Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“Perfect,” the abbess replied. “We serve a small community down in the village. It is a backward place and the women have many problems they can share only with us.”

“But I can’t speak Greek,” Clarissa interrupted, visions of wildly gesturing peasants flooding her mind.

“Even better.” The old woman patted her hand and left.

The next day Clarissa was driven down to the village that nestled at the foot of an extinct volcano beside the small harbor. She was introduced to Pater Dimitri, the local priest. A rosy-faced man in his midfifties who walked with the bounce of the perpetual enthusiast, Dimitri was in charge of the whitewashed church. He walked her through, showing her with obvious pride the garish locally carved crucifix with lurid blood oozing from the feet and hands and thorn-pierced forehead.

“Every year on Saint Barbara’s day we have the holy relic procession. We bring her down from the convent in a cart, parade her through the streets, and every woman comes to be blessed,” the priest declared grandly, breathing a noxious mixture of garlic and peppermints over her.

He also told her about the villagers; how behind the facades of the brightly painted houses lay real poverty, with many of the families barely able to afford to send their children to school. After fourteen most of them worked on the fishing boats or beside their mothers at the factory. Any extra cash came from tourism, but these islanders were deeply religious people who didn’t care to have their beaches polluted with naked German backpackers or their cafés invaded by loud sunburned Englishmen. They had placed an embargo on the pleasure cruises that stopped off at many of the other islands; consequently their economy had stopped growing. The main medical authority on the island was an herbalist who was rumored to be over a hundred years old. To see a conventional doctor one had to travel to nearby Donousa. It was as if time itself had been frozen. Many of the women, even the younger ones, still wore the traditional headscarf and modest long-sleeved blouses. There was one satellite dish, perched awkwardly on top of the main café, but it was used solely to watch soccer matches or the Eurovision song contest. The locals studiously avoided any coverage of international news or politics. They were a closed, superstitious clan determined to cling onto tradition.

Later he took Clarissa to the cannery where the village women worked, twisting thin sheets of tin into cans for the sardines their husbands caught in the bay. The cannery was little more than a glorified shed with an aluminum roof and hardboard walls. In one corner squatted the cutting machine; it looked as if it dated from the 1950s. An enormous woman dressed in a black frock, her hair covered by a scarlet stained bandanna, studiously fed the machine with long strips of glittering tin, her huge forearms shining with fish oil. There were two other machines spitting out the bent metal that made up the sides of the cans while another punched the pieces together, pushing them along a conveyor belt to collect like shimmering waves at the end of a table where women of all ages sat ladling sardines into the cans. The smell—a concoction of fish, perfume, and sweat—was overwhelming. The women, chatting brightly among themselves, seemed immune to both the noise and the stench. Their gestures, automated from years of practice, had a mechanical beauty that juxtaposed strangely with their animated faces, their lips splitting like fruit in laughter. The workers themselves resembled some arcane grouping, and reminded Clarissa of a Rembrandt painting she’d seen—a Biblical gathering of worshippers, the luminous features of adolescents peeping over the heads of wizened matriarchs, the young mothers still supple with an olive beauty. Hope and misery traced across all their faces.

On a wall Clarissa noticed a board wallpapered with postcards from all over the world: family who had escaped to become migrants now living in far-off places like Canada, America, South America, Australia. With a pang of patriotism Clarissa noticed a postcard of the Sydney Opera House sandwiched against one from Yellowstone Park. Another, from Brisbane, showed a bizarre montage of a giant koala clutching an ultramodern tower block with the word Bridgeport emblazoned across it. Clarissa recognized the building from an article she had read in the Qantas magazine on the flight over.

She stood lost among the noisy machines, shyly turning from one face to another, uncertain about whom to approach.

“Hello, you holy sister,” a kid said cheekily, looming out of the shadows, his face smeared with sardine oil. “I am Georgio, your official translator. Any problems, these women will tell me and I will tell you in English. Yes?”

The boy sat down next to her. A bell rang and the machines stopped. Instantly the factory was filled with the sound of the sea. The women lovingly covered the machines with brightly colored cloths, kissed the plastic statue of the Madonna that stood at the base of the largest piece of equipment, then politely formed a queue in front of Clarissa and Georgio.

There was Maria, whose husband was a philanderer; Effie, who didn’t want a seventh child but who also didn’t want to offend God; and an octogenarian called Sofia, who claimed that her dead husband had been sexually harassing her in her dreams. “I didn’t want him when he was alive and I don’t want him now!” she squawked, sending the other women into great peals of laughter.

Clarissa suggested natural birth control, emphasized the importance of communication with the men and lastly the sustaining power of prayer. But she struggled, trying to sound authoritative as she talked about the omnipresence of God. The village women, infinitely more experienced in matters of life, love, and death, stared skeptically at the pale Australian nun who sweated under her habit. They could smell the festering doubt. They could see the disbelief in her eyes as she blessed them with trembling hands. But as obedient Catholics who respected their Mother Superior on the mountain, they crossed themselves anyway, consoling themselves with the thought that miracles could come in many guises.

At the end of the afternoon Clarissa, exhausted, stood up on shaky legs. Georgio, seeing that she was about to faint, rushed out and brought back a bowl of ice he’d stolen from the storage unit at the back of the factory. The ice stank of fish but Clarissa didn’t care. She pressed the cubes to her neck and forehead. It felt delicious. Just then a beautiful girl, her aquiline features half-hidden by a headscarf, approached the nun timidly.

“Please, please, I can’t have baby. I must. For four years I have been married, no children. Please?”

Clarissa looked at Georgio questioningly.

“She is…infertile. You bless her and she will have baby, yes?” He indicated the girl’s abdomen. Clarissa glanced at her; her black eyes were full of blind faith. Suddenly the nun felt nauseated by the responsibility of creating false hope.

“Tell her I can’t help. She should see a fertility expert on the mainland.”

Clarissa turned away; Georgio grabbed her sleeve.

“No! She has seen one. You are her last chance. God will fix her. Please, she is my sister,” he pleaded.

Wearily Clarissa laid her hands on the young girl’s stomach.

“Holy Mary, mother of God, please bless this woman, make her whole and able to bear a child,” Clarissa muttered, feeling like a total fraud, then added a few words in Latin for effect. The girl was close to tears as she covered the nun’s hands with kisses.

Weeks passed quickly, more quickly than Clarissa would have thought possible in a place where time was measured only by the changing of the light and the seasons. She adapted to the spartan routine of her fellow sisters, to the simple food, to the ringing of the convent’s bell four times a day calling the nuns to prayer. She even started to learn a few words of Greek. But her faith remained dormant. If anything, the harsh realities of village life were a daily reminder of human endurance not spiritual enlightenment. Her doubt grew like a secret canker and at night, in desperation, she turned to her original love: mathematics. Using the one computer at the convent, she began to study quantum theory on the Internet, searching, as it were, for physical evidence of a God who perhaps hid his existence in the minutiae of life itself. She felt like an alchemist trying to work out how many angels would fit on the head of a pin. She felt like a fraud and she found nothing to exorcise her doubt.

The harvest season arrived, Saint Barbara’s festive day drew nearer, and Clarissa was swept into the preparations for the procession of the holy relic. It was the main annual event for the village and many came from nearby islands to attend. The convent’s founder, the wife of the crusading knight, had been given the relic by another pious knight on the day he came to tell her that her husband had been killed in Jerusalem. On that very same day the newly widowed woman had discovered she was pregnant.

The relic was kept in a vault deep within the convent and was brought out only once a year. Whenever Clarissa asked precisely what part of the saint had been preserved, the sisters politely but firmly changed the subject. A

ll she learned was that the relic attracted mainly female worshippers.

The Mother Superior decided that the guardian of the relic that year was to be Clarissa. It was a task considered to be a great honor, she sensed from the jealous reactions of her holy sisters. Daunted by the prospect she pleaded with the abbess.

“With all due respect, I don’t think I’m the right choice. I don’t know the local customs, I’m an outsider, and I’m too young,” she argued, looking up at the abbess from her kneeling position.

“That’s exactly why it should be you. You are the embodiment of purity, even if you’re not aware of it. I know Saint Barbara would have approved.” The abbess smiled wickedly.

“But—”