Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

Clarissa was interrupted by a wave of the hand. “No buts, I have decided. However there is one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to promise me that you won’t touch the relic itself. It can be dangerous,” she announced solemnly.

“Dangerous how?”

“Don’t ask, just promise.” The abbess looked her straight in the eye.

Clarissa, knowing that she had no choice, nodded slowly and was ushered swiftly out of the room.

Saint Barbara’s day arrived and Clarissa, dressed in a special white habit with a scarlet cowl—a tradition that symbolized both purity and the rejection of depravity—sat perched on the ceremonial carriage as it wound its way precariously down the mountainside, pulled by two blinkered donkeys. The float was a farm cart disguised with lengths of embroidered velvet. White Madonna lilies, a cascade of veined trumpets, were piled high on it, next to bowls of polished eggplants and grapes—the phallic vegetable and purple fruit a gesture of acknowledgment to the earlier pagan gods of Pan and Dionysus. In the middle of this glistening cornucopia, raised on a wooden platform, lay the holy relic itself. Contained within an ornate medieval glass casket, encrusted with semiprecious stones, and woven with gold filigree, the relic was barely visible.

To Clarissa, perched above it on a cane chair sprayed gold to resemble a throne, the sacred artifact looked rather like a withered, flesh-colored prune. It was already midday and the scent of lilies was sickening in the heat. She swayed from side to side as they descended the narrow mountain path. Two priests walked in front of the cart solemnly waving thuribles of burning incense, followed by four choirboys chanting in Latin. Along the way stood lines of hopeful supplicants, throwing stems of wild lavender and murmuring prayers. Red-faced and hot, they had waited for hours in the sun, fanning themselves with pine branches. Lemonade vendors walked up and down hawking their wares.

Dizzy, Clarissa forced herself to sit upright, trying not to forget that she was supposed to be a representative of God. But under the white habit she felt horribly human. She urgently needed to urinate and the scarlet cowl cut into her forehead. It’s all so barbaric, she thought, all these people worshipping a piece of cow’s flesh a medieval peddler sold someone as a holy relic. What has this got to do with real faith? And when am I going to reach a toilet? These and other unholy thoughts crowded her mind until the heat burned away everything else and she fell into a state of blank meditation as she rocked back and forth with the motion of the cart.

They arrived at the town square where four extremely handsome fishermen waited—all bachelors, dressed in their Sunday best, hair slicked back, shirts white and gleaming. Ranging from seventeen to thirty they had been voted the most beautiful men of the village by the women of the island and three of its neighbors. The shortest was blond with green eyes; the next black-haired with blue eyes; and the other two black-haired with black eyes: the full genetic representation of conquerors from the Byzantine through to the Ottoman. Smoothing their oiled hair, white teeth flashing like eager racehorses, they preened themselves proudly as the cart drew near. Amid wolf whistles and shouts of encouragement they each hoisted a corner of the platform onto their shoulders. Then, muscles bulging like knotted ropes, they carried Clarissa and the holy relic slowly through the cheering crowd and into the church.

Once inside the nun thankfully climbed off the throne and, after a quick visit outside to the sectioned-off hole in the ground that functioned as a toilet, took her place beside the encrusted casket now placed in the center of the altar.

The pilgrims shuffled through the tiny church—the old, the blind and the diseased, the unemployed and the poor—all barefoot and meekly hoping for a miracle, their faces transformed by bliss and belief as they touched the casket. One mother held up her howling four-year-old boy, uncovered the stump that finished just above his knee, and pressed it gently against the glass lid. Clarissa, made tense by what she perceived as obscene futility, leaned forward expecting to catch the angry child’s flailing arms, but to her surprise he immediately fell into silence, his scowl replaced by sudden amazement.

By the end of the day Clarissa’s white habit was grimy with dust. The last devotee was ushered out. Pater Dimitri locked the church, then led the nun into the room behind the altar that functioned as an office and laid out a feast of fresh fish, bread, salad, and figs. Clarissa was too numb with fatigue to speak, but slowly the food and accompanying retsina revived her. She glanced through the open door toward the casket. It looked innocuous, like a jewel case from some fairy tale.

“What exactly is the relic?” she asked. Pater Dimitri, who was already on his fourth glass of retsina, chuckled.

“They haven’t told you?”

As she shook her head he laughed even louder.

“The holy relic is the withered nipple of Saint Barbara.”

“Are you serious?” Shocked, she glanced back at the glass.

“Of course,” the priest answered sternly. “It is of the divine and has performed many miracles since they took it from her body.” And with a wink, he tossed down the last of the retsina.

Clarissa lay next to the altar on the uncomfortable camp bed covered by goats’ skin, keeping vigil. Outside she could hear the sound of the waves lapping against the stone pier. Somewhere a dog barked and nearby a donkey brayed. It was comforting. She imagined the village night had sounded like this for centuries.

Images of the past floated through her mind: her father ecstatic with joy when she was accepted at Adelaide University; Ruby’s frightened face staring up at her, tubes writhing from her fragile body; her closest girlfriend looking horrified when Clarissa told her she was joining the order; her father teaching her to play chess when she was ten…images of family, community, all now lost to her. Outside a cat wailed; in the rafters above a bird rustled. Clarissa rose from the bed and walked over to the holy relic.

Moonlight streaming through the stained-glass window made the casket glow blue and emerald. Could it really be dangerous? she thought, strangely attracted to the engraved inscription on the glass lid. Holding a candle above her head she leaned over to get a closer look. She recognized the words as Latin. Beneath the cloudy glass sat the nipple. Clarissa peered closer. The areola was visible, a dark wine color surrounding the nipple, which was collapsed and shriveled. Fascinated, she wondered whether the nipple had ever been an object of lust, imagining that perhaps a man had once caressed and sucked on that sad piece of flesh. Guiltily she crossed herself for the blasphemy.

She had to get a closer look. As if in a trance she ran her hand across the casket’s surface. It’s just a box with a stage prop inside, she thought, nothing more dangerous than the trick rubber fingers I used to buy as a child. She dared herself to go further. Go on, a voice kept saying inside her. At least open the lid, it urged.

To her surprise it opened easily, as if the hinges had been recently oiled. Now she could see the appendage more clearly. It looked as if it had been neatly cut away from the breast and was bigger than she had thought. “The breast would have been large, with a dark smooth areola and a long nipple,” she said out loud, trying to muster a detached medical tone in an effort to exorcise any guilty feelings. The image of the full breast floated before her and briefly settled

across the carved features of the suffering Christ. Now feeling incredibly furtive she couldn’t stem the flood of possibilities that ran through her mind. I wonder what it feels like? Should I touch it? What would happen if I did?

If it were fake then nothing could happen to her. If it were genuine and she saw no result it would finally prove to her that there was no God and then she could free herself. On the other hand, perhaps touching it might restore her faith. It was all so confusing and yet the nipple was so tantalizingly close…one little caress, surely it would be harmless.

“No one would know,” she whispered out loud. What did she have to lose?

She placed one finger delicately onto the relic. It had the same texture as a piece of old leather. As Clarissa had suspected, she felt nothing—no great revelation or spiritual bliss. Just a slight clamminess and mild revulsion.

Disappointed, she closed the lid and retreated to the camp bed. As she lay there she couldn’t help but reflect on how much easier life would be if she could believe in miracles like the pilgrims she’d seen that day, their faces luminous with hope. Then the night, a comforting black envelope smelling faintly of camphor and stale incense, closed in on her and she surrendered to sleep.

She spent the next day receiving another endless line of optimistic supplicants. At dusk the convent’s Jaguar waited for her in the town square. As Pater Dimitri walked her toward the car a blind man stepped out of the shadows. Stumbling slightly he blocked their path, his face tilting as he sensed the people in front of him. Suddenly he placed a hand on Clarissa’s stomach and, in a high-pitched voice, shrieked some words. Dimitri pushed his arm away and hurried Clarissa to the car. Although the incident had only lasted a couple of seconds Clarissa found it very disturbing.