“I don’t know, Deirdre. There is something very strange about this death.”
He returned to the examination as I helped him position Grainne on her back. With a knife, he cut the high neck at the front of her robe down to the waist to expose the top of her body.
“No visible lacerations or bruises to the chest or upper abdomen. The arms are similarly undamaged. The hands show no wounds to suggest that she fought off the assailants or resisted any blows. Her lanyard and cross are missing.”
He put his ear to her skin and thumped her chest several times with his hand.
“The lungs are dry. No water inhalation, so she didn’t drown. She was dead before she went into the water.”
He looked at her neck again and stopped.
“Abba, what’s wrong?”
“Look at this,” he said.
Sister Anna, my grandmother, and I all leaned in as he tilted back her head to expose her neck.
“Her leather lanyard and cross are still here, but they’re sunk so deeply into her flesh that I didn’t see them at first,” he said.
Around our necks, all the sisters of holy Brigid wore a simple leather cord from which hung a small wooden cross. It was what marked us to the world as nuns.
“I can’t even get my fingers underneath. Deirdre, hand me the small knife from the box.”
I passed it to him and he carefully cut the leather, easing it and the cross out of her skin. He placed them on the table beside her.
“Someone has tied knots in the cord—three knots—all in front above the windpipe next to the cross. But the only way I can think to get the cord this tight would be twisting it with a stick from behind.”
“You mean she was garroted?” Sister Anna asked.
“Yes, I believe so. When the stick on the lanyard was rotated, it would have exerted tremendous force on the windpipe, cutting off her air supply. Then with continued turning, it would act as a tourniquet to the jugular vein, finally snapping her spinal column if tightened far enough. The force of the cross against her flesh aided in the deed. It also left a deep mark in her neck, like a brand. Help me turn her on her side.”
He probed deeply into the back of her neck with his fingers.
“Yes, her spinal column has been fractured just below the fourth cervical vertebra.”
“But Abba, wouldn’t it have taken a very strong man to do that? It would narrow down our list of suspects.”
“No, unfortunately it doesn’t help. Even a child could garrote someone effectively if that person was taken unaware or didn’t resist. It was a favorite form of murder among the street gangs of Alexandria when I was young because it could be used with such deadly force by anyone.”
Grandmother was shaking. I put my arm around her to comfort her. It must have been terrible to see her friend’s body like this. But she pushed me away.
“No, Deirdre, you don’t understand. Ailbe, please look closely at her neck above the right jugular vein.”
He stared at her for a moment, then turned Grainne’s head to the left and probed the skin beneath where the garrote had been.
“There’s an incision here, deep and expertly done, directly into the jugular vein. There’s some swelling around the wound, again indicating that Grainne was alive when this cut was made, at least at first. But this doesn’t make sense!”
Father Ailbe looked both surprised and sickened, emotions I rarely saw on his face since he had been through so much in his long life.
“Abba, why doesn’t it make sense?”
“Because it means someone struck three blows to her head to render her unconscious, then took her lanyard off, tied knots in it, put it back on her neck, and began to garrote her. But before the garrote was tightened very far, probably just enough to cut off her air supply, someone made an incision into her jugular. The result would have been a rapid emptying of her entire blood supply before the assailant finished tightening the garrote.”
Grandmother looked as white as a sheet. She sat down in a chair next to the table.
“Aoife, how did you know?” asked Sister Anna.
Grandmother didn’t answer. I started to feel queasy myself as I realized what she suspected.
Father Ailbe completed his examination of the body. He said the time of death was hard to determine with certainty, but since Grainne had visited the monastery only a week earlier, we knew she had been murdered within the last seven days.
When Father Ailbe was finished, he sat beside my grandmother and held her hand.
“Aoife, what is it? How did you know about the wound to her neck?”
My grandmother shook her head before she spoke.
“Ailbe, I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but would you examine the contents of her stomach?”
“Is that really necessary?” asked Sister Anna. “I would prefer not to do any more damage to this poor woman’s body.”
“Please, Anna,” said my grandmother. “It’s important.”
Father Ailbe rose silently and went back to the table. He took a larger knife from the box, along with a pair of clamps.
“Deirdre, I’m going to need your help.”
I had butchered many animals in my life and had helped Father Ailbe perform surgery on numerous patients. I was not a squeamish person, but I had never been part of an autopsy like this. I forced myself to calm down and tried very hard not to throw up.
Father Ailbe cut deeply into Grainne’s abdomen while I pulled the flesh away to expose her stomach. He then made an incision and told me to hold back the tissue with the clamps. As far as I could tell, her stomach was empty. Father Ailbe probed inside with his fingers, then bent over her body. He sniffed the air around her, then placed his nose directly above the incision.
“There’s a strange, bitter odor in her stomach. Aoife, please come and tell me what you think.”
I had never seen Grandmother look so afraid as she approached the table. She held on to the side as she bent over the cavity. It was only a moment later that her knees gave way and she slumped to the floor. I eased her up and helped her back into the chair.
“Grandmother, is it what I think?”
“Yes. It’s mistletoe.”
“No—dear God in heaven,” I whispered.
Sister Anna marched quickly across the room and stood in front of us.
“Aoife, what is going on? One of the sisters of my monastery has been murdered, and you two seem to know something about it I don’t. Tell me now.”
Grandmother stood and faced the abbess as I held her. Her voice was barely audible.
“Anna, she wasn’t murdered.”
“What do you mean she wasn’t murdered? It hardly seems like suicide.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Grandmother said. “The drink of mistletoe, the three blows to the head to stun her, the garrote with three knots, the draining of her blood, her placement in water after she was dead. It was all done according to the ritual.”
“What ritual? What are you talking about?”
She took a deep breath before answering.
“Grainne wasn’t murdered. She was sacrificed.”
Chapter Three
Sister Anna covered Grainne’s body with the blanket and told us to say nothing as we left the infirmary together. All the monks and nuns of Kildare, along with many of the monastery widows and our neighbors, were gathered outside the hut waiting for news, but Sister Anna told the crowd that we didn’t know anything yet. She asked Dari to stay with the body and allow no one inside while the four of us went to the church to talk with the man who had found Grainne.
He was standing near the altar next to the chest holding holy Brigid’s bones. We spoke to him briefly, but it was clear that he had little to add to what we already knew. He had been passing by the bog early that morning on a frequently traveled road leading to Kildare. He had seen the body in shallow water surrounded by reeds and pulled it out. He put Grainne’s corpse in his cart without disturbing it in any way and brought her
immediately to the monastery, along with her cow. He was an honest young man who was well known to us, and there was no reason to suspect him of foul play.
Sister Anna thanked and dismissed him, then led us to the small stone hut that served as her office. Father Ailbe and my grandmother sat in the two chairs in front of her desk, while I stood behind them. Sister Anna closed the window shutters, then bolted the door.
“Now,” she said, “tell me exactly what you meant when you said Sister Grainne was sacrificed.”
My grandmother took a moment to collect herself before she began.
“Anna, the sacrifice of animals to the gods is an important part of druidic practice, just as in the old religion of the Romans. Among the druids, offerings are a way to preserve the balance of nature by giving something precious to the divine forces who control our world in exchange for their blessings on the land and in our lives. A farmer sacrifices a goat in exchange for a good harvest, a mother sacrifices a chicken for the healing of her child—”
“Yes, Aoife, I understand the concept, but Grainne was not a goat or chicken.”
“No, of course not. According to the teachings of the druids, the more precious a sacrifice offered to the gods, the more powerful the result. There is nothing more precious than human life. Centuries ago in Ireland, on rare and special occasions, the druids would sacrifice a living man or woman. Sometimes these were volunteers who acted from religious devotion, even druids and kings, and sometimes they were criminals condemned to die for offenses they had committed. Farmers still find the bodies of these victims on occasion when they dig for turf or drain a bog. But it has been hundreds of years since the last human sacrifice was performed on this island. Long ago, the Irish druids accepted the doctrine that properly honoring the gods does not require such extreme measures.”
“And yet,” said Father Ailbe, “Grainne lies on a table in our infirmary, dead not more than a week.”
“Yes, and it was most certainly a deliberate sacrifice according to the ancient druidic ritual.”
“How do you know that for certain?” asked Sister Anna.
“Because of the manner of her death, as well as its timing. Three is a sacred number among us, just as with your Christian threesome of father, son, and . . . what’s the last one?”
“The Holy Spirit,” answered Father Ailbe.
“Yes. We have triple deities as well. But it’s not just in regard to gods that the number three is special. A sacred act progressing in thirds yielding a whole signifies completeness. Grainne was struck with a blunt instrument on the back of the head three times, but not in a way that would kill her outright. It was important that her blood still be flowing for the rest of the ritual.”
“So being struck three times to the head wasn’t the end,” said Sister Anna.
“No, that was just the beginning, the first act of the sacrifice done with three strokes, sacred number within sacred number.”
“What was the second act?”
“Strangulation with the garrote. Three knots instead of three strokes, but it had to be done very carefully. Only someone who was trained as a druid would know the importance and technique of crushing the windpipe at the beginning without cutting off the blood supply.”
“But you said she was deliberately bled out in the middle of the garroting.”
“Yes, the incision to the jugular vein had to be done with the greatest care by an expert to. . . . Anna, the next part of this is not pleasant.”
“Aoife, one of my nuns has been killed. No part of this is pleasant to me.”
“Of course. Grainne’s head would have been forced down so that it was lower than the rest of her body, to collect her blood as it quickly drained from her. Sometimes victims were hung upside down by their feet to do this, but there was no evidence of ropes around her ankles, was there, Ailbe?”
“No.”
“Well, it would work either way. After the blood was collected in a bowl, it would have been offered to the god.”
“Which god?” asked Sister Anna.
“Bel, the one honored on this holy day of Beltaine. He is the god of summer and fertility of the land at the start of the season, the divine bearer of male seed to the feminine earth.”
“What happened after Grainne’s blood was drained?”
“The sacrificer would have tightened the garrote the rest of the way to seal off any remaining blood flow and guarantee death with the crushing of the neck.”
“Was there any significance to the use of her lanyard with the cross as a garrote?” asked Father Ailbe.
“Not that I can think of. Any kind of cord or wire could be used, as long as it was very strong. I suppose the killer had a sense of irony using a Christian object for a druidic execution.”
“Irony?” Sister Anna stood up. “Do you think this is in any way amusing, Aoife?”
Grandmother rose from her chair and faced Sister Anna.
“Don’t twist my words. Grainne was my friend!”
“Please,” I said as I moved between them. “Grandmother, Sister Anna, this is a terrible time for all of us. We have to work together if we’re going to find the killer.”
Both women eased back into their chairs. My grandmother continued.
“Draining the blood is not the third element of the sacrifice, it is simply a way of gathering the essence of life as an offering to the god. The third act was the drowning in the bog.”
“But she was already dead, wasn’t she?” asked Sister Anna.
“Most certainly,” said Father Ailbe.
“Yes,” said my grandmother. “The drowning is symbolic. It is the final element in what druids call the Triple Death.”
“How does the mistletoe fit into the ritual?” asked Father Ailbe. “I think I can guess, but I would like to hear about it from you, Aoife.”
“Mistletoe is a plant sacred to the druids. It’s an ancient tradition that goes back to the beginnings of the Order in Britain. It grows on oaks, our most holy tree, and its berries have many medicinal uses, for both animals and people.”
“But,” interjected Father Ailbe, “it is extremely difficult to use safely. The extraction and preparation of the juice from the berries has to be done very carefully. Too little of it will make a patient violently ill, too much will cause an immediate cessation of breathing and heartbeat.”
“That’s why only a trained druid can use it properly in a sacrifice,” Grandmother said. “The preparation and exact amount is critical.”
“For what?” asked Sister Anna.
“To render the victim unconscious,” I said.
“Yes,” said my grandmother. “The druids of ancient times taught that it was important for the victim not to suffer. In fact it was an integral factor in the sacrifice. If the person offered to the gods in most sacrifices experienced pain or terror, it negated the ritual. Indeed, it became a curse on the druid who performed the rite. I thank the gods that at least Grainne didn’t die in agony and fear.”
“But,” I added, “the amount of mistletoe could not be enough to bring about death by itself. The victim needed to be alive for the rest of the ritual.”
“So that’s why you wanted to examine the contents of Sister Grainne’s stomach,” Sister Anna said. “To see if she had consumed mistletoe.”
“Yes,” said my grandmother. “The odor of mistletoe prepared by a druid is unmistakable.”
“But how would the murderer have persuaded Grainne to ingest it?” asked Father Ailbe. “I presume it was put into a drink of some kind to cover the bitter taste?”
“That would be the normal way,” said my grandmother. “And it was important that the victim take the cup willingly. Even in centuries past when criminals were sacrificed, it was crucial that they accept the drink freely.”
“How would a murderer do that with Sister Grainne?” asked the abbess. “Could he have intimidated her in some way, perhaps threatening to harm someone or something she cared about?”
“That
is possible,” Grandmother said. “He could also have tricked her somehow, though that was never done in the old days.”
Sister Anna got up and paced behind her desk as she considered this information; then she spoke.
“You keep talking about how these sacrifices were done in the past, centuries ago, but if they are obsolete how would any druid today know what to do? How would he have learned the method of garroting and draining blood or the exact preparation of mistletoe to bring about unconsciousness in a victim but not death?”
My grandmother looked uncomfortable, but finally spoke.
“Anna, the teachings of the druids are secret. I can’t go into any more detail with you than I already have. But I can tell you that druids today still learn the old ways, even though we would never practice them now.”
Sister Anna placed her hands on her desk and looked at my grandmother in disbelief. Even Father Ailbe seemed surprised.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she asked, “that not five miles from here at the druidic school, you are teaching young members of the Order how to perform human sacrifices?”
I answered for her.
“Sister Anna, you must understand, these rituals are part of our heritage, our sacred traditions. We study them in the way the Jews still study the details of animal sacrifice, even though the Romans destroyed their temple in Jerusalem almost five hundred years ago.”
“The key difference, Sister Deirdre, is that the Jews never sacrificed human beings. Are you saying that when you were a child, I allowed you to leave your classes early here at the monastery so that you could walk down the road and learn the best way to slaughter someone on a bloody altar?”
My grandmother stood up and faced Sister Anna again.
“Leave her alone, Anna. You don’t understand what you’re talking about. The ancient rituals of human sacrifice are only a fraction of what Deirdre or any other young druid learns. And it was never meant to be instruction in performing the deed. It is part of a much larger appreciation of our traditions.”
“Well, Aoife,” said Sister Anna, “you and your precious traditions have taught someone how to kill one of my nuns in the most gruesome way I could imagine!”
Sacrifice Page 2
