The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “A Hebrew scholar?” Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes flashed with admiration as she studied Patrick. “Well, we don’t get calls for the Pentateuch every day, but I’ll see what I can do for the young man.”

  As Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from the desk, Patrick looked at me. “Will you come?”

  “I’m going to nose around in the Irish history collection for a bit,” I said, pointing toward the rare book room. “But I’ll come out later and see what you’ve found.”

  I had intended to spend only an hour in the back room, but I ran across an account of Felim O’ Connor’s latter days, so nearly two hours passed before I popped out of my cave and searched for Patrick. I found him hunched over a carrel, one finger pressed to the thick pages of a book.

  I let my hand fall on his shoulder. “Finding anything interesting?” “Kathleen, look at this.”

  Not lifting his eyes from the page, he shifted in the wide wooden chair as if inviting me to share the seat. Hesitantly, I lowered myself into the empty space and braced myself against the edge of the desk. “What did you find?”

  He tapped the page with his fingertip. “Well, almost every translation says God created the woman to be a helper fitting, or suitable, for him, but the actual Hebrew word means something altogether different.”

  “Really?” I leaned closer, eager to see what he meant. Unless I was mistaken, Patrick was about to tell me something that might contradict everything I’d ever been taught about the biblical role of women. And, being a woman, I couldn’t help being interested.

  Patrick nodded. “The phrase we translate ‘helper fitting him’ is ezer kenegdo, but the Hebrew word ezer is a combination of two roots, one meaning ‘to rescue or save’ and the other meaning ‘to be strong.’ “His finger slid over the column of thickly printed material. “There’s more here, but I’m trying to abbreviate the information. In summation, the phrase ezer kenegdo should be translated as ‘I will make a power or strength corresponding to man.’ There is absolutely no sense of subservience in the word at all.”

  Patrick sat back in the chair, his face alight with excitement as his gaze met mine. “Don’t you see? It makes perfect sense. God looked around at his creation and saw that he had created nothing to equal man. So he said, ‘I will make a being equal to him.’”

  “Hold on a minute, Patrick.” I smiled, thinking of the brouhaha that would result if this doctrine were preached in Aunt Kizzie’s conservative church. “For years women have been taught that we are lesser than men, and that’s why we are to submit to them.”

  “That’s what bothered me when I read Genesis yesterday morning.” Patrick rested one arm on the back of the chair so we fit together more comfortably on the seat. “From all I know of God, I know he is just, and it didn’t seem just for him to create one human gender lesser than the other. Besides”— he leaned forward and flipped to another page in the commentary— “submission does not mean one being is worth less than the other. Don’t we believe that members of the holy Trinity are equal in power and authority? Yet Jesus the Son and the Holy Spirit submit to the Father.”

  I ran my hand through my hair, urging my brain to greater effort. I’d been warned that Patrick was brilliant, but this was the first time I had brushed up against his incisive intellect.

  “There are other verses,” I began, feeling my way. “There’s a place in the New Testament where Paul tells women to keep silent in the church.”

  “I read about that, and I also read another verse where he instructed men to keep silent too if someone else was speaking. Paul wanted to eliminate confusion and instill a sense of peace and order in the church. And it’s very clear from other passages that he encouraged women to pray, prophesy, and teach.”

  I made a face. “Okay. Well, what about that other passage in Genesis? There’s something in the curse God pronounced after Adam and Eve sinned. It says women will bring forth children in sorrow, and desire their husbands, and men will rule over them.”

  “I read that too.” Patrick grinned and flipped back a few pages. “Eve’s curse— here it is, in Genesis 3:16. You have to remember, Kathleen, that God is not cursing Eve. Indeed, he seems to be laying the groundwork for her ultimate redemption. God is telling Eve that since she chose to submit to sin, she virtually chose to give the devil a hand in her life. Hebrew scholars have declared that the phrase about childbirth would be rendered better as, ‘A snare has increased your sorrow and sighing.’ God did not intend children to be a curse, but the evil one lies in wait to turn blessed children into occasions for sorrow and sighing.”

  I fell silent as Patrick’s words echoed in my mind. Had he begun to consider the implications of those words in his own life? His parents undoubtedly loved him, but the house fairly sizzled with tension whenever Patrick and his father met in the same room. I knew Mrs.O’ Neil mourned over their broken relationship. If ever a blessed child had become an occasion for sorrow and sighing, Patrick had.

  “The bit about desiring a husband,” his voice flattened as he continued, “has more to do with the potential action of ‘turning’ than ‘desire.’ The Hebrew actually reads, ‘that you might turn to your husband, and that he might rule over you.’ The word rule, however, has the sense of ‘protect.’ This statement strengthens the institution of marriage, but there is no command for the husband to place his wife in a subordinate position or consider her anything less than his equal.”

  Leaning my head on my hand, I watched the play of emotions on Patrick’s face. He looked like a man who had just inherited a treasure chest and was delighted to discover that it contained gold and priceless jewels. His excitement and joy put me to shame.

  “What has come over you?” I asked, thinking aloud.

  He stared at me, surprised, and then a rich blush stained his cheeks. “Well, after Saturday— “He glanced down at the books on the table, then looked at me with determination in his eyes. “You seemed almost embarrassed to be a Christian, Kathleen. I lay awake all that night wondering what could make you feel that way. I thought perhaps there was something bad or socially unacceptable in the Bible, so I thought I’d have a look and see what I could find. I hadn’t read more than two pages when I saw the bit about God creating the woman as a helper.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe that was part of your problem.”

  I looked away in a shudder of humiliation. I couldn’t have been more mortified if the Lord himself had appeared in the center of the library and announced that Kathleen O’ Connor had been too embarrassed to acknowledge him even before her closest friends. Suddenly I understood how the apostle Peter felt when the cock crowed.

  “There’s nothing in the Bible that embarrasses me,” I told him, my cheeks burning. “And I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I’m embarrassed by people who call themselves Christians. The American media seem to zero in on fanatics who bomb abortion clinics and murder doctors and hold rallies to spew their hatred of homosexuals. I’m sorry, Patrick, but it’s true. And most people don’t go around talking about their faith in New York.”

  “Maybe they should.” His eyes smoldered with fire. “Maybe things would change if more people talked about the things that are really important.”

  I had no answer for that, but I placed my hand over his and squeezed gently. A baby Christian was preaching to the veteran. Aunt Kizzie would get a kick out of this.

  “The heirs of Cahira O’ Connor,” he said, nodding toward my notebook, “weren’t such oddities after all. They broke out of certain molds society and the Church had forced upon them, but they followed the truer path God set them on.” A mischievous look came into his eyes as he smiled. “They were strong women, equal in power and influence to the men around them. So don’t run from your heritage, Kathleen. Seek it.”

  I pressed a fingertip to the cleft in his chin. “I’ll fling that piece of advice right backatcha, Patrick. You are equal in power and influence to your father, so don’t run from him. He’s sick and he’s lonely and h
e’s afraid. He needs you now.”

  For an instant his blue eyes said, watch yourself, take care, then a thoughtful smile curved his mouth. He caught my hand, held it tightly, then pressed my fingers to his lips in a display of fervent gallantry. “Thank you,” he said, his breath warm on my skin. “I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

  The next morning, I caught Taylor in the graveled lot at the front of the house. Hunched into the car, he was filling a trash bag with assorted debris from his journey to Dublin.

  Despite the warm sun, the wind was chilly, so I huddled into my sweater. “Did you and Maddie have a good time on your trip?” I asked, leaning against the car.

  “A divil of a good time,” he joked, aping the Irish brogue. His smile faded as he stood and straightened. “Honestly, Kathy, if I see another flower before the wedding, I think I’ll do something desper ate. I had no idea weddings could be so complicated— or so expensive.”

  “This is all good for you; it’s teaching you patience.” I looked up at the house and searched for signs of life at the windows, but all the public rooms were empty. The O’ Neils had decided not to accept any B&B guests until after the wedding. Privately, I wondered if Mrs. O’ Neil would ever take any more. When Mr. O’ Neil passed away, she’d have to tend to the farm by herself, and she couldn’t possibly run a B&B and oversee the dairy production without outside help.

  “Taylor,” I asked, thinking of the conversation I’d overheard yesterday, “would you and Maddie ever consider staying at Ballyshannon?”

  He eyed me with a critical squint. “Whatever makes you think I would want to stay here? I like Ireland, but I’m not exactly a rural type. And I know nothing about dairy farming.”

  I crossed my arms and tucked my exposed hands into the warmth of my sweater. “I know, but have you thought about Maddie’s family? Mr. O’ Neil may not live another year, and then what will Mrs.

  O’ Neil do?”

  Taylor looked away, then shrugged. “Get someone to help her run it, I suppose. Or she could sell.”

  “She’ll never sell. Ballyshannon has belonged to the O’ Neils for two hundred years.”

  “Then she’ll save it for Patrick. By rights, he’ll inherit. And when James is gone, what’s to stop Patrick from running this place the way he wants to?” Taylor bent to pick up another piece of trash, then straightened and gave me a suspicious look. “What made you ask about this, Kathy?”

  “Something I heard.” I bit my lip. “Mr. and Mrs. O’ Neil were in the kitchen, and Fiona said something about Maddie talking someone into staying here. I thought she meant you.”

  Taylor laughed. “I’m no farmer, and the O’ Neils know it.”

  I left him alone and walked back toward the barn. The cows were out in the pasture and away from the milking shed, but Mrs. O’ Neil had mentioned that Patrick planned to clean out the stalls today. I found him inside, dressed in his usual sweater, jeans, and boots, but he also wore a heavy rubber apron around his neck. He held a pressurized hose, and as I approached he was noisily blasting the dirt from every crack and crevice of the concrete stalls.

  “Got a minute?” I yelled, raising my voice above the mechanical growl of the pressure cleaner.

  Patrick kicked off the motor and grinned at me. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.” I leaned over the railing around the milking well and looked down at him. He seemed so completely in his element, so relaxed and happy, it was hard to imagine him returning to a windowless computer office in Limerick. Maybe Taylor was right, and Patrick would inherit this place.

  “I heard your parents talking,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t think I was as big a gossip as the woman I met in the pub, “and your mom said Maddie should encourage someone to remain here on the farm. I thought she meant Taylor, but he says he has no intention of staying in Ireland.” I met Patrick’s gaze and felt some of the buoyancy leave my voice. “He wants to finish his doctorate, you know. In New York.”

  Patrick lifted one wet hand and scratched at his brow. “So?”

  “So— I was wondering if maybe you were planning on remaining here. It’s your farm, and you might as well stay. Your father will be needing help soon; he’s already weaker than when we first arrived.”

  Patrick shook his head and bent to adjust a knob on the pressure cleaner. “Sorry— I have to go back to Limerick. I’ve postponed two projects as it is, but I’ll have to get busy after the wedding. My work is in Limerick.”

  “But this farm! It will be yours someday, so don’t you care—”

  He cut me off with a dry and cynical chuckle. “My father wouldn’t leave this farm to me if his immortal soul depended on it. He’d rather see it go to the bank.”

  I opened my mouth to protest again, but Patrick kicked at a button on the pressure washer and sent water zipping out of his hose with a frantic rush. The growling machine more than adequately broadcast Patrick’s mood.

  I left him there, angry and alone.

  In the little house, I stared at my note cards and notebooks and wondered why my thoughts wouldn’t focus on Cahira’s story. Every time I tried to summon up a mental picture of Colton, bleeding and wounded, my mind substituted the image of Patrick, his eyes flashing with hurt and anger and resolve. Though I wanted to help him, though I had gone out to the milking shed with every good intention, I didn’t have the power to make a difference.

  Who was I, after all? An outsider. A Yank. An unexpected and barely tolerated guest.

  I leaned my elbow on the desk and parked my chin in my palm. No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t being entirely fair to my hosts or to myself. Mrs. O’ Neil had warmed considerably since my arrival, and I think Patrick honestly enjoyed my company. If not for the friction that surrounded us, our friendship might have deepened to something more. I certainly couldn’t deny the way I felt when I was with him— alive and vibrant and downright happy. And unless the man was blind, he’d have to know I admired him tremendously.

  “I think I’ve begun to fancy him,” I whispered, then snorted at my own foolishness. Patrick O’ Neil and me, together? Might as well try to marry a lion with a lamb. He was too extraordinary for me, far outclassing anyone I’d ever considered as a future husband. Yet my heart broke for him every time I saw him exchange sharp words with his father, and every cell in my body yearned to comfort him even when he was being prickly. Maybe my maternal instinct was out of whack, or maybe I felt a bit responsible for him since he had decided to follow Christ.

  I unparked my chin and forced myself to straighten a pile of scribbled note cards I’d assembled for the Cahira book. The name of a character adorned each colorful card— Felim O’ Connor, Cahira, Una. Another pile featured the characters from the other books, and as I shuffled through them I saw the names of Aidan and Flanna and Anika. Patrick’s own words came back to me: The heirs weren’t such oddities. They broke out of certain molds society and the church had forced upon them, but they followed the truer path God set them on.

  Weren’t they unusual women? Until now I had truly thought so, but now I was beginning to think otherwise. Perhaps they were ordinary women forced by circumstances to do extraordinary things. If Anika’s father had not died, nothing on earth would have compelled her to pick up a knight’s sword. If poverty had not trapped Aidan in a life of desperation, she would never have gone to sea. And if Fort Sumter had been fired upon the month after Flanna’s final exams, she would have graduated from medical school, taken the train home, and lived out her life in pleasant obscurity.

  I had always thought of Cahira’s heirs as superwomen, but perhaps they were just like me, blighted by a freakish white streak of hair but perfectly content to follow life’s road…until something unexpected happened. Until God led them in a different direction.

  Please, God, not me. I lowered my head as the truth crashed into my thoughts like surf hurling against a jagged cliff. I didn’t want adventure. I didn’t want to love a difficult man, mend a fractured family, or make peace in a for
eign community. I just wanted to tell a story, be with my friend at his wedding, and help where I could. I didn’t want to be extraordinary.

  Are you afraid?

  A quiet voice inside me insisted upon an answer, and I curled my hands into fists, resisting the question. Of course I wasn’t afraid. I was a New Yorker, at home in crowds, in subways, even in high-rise elevators where a suspicious-looking character could hop on at any floor. I could handle almost anything in New York. But this was Ireland, and I was like a fish out of water here.

  Still, I could get used to this beautiful place. Something in me had prickled with jealousy to think Taylor might actually be offered an opportunity to stay here. And while I could certainly see why he wouldn’t be happy in Ireland, perhaps I could be. And with someone like Patrick by my side, I wouldn’t be afraid of anything.

  I stood and moved to the single window at the front of the house, then looked out across the lawn. Mrs. O’ Neil was coming out of the garden, a woven basket on her arm. The bright heads of roses dipped over the edge of the basket and swayed with every step she took. Though the country was remarkably conservative, Ireland had always acknowledged the strength of its women, even electing a woman president. Ireland was filled with strong women who worked hard, supported their husbands, raised their children, patiently prayed in silence…and loved without reservation or conditions.

  How fitting that the Emerald Isle had given birth to women like Cahira O’ Connor. She, too, might have been an unremarkable woman if the Normans had not crossed her path. She might have married her kinsman, reared a castle full of kids, and died of old age, never to be mentioned in the history books.

  I ran my hand through my hair, watching Mrs. O’ Neil disappear into the house, then went back to my desk. I turned on my laptop, then clicked my nails against the case as the machine booted up.

  It would be nice if people were as forthright today as they had been in the thirteenth century. I could go up to Patrick and say, “If you want to marry me, I’m open to the idea,” and he could say the same. We’d go to the preacher and get married, then sort everything out later.