asked me more questions about myself, my family and my life before Liverpool. “The work ahead of you will be harder than changing bed sheets or emptying chamber pots.”
“Yes.”
“I will be honest with you, Sister Salome: you are a stranger to me, and I do not yet trust you with the knowledge of the order. I am responsible for many lives, and I will never risk their safety.” She looked at me down her great, aquiline nose and paused for a moment. It was an uncomfortably long wait until she spoke again. “Even if you are one of us in body and soul, your mettle will be tested to ensure you’re the right fit for life here. At the moment, I cannot say that you are suitable.”
“Mother?”
“One moment.” She rose from the seat and went to the door, opening it. “Mr Vickers,” she called into the hallway.
I turned slightly in the chair to see who was coming. A middle-aged man in a great overcoat came in, his pipe hanging from his mouth. After a few seconds of listening to my heart pounding in my ears, I realised that I had forgotten how to breathe.
Mother Hildegard brought the man into the room. He bowed slightly and smiled. He was fully dressed, wearing polished boots and a flat cap that he then removed.
“Sister Salome,” she said, addressing me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the man. He was clean-shaven now, with his brown hair combed back in an agreeable fashion. “Have you seen this man before?”
“Yes.”
“He was drunk, was he not?”
“Yes.”
“And when you were faced with him, you ran away, did you not?”
We all did. However, the focus was on my actions. My tongue felt too large for my mouth. “Yes,” I squeaked.
“Mr Vickers works for us, Sister. Your first test was street sense, and you failed.”
My heart sank.
“When presented with a naked, vulnerable man on the street, you ran away.”
The shame burned my neck and my cheeks. I cast my eyes down, not knowing what to say. Mother Hildegard wasn’t looking for a response. She continued, “If a defenceless drunk man is enough to frighten you… what power do you have in the face of the Devil?”
“None, Mother.”
“None, that is correct.”
She politely dismissed Mr Vickers who bowed to us both and left as silently as he came. When the door was closed, she returned to her desk. “Do you see what I am up against? I have a pack of novice nuns who are just as much use as a chocolate fire guard.” she waved a hand dismissively. “At the moment, it would save me a lot of time and expense if I sent you all back to where you came from.”
I said nothing.
“‘I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me’... does this ring any bells for you, Sister Salome?”
“Yes. Matthe—”
“I do not care where it comes from,” she snapped. “I care about what it means to you. What does it mean?”
“That, just as Christ would, I am serving God through helping those who need it most.”
She sighed, seemingly pleased that I knew something after all. “While this incident was in no way a real incident involving someone in need, you did demonstrate that you are not ready. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She sat down, her voice softening: “If you want to defeat what rises from the underworld, you need to be unshakeable in our world. This city is full of drunks, whores, beggars, pedlars, thieves and God only knows what else. You must be able to withstand anything it throws at you. What, Sister, would have been a better course of action?”
“To ask him if he needed help?”
“To insist that he needed help, yes.” She raised her eyebrows. “I was looking for a natural leader among you, and I did not find one.” She leaned back in her chair and linked her fingers across her lap. “Every day is a test, Sister Salome. Fail, and you will return to Turin.”
She studied my face, “Do you wish to return to Turin?”
“That was not the plan—”
“Yes, yes…,” she said impatiently, “but is it your wish?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly, not seeming to be convinced. “Very well. You may go now.”
I quietly returned to my own room, closing the door surreptitiously so she wouldn’t hear. I collapsed onto my bed, burying hot tears into the pillow.
If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.
My books are now available at Tiny Worlds
Tough test for vulnerable young women in a strange city!
I absolutely would have failed the test.