It’s Rónnat’s reaction that starts her worries anew when she asks her quietly if she might borrow the harp once more. Rónnat is overjoyed and fusses about, calling a servant to fetch Senán with his harp, and when the servant takes overlong, she leaves the room to search him out herself. Áine can almost hear her telling all and sundry that she wants Senán to bring his harp to Domnall’s room so Áine can play for him.
Domnall gives her a rueful look and mouths the words, ‘I’m sorry.’ That he understands her reluctance makes it worse in a way, and she chides herself for being so fanciful.
‘I think it will give you just as much pleasure to play as it will Domnall to listen,’ says Máthair Gobnait.
Áine only nods because she is afraid of what she might say if she speaks.
By the time the harp is in her lap, there is a small group gathered at the doorway. She is flushed and trembling, anxious for so many reasons, the least of which is whether she will be able to play again at all. She starts out slowly and soon her fingers are finding their way, this time with greater ease. The tune is the same, she won’t risk anything else, not only for the sake of her fragile memory, but because she isn’t certain what such display of skill would mean for her.
When the tune is completed, this time without any accompanying humming, she turns slightly and sees that Bruinech is at the front of the small group and she watches Áine with such intensity, Áine can’t help but feel a twinge of fear. Has she seen something, recognized some gesture of Áine’s that marks her for who she is? She tries to shake off the feeling as she hands the harp back to Senán and says she can remember no other tune. Senán takes the harp and sits on her vacated stool and plies his craft. The group at the doorway lingers, all except Bruinech, who has vanished.
~
Not all of her time is spent tending Domnall. There are points in the day when she and Máthair Gobnait are free to do as they will. Máthair Gobnait makes it clear from the first that she will still observe the offices throughout the day. For this purpose she goes to their sleeping cubicle and kneels among the rushes on the beaten earth. Holding the cross that hangs around her neck, she prays, recites the psalms, sings the Beati and other hymns, makes counted genuflections and repeats some words of the Gospel. With a mixture of feelings, Áine asks to join her and Máthair Gobnait welcomes her to sit and listen as she says each prayer, psalm and hymn aloud and makes her genuflections. It’s in these moments too that Áine can feel closer to Siúr Sodelb and sometimes picture her kneeling beside Máthair Gobnait.
Áine finds it soothing to attend the offices. It also allows her to remain in the cubicle out of sight of anyone else. But as the offices take shape and Terce becomes distinct from Prime and Sext, and all the others distinguish themselves, she begins to look forward to the recitation, to even long for the assurance of each one’s pattern. The words take shape in her own mind before she hears Máthair Gobnait give voice to them, and she mouths some of the prayers almost in full, taking pleasure in the beauty of the words, the cadences of the rhythms.
It’s when she is sitting on the bed and Máthair Gobnait is kneeling on the floor, in the early hours one morning, with only a shaft of light coming from the passageway that leads to the back entrance of this section of sleeping cubicles, that she becomes conscious of someone hovering at their doorway. Máthair Gobnait’s eyes are closed and she is positioned away from the entrance, but Áine is facing forward and can see the movement of a shadow. She clutches the bedclothes and casts her eyes wildly around for something to fend off the person should they enter. The figure moves further into view, a head leans over, tentative. Áine starts to rise and sees that it is Bruinech, still clad only in her léine. Bruinech stands there, only half visible, her eyes fixed on Máthair Gobnait, who continues with her recitation.
‘The Lord is my Shepherd,’ she says, ‘I shall not want...’
In the pale light Áine can see that, though Bruinech’s eyes are expressionless, silent tears are making their way down her cheeks. Áine releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. It comes out with a soft sigh and Bruinech looks up at Áine and her face hardens. A moment later she is gone.
~
Domnall’s health makes no marked improvement, though it’s evident that his breathing has eased, and his bouts of painful coughing have lessened considerably. Rónnat holds on to these signs as an indication of hope and Máthair Gobnait tries to gently point out the truth. The truth is undeniable in the hollowed eyes, the blood that spatters the linen when he does cough, the little broth he sips and the thin frame that continues to lose its flesh. Still, even Áine finds it difficult not to support Rónnat’s hopeful observations and pray that some miracle might heal Domnall.
‘You must not give them false hope,’ Máthair Gobnait tells her one afternoon as they sit for a moment in the afternoon sunshine. ‘Nor yourself. The outcome is certain. At this point we can only ease his passing.’
‘But surely when God hears our prayers he won’t let such a man as Domnall die so needlessly. I will fast to prove the sincerity of my prayers.’
‘God will hear the prayers and have no doubt of their sincerity, but you cannot bargain with Him.’
Áine sighs and asks nothing more, leaving unspoken the question that has plagued her. Would prayers from an unbaptized woman reach God’s ears, and even more troubling, what would happen to Domnall, once he died? If the Lord was the one and only God, was there a place for Domnall in the heaven they speak about? Or will he go to the Otherworld, just as surely as all his ancestors had before him? But these are questions that she can’t bring herself to ask, not because she has no courage to ask them, but because she has no courage to hear the answers.
~
They stay for ten days, though in some ways it seems more than that to Áine, if only that the person she feels she was when she entered the dún is different to the one who leaves. Perhaps Colmán’s absence makes her more at ease, so she can take pleasure in the ritual of the daily offices, as well as concentrate on assisting Domnall.
Whatever the cause, she eventually moves through the day without jumping like some wild hare whenever someone unfamiliar approaches her. Bruinech aside, the rest of the household take little notice of her movements, especially since she refuses any further requests to play the harp.
All her calm evaporates with Máthair Gobnait’s last words when they take their leave. Máthair Gobnait, having shown Rónnat and a serving girl in detail all that they must do to mix the broths and tinctures to continue Domnall’s care, speaks words of encouragement to Rónnat and Uí Blathnaic before climbing up onto the cart.
‘You will send me word when he passes. I will pray for him and come if you would like. It will be a little while yet, though.’
Rónnat wrings her hands and looks at her husband. Her hair hangs in hanks and her clothes are dishevelled. They are clean, though, with no trace of a stain. Áine and Máthair Gobnait have seen to that and impressed the importance of such acts to help Domnall feel better.
Uí Blathnaic gives her a hard stare. ‘We appreciate all that you’ve done for my son, make no mistake. But there is no need to attend us then, nor say the prayers you mention.’
Máthair Gobnait nods. ‘And your other son, Colmán, I had hoped to speak to him before I left about the matter of Áine. Would you have him send word to me if he discovers anything?’
Uí Blathnaic agrees and spares a glance for Áine. She is paralysed by the thought Colmán might uncover information that would be shared around like an old mug and can only stare back wide-eyed. She is convinced this will not end well.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The measure of relief Áine feels when the cart enters the faithche is almost tangible. The air is pungent with the smell of ripening fields and she can nearly taste the bread that is baking. Siúr Sodelb emerges from the Tech Mor, her arms circling an empty basket. Áine raises her hand for a wave, her heart lifting more because she feels that she is home.
‘Failte arais,’ says Siúr Sodelb, moving toward them. Her gait is still awkward, but Áine finds that reassuring somehow, a sign that some things are unchanged, expected.
‘Thank you. It is good to be back.’ Máthair Gobnait returns her greeting and Cadoc moves toward her to help her down. ‘Any news? The sisters are well? And the bees?’
Siúr Sodelb smiles and once again Áine marvels at her unearthly beauty. ‘All is well, including the bees, though I’m sure they’ve missed you.’
Máthair Gobnait nods in satisfaction. She turns to instruct Cadoc to give Fionn an extra ration and gives her a loving pat before Cadoc leads her away. ‘She’s a good beast, still. She took us far.’
‘She’ll be glad of the ration, Mistress,’ says Cadoc. ‘Things were slack enough in some ways at Raithlinn. I kept my eye out to see that she was led out to grass each day, but there were other horses too, and I don’t know their pastures the way I do here.’
‘I know you did what you could, Cadoc.’ She nods briefly and Cadoc moves away. It’s obvious Cadoc knows he has said enough.
~
Áine greets the other sisters later, just after the office of Vespers. When she hears the bell ringing this time, she rises from her seat on the bench just outside the Tech Mor where she is resting after her journey and makes her way to the oratory. After a quick nod from Máthair Gobnait she stands at the back. She sings the Beati softly, recites the psalms barely above a whisper and dares to join in with the Pater Noster, though she keeps the tone evenly blended with the others. The genuflections are made over and over and by the tenth, she has them perfected and in harmony with the others.
Siúr Ethne stands to recite the designated section of the Gospel and her eyes fix on Áine. There’s no doubt of her opinion of Áine’s decision to come. Her eyes are narrowed and her mouth still manages a frown, though it forms the holy words of the Apostle Luke. Áine lowers her head under such overt disapproval and edges towards the door, until she feels Siúr Sodelb’s warm hand slip into hers. With Siúr Sodelb’s support she can look at the twisted cross on the altar and listen to St Luke describing Jesus’ escape into Egypt.
She studies the small figure of Jesus affixed to the twisted cross, a working in copper that shows arms stretched wide, legs hanging down. Siúr Ethne described this event to her in great detail before she left for Raithlinn. She told her of the soldiers scourging his back as He carried the cross past onlookers and up the hill, the nails driven through His palms to secure Him to the cross, the thorns piercing the flesh and his head, and the wounds at His side that weep blood. Áine thinks of the pain of such wounds, the arms disjointed by the weight of the body, a body already broken and beaten. She closes her eyes, rubs her palm with her thumb and imagines a nail there, just as Siúr Ethne has told her to. The pain comes as she said it would, just as if the nail had pierced her flesh. She feels hands restrain her, despite her desperate struggles and blows rain down upon her and knives slash her, until the sweet darkness takes over. She opens her eyes and finds herself lying on the floor, the sisters and Máthair Gobnait gathered around her.
‘What happened?’ she asks.
‘You moaned and then fainted,’ Máthair Gobnait says. Her eyes are filled with concern.
‘She’s not fully prepared to undertake the offices. She shouldn’t have participated, she is not baptized,’ says Siúr Ethne.
‘She will be baptized soon.’ Máthair Gobnait’s voice is firm. ‘Though I’m certain that had nothing to do with it.’
Máthair Gobnait requests Siúr Feidelm to bring water and kneels beside her. She places a hand on her head. ‘You’re not feverish, buíochas le Dia.’
‘I’m sorry to have caused such a stir. It’s nothing, I assure you. A fragment of memory from my beating came upon me suddenly.’
Máthair Gobnait frowns. ‘I’m sorry. Those memories would be very painful, I’m sure.’
Siúr Sodelb kneels on her other side and without a word takes her hand. Áine is grateful for the gesture, feeling more able to explain something of the experience a few moments before. She takes a deep breath. ‘There were men, some restraining me and others beating me.’
Siúr Feidelm returns and hands Máthair Gobnait a cup of water. ‘Did you know these men?’ she asks.
Áine’s mind conjures up one of the images briefly before she pushes it away. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see them.’
‘You didn’t see them?’ asks Siúr Ethne. Her tone is sceptical.
‘Did you recognize any of the voices?’ asks Siúr Feidelm. ‘You said you heard them shouting.’
Máthair Gobnait holds up her hand. ‘I think it’s best that we defer the questions for now. We must give Áine some time to recover. And then it’s for her to decide what she can tell us, or if she needs help to understand what she’s remembered.’
At Máthair Gobnait’s insistence, Siúr Feidelm and Siúr Mugain help her to rise and sit on a bench. Áine assures them she is fine and well able to eat the small meal of bread and cheese waiting for them at the Tech Mor. After a few moments, they help her there and seat her next to Máthair Gobnait. Once the blessing is given, she even manages a few sips of beer and bites of bread. Around her, chatter about the weather and the new calves breaks out in small spurts.
Máthair Gobnait brings her own news to the fore after a while and begins recounting their time spent at Raithlinn. It is a tale with purpose, showing the others how their duty is shaped by the needs of the sick and how the holy vigil is given to those who are dying. She explains what she was allowed to do, and what she had to do and would wish to do to ease the physical and spiritual passing of one not Christian. She makes it clear that there is never a point where a person is no longer able to come to the faith, and so it’s important to treat everyone as a child of Christ. Siúr Ethne tears angrily at her bread and says nothing.
‘I feel that Uí Blathnaic will now look more kindly on our community and perhaps Boirneach too,’ Máthair Gobnait adds to emphasize her point.
‘Perhaps if Uí Blathnaic became a Christian, his son would get well.’ It’s Siúr Mugain who makes the remark. There’s no malice in her tone, but Siúr Ethne raises a brow and waits for Máthair Gobnait’s response, her mouth prim.
‘Did you really mean to say that, Siúr Mugain?’
Siúr Mugain flushes. ‘Doesn’t the Lord work miracles for his flock?’
Máthair Gobnait sighs and looks around at the others, her face clearly expressing dismay and speculation over how many others failed to understand what she’d been explaining moments before. Áine holds her gaze, sorry for the frustration, though she has her own doubts about Máthair Gobnait’s sentiments.
Siúr Sadhbh decides a change of subject is in order. ‘Epscop Ábán comes next Sunday for mass and to collect the finished wool robes, Máthair Ab. Should I slaughter that lame calf?’
There is only a moment’s pause before Máthair Gobnait decides to accept this new direction in the end. ‘No, we’ll save that for the harvesting, when we have the extra workers on the farm. Epscop Ábán won’t mind.’
‘It’ll be Lughnasadh soon. Time for the annual Oenach. Will we give some meat to Epscop Ábán to take to the fair? There’s a lamb that that would suit, if you need it.’
‘Ah yes, the fair. Good. And perhaps this year we might give some cheese, too. Epscop Ábán had his share at Whitsun so there should be some to spare now.’ Máthair Gobnait looks at Siúr Sodelb. ‘Are the robes finished?’
‘Yes. They just need folding and wrapping in readiness. There are six in all.’
‘Well done. That should see the bishop and the manaigh through the winter. Buíochas le Dia they require no fancy vestments. When he comes he’ll be presiding over a baptism as well.’ She nods to Áine.
Áine is too startled to say a word. A jumbled mixture of feelings surge inside. There is pleasure and joy, but also fear and, more disturbing, reluctance. This an emotion she tries to push aside to allow a positive expression that
signals her thanks to this woman next to her who has taken her under her wing.
Siúr Ethne has no such conflicting feelings. Her view is clear from the grim line of her mouth and the darkening eyes. ‘You will have her baptized so soon? Do you really feel she’s ready after what happened only a little while ago?’
‘Of course. What better way to help and protect her than to invoke the Lord’s blessing and acceptance into his fold?’
Eyes narrowed, Siúr Ethne studies Máthair Gobnait a moment and gives a barely detectable snort. There are no more words, but in that small expression much is conveyed about such a step. There is no need for her to physically move away, it is clear that Siúr Ethne is distancing herself from this decision and Máthair Gobnait’s role in it.
Máthair Gobnait gazes around the group seeking out other points of discussion, but there is only silence. A few manage to give Áine tentative smiles.
~
Áine rises the second hour past midnight, when Siúr Ethne sounds the bell for the office of Matins. She pulls her plain wool gown over her léine, ties her leather belt around her waist and slips on her sandals to follow Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Sodelb out of the sleeping hut over to the oratory. She ignores Siúr Ethne’s pursed mouth when she assembles with the other women, some suppressing yawns and others rubbing their eyes. She joins them in the Beati and notices a few of the voices are rusty from sleep. None of it takes from the simple beauty of the singing that breaks the silence of the night.
On her way back to the sleeping hut, following Siúr Sodelb, she can feel the dewy grass that sweeps the tops of her sandals and brushes her toes. The moisture is cold and chills her feet in the cool night air. Once inside the hut, she slips into her bed quickly, searching for the vestiges of warmth that remain. Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Ethne have lingered in the oratory, Máthair Gobnait taking an opportunity for a private discussion with Siúr Ethne.
In Praise of the Bees Page 8
