Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  “I love you,” he told her before placing the magnificent emerald onto her finger. “To growth and the future.”

  “To growth and the future,” she replied, her words never bearing so much truth.

  Another passionate kiss followed before Pádraig disappeared into the night again.

  “See you at six,” he called out after him.

  “See you at six.”

  Alone, Butsy started crying for the second time that night; fortunately, on this occasion, they were tears of joy.

  * * *

  It hadn't taken Sister Agatha long to gather her belongings, seeing as the Order’s vow of poverty ensured that fashion was always unfashionable amongst the nuns. Bag packed, she looked around her cell for what was probably going to be the very last time. She didn't feel any sadness or finality—she was too preoccupied with the mission in hand, and as soon as she got something into her mind, there was absolutely no telling her otherwise.

  While her age had often been described as monumental, the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old’s experience as a traveller left a lot to be desired, despite the fact that she had shown such interest in far-flung places as a curious schoolgirl.

  As it happened, she had only ventured out of the Royal County of Meath on a handful of occasions: the Eucharistic Congress of 1932 and 2012; Pope John Paul's visit in 1979; and the time when Sister Assumpta's life-long battle with alcoholism had gotten the better of her, and she ended up on a stag-do in Valentia Island off the coast of Kerry. (Sister Agatha, along with some of the more tight-lipped nuns within the convent, had to make the long journey down to the Kingdom to retrieve the drunken bowsie. Luckily, the tattoo that she had been unwittingly gifted went unnoticed by everyone, apart from her gynecologist.) Other than that, Sister Agatha’s motherland was alien to her, and as for the rest of the world—well, England may have been a different planet, as far as she was concerned.

  It wasn’t that the church frowned on members of its community taking a jaunt here or there; it was just that being single-minded by nature, she had always felt duty-bound to remain in situ. Her direction in life had changed since her wanderlust years as Butsy Miller, and it had progressed into one that didn’t involve bouts of jet lag or the crossing of choppy waters. Instead, she saw the world and all its glory in the parishioners she met on a daily basis, and that suited her just fine. Until now.

  Luckily, every nun at the Order of Saint Aloysius was equipped with a passport on the off-chance, they joked, that they had the good fortune to receive an invitation from the Vatican requesting their company at a private audience with Francis or any of his predecessors. (The ladies in Saint Bartholemew’s in County Tipperary had received exactly that in the mid-50s, in recognition of their philanthropic duties in the community, something that continued to be a contentious issue amongst all the other convents. “Anyone could plant a few flowers and clean a bit of graffiti off some back-alley walls” was the general consensus.)

  And so, she dusted off her unused passport and, along with a shabby suitcase and good old-fashioned determination, she crept out of the convent while the other nuns slept soundly. (Sister Imelda's snoring usually kept the others wide awake—sinus problems are the curse of the devil, it was noted time and time again—but her widowed cousin was in the throes of depression on account of a botched haircut, so Sister Imelda felt duty-bound to visit and comfort her, much to the delight of the sleep-deprived nuns with whom she shared a floor.)

  Just as the sun made its first appearance of the day, Sister Agatha walked through the immaculately maintained gardens towards the front gate, but suddenly stopped for a brief moment and took a deep breath. The large, wooden cross looming above the entrance reminded her of the morally dubious nature of her plan, and even though Saint Peter would surely intend on having stern words with her in a week's time, she knew that this was the last remaining opportunity to fulfil that vow she made all those years ago.

  “Yes,” she said to herself, “there is no other option.”

  With a slight wave to her sleeping companions, she closed the gate behind her and made her way to the bus stop. Here, she would start a journey that would see her carrying out a deed that was illegal in every single country in the world.

  * * *

  When Butsy had raced across the same fields the evening before, she was convinced that her two feet would never experience such quickness again in their lives. However, that was merely a trot in comparison with the speed with which she sprinted to the sycamore tree the morning of her wedding day, despite the fact her hands were being weighed down by a small valise and a certain sizeable emerald engagement ring.

  Her parents had given their blessing to the hastily concocted plan, on the promise that the young couple immediately return after they had said their ‘I dos’. There wasn’t much Mrs Keogh could do then, they concluded. Mrs Miller had even packed a small bag for her daughter; in it included the modest wedding dress she had worn all those years ago when she had married Butsy’s father. Ever thrifty, Mrs Miller had been delighted to realise that the dress covered both the “something old” and “something borrowed” parts of the recent, popular custom. Better again, thanks to the colourful pattern along the hem, the “something blue” had also been ticked off the list, too. The “something new” had taken the form of a beautiful garland that Mrs Miller hastily put together from a collection of recently-sprung flowers from the garden.

  “You can’t get any newer than that,” she had told her daughter, unable to control the tears streaming down her face.

  As Butsy approached the meeting point, she was surprised to see so many people there (blabbermouth Liam, up to his old tricks again). But the one person who was missing was Pádraig, although she prevented herself from dwelling on this small worriment as was too busy fielding compliments and kind words from her neighbours. (Amongst them was Ms Geoghegan, whose immediate recovery would have put Lazarus to shame, some felt.)

  “There won’t be another bride to match your beauty!”

  “You’ll have ten children, I’ll bet!”

  “It will be the happiest of homes, that’s for sure!”

  Everyone was so excited about the forthcoming nuptials that nobody noticed that it was well after six and Pádraig still hadn’t arrived. Ever the optimist, Butsy did not give up hope.

  “He will be here, I know he will,” she whispered to herself, confident that there was no way Pádraig would do anything as cruel as abandoning and humiliating her in front of the entire community for the second time.

  Mr Carmody, the local undertaker, suddenly hushed the crowd. In the distance, he spotted a figure walking in their direction. “It’s him, I’m sure it is!” he cried.

  Everyone turned and held their breath in anticipation. While the person approaching was not dissimilar to Pádraig, Butsy immediately knew that it wasn’t the love of her life—this person’s frame was too broad; his walk too heavy. Soon everyone else also realised that it wasn’t Pádraig; it was the Keogh’s stable boy, Fiach.

  “I have a message for Butsy,” the fourteen-year-old announced as he reached the gathering.

  For the second time in less than ten hours, the teenager’s legs were about to fall out from beneath her. She didn’t need to hear what Fiach was about to declare; her instinct told her that the very person who had sworn her an allegiance earlier that morning intended on making a fool of her in front of everyone once again.

  “He’s not coming, is he?” she stuttered, desperately trying—and failing—to keep her emotions in check.

  Everyone held their breath, praying that that wasn’t the case. When Fiach reluctantly nodded his head, the pack let out a long, disappointed cry.

  “The fecker!”

  “The bastard!”

  “I’ll ring his ears!”

  Butsy said nothing. Instead, as the others continued to curse the no-show, the grief-stricken young lass discreetly broke away from the throngs of people and, along with a mangled heart and her
mother’s unworn wedding dress, she scurried off home. This time, however, she didn’t pay a blind bit of notice to the endless cowpats she had been so keen to avoid earlier.

  * * *

  Before Saint Agatha of Sicily had become Saint Agatha of Sicily, she was just a simple fifteen-year-old girl who came from a wealthy and noble family. Being a devoted Christian, the young teenager dedicated her virginity to God, so when Quintianus, a low-born Roman prefect, tried to have his wicked way with her, Agatha immediately rejected his unwanted advances. Furious and bruised, the arrogant louse then persecuted the youngster for her impenetrable faith and sent her to a brothel to teach her a lesson.

  Despite this challenging environment, Agatha proved to be intractable. So, ever the gentleman, Quintianus went one step further and imprisoned her—a decision that didn’t faze her in the slightest. Galled by her resilience, Quintianus then subjected the renegade to an endless onslaught of torture, culminating in Agatha’s breasts being violently cut off with pincers. But she remained steadfast and refused to recant. As such, the girl was sentenced to be burned at the stake, but only for an earthquake that erupted in the nearby Mount Etna, Agatha was spared and sent back to prison. There, it was thought that Saint Peter the Apostle appeared and healed her wounds. Depending on who is telling the story, Agatha died in prison sometime around her twentieth birthday, a virgin martyr.

  Butsy Miller had always been aware of Saint Agatha’s story, on account of the fact that her birthday had fallen on the young Sicilian’s Memorial Day, but it was only after the wretched incident under the sycamore tree that Butsy, looking for inspiration anywhere she could find it, properly read up on the saint’s fate and immediately empathised with her.

  Here was another female whose life had also been destroyed at the hands of a brute of a man. Of course, on paper, Pádraig couldn’t hold a candle to Quintianus, but in the immediate aftermath of his treachery, broken-hearted and embarrassed, Butsy had been convinced that he was worse—far worse. When, after several weeks, there was still no sign of Pádraig, she had found great solace and fortitude in Saint Agatha’s story, and on a daily basis she would spend hours prattling on to the late and virtuous rabble-rouser, positive that they were kindred spirits.

  Suspicious that their only child was no longer of sound mind (“Seán, she’s talking to the wall again”), her parents were on the verge of sending for the local doctor. Even when the big announcement was made, their initial fears were not completely quelled. In just one month, Butsy had made her second vow, but this one wasn’t going to be thwarted by the likes of Pádraig Keogh: she was going to become a nun, and take the name of her heroine and dear friend, Saint Agatha.

  While it was quite common for young men and women to follow a life of prayer at that time, initially Butsy’s parents had been doubtful that their once-spirited daughter would be able to meet its strict demands. Secretly, Mr and Mrs Miller had hoped that after a little time had passed and the wounds had healed, she would return to her buoyant self (and give those poor walls a little peace!). Oh, how they underestimated the doggedness of their only child who, on making a decision, stuck to it.

  Fortunately, any fears that the Millers had for Butsy’s impetuous decision proved to be unfounded, as the very moment she entered the Order of Saint Aloysius, the young novice thrived. Perhaps on account of never having any siblings, she relished the idea of being surrounded by so many sisters while also fully embracing the solidarity that went hand-in-hand with convent life.

  Admittedly, over the first few years, she had often thought of Pádraig and wondered where he landed and if the world was treating him kindly. And then, one night, and not for the first time in her life, she was awoken by the sound of pebbles being thrown at her window, and for a split second, she had hoped that it was her old flame. It turned out to be Sister Angelica, who had locked herself out after being unable to obey the convent’s rules of not feeding the stray cats.

  As she returned to sleep, Sister Agatha wondered what she would have said or done if it had been Pádraig outside her cell. Butsy Miller’s life had taken a new direction since they had been sweethearts, and things had worked out for the best. Yes, she was sure of it. But why was she disappointed when it was Sister Angelica, covered from head to toe in manky cat hair, who stood outside instead?

  She placed her hand underneath her pillow and allowed her hand to rest on the one thing that both she and Cleopatra loved more than anything else in the world: the emerald ring.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha waited at the bus stop, alone. It gave her a little time to make sure she was making the right decision. Her mind was akin to a game of tennis, thoughts going back and forth at a speedy pace, but she had always come back to the same conclusion: this is the only way left to fulfil that promise I made all those years ago.

  In the distance, she suddenly spotted a taxi approaching, and her heart stopped—the large Meath flag waving from the bonnet indicated that it was her faithful driver Paul, starting his morning shift. She quickly ducked behind the bin and prayed that he would not notice her; he did.

  “Is that you, Sister Agatha?” he shouted, pulling over.

  “Oh, is that you, Paul?” she replied, trying to hide her frustrations that he had just blown her cover.

  “What are you doing out at this hour? You’ll catch your death!”

  Why is everyone obsessed with my ruination? she wondered to herself, as she emerged from her clearly inadequate hiding place.

  Unsure of what to say or do, she rifled through the bin.

  “Eh, I accidentally threw something away the other day, and I was hoping that I would be able to retrieve it,” she bluffed—the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

  “Let me help you,” he suggested, turning the engine off.

  “No need! I found it,” she revealed, pulling out the first thing she could get her hands on—a rotten banana peel, complete with a dirty cigarette stub and a mound of masticated chewing gum the size of a miniature beehive.

  “Is that a...banana peel?”

  “Exactly.”

  Paul did not appear convinced.

  “Eh, I foolishly threw it away yesterday when, of course, I should have added it to the compost heap,” Sister Agatha continued. “We’re very green at the convent, you see.”

  “Right,” he said, accepting for the first time that his friend’s health was now in decline.

  “Let me drop you home, Sister, seeing as you’ve found what you’re looking for.”

  “Don’t be daft, you go off and make some money. I want something extra special for Christmas, so you’re going to have to start saving now.”

  But Paul wasn’t going anywhere other than the hospital where he would demand the doctors give the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old a full check-up.

  “Why don’t you get into the car, Sister, it will only take me a minute?”

  Based on the condescending tone he had now adopted, Sister Agatha was certain that Paul thought she was fit for the sanatorium, so she needed to act quickly and efficiently if her master plan wasn’t going to be thwarted.

  “The truth is, Paul, at my age you don’t know how many sunrises you have left. And, even though the Mother Superior would be furious if she discovered that I was out and about at this hour, I just can’t resist.”

  To support her claims, she then pointed towards the sun, which peeped out from above the trees.

  “Isn’t it only magnificent?” she said. Something that was, most definitely, not a lie.

  Paul nodded.

  “You won’t give the game away, will you?”

  Paul released a sigh of relief, smiled, and returned to the car. “My lips are zipped, Sister. Be sure not to catch a chill, though—it’s still only March!”

  While Sister Agatha took no pride in telling a small untruth, particularly to her loyal friends, there was little else she could have done under the circumstances.

  Thankfully, the bus arrived before
anybody else could stumble across her and give the game away. Anxious to keep to his timetable, the driver decided to sidestep any pleasantries and just took Sister Agatha’s lone bag and assisted her on board without a single word being spoken. This blunt approach suited the bus’ only passenger entirely; it was time to focus the mind, and idle chatter would only distract her.

  As the grumpy driver returned to his seat, Sister Agatha looked out at Navan, and surveyed the empty roads and sleeping houses. In a number of hours, the town would be alive with activity; for now, it seemed as if it was conspiring on her behalf, allowing its most adored resident to slip away unnoticed.

  From under her habit, she fished out the rosary beads that hung around her neck. Swinging from the bottom was not a cross, as would be common practice, but instead, Pádraig’s sparkling emerald ring. She clutched onto it tightly and closed her eyes.

  “This is the only way,” she reminded herself. “The only way.”

  And with that, the bus sped off with impressive speed across the lush plains of Meath on its way to Dublin Airport. This journey marked the very start of her herculean mission to complete a promise she had made many decades ago.

  And so, over the coming days, Sister Agatha would travel to three continents and visit the four people who were preventing her from being the oldest person in the world.

  And then, one by one, she would kill them.

  Chapter Three

  THE HEALTH & WEALTH BLOG, SPRING 2016

  As all of our regular readers are aware, the Health & Wealth team is currently travelling the length and breadth of North Africa in an exciting undertaking to unearth a cabinet full of tried-and-tested natural remedies, suitable for all types of aches and pains.

  You might have noticed that we have been updating this blog on a daily basis, something that has been made possible thanks to the generosity of the African people. Every kind soul that we have stumbled across has been so forthcoming with their trusted formulas that are said to cure every type of ailment from shingles to sunburn to sciatica.