In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

‘If Siúr Sodelb judges your music worthy then its quality cannot be denied. I would love to hear this piece completed, as I’m sure the other sisters would.’

  ‘You must name it after the bees,’ Siúr Sodelb says.

  Máthair Gobnait nods. ‘Yes. I agree. Perhaps‘Um Mholadh Beacha.’

  It seems right to think that it would be named as a praise piece for the bees. Áine feels a rush of emotion, something stirring inside her. She tries to force it, but it remains just out of her reach. She shakes her head slightly, trying to clear it.

  Máthair Gobnait lays a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry. We’ve been carried away with our enthusiasm and it’s too much for you.’

  ‘No, no. It was only at that moment I felt something, some thread of memory perhaps, but it was so brief and now it’s gone.’ The panic that seemed to disappear comes back in full. Darkness threatens to swallow her for a moment. She closes her eyes, but there is no improvement. She utters a small wail and grabs the side of the cart.

  ‘Shhh. Calm yourself,’ says Máthair Gobnait. She brushes her hand across Áine’s forehead and along her cheek. ‘No need to worry. Things like this take soft handling. Let the memories come to you, however little, and one day it will all bear fruit.’ She gestures to the row of hives. ‘My bees. The bees build their store of honey slowly, each worker bee seeking out the flower dew to bring back to the hive to make into honey to feed the others. Not just one bee, but many many bees together. We’re like those bees here. We help each other, we work and toil for this community and for God. We don’t do it alone. And it’s not for you to carry this burden by yourself. We are here to help you, to give you shelter, to give you comfort and to help you find the gift of joy in the precious life you have from God.’

  Áine initially hears only her voice, the soothing rhythms and melodious tones that slowly wrap themselves around her, so warm and comforting, a sanctuary for her wounded spirit. The words come later, their meaning a balm like honey, seeking those deep hurts to begin a healing. She opens her eyes and looks at Máthair Gobnait and allows a little of the light that shines from her to warm her, as her words and voice had done.

  ‘Thank you, Máthair Gobnait.’

  Máthair Gobnait nods, squeezes her hand and lets it rest there a moment. No words are exchanged, but the healing continues, her heart slows, her mind feels at rest. Siúr Sodelb stands in silence behind them, a witness and support.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Máthair Gobnait’s community, is on the hillside of Gort na Tiobratán, among the Érainn people. And these people are part of the Eóganacht kingdom of Múscraige Mitine. This community is more than just a place for women to come to praise their God. The farm that supports them requires that the cailecha shoulder tasks and responsibilities that absorb many hours out of their day. The tasks and responsibilities change sometimes with the demands of the season and are supported by the client farmers and handful of slaves and servants attached to a holy community. They enjoy this bounty through the grace of Epscop Ábán and the Eóganacht ruler in Munster who owns the land in the name of the church, though the Érainn people who have lived here much longer might dispute that.

  The farm itself could be seen as small. Rocks of all sizes jut from the earth nearly everywhere convenient and inconvenient, with rush and furze squeezed in between wherever they can find purchase. Small patches of green wrested from this parsimonious land are given over to the necessary cultivation of grain crops and grazing of animals. Despite the seeming resistance of such discommodious land, the farm is sufficiently large and productive to provide for the needs of the women, with some to share with those less successful.

  Siúr Mugain ensures that the fields are ploughed with the oxen and hoed where necessary and then directs the sowing of barley, wheat and oats. When the August sun has ripened the grains to their fullest and September has stuck its nose in she organizes the reaping, marshalling the client worker, servants and slaves, men and women, into the fields with their sickles and gathers in the harvest. She coordinates the threshing, her strong arms setting the pace for the others as she flails the wheat, barley or oats to detach the grain. She is not of noble birth and willingly does the work.

  With the harvest in, it is time to light the kiln fire to dry those grains so laboriously harvested, while ensuring no grain is scorched and all ash scrapings are removed to give to the poor. The winnowing takes Siúr Mugain next, fighting fatigue with the others, while she tosses the grain to separate the useless chaff. The grains amassed, the bags filled and stored in the shed, and her harvest is complete, one year’s cycle finished.

  The livestock falls to Siúr Sadhbh to oversee. Her love of animals and her status as a wealthy farmer’s widow makes her a clear choice to ensure the sheep don’t stray, the cows are milked twice daily, the calves remain healthy, the bull behaves, the hens are fed, the oxen are maintained and Máthair Gobnait’s horse is loved. The horse is especially important, for she is no common capall, a work pony that any low class farmer would have on the land, but an each, used only for riding and fit for a noblewoman.

  In early spring, Siúr Sadhbh supervises the lambing and the calving, making certain each newborn úan and loég is delivered safely from its mother and tended in its first few days by the children of servants and workers. The calves are eventually separated from their mother, except only at milking time, and by early summer the males are ready for castration, along with the male lambs. At midsummer, it’s Siúr Sadhbh who leads the shearing, bending over the sheep, clipping the wool endlessly, though her muscles ache. Come late summer, she lets loose the bulls to service the cows, except the ones kept back for winter milk. She selects the animals for slaughtering, the lambs, sheep, cows or calves that fit the need of the time and watches carefully the client farmer’s knife skills. She scrutinizes each tribute from the client farmers, the various cuts of meat or live animals they send to the community each year.

  It’s Siúr Feidelm who takes over when the slaughtering is finished. She oversees the meat preparation: its hanging, salting and curing, and deals with the kidney, liver and heart. Meat is only ever served on Sundays and feast days and rarely during the holy fasting periods of summer and winter Lent, and never in spring Lent. Siúr Feidelm also extracts the marrow from the bones, used in soup along with the wild garlic, onions, and celery from the garden, which is also her preserve. As lubhghorteóir, she grows leek and cabbage alongside of the celery.

  In her kitchen, Siúr Feidelm supervises the churning to make the butter used on Sundays and feast days and ensures sufficient grain is ground in the cern to make the flour for the daily bread. Come early summer, with the fresh spring grass sweetening the milk, she sets out the soured milk to form the curds to make the cheese, leaving the whey for watering down the soured drink, medcuisec, for fasting days of penance.

  Like any other farm, Máthair Gobnait’s farm is governed by the seasons, the crops, the animals and their requirements, but it is also a community of women whose main desire is to worship, honour and celebrate God. This they do primarily inside the oratory, situated in the confines of the termann, the sacred area. Each Sunday, those that believe can cross that threshold and gather around the oratory to hear the mass Epscop Ábán celebrates from his place behind the altar inside.

  For these women honouring and celebrating God also means offering a sanctuary and sustenance to the sick, weary and hungry that come to the entrance of the faithche. Máthair Gobnait and the women are there, arms open, hands at the ready to present food, to tend wounds or offer comfort. If it’s required, Máthair Gobnait leaves the community, taking one of the sisters with her, and ministers to the sick and holds vigil. Healing is Máthair Gobnait’s biggest concern, a cause for which she has a natural desire with her connection to bees. There is also the community’s placement by the ancient healing well. The place itself, Gort na Tiobratán, field of the well, marks the area’s ancient reputation as a holy place.

  Down through ages, countless desperate
petitioners have come there, seeking healing, blessing and solace from this most sacred of places. They scoop up the water, drink its goodness, touch their foreheads and their lips with it. They tie bits of cloth to the branches of the overhanging tree, while the wealthy cast bracelets, rings and even coins of gold and silver into the water itself. There is so much power here, so much holiness. Where else would Máthair Gobnait see nine white deer but at Uisneach in Gort na Tiobratán?

  It’s unsurprising then that such a woman in a place as holy as this would soon garner a reputation. Epscop Ábán is there to offer his blessing and approve her work, and interferes only on occasion, when events demand it. He, or one of his own community in Sean Chluain, offer mass and act as anam cara to those who desire it.

  Áine comes to know all these aspects of the community as the summer ripens past its fullness and her body heals at a slow but steady pace, like the sleeping huts and new sheds that are emerging under the careful hands of the builders. She has watched the builders fashion and weave the branches into close fitting wattle that shapes the walls and has marvelled at the smoothness of the daub they plaster over it. She’s seen them make the wooden support beams with their mallets and saws and heave them into place ready to under pin the thatch for the roofs. When all is complete, they will have quarters for guests and any future cailech who might wish to join this community of women.

  The three builders are skilled enough at their work. Findbar and Brendán are brothers who both possess the strong hands and fine eye required for such a job, but Cenél, the youngest of the three and no relation, is good only when they supervise him closely. On the rare times they join the sisters at the main meal, they keep their heads bowed, with only an occasional embarrassed glance upwards, and hastily swallow their food, their discomfort plain to see.

  ~

  When Áine is well enough, they help her at night to one of the sleeping huts. She shares this small round dorm with Máthair Gobnait, Siúr Sodelb and Siúr Ethne while the others sleep in the bigger hut just beside theirs. It’s only natural they should place her with Máthair Gobnait, where the holy woman can attend any medical need Áine might have in the night. She still feels fortunate and a little in awe that she should be placed in such company, to be near these women in the hours of darkness where their holy aspirations could shine out on her and give her some peace. And it gives her great comfort to know that Máthair Gobnait is only a breath away, or that Siúr Sodelb, who lies in the cot next to her, could easily lay a hand in comfort should bad dreams overtake her.

  She doesn’t mind that twice in the night they rise to Siúr Ethne’s bell ringing, don dark wool gowns over a léine, fasten the leather belts, place the linen veil over neatly bound hair and slide into their sandals to go to worship. From her place in the cot she can still hear the slap of sandals on the oratory threshold and waits to hear the opening phrases of the office. These are moments of peace for her, moments when she’s not haunted by terrible dreams or the nagging fear that there is some hidden danger that her damaged mind no longer remembers.

  The sisters require little in return for all this comfort, this nurture. What can she give them, after all? Not her name, for that still remains undiscovered. Not her full body’s strength, for she is still mending slowly. She can barely join them at their meals, hobbling on two sticks like an old woman, with arms aching and sore at the effort. She doesn’t go far, only to the small stool in the Tech Mor, or outside on the bench by the oratory when the weather is fine and on a bench inside when it is not. In either place she attempts mending, spinning or any small task she might turn her hand to now they are healed enough. She has learned these tasks like a child would and is clumsy enough. But as she works at the tasks, or sits quietly on a bench, she gives the community what she does possess: her music. She works with joy and diligence in her mind on the piece that came to her first when she watched Máthair Gobnait with the bees.

  It’s not only gratitude that brings her back time and again to compose this piece, but the feeling it gives her. When the music takes hold of her, the sense of loss, the incompleteness vanishes, and only the sounds are real. While she sits outside, the sun warming her face, watching the bees, the sisters, the builders and everyone else busy at their work, somehow the music finds words that slide next to each other with great ease to form phrases. Eventually, the words and the music follow her from her bench outside to the table. It is beside her when she eats her meals, and remains as she hobbles back to the sleeping hut for bed.

  On occasion, if Siúr Sodelb hears her hum, she sits down beside Áine and joins in, first with the music, and then the words Áine shares with her. ‘Um mholadh Beacha. It’s a poem praising bees,’ says Siúr Sodelb, when it feels complete.

  ‘A praise poem,’ says Áine and she knows Siúr Sodelb is right. The two sit on the bench gazing down along the sloping ground where Siúr Sadhbh and the herd dog usher the calves into their pen for the night against any preying wolves. Behind her, the mallet lands with a thud against one of the timber roof poles of the nearly complete guest house.

  ‘We must sing it now for Máthair Gobnait,’ Siúr Sodelb says. ‘She will love it.’

  Áine isn’t so certain. Máthair Gobnait has heard some early parts of the music, when it was only sounds in the air, but now it seems presumptuous to present a piece before her, especially one that praises bees.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s yet ready for such a step.’

  ‘It needs nothing more, it’s perfect.’

  Siúr Sodelb, so shy and meek in all her work and speech, finds confidence in things concerning music and it’s that fact which encourages Áine to finally nod her head and softly utter a yes.

  As if summoned, Máthair Gobnait appears at the doorway of the Tech Mor in conversation with Siúr Feidelm, her back to them. When she turns, Siúr Sodelb raises her hand in greeting and Máthair Gobnait moves over to them. A moment later Siúr Sodelb explains their desire to share the piece.

  Máthair Gobnait is delighted and asks to hear it from Áine at that moment. She takes a seat beside the two of them.

  ‘Siúr Sodelb must sing it, her voice is so beautiful.’

  Siúr Sodelb will have none of that. ‘It’s your piece, you must give it first.’

  ‘You had a part in it,’ says Áine. Her request has nothing to do with modesty. She’s certain that Siúr Sodelb has never felt the nerves that now make it difficult for Áine to open her mouth and sing.

  Máthair Gobnait raises her hand. ‘We’ll give it over to God, and it will be His piece, in praise of the bees, His creation. For now, though, Áine, sing it as you choose.’

  ‘Please, I would rather Siúr Sodelb sang with me.’

  Siúr Sodelb nods and they begin, singing the words that seem so closely knit to the music it’s impossible to believe they might not have emerged together, permanently entwined. Siúr Sodelb, clasping Áine’s hand in hers, seems to match each of Áine’s words to hers, and marry each note and tone to her deeper tones.

  Over at the hives some bees emerge, circle and then fly off, rising higher as the notes of the piece climb. Áine loses herself in the notes, forgetting that Máthair Gobnait is listening attentively, that Siúr Sodelb still holds her hand, her face radiant. It’s when the piece ends, the final notes lingering in the air, that she realizes she’s been singing on her own. Her breath catches at the thought of it until Máthair Gobnait places a hand on her arm.

  ‘It was a gift to hear that. Thank you.’

  She blushes at the compliment. ‘There’s no need for any gratitude.’ She gestures around her. ‘It’s this place, the bees, the women. They have brought this piece to me.’ She gives her a bashful look. ‘And you.’

  ‘Máthair Gobnait is right, though. It is a gift. Such a gift deserves to be offered up to God.’ Siúr Sodelb turns to her, her gaze intent. ‘Would you consider such a thing? To sing this while we worship?’

  Áine reddens at the thought. Is she ready to sing it anywhere, let
alone during an observance they consider sacred? But perhaps it is just as sacred to her, and at that moment she wishes it were so. The ritual, the voices, the chanting, and most especially the music, all seem familiar to her, as if they were a part of her life. That she had at one time knelt, intoned chants and offered up prayers. She looks over at Siúr Sodelb, sees the earnest pleading, her large innocent eyes, the soft full mouth and golden hair that make any refusal impossible.

  ‘I’ll sing it,’ says Áine. ‘If Máthair Gobnait permits it.’

  ‘I will, of course,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘There is no question of permission. We will make a special occasion of it. Save it for the Sunday mass when others join us and Epscop Ábán is here.’

  ‘Epscop Ábán?’ asks Áine.

  ‘Yes, he’ll be here. So you see, it’s perfect.’

  Áine nods and swallows, uncertain if she is able for such an occasion. Perhaps she’d be better off singing it first just among the women, the sisters. She speaks of her concerns.

  ‘It will be fine,’ says Máthair Gobnait when she’s done. ‘And there can be no better occasion.’

  Áine sighs and hopes that Máthair Gobnait is right.

  ~

  They let her sit on a bench at the back while the rest of them in turn stand and kneel, facing the grizzled countenance of Epscop Ábán as he says the mass. He wears a simple dark robe underneath a white linen alb embroidered with holy symbols, and stands behind the wooden altar that holds a cross made by Máthair Gobnait. The cross is two pieces of copper twisted together in a tight embrace upwards and then another two braced across it. Beeswax candles are on either side of the cross, their flickering light casting changing shadows on his nose and chin that make his face appear as though a thousand souls are passing through him.

  The experience is unnerving for Áine and she sits silently listening to the others, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. These rituals hold no familiarity and she has no idea if it’s the implied agony of the twisted cross or the suggestion of possession on Epscop Ábán’s face that compels her to draw closer to this ritual that’s unfolding before her.