“Burn them,” I smiled.
With a kiss on both cheeks, and one more fondle between her legs, I was out the door and running for the harbour.
The entire town was out that day. The lad hadn’t lied, there were merchants emptying their purses into the water, and fine women from good homes knotting their scarves and throwing them as far as they could. Their dyes bled, colouring the surface of the sea like a rainbow. The air was heady with cut flowers and scented oil lamps. As the boats drew closer, these offerings parted before the prows, obedient servants bowing their heads whilst those that had given them knelt on the rocks like lambs. When they eventually rose, the stones were stained bloody, but no one seemed to complain.
“Look! There he is!” one woman cried. “That’s him! Brendan the Navigator!”
I shielded my eyes from the sun and followed to where her finger pointed. Still a blot in the distance, I could just make out a man of medium height, his brown hair interrupted by a circle of pink skin on top.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’d know him anywhere,” she replied. “I bathed his feet last time he was here.”
I began shouldering my way through the crowds towards the spot where his boat would dock. With a casual stoop, I relieved a bard of his lyre without breaking my stride, and settled on a rock where only a few children had been brave enough to climb. It provided a perfect vantage point of the beach, and couldn’t fail to get me noticed. By the time I’d finished tuning my rescued instrument, Brendan’s three boats were beneath me and I could see the faces of the men on board.
Though well into late middle-age, the man’s hair had little grey in it. His arms were still muscular beneath his simple cassock, built up from years of hauling on ropes. His skin was leather-brown and his face deeply lined, yet when he smiled he looked ten years younger. It was clear to see he had once been a handsome man.
The other two boats were loaded with seafaring lads, each dressed the same, with the same bald spot glistening beneath the sun. They clambered ashore and began distributing their wears to the needy, or whoever got there first. Bread, smoked fish and fresh apples.
As Brendan stepped towards the shore, his prints flooding with saltwater, I struck up a chord and sang.
Beloved of Patrick, beloved of Brigid
Who spread out her cloak to the sky
Beloved of man, beloved of Christ
Blessed is he who takes Mary, his wife
Who travels the oceans and follows the stars
Heedless of blacksmiths and war
Who waves to the sun and bows to the moon
Asail on the hand of the Lord
It was a terrible song, but the words were not important. It was the way I sang them. My whole life, men stopped talking when I opened my mouth to sing. I could cut through an entire room, sharp as flint, soft as sable. I made mothers weep and sailors dance, slow as the harp or fast as the flute. Brendan was no exception. He stared up from the shore and smiled.
Fionnuala
It was a different world we inhabited. No longer did holy people dress in white, but brown, and fewer were women. The ancient art of healing became herbcraft, the spirits of plants no longer acknowledged, only the hand of man. As though man could praise himself for the food he ate, without recognition of the fields or the oxen.
Other things had changed. These preachers stayed their hand on the blade. They sacrificed rarely, and then only fowl or beasts. They claimed to bring the word of peace, and in our time that did appear to be so. There had been a man named Patrick, and a woman named Brigid, who united clans that had been sworn enemies their entire existence. There were others, such as Columba, whose voice boomed like thunder, who threatened and cursed to get what he wanted, yet always spared a loaf for the hungry. In truth, we could make neither head nor tail of these men. Their god frightened us, its limp form nailed to the crossroads, the point between life and death, its ribs pressing through its skin, its sunken eyes filled with pain.
The old gods were still remembered. Milkstones, hidden groves and clootie trees kept a fine trade, yet year after year more of those places were flattened to build churches. With no heroes of their own, they stole ours. I heard stories of Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cú Chulainn bending the knee before Christ, knowing full-well they had never heard that name in their lifetimes. It angered me that they deigned to claim ownership over men who had never been owned by gods nor kings.
Still, other stories enchanted me. Stories of great healing that made me think of Blind Sile, gifted with sight, and other stories of kindness and sacrifice that we had taken to heart. At this time we made our nest upon a river bend beside a brick enclosure where women lived together, their heads covered. I had only heard stories of the shadow women of Mona, who were long gone themselves. Never before had I seen a community only of women. My brothers liked it there also. The waters of the river were sweet to drink, and sand shrimp and minnows swam plentiful. Before daybreak, and late into the evenings, the women would sing, and their songs were beautiful. Some were haunting, others uplifting and full of strength. It made a change that we should be the ones sung to sleep.
One afternoon, beneath a blanket of threatening clouds, a half-dozen horses wound their way across the flat to the gates of that holy place. The mother Abbess opened for them and the men dismounted. I recognised them as monks, for they wore the drab dress and shaven heads of their order. They entered and had not left by nightfall.
Overnight it snowed, and just before daybreak, as the sisters’ song faded with the dawn, a man came walking towards the river. He had been the monk at the head of the horses. He came to us in sackcloth with no shoes on his feet, the warmth of his body causing the frosted grass to thaw.
He removed his cassock and began washing in the icy water. Though he was old, his skin clung firm to his bones, only a small pouch of flesh sagged at his hips. After cleaning himself, he replaced his clothes and looked up to observe us watching from the reeds.
“Good morning to you,” he said. His smile was kind and his eyes brown as the earth. Yet, as he looked upon us, that smile of his faltered and he took a step closer, into the river. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I wish you no harm.”
Only the lapping of the river disturbed our silence.
“How strange,” he whispered.
Reaching into the sleeve of his robe, he produced a loaf of bread and began tearing it.
“Conn, no!” I whispered, yet my youngest brother did not listen. He swam towards the man and took the bread straight from his hand.
“You are hungry?” He laughed. “Here, eat your fill. There is plenty more where that came from.”
When we saw the man was no threat, we joined our brother on the opposite bank.
After we finished all of the bread, the man nodded as though concluding a conversation with himself.
“I will come again tomorrow,” he said, “and then I will tell you something.”
That night, my brothers and I left the river. We had been grateful for the bread, but the old man’s eyes had frightened us. We thought perhaps it was a trick, and that he had sacrificed a little bread to gain our trust, for the sisters rarely ate meat, and perhaps he intended to make a gift of us in return for their hospitality.
Instead, we returned to the coast. For three days and three nights we sought sanctuary amongst the fishing boats, swimming out to sea so that we might sing without being overheard. There was a strange stench about the shore that smelled of rotting flowers. We preferred the fresh breeze of open water.
On the fourth day, a terrible thing happened. As we swam behind a fishing boat to beg for scraps, a young boy cast his net carelessly and my brother Fiachra was caught. They hauled him aboard and, in their attempt to cut him free, the knife slipped and tore his shoulder.
He screamed, and struggled, and was eventually freed, bright-red blood against his snow-white plumage.
“He will never heal,” said one of the men. “It would be
a kinder thing to kill him.”
At this, Aodh and I charged the boat, our wide wings and sharp beaks causing the fishermen to scatter, arms raised to protect their faces. Once Fiachra was clear of the boat, we swam as fast as we could for shore, for he could not fly with a wound so deep.
“We must get inland,” Aodh said. “Blood in the water will attract large fish, and the salt will pain him. We must find a place in the shallows where we can rest.”
We continued swimming to the mouth of the Long Hound, where the estuary offered safety. We took to a mound of sand that survived the high tide and there we made our nest, out of reach of foxes.
Poor Fiachra was in a terrible state. He had lost a lot of blood. We packed his wound with moss and sheltered him beneath our wings. Yet the curse which kept us bound as swans also kept us bound to life. He healed quickly, and within two days he was almost able to stretch his wing.
Then a storm came, thick lumps of ice beating down upon us throughout the night. By morning a fever set in. Fiachra was tormented by it, crying out in turn for our father, our mother, even for Aoife.
“He cannot die, yet he cannot live like this,” Conn said, his eyes imploring. “Please Fin, we must do something.”
“I know not what,” I replied.
“I do.”
Sister Cecilia
“Sometimes, I think you are the last good man left,” I told him, turning earth with my trowel. “Since the death of Patrick, God rest his soul, and good Brother Gibrian, it seems any man can call himself an emissary of God and preach what he likes. Those in the villages are so starved for stories, they’ll open their ears to the Devil himself.”
Brendan laughed. “Too long in isolation, Sister. Though your devotion is admirable, don’t build walls around your heart as high as your convent.”
“You think I should build myself a raft and sail off on the open sea, like you?”
“Why not? There are many out there who would benefit from your wisdom.”
“To travel is men’s business. We women have pastures and flocks of our own to tend.”
“Forgive me, Sister, but Brigid of Kildare travelled the length and breadth of Ireland by Patrick’s side. Your own convent would not exist had it not been for her.”
“Brigid was made of far sterner stuff than I, Brother. I would not dishonour her memory by comparing myself.”
“You think too little of your own abilities, Cecilia. How many women have you led to God? It must be more than the moons I’ve spent at sea.”
His flattery raised the blood in my cheeks, for I had always considered it a privilege to call Brendan my friend, as well as my patron. We had known each other since childhood, born in the same area of Tráigh Lí, our mothers closer than sisters. Yet his fortunes had scattered him to the winds, whilst I had taken root in the rich earth.
“Almost thirty years a priest now, Brendan. What would old Erc say, do you think?”
“He would be amazed, of that I have no doubt. I’m sure he expected me to fall to women or wine within a year of ordination.”
I laughed at this, for, truth be told, I had expected the same.
“By all the powers! Look at that.”
He turned his head to follow my gaze. There, plump upon the cabbage patch, was a full-grown swan. It spread its wings, threw back its neck, and began to honk at us.
I put down my trowel and began to walk towards it, thrusting out my hands to shoo it away.
“No, wait,” said Brendan, “hold back.”
As he commanded, I took a few steps back whilst the creature continued to bluster, white down falling to the ground. “What a noisy thing!”
“Aye,” he whispered. “But not the thing you think it is.”
His words caused me to turn. My friend sat upon the bench, his eyes watchful beneath the furrow of his brow. I had not seen him so entranced since he stared upon the illuminations of Brigid’s book.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What is it?”
“My brother, he is hurt,” spoke the swan.
I fainted.
*
When I came to, I was stretched out on the floor of my cell. Two of the younger sisters sat beside me, holding my hand and dabbing at my brow with a damp cloth.
“What is it? What happened?” I asked. “Am I ill?”
Sister Theodora shook her head, the folds of her veil falling over her shoulder. “No, Mother. Father Brendan said you were exerting yourself in the garden, and that you stood too fast. We brought you here to recover. Please, drink some water.”
She pressed a cup to my lips and I swallowed.
“I had the queerest dream,” I said. “I dreamt I met a talking swan…”
Neither of my charges felt confident enough to laugh with me, but smiled their sweet smiles and squeezed my hand.
When I felt steady enough to stand, I went to the kitchens to check that the evening meal had been started. With six hungry brothers to feed, we had opened the mid-winter pantry early for extra saltmeat and grain.
I forbade any sister to enter the guest quarters whilst there were men staying, and simply assumed Brendan had retired to his cell for prayer. It was not until we were seated at dinner that I realised he was missing. Unwilling to cause a disturbance, I waited patiently whilst Brother Abadios led prayer at my table. The barley and bean soup was thick and wholesome, the cheese creamy, and the bread fresh-baked. No one could complain that the Sisters of the River didn’t put on a good spread. Though my own appetite was not at its fullest.
Once the table had been cleared, I excused myself and went for a walk about the grounds, checking the chickens and sheep were at rest. As I gripped the bars of the main gate and gave them a rattle to check they were secured, I caught something from the corner of my eye. At first, I thought I had imagined it. Then it came again – a flash in the dark.
Pulling an iron key from the bunch at my waist, I stifled it in the latch with my sleeve and slipped beyond the convent gates. I followed the light to the woods – one flash, then two flashes, then one flash. Drawn like a moth to a candle, I continued along the path.
“Lord who knows all my fears, stand beside me now. Guide me though I cannot see. Keep me safe from harm.” I repeated my chant beneath my breath, gooseflesh rising against the damp forest air.
“Over here,” I heard a strained voice. “This way.”
“Brendan?”
“Come on Cecilia. Don’t be afraid. I need your help.”
Drawn to his voice, I found myself in a small clearing where a white marble statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary stood beside a spring. Brendan knelt there on the mossy ground, a lamp held high in his hand, illuminating a sick swan, its neck thrashing from side to side like a milky serpent. Around them were three more swans, two large, and one about the size of the swan that had spoken in my dream.
“Please don’t faint again,” Brendan said. “The Lord needs you.”
Aibric
Oh, her skirts were covered in mud – in mud!
My pretty white Lily, my love
So I said, if your skirts are covered in mud
Lift ‘em up to Heaven above – above!
She lifted her skirts and between her legs
I saw something wetter than mud
I said to my Lily, my Lily, my love
Best you lie down in your bed
For she lifted her skirts to Heaven above
In doing so, this I now know
For Heaven ain’t there, above – above!
Heaven’s right here down below!
As the rabble roared with laughter, I plucked my fingers from the strings and reached for a swig of ale.
“Go easy on that,” Anna said, taking the cup from my hand and draining it. “You might want to stay sober tonight. I hear that preacher’s back from the convent.”
“Anna, I’ll love you forever if you can tell me where he’s staying.”
“Fine time to tell me you don’t already love me forever.”
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“You know what I mean, lass.”
“Aye, well. Where do you think he’d be staying?”
“The Bishop’s place?”
She raised her eyebrows as confirmation, and I went to kiss her.
“Careful now. John might be blind drunk, but he ain’t full blind yet.”
With a grin, I tucked my cláirseach beneath my arm and headed for the door. The Bishop’s place was a large wooden building down by the harbour, from whence he could see all the boats that came and went, and take his pick of taxes. I looked for a spot opposite where lamplight spilled from the tanner’s, illuminating me.
“Conner, you don’t mind if I sing a few songs outside your window do you?”
He shrugged and went back to stretching hides on his frame.
Thinking on it for a moment, I set about a lament for the sea. What better way to impress a sailor?
The door opposite opened and a burly man with arms like a blacksmith strode out.
“You can’t sing here tonight,” he said. “Bishop’s got a guest and they don’t want none of your racket.”
“Hardly a racket, Éimhin,” the tanner spoke. “Voice like an angel, this one.”
“Aye, no offence Aibric, but the Bishop asked me personal to come out here and tell you to stop.”
“And if I won’t?”
“Well, I’ll have to string you up like one of them hides,” he said, jutting his chin at the rack.
“Hardly very Christian,” I smiled.
“Look, just go sing somewhere else. Anna thrown you out again?”
I rolled my eyes and plucked a couple more strings.
“Aibric,” Éimhin’s voice was thick with warning.
“One more verse?”
“No.”
He strode over, taking my instrument in one hand and my elbow in the other. As he escorted me away, I looked across to see Brendan and the Bishop watching from an open window. When he saw me, the Bishop reached across and pulled the shutters closed.
The Children of Lir Page 30
