Salome: part 1.

Chapter 2: The journey begins in Genoa.

Welcome to chapter 2 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 introduced us to her life in a priory near Turin. A close encounter with a demon resulted in her departure from the priory she’d lived in most of her life. With Father John as her guide, Salome learns of what has happened, and what is to come. We also learn that Salome carries another secret that will hinder her progress. If you haven’t read chapter 1 yet, click the button below:

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My journey began in earnest in Genoa.

By day, the sun illuminated the clay-tiled rooftops, the small birds sang amid bustling transport, smoking chimneys and markets flooded with people. By night, the port was possessed by a different spirit. Father John remained at my side as we headed to the docks. I could not see his face under the brim of his wide hat, but his rigidity as he walked alongside me made me aware of every alley, every window, every pair of wide, starving eyes reflecting light in the shadow. I dared not look behind me in the cobbled labyrinth of streets leading to our ship; I would not lose my way. Father John focused his face straight ahead toward the sea, and I followed, clutching the heavy book to my chest as though it would protect me from those responsible for the hairs on the back of my neck standing erect.

No longer were the streets filled with hawkers, construction workers and street urchins. The cries of infants and coughs of the sick came from inside the buildings, and the shutters on most of them were closed, awnings above doors drawn back. The bells of a nearby church tolled as I looked up at the street lamps guiding us further south. The laughter of two young women startled me. I quickly turned to see them scurrying out of an alleyway, a young man in pursuit. I heard Father John mutter something under his breath. Perhaps he thought they were foolish. I thought they were foolish, too. How could they not feel it? Even the mouse, who could be the most timid and simple of God’s creatures, knew when the cat was near. The closer we were to the ship, the greater our danger.

The port itself was miserable, full of miserable people, some of whom pleaded for help as travellers passed them. The spring wind had been warm a few hours before, but by the sea it was stronger, carrying a bitterness that pinched my face. The peasants near the docks begged on their knees, their hands open, their clothing ragged. One woman had sores around her mouth and eyes, and it was difficult to look at her. She wanted food, money, and water. She was no different to the others when it came to what she required, but I couldn’t look away from her. In my pocket I had a small parcel of bread and cheese left over from my breakfast. I moved the book into my right arm and held it tightly as I found the remnants of my breakfast with my left hand. I gave it to her, still wrapped in cloth. She looked up at me gratefully, the street lamp showing me more of her face. On closer inspection, I could see that the sores were accompanied by bruises. I wondered if she had become the victim of the vices that consumed others around her. Her nose, slightly misshapen and cut between the eyes, had been broken. She thanked me with a bowed head as though she felt my eyes on her, and she scurried away with it clutched to her chest. If she had children to feed, my pitiful donation wouldn’t be enough.

I hurried on to catch up with Father John, who didn’t seem to have noticed that I’d stopped.

The rest of the scene was as harrowing as the beaten woman. Most of the men on the street were drunk, or fighting, or worse—as still as stone, slumped against walls. Passengers spilled out of waiting rooms and hotels, bags and boxes shoving sharp angles into the ribs and backs of the people in the coagulating crowd. Carabinieri blew their whistles, no doubt intervening in the violence unravelling in the taverns behind me. Sailors, eager to get away from the scene, threw their sacks over their shoulders and in a fashion I can only assume was an attempt at pretending to be sober, walked airily up the gangways of various ships, their caps barely handing on to the crowns of their heads. I heard the great chains clank as sailors winched them from the black water, and I watched heavy anchors emerge from the black depths. So many ships were leaving after waiting out an earlier storm, their sails open like the pale wings of a gull, their white cloth glowing in the moonlight. Steam erupted from the chimneys as various large vessels sailed away into the distance, eventually falling into the shadow of the lighthouse. I slipped behind Father John as though his larger frame would protect me from the chaos ahead. I did not know which ship was ours, and the drunk people were loud and unpredictable. I wanted to go home, but the heaviness in the pit of my stomach told me that I was never going home. This ship would determine my future, and all I could do was pray that it would carry me there safely.

After a few more minutes of shuffling on behind my guide, Father John led us to a gangway attached to a small ship called Vittoria. The pungent, salty scent of bilge made my nose curl. I covered my mouth and nose with my handkerchief in a desperate attempt not to retch.

I remember my heart throbbing at the back of my throat as we ascended Vittoria’s gangway. Two members of her crew were forcefully escorting a drunk man away from the ship, the onlookers moving out of the way quickly as the man scrambled and lashed out. One woman gasped as her husband’s hat was knocked off in the frey. Father John retrieved it for him and returned it gracefully, unruffled by the chaos. I looked down at a little boy who could have been my reflection in a mirror, the fear on his face was so palpable. He was clutching his mother’s hand while her husband handed their papers to the captain. I noticed he was looking up at me, and I smiled as kindly as I could. I would not let him see the fear in my own eyes even if it was all so strange to me, too.

The ship, although not as large as some of the steamers we’d seen leave the riviera already, was enormous to me. I peered up at the towering chimneys, and down at the long deck. I followed Father John down a creaking wooden staircase to the decks below. He had to lower his head so as to not hit it on the beams. Though not as tall as Father John, I felt naturally inclined to stoop too, just in case anything caught my veil.

When Father John had put my single, small bag beside my little bed, he informed me that he would see me at supper. His room was three doors down and there was a small dining room opposite my cabin. The ship was so noisy, either with passengers and crew moving on the planks above me or the whirr of the engines. I later learned that there were men in the deck below me, their duty to shovel coal into the furnace for the duration of our journey; the sails were an emergency backup in the event of engine trouble. So many things could go wrong, and yet nothing did.

I carried the heavy book to my bed and sat down with it on my lap. There was a little lamp attached to the bulkhead above. I was grateful for its glow, albeit weak and threatening to snuff itself out at any moment. It was there, and I could make use of it.

We had been travelling for two days and I was tired. The clock above the door showed the hands of nine o’clock. Supper was at ten. I hadn’t eaten since before dawn, and now it was very late. I decided that I would pray before resting my feet. I moved the great book off my lap and placed it on the pillow. Its heaviness felt symbolic; there was so much still to learn.

On the road, Father John had mostly remained silent when I was looking through page after page in the coach. He did not try to encourage conversation about our journey, and to my relief he did not ask about the text that I held open on my lap. He could have asked at any moment, because the book was beautiful. I had never seen anything like it. I felt that I should show willingness, as for all I knew, he would be returning to the priory or writing to Reverend Mother to report on how I fared. For hours, my head was bent over the pages, my eyes fixed on the revelations before me. I had the presence of mind to cover it any time we were around others, as the images were of demons and other monsters I am certain would have surprised onlookers, especially in the hands of a nun. Father John would look around when the people had passed us, but he said not a word about the book to me. I am sure that he would have been pleased to see me taking the task of my study so seriously.

But Father John did not know that it was all a lie. He did not know that all I was capable of doing was looking at the illustrations, trying to understand what they meant and what relation they had to the beautifully written words on the page.

My stomach muscles tightened. The shame, eventually finding me, drowned me in that hot, sickly sensation of fear that I so often had in those days. I began to cry.

I would have confessed all to Reverend Mother, but not once had she ever asked. I was never subjected to intensive study in a schoolroom. I suppose that it wasn’t important. I did my duties well, but anyone can scrub the floor and dust the tabernacle. In churches, they gave those roles to lay people. In convents, these tasks were easily completed by my sisters or those they cared for in return for food and shelter. I learned from Father John that I was there for my own protection more than for any significant service. I felt foolish for never having noticed. The other sisters engaged in extensive study, whereas I would be gardening or cleaning. When we were together again, I would be sewing or knitting while listening to them read aloud. Things would be different from now on.

Where we were going, I was expected to demonstrate autonomy and self-reliance in my studies. There would be no one to read to me, because I was no longer a child. I was no longer a beggar in a threadbare dress. I was no longer able to conceal myself within a sanctuary where the Bible was the only book I needed to know the meaning of.

I could not tell Father John my secret. I could not tell anyone.

But the impossible situation unravelled before me like spilled rice in long grass. Try as I may, I would not be able to pick up every piece and get it back into the bag. Such messes were of my own creation. Because of my fear and my pride, I dared not tell a soul that the bag was splitting with the burdening weight.

How was I to conduct my studies and join the cause of defeating the Devil if I could not read?

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