In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  Siúr Ethne frowns. ‘I cannot spare the time to go, Máthair Ab. Not this year.’‘I know, you’ve much to do with Siúr Feidelm, organizing the stores for winter. I’ll arrange for someone else to go with Cadoc.’

  It’s later, after Nocturns, that Máthair Gobnait approaches Áine and asks her if she will go. Startled, she can only ask why.

  ‘I would like someone with a fine eye for good wool and flax thread. Your deft handling with the needle shows you have experience with cloth. Cadoc will be there to ensure that any trade is fair. Besides, I thought you might enjoy it.’

  She forces a smile and turns away so that Máthair Gobnait cannot read the fear in her face. It isn’t the thought of being cheated in the trade that worries her. Máthair Gobnait’s description of her needlework is a blatant lie, though she has come a long way since she first sewed here some months ago with awkward fingers. ‘I will, of course, go if you wish it, Máthair Ab.’

  Traces of this worry linger on her face when she meets Siúr Sodelb a few moments later inside their sleeping hut as they slip off their gowns ready for bed. Siúr Sodelb reaches out and touches her arm. ‘What is it, Áine? What’s wrong?’

  She looks into Siúr Sodelb’s beautiful eyes that promise access to a different world, a higher, purer place. As much as she wishes to, she cannot utter the words that would deny her distress and confesses her fear instead. ‘I can’t go. I’m afraid, Sodelb. God, please help me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Afraid? Of what? Where can’t you go?’

  She worries at her lip with her teeth, trying to find words that will explain what upsets her. The crowds of strangers, the fear and danger of recognition, was that the source of her deep-seated unease? She cannot explain something for which she has no clear understanding.

  ‘It’s the fair. Máthair Gobnait wants me to go in Siúr Ethne’s place and I would rather not.’

  Siúr Sodelb takes her into an embrace. ‘I know, I understand. You needn’t justify any of it to me.’

  Áine stands in the fold of Siúr Sodelb’s arms, draws comfort from their warmth, their protection and drifts into her pure world. The two remain unmoving, while the light fades from the doorway.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Sodelb whispers eventually. ‘We’ll face it together.’

  Áine pulls away from her and looks at her in disbelief, tears in her eyes. ‘Truly, you’d do that for me?’

  Siúr Sodelb nods solemnly. ‘I would, Áine, I would. What does it matter that my foot is misshapen and I cannot walk with ease? God loves us all. And we’ll walk in His grace, though our own might be lacking.’

  Áine kisses her cheek. ‘My dearest sister.’

  Later, she lies in the bed, lifts her léine and feels the scar that runs along her side. The ridge is barely discernible now. It has healed well, the new skin forming more smoothly than anyone expected, even under Máthair Gobnait’s skilled care. It is now only a faint reminder that there has been a time when she hasn’t lived under this roof.

  ~

  Their pace is slow, but that is unremarkable when there are so many people. Some are in clusters, deep in conversation, and others lean over blankets or carts eager to inspect what is on offer. The cluck of a hen, the lowing of a cow, the bleat of a sheep; all of it can be heard among the voices that shout or speak behind cupped hands. Aromas of fresh bread, butter and onions fill the air and on occasion mix with the less sweet odours of animals out in the baking sun.

  Áine and Siúr Sodelb take it all in, the flash of ribbon in a young woman’s hair, the brilliant colour of a woman’s newly woven shawl, a man wearing a highly polished brooch. It is too glorious a day to miss out the chance to show such finery. In the sky, the clouds billow high in the west, as if they are gathering their own fleeces or hanks of wool for trade.

  Áine and Siúr Sodelb finger the wool yarn and exchange smiles, knowing that each agree that the even colour, the smooth texture, is the best they have seen yet. They barter with the woman, offering the honey Áine holds in her basket, in exchange for all the yarn she has. It’s a friendly transaction, simple and straightforward, and requires nothing of Cadoc’s canny trading expertise.

  ‘Cuimne.’

  Why does she turn? It isn’t the voice, though later she will convince herself that was the reason. Why doesn’t she feel the dread then, the unease that has caused her such anguish under Máthair Gobnait’s gaze and in Siúr Sodelb’s arms? As it is, she drops her basket to the grass when she turns and sees Colmán standing before her, his face tentative and joyful.

  ‘Why did you call me that?’

  ‘You are Cuimne, I think.’

  She refuses the name and trembles with the effort. ‘Cuimne? I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  He bends down, picks up her basket and places it back into her hands, his own lingering. She pulls away.

  ‘I’ve returned from Lough Leane and I believe I’ve discovered who you are.’

  ‘Lough Leane? No, I don’t think so.’ She clasps the basket handle tightly.

  ‘It’s true. Cuimne, the daughter of a king of the Irluachoir Eóganacht. She has gone missing on her return to her foster family. Some spoke of it when I was north of here. Her father is not long dead, and when I met the new king he was unable to tell me more than the fact of her disappearance. He and his men are outside the father’s derbfine and knew little of her since she left as a tiny child. I was summoned home to Domnall before I could discover more.’

  ‘Your brother, how does he fare?’ asks Siúr Sodelb. She moves forward and slips her hand inside Áine’s.

  Colmán’s face clouds. ‘He does not fare at all. He died the day I returned.’

  Siúr Sodelb crosses herself and a moment later Áine follows suit. ‘I am sorry for your loss. May his soul rest in peace.’

  ‘I thank you.’ He looks at Áine. She echoes Siúr Sodelb’s words, her breath held. ‘I will find out more of Cuimne when I can,’ he adds. ‘Are you certain that it means nothing to you?’

  She shakes her head firmly. ‘Nothing of it is familiar. In my mind I am Áine, soon to be Siúr Áine.’ There is an edge to her voice that can leave him in no doubt about her meaning.

  He narrows his eyes and for a moment she sees hurt and sadness there, and she regrets that she’s spoken so sharply. He has, after all, just lost his brother. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think you have the right person.’ She takes her leave then, though Siúr Sodelb pauses to add some more kind words to those she’s already given. Cadoc and the two make their way towards the cart. Colmán follows silently behind, his face filled with speculation.

  Áine sits in the cart next to Siúr Sodelb on the journey home, the ox lumbering slowly along, and tries to deflect Siúr Sodelb’s quiet but persistent questions about Colmáns findings. All sense of enjoyment that has filled the day earlier vanishes like the clear skies and bright sun. The clouds hunch together now, large and menacing, like a band of soldiers ready for battle. Cadoc casts dark meaningful glances above him, as if he would keep them in check by his will alone.

  ‘You’re certain you don’t recognize the name Cuimne?’

  ‘Yes, I’m certain.’

  ‘It stirs no sense of familiarity, not even the slightest twinge?’

  ‘No, it stirs nothing in me.’ In that she knows she lies. It stirs panic in her, makes the bile rise to her mouth and takes the breath from her. The hand that clasps Siúr Sodelb’s sweats badly.

  ‘Perhaps you might remember it later, when your mind is more at rest, maybe singing, or at prayers,’ says Siúr Sodelb.

  ‘Does it matter so much? Isn’t it possible that I will never discover who I was? Will that stop me from becoming a cailech, to live permanently with you?’

  ‘It does matter, in that you are in a sense missing a part of yourself, your connection to your family, and who you were born to. But it doesn’t matter to God, and it doesn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t wish you to live anywhere else but in the community with us, under Máthair Gob
nait’s care.’

  Áine raises Siúr Sodelb’s clasped hand and kisses it. ‘Thank you. I promise you, that no matter what is or isn’t discovered, it will make no difference. I’ll remain with you and the others.’ She leans over and whispers in Siúr Sodelb’s ear. ‘I would never leave you.’

  ~

  That night she goes to her bed with some semblance of peace. The office at Nocturns calms her mind even more than Siúr Sodelb’s words, and the prayers and psalms she offers up with even more sincerity on that night. She settles down and reaches over to Siúr Sodelb, strokes her hand to bid her a silent goodnight and falls asleep. When the bell for Matins sounds, she rises with a yawn, feeling better than she had since the days before the fair. She draws on her gown and marvels that the loud pelt of heavy rain on the roof above hasn’t wakened her before this.

  She pauses at the door. Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Ethne have already gone before her, but Siúr Sodelb is still in her bed. She calls to her, but the only reply is a moan. Áine moves quickly to her side and sees her flushed face and feverish eyes. She places a hand on her forehead and feels the raging heat.

  ‘Sodelb,’ she wails. ‘Oh, Sodelb.’ The sheepskin blanket is tossed aside, the linen cover underneath soaked with sweat. It is no ordinary fever. She stumbles away and runs out into the wet dark night after Máthair Gobnait.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She bathes Siúr Sodelb’s forehead, the back of her neck and along her wrists, constantly. She feeds her thin gruel, herbal mixtures and honey, and anything else she can persuade Siúr Feidelm to mix or cook that might be tempting enough to remain in Siúr Sodelb’s stomach and not retched into a bowl moments after it passes her lips. The times that Siúr Sodelb doesn’t stir restlessly in her bed, hot and feverish, Áine goes to pray. She prays so hard, kneeling on the floor beside Siúr Sodelb’s bed, her voice insistent and pleading, that her hands hurt from clasping them so tight. When Siúr Sodelb’s eyes are open and slightly less clouded, she sings to her, all the psalms and canticles she knows, all of Siúr Sodelb’s pieces. She sings most often Um la Mholadh Beacha, their own piece praising the bees. The bees that provide the honey that heals the sick.

  After three days at her bedside, it takes all of Máthair Gobnait’s skills of persuasion to convince Áine to come away, to attend the office of Matins and offer her prayers to God with the other sisters, and afterwards to seek her rest. The notion that such prayers might be more effective if offered from the oratory among the force of the voices of the sisters is what allows Áine to relinquish her place at Siúr Sodelb’s bedside to Siúr Feidelm.

  Inside the oratory, she falls to her knees on the hard floor, in some part enjoying the pain of the impact, hopeful that such suffering might bring the reward she yearns for desperately. The thought of losing Siúr Sodelb is unbearable, and so she sets her mind to silent pleading and bargaining. If only she knew what He wanted. The prayers spoken aloud seem not enough, even Máthair Gobnait’s eloquent pleas do not appear insistent enough to Áine’s ears.

  It is the psalms that give her mind some confidence; the beauty of the tones, the voices so unified and perfect, she can’t doubt their efficacy. Surely God will hear them now. The thought gives her strength, and when the final psalm is sung she begins, Um la Mholadh Beacha. Her voice soars high and she’s certain it joins the angels and sends her message, the plea, that she now knows will be answered. She is still kneeling in front of the altar when Matins is finished. Her head is bowed and she is sleeping, her mind filled with the notes of her praise song.

  She wakes later, when the first notes of birdsong filter into the oratory and she finds herself prostrate on the floor. She rises slowly, her legs stiff from the awkward position, and makes her way through door. A damp mist hangs in the air, little droplets settling just above the grass, making slick the hardened surface of the path that leads to the sleeping huts. She slides only once in her passage, but it takes her breath for a moment. She rights herself and moves on, her eye firmly on the door of the hut.

  She opens the door slowly, lest it squeak and awake those within. Peering inside, she sees Siúr Ethne’s bed is empty, as it has often been in the last few nights she has tended Siúr Sodelb. Now Máthair Gobnait leans over Siúr Sodelb, pressing a cloth to her head and the side of her flushed cheeks. An arm flails and nearly hits Máthair Gobnait on the head, but she takes hold of the arm and replaces it at Siúr Sodelb’s side. Siúr Sodelb mutters and then shouts a word.

  Áine moans softly, puts her hand to her mouth, turns from the door and runs down the path to the entrance of the faithche. This time her feet slip all too easily and she is on her back, the force of the impact giving her body a severe jolt. A wail of despair escapes her and she lies there for a moment, the soft rain wetting her face and joining the tears that have begun to flow.

  When she rises, she lets her feet take her south, through the faithche entrance, down the hill, away from the oratory and the sleeping hut. The journey doesn’t take long. The clouties are there, pieces of cloth dangling from the tree. She stops at the edge of the well and leans over the water. In the dim light of the misty morning, there are a few murky shapes of metal fragments and coins. She has only the cloth from her gown and léine that had once belonged to Siúr Sodelb that she can give.

  She lifts her gown and tears a strip from the léine’s hem. She mutters some words, a little prayer from the back of her mind that comes forth unwittingly, dips the cloth in the water and ties the cloutie around a tree branch. Again she bargains, but this time it was with a different deity, one that is used to such bargaining, and she hopes that the reply will be different. A few moments of silence, her breathing coming in rapid bursts, and then she is up on her feet again, a tiny kernel of hope still present inside her.

  This time she walks slowly, her feet taking her up the hill, her face bowed against the thickening rain that the heavily clustered trees do little to abate. It might have been the mist that dampened the sound, but the noise she first hears she ascribes to a moving branch, though there is no wind. She hears it again and stops to listen. This time when sound comes, she realizes it’s a moan. She heads toward the direction of the sound, the dampened ground and pelting rain muffling her steps. In a small clearing she sees a naked figure bent over and an arm swinging a corded rope upon its back. Moving closer she recognizes Siúr Ethne, her ribs so prominent now they can be counted from a distance. Her grey hair, usually covered with her veil, hangs in limp hanks along her bony shoulders.

  Áine watches her for a few moments, transfixed, as she swings the rope along her back, scoring the flesh, creating great weals that ooze blood. Before each stroke she closes her eyes and mutters, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’ and when the rope hits her back, she emits a low moan. Áine is horrified at first; she can’t understand what purpose such action can achieve, until slowly it all becomes clear. The pain, the act of scourging the body to such physical suffering, was the most extreme offering to God imaginable. That she must suffer like Christ, suffer his wounds, his pain in order to know God’s grace. In that light Siúr Ethne’s actions have a certain beauty, a wonder that few can match. She slips away quietly, leaving Siúr Ethne to her purification.

  She walks slowly the rest of the way up the hill, past the garden and through the faithche, deep in thought. Was that the path she must take? If so, she’s committed a greater sin at the well than any Siúr Ethne might have done the whole of her life. She will find rope and expiate these sins with the greatest force she can muster. But she will also ask Máthair Gobnait for penance as well.

  She finds Máthair Gobnait where she’s left her, at Siúr Sodelb’s side. This time Epscop Ábán stands above them, his arm raised in benediction, a small pot of holy oil in his hand. Siúr Feidelm, Siúr Mugain and Siúr Sadhbh stand to one side, their heads bowed in prayer. Áine seeks out Siúr Sodelb’s face, sees the stillness and that the flush of fever has vanished. Her eyes, so round and beautiful, stare upward, their transparent blueness emphas
ized in death. Máthair Gobnait leans forward and closes them.

  ‘No,’ says Áine. The word chokes her, stops dead in her throat. She rushes to Siúr Sodelb’s side, takes up a limp hand and begins to chafe the wrist. ‘Sodelb, hear me, you cannot die, please. You mustn’t leave me.’

  Epscop Ábán places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come away, child. She’s at peace now. You must thank God for that.’

  She turned to Epscop Ábán and shrugs off his hand. ‘Thank him? Thank him for taking the dearest woman of all?’ A moment later she is through the door, back into the drenching rain.

  ~

  She says nothing as they begin to wash Siúr Sodelb’s body. She merely takes the cloth from Siúr Feidelm and runs it along each limb and steps back to allow Máthair Gobnait to dry her. She washes her hair, massaging the scalp and rinsing it thoroughly before combing it carefully to prevent snags and breakage. Once she is finished, she spreads the hair along the pillow to dry to its polished brightness. Máthair Gobnait gives Áine the fresh linen léine and head covering, woven with Siúr Sodelb’s own hands, and the wool gown that her needle has plied so that Áine might find comfort in dressing her this one last time.

  They lay her, sewn in her shroud, on a bench in the oratory, where the cailecha and Máthair Gobnait gather round her. Epscop Ábán stands at her head. Áine still hasn’t spoken. It’s only when they began the Beati that Áine opens her mouth and sings, filling the music with the pain and sorrow, belying the words. She lets the music take her over, offering it not to God, but to Sodelb, whose soul hovers and whispers in her ear, encouraging her on to fuller sounds, higher notes, ringing a descant that has not yet been tried.