Sacrifice

by Philip Freeman

  “No, thanks. Sister Anna sent me out to look for Alma. I’m horrible at fishing, anyway.”

  Sister Alma was a nun in her mid-forties from King Dúnlaing’s own clan. She was the monastery librarian and also an excellent scribe with perpetually ink-stained fingers who spent most of her time copying texts in our scriptorium.

  “Where was Alma going?”

  “She left four days ago to visit her parents on their farm over by the Liffey. They were terribly worried about her the last couple of weeks, and you know they’re too feeble to travel anymore, so she went for a quick visit. She was supposed to be back last evening.”

  “She probably just decided to stay at the farm an extra day,” I said.

  “I know, but Sister Anna has been insistent about everyone returning from trips on time. Alma is going to get an earful from the abbess when she gets back.”

  “I’ll help you look. I’m not doing anything useful here, anyway. Do you mind, Abba?”

  “No, please go ahead. I think I’ll head back to the monastery myself. The fish just aren’t biting today.”

  Father Ailbe walked slowly back down the path to Kildare with his single fish tied to a line over his shoulder.

  “Let’s get started, Dari. The longer it takes to find Alma, the more trouble she’s going to be in with Sister Anna.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By evening, I was starting to get worried. Dari and I had walked all the way to the farm of Alma’s parents and back. They said she had left to return to Kildare after breakfast the day before. Her mother was beside herself with fear after all that had happened over the last two weeks, but I assured her that the killer had been caught and there was no longer any danger to the nuns. Dari had reported the news to Sister Anna, and the abbess had sent out search parties to comb the countryside between Kildare and the Liffey. She was thinking of asking the king for help but didn’t want to take that step yet. Alma was notorious for living in her own world. We would often find her at the scriptorium in the mornings, copying some manuscript, not even knowing the night had passed. One time when she was supposed to be meeting with some visiting dignitaries from Britain, I found her sitting in a tree drawing pictures of baby birds to use in a book illustration. She had likely wandered off to visit a friend or a favorite meadow on the way home and forgotten that she was supposed to return right away to Kildare.

  I found Dari outside the monastery gate talking with two of the monks about where to look next. Brother Fiach was about to set off down the little-used path that ran to the Liffey north of Kildare in case Alma had decided to return that way. Brother Michael, his head still bandaged, volunteered to search in the forest to the south in case she had somehow become lost there.

  “Deirdre, I don’t like this,” Dari said after they left. “It’s hardly been a week since Finian was executed and now we have another missing nun. People were just starting to feel safe again, but this has put everyone on edge.”

  “I understand, but you know Alma. Remember when last year she disappeared for three days before anyone could find her?”

  “Yes. She was on the far side of Dunmurry Hill, collecting oak apples to make ink.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll turn up. But I hope Sister Anna gives her a good tongue-lashing when she does, for worrying everyone so much.”

  We strolled away from the gate down to the edge of the woods.

  “Deirdre, have you thought about asking Sister Anna if you could return to the monastery? I really miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Father Ailbe talked with me about the same thing this morning. He offered to speak with her.”

  “You should let him. How can she refuse Father Ailbe?”

  “She can do anything she wants. The abbess is in charge of the nuns, not him. I know he has a lot of influence with her; but if she’s made up her mind, she’s not going to change it, even for him.”

  We wandered toward the graveyard as we talked.

  “Well, I don’t see the problem,” Dari said. “The crisis is over. Everyone said things they didn’t mean. Couldn’t you just swallow your pride and apologize to her?”

  “It’s not a matter of pride, I. . . .”

  I stopped and stared at the far side of the graveyard.

  “Dari, why am I seeing five new crosses?”

  “Five? What do you mean? There were only four nuns buried recently.”

  We started to walk faster. The sun had set and it was growing dark, but it was clear that there were five new graves, the last with very fresh earth. I knelt down quickly to look at the cross in the dim light. There was no name inscribed on it, just a small circle with two diagonal lines coming from the top.

  “Dari, dig fast!”

  I threw off my robes and began to dig at the earth frantically with my hands. Dari realized what was happening and joined in with all her might.

  “There’s a shovel in the shed,” she gasped.

  “Get it quickly. Help! Anybody, help!” I shouted toward the monastery.

  Dari ran to the shed and returned in a moment with the wooden shovel. She was small but strong and threw the loose earth behind her as fast as any man.

  Kevin came running down the hill and didn’t even ask what we were doing. He took one look at the fifth grave and tore into it with his hands, then took the shovel from Dari when she tired. Others rushed to the site, but there wasn’t room for anyone else to dig. Dari and I, covered in dirt, collapsed at the side while two others took our places. We had dug down five feet in just a few minutes and still had found nothing. Sister Anna and Father Ailbe hurried down the hill as well and stood by the grave as the younger members of the community continued to dig frantically.

  Finally Kevin struck something, and I jumped in. I pushed the dirt away and saw that it was a cloth shroud.

  “Kevin, help me!”

  I lifted the head and front of the body as he grabbed the feet. We pushed it up out of the grave, into the arms of the nuns and brothers waiting there, who laid it gently on the earth. Father Ailbe took the knife he always carried for woodcarving and cut away the coverings at the head to reveal the face of a woman.

  It was Sister Alma.

  He placed his hands on her neck to feel for a pulse, but shook his head. I knelt next to him and felt her skin. It was cold to the touch.

  “She has been dead for many hours,” Father Ailbe said to Sister Anna and the rest of us.

  Alma had the same look of peace on her face as most of the other murdered nuns.

  Sister Anna took charge quickly.

  “Kevin, you and the other brothers choose a sister and go in pairs to the hermitages of the solitaries. Each of you, man and woman, take a sword or a spear. Bring the solitaries back here immediately, even if you have to carry them kicking and screaming. I will send word to the king right away. Some of you carry Sister Alma’s body to the infirmary. The rest, return to the monastery and form a guard until the king’s men arrive. Go, now!”

  Everyone went to work immediately. Four of the sisters, Dari among them, took up Alma’s body and carried it to the infirmary, with Father Ailbe walking beside them. I didn’t need to hear the autopsy results. I knew he would find that she had been rendered unconscious with mistletoe and buried alive, a sacrifice to Donn, the god of death.

  Only Sister Anna and I remained by the grave.

  “The sign carved on the cross, Sister Anna, it’s the same as the one carved on Saoirse’s chest.”

  “I can see that.”

  I started to cry, something I had never done before in the presence of the abbess. She made no move to comfort me.

  “I’m so sorry, Sister Anna. I thought it was all over. I thought we had caught the killer.”

  “I had thought so as well. It seems as if there was more than one. Or perhaps someone new has been inspired to continue Finian’s work.”

  “I’ll find him, Sister Anna. The king’s commission to me still holds. I won’t let you down.”

  She looked d
irectly at me for the first time.

  “I hope so, Deirdre, I truly do. Alma was a member of the king’s own clan, a cousin on his father’s side, I believe. If things were bad with the previous four killings, they are about to get much worse. A storm is coming—and I don’t know who, whether druid or Christian, will be left alive when it’s over.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We received word the next morning that King Dúnlaing had called an assembly of all the clan and religious leaders of the tribe at his feasting hall that evening.

  The king’s guards had returned to Kildare in even greater numbers than before. All the solitaries had been gathered inside the monastery grounds. Sister Anna had not been exaggerating when she said they were to be brought in even against their will. Sister Maria, a white-haired nun from Britain who lived west of the monastery, was forcibly carried through the gates by one of the king’s men, who had a black eye from struggling with her. My cousin Riona had reluctantly left her new puppies and sheep with a nearby farmer and made a bed for herself in the loft above the cattle barn.

  My grandmother and I met Father Ailbe making his way down the road to the king’s farm. Sister Anna had gone ahead on horseback, accompanied by two of Dúnlaing’s guards.

  “Abba,” I said as I took his satchel and put it on my shoulder, “why didn’t you ride with Sister Anna? I’m sure the king would have found a horse for you or sent a chariot.”

  “I’m sure he would have, but my knee is feeling better. A little exercise is just the thing to loosen up the joints. Besides, I find that walking and thinking go together very nicely.”

  “Will it bother you if we join you, Ailbe?” asked Grandmother.

  “Not at all. I can think even better if I have someone to talk with. Is there any word from Cathbad?”

  Cathbad was a druid prophet who lived near the old royal settlement of Cruachu in Connacht beyond the Shannon River. If my grandmother was the leading druid in the province of Leinster, Cathbad was the acknowledged senior druid over all of Ireland. There was no official hierarchy in the Order, but he had been the most respected and influential druid on the island since I was a little girl.

  “Yes,” she said, “he sent a message that he was on his way here as fast as possible. I’m hoping he arrives in time for the king’s assembly. If anyone can keep things under control, it’s Cathbad.”

  “Is it true,” Father Ailbe asked, “that several of the western clans are calling their warriors to arms?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I heard just a few hours ago that Brion, who holds the king’s borderlands along the Barrow River, is assembling his men. He’s always prided himself on his support for the druids, many of whom are members of his clan. He has at least thirty skilled warriors at his command and holds great influence with the other western clan leaders. Brion has always resented Dúnlaing. He has made no secret of his belief that the kingship should have passed to his family. He may well see this latest murder as an opportunity to weaken, if not replace, the king.”

  “And to make matters worse,” I said, “Saoirse’s father and the clans of the east are also arming their men. The king will try to stay impartial, but if it comes to a fight, Dúnlaing will support the eastern clans. Not only have they always been his power base, but many of them are sympathetic to the Christians if not Christians themselves. And the fact that four of the murdered nuns have been from the eastern clans, with Alma from the king’s own family, makes it certain that Dúnlaing would side with them.”

  “Kildare lies in the middle of the kingdom between the eastern and western clans,” Grandmother said. “Brion is already upset about the king’s guards at the monastery. It hasn’t escaped his notice that suddenly—and conveniently, in his mind—a few dozen heavily armed warriors of the eastern clans are stationed so near to him.”

  “Do you think the king can hold the tribe together?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said my grandmother and Father Ailbe at the same time.

  We arrived at the king’s settlement in the late afternoon. Dúnlaing’s guest house was spacious and comfortable, but the leaders had all pitched their own tents outside the walls near the forest, eastern and western clans as far apart as possible. Sister Anna was alone in the guest house, reading, when the three of us arrived. I had hoped she and my grandmother would both apologize for their previous harsh words, but neither would even look at the other.

  After dinner, we heard the horn sounding and made our way to the feasting hall. The tables had been put aside and the benches lined up to face the king’s chair in the center near the fire. For such a warm day, there was a noticeable chill inside the hall. The eastern clan leaders sat on the right and the western on the left. Each had brought a retinue of warriors. Father Ailbe, Sister Anna, my grandmother, and I took our places in the center between the eastern and western clans. Three other druids sat with us, including Cáma, the interpreter of dreams who had been at dinner with us at my grandmother’s house when we received the news of Grainne’s death. That seemed like ages ago now.

  The king’s resident bard, an old man named Tadg who had been one of my teachers, sat near the fire, softly playing his harp. He was blind now and suffered from pain in his joints, but he was still the finest harpist in Ireland. It was customary for a bard to play during assemblies, to calm the volatile spirits of the warriors present. Sometimes it worked.

  The king rose from his chair. He looked magnificent in his flowing robes and thick gold torque. Next to him, leaning against his chair, was his sword.

  “I have called you all here today to discuss the most serious matter that has faced our kingdom in many years. Most of you have stood beside me in battle against the Uí Néill armies from the north. We have shed blood together and watched our friends die fighting to protect this tribe against its enemies. But today we face not the swords of the Ulstermen but a more dangerous and insidious foe. I speak not of the blasphemers of all things holy who have murdered five nuns from the monastery of Brigid, as evil as those men are, cursed be their heads. I speak of the divisions between clans, between people of different faiths in this kingdom. Nothing would give our enemies more delight than to see us fall upon each other.”

  He paused to let his gaze sweep the room, then continued.

  “I am the rí, the king of this tribe. I rule by the will of the gods as I have for the last fifty years. I will not let dissension and discord tear this tribe apart. We will remain one people. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was a murmur of assent from the right side of the hall, but a noticeable silence on the left. Brion, the clan leader from the west, rose to face the king.

  “My lord, it is true that you rule this tribe, but you are not an emperor over us as the Romans had among themselves in days gone by. The gods have granted you power over this land, but only as long as you are able to maintain order. You know the clans of the east are arming themselves and that their greedy eyes are fixed westward. You have placed your own warriors at Kildare next to lands my family has held for generations. I grieve for the sisters of Brigid whose lives were lost, but I fear you and your allies here on the banks of the Liffey are using this tragedy as a pretext to expand your own power. I tell you, we will not allow it!”

  There were shouts of approval from the left of the hall and angry calls from the right. Tadg played even more loudly.

  Saoirse’s father stood and waited for the uproar to subside before he began.

  “Brion, you dare to speak to us of taking advantage of an outrage to strengthen our eastern clans? Was it your daughter who was murdered? Do you think I would use her death to take a few scrawny cattle from your herds? Or perhaps you think the king bribed a druid to bury alive his own kinswoman? I find it strange you paint us as conspirators while it is our own women who are dying. We all know you have craved power over this tribe for years. It seems to me that if anyone is manipulating the murder of the nuns of Kildare, it is you and your western allies.”

  Both s
ides jumped to their feet and began shouting at each other even more loudly. I was glad that their swords weren’t allowed in assembly halls, but I was afraid these men would tear each other apart with their bare hands.

  Father Ailbe rose from his seat next to me and waited silently. At last the noise subsided and the king nodded to him.

  “My friends, as you all know, I am a stranger in this land. I came here from Egypt many years ago when some of your fathers were not yet born. You have welcomed me most graciously to your island and accepted me as one of your own. You are truly a remarkable people of honor, strength, and courage.”

  I marveled at how he was able to hold these violent men with his voice. But then, Father Ailbe had been trained by the finest rhetoric teachers of Alexandria.

  “My city was founded eight hundred years ago by Alexander the Great, a name known even in this distant land. Alexandria prospered like no other city before it. We traded with India and distant Cathay, sailed the seas from the African coast to Scandinavia, even here to Ireland, and we grew rich in both gold and knowledge. We welcomed people of all backgrounds and beliefs to our city, be they gentle Hindus or followers of the fierce Germanic gods. Our differences made us stronger and we honored them. But then jealousy and dissension came among us. For many years the people of my city fought among themselves. Christians tortured and slew believers in the old gods, priests at the temple of Serapis urged their members to kill Christians, and everyone slaughtered the Jews. Alexandria was once a shining jewel, with temples and churches and synagogues that surpassed even Rome and Constantinople. The wisdom and heritage of the whole world was preserved in its libraries and museums. But so much of it has been reduced to ashes and rubble. The citizens of my once-great city now live in fear of conquest by the Persians or even the Arab tribes of the desert. They are weak because they fought among themselves.”

  The hall was silent until a voice spoke from the back.