In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  She closes her ears to the rest, living only in the music that still carries on in her head. She blocks out the Pater Noster, the prayers of faith and the words of the Gospel. She remains when the others process out and kneels by the figure laid out with arms not extended like the one on the cross, but folded in prayer beneath the shroud. She pulls away when it’s time for Cadoc to carry the body to be buried, interred in the holiest of places, for the holiest cailech, beneath the packed earthen floor of the oratory.

  When it is time for the offices, she attends in silence and stares at the newly turned earth that is Siúr Sodelb’s grave, only opening her mouth for the singing, because Sodelb comes and whispers in her ear. She longs for these moments and sits for hours in the oratory, after the offices and meals are finished. When her eyes aren’t closed, seeking Sodelb’s voice, they remain fixed on the fresh grave. She wonders if they will put a stone over it. Weigh her body down as her soul flies up to heaven. Heaven is where she’d be, if Epscop Ábán and Máthair Gobnait are right. But Áine knows her soul is here, right beside her and no amount of empty words can convince her otherwise.

  She spends the night there, sitting on a bench. No one can persuade her to move. Her limbs stiffen and her back protests, but she ignores them. It’s only after the first office of the morning, when Siúr Feidelm sits beside her, places a mug in her hand and orders her to drink that she blinks and recalls herself. She sips the liquid, realizes her thirst and drinks some more. Her stomach clenches against the invading liquid, too long empty, and she retches slightly.

  ‘Come away, Áine,’ Siúr Feidelm says.

  She resists for only a moment, but then her limbs turn soft, her mind fades and she allows Siúr Feidelm to lead her to her bed.

  ~

  She rises a few hours later, her tongue thick and her mind groggy. Outside, through the open door, she sees a watery sun breaking through the clouds. She goes to the door. It seems impossible that it would shine, the birds would chitter and sing, the cows provide milk, and the bees remain busy. Even from this distance she can hear the bees hum.

  ‘Come, Áine, I need your help.’ It was Máthair Gobnait, striding up to her, a cloth, gloves and heavy veils in her hand. ‘There is another king and he will be looking to establish a new hive, I think. I want to coax him into the one I’ve prepared.’

  Áine sighs. After slipping on her shoes, she follows her down to the hive nearest the faithche wall, her steps slow and heavy. She dons the gloves and veil along with Máthair Gobnait and gazes off into the field, while Máthair Gobnait explains what she intends to do. The words float around her but never settle and she can only blink when Máthair Gobnait asks her if she understands.

  ‘Have you heard anything I said?’

  ‘Heard? Yes, I’ve heard.’

  Máthair Gobnait frowns. ‘Have you understood it? It’s important that you do, otherwise you or I might be stung.’

  ‘But the bees rarely sting you.’

  Máthair Gobnait tilts her head. ‘You think they haven’t stung me often? You can take nothing for granted, Áine. It’s only by their grace and God’s that I’m allowed to tend them, take their honey and wax. Part of that grace is respecting their will and His.’

  Perhaps it is the drink the night before that permits such a release, for she knows some drug had been slipped in it, but the words collapse the defences she’s built up in these past few days and ignite her, like a spark to dry kindling, that becomes immediately hot and crackling.

  ‘His will? Is it his will to take such a pure soul as Siúr Sodelb?’ Her voice rises to a higher pitch, ringing loudly. ‘What kind of god is that who would strike Sodelb down? What did she do, what possible sin could she have committed that she would be taken like that?’

  ‘We cannot fathom all of His actions. His ways are beyond our understanding as mere mortals.’

  This answer is no answer and it only enrages her. ‘How do you live with a god like that?’ she says. ‘That he would strike down such innocents as Domnall and Sodelb.’

  ‘You’re angry. And it’s natural that you should direct it at God, since there is no one else that is clearly to blame.’

  She can hear the bees buzzing beside her. They accuse her even if Máthair Gobnait does not. ‘I’m to blame,’ she shouts. ‘Me! If I hadn’t been so cowardly, Siúr Sodelb would never have insisted on accompanying me to the fair, and she wouldn’t have contracted the fever. Siúr Feidelm agrees.’

  ‘You’re not to blame. We know nothing of how the fever came to her, only that it came.’

  Áine shakes her head, the tears flowing. Máthair Gobnait tries to put her arm around her, but Áine flings it off with a wild thrust of her arm. The top of the hive slides off with the impact and she turns in horror as the bees buzz louder, clustering and hovering, until, by some secret agreement, they rise up into the sky in a deafening roar.

  Máthair Gobnait makes a soft cry. ‘Bring the beachair,’ she says. ‘We must follow them.’ She clasps her skirt and the woven sack and goes in pursuit, Áine following, carrying the hive. They go down through the faithche and across the field, onto the next, to where the bees have settled in a tree. Máthair Gobnait stands below the branch that holds them, lays the large sack on the ground and the empty beachair on top, and speaks in a low, calm voice words of encouragement and praise.

  ‘Sing your song, Áine. See if we can get them to settle on the cloth.’

  Áine stares up at the bees, the words frozen on her lips. She knows she must sing to make amends for what she’s done to the bees. She takes a deep breath and squeaks out a few notes, but they end in sobs.

  ‘Ssssh,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘Take your time and try again.’ She gives the branch a gentle shake.

  Áine closes her eyes and stills her breathing and this time she manages the notes. It’s a feeble effort compared to her previous performances. This time she has no firmly held hand, no whispering presence to give her support. When she finishes she looks at Máthair Gobnait and shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t my best effort.’

  ‘No matter,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘The bees have heard you.’ She points to the sack where they hover and fly around the beachair.

  Áine views them and looks up at Máthair Gobnait in disbelief. Beyond Máthair Gobnait, at the far end of the field, movement among the cows and heifers catch her eye. The bull is there somewhere, doing his late summer duty. Despite the fading light, she can see something moving carefully among the cattle. ‘What are those men doing in the field?’

  Máthair Gobnait turns and looks in the direction Áine indicates. ‘My cows!’ she shouts in surprise that quickly turns to anger. ‘They’re taking them. How dare they! Quick, Áine, go and alert Siúr Mugain, Siúr Sadhbh and Cadoc.’

  Áine nods and runs off back to the faithche. She pauses near the entrance to catch her breath and turns to see Máthair Gobnait in the distance waving her arms. The bees swarm up around her and become a large dark cloud, and even from the entrance Áine can hear their thunderous noise.

  ~

  The sisters talk about it during the simple meal after the evening office, their words bursting forth like an overflowing dam. It is a scéal of the highest value, to be savoured and discussed in the most particular detail. Something most miraculous happened in that field. The bees responded like God’s instrument to punish the wicked, stinging them mightily, so that they abandoned their theft. The men are clearly sent from the Fidgenti, for who else but heathens would dare steal the cattle belonging to a nunnery under the care of Epscop Ábán? Wasn’t it their workmen who were clearing the field across the river? This is a strong challenge to the Érainn here and the Eóganacht who rule in Cashel. The sisters talk all evening and give thanks to God, to Máthair Gobnait and the bees, and ask that they may be safely returned from the tree in which they now lodge.

  Áine shakes her head when anyone questions her. She is unworthy to tell the tale. God punishes the sinful; that is clear from the moment she sees the
bees wreak havoc among the thieves, stinging mightily the arms and limbs that flailed at them. Is this God’s justice, his retribution? Would that she’d been stung, perhaps the pain of it might take some of the sin she carries. Such a fit punishment for her cowardice and her denial of God’s will that she go to the fair on her own.

  She slips away quietly, while the rest are still at their meal, Máthair Gobnait’s calm voice ringing over them, reining in the more outrageous claims. She heads toward the sleeping hut. Once inside, she makes her way over to Siúr Ethne’s cot, where she slips her hand under the straw pallet and finds what she hoped would be stored there.

  She walks quickly down the path, the feeble light from the moon just enough to guide her over to the wooded area. There, in the small clearing she visited once before, she removes her gown and léine and assumes the posture she remembers. It is time she stopped cowering behind others, she thinks. She must face her just punishment.

  She swings the knotted rope along her back. The sting of it is fierce, just as she imagined it; bigger, larger than anything a bee could manage. She swings again, harder this time and she keeps swinging until she feels her flesh open. She pauses, puts a finger to her back to check the blood is running and resumes swinging.

  The moon disappears and a soft rain begins to fall. The sting has long since been replaced by a burning and searing pain. It’s at that point the roaring comes, the shouting, the screaming that eventually descends into blackness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She opens her eyes and sees a dark figure bending over her, a small corona of light outlining the veil on her head.

  ‘Máthair Ab,’ she says.

  ‘At last child, you’re awake.’

  She lies on her stomach and attempts to turn over, but the agony in her back stops her.

  ‘Remain still. You’re back is in a terrible state. You must let the salve do its work.’ Máthair Gobnait lifts a bowl and a spoon. ‘Do you feel well enough to take some broth?’

  She swallows and licks her lips. Her tongue, furred and thick, seems only barely capable of it, but her stomach rumbles at the smell. She nods.

  In the end she manages half of it, but the effort of lifting her head and the sharp little pains that stab her back each time she moves eventually prove too much. She thanks Máthair Gobnait, closes her eyes and tells her she’s tired. It’s true enough, but she is also reluctant to engage in any kind of conversation, to answer any of the questions that she can feel hovering around her. She needs more energy for that, and above all, she needs to think.

  There is much to think about. The rage, fear and blame are almost too much to bear. To share it all would endanger more than her life this time, and the anger and frustration that is so strong it obscures the pain in her back makes her think only that she must act. The thought fills her mind before she collapses.

  ~

  She wrinkles her nose and catches the scent of mint in the air. The salve is cool on her back and eases some of the burning pain as it finds its way into the welts and open wounds that are only just beginning to scab over on her back. The air is thick with unspoken words. Máthair Gobnait doesn’t press her though, and speaks only about her physical pain.

  Áine hardly notices the pain in her back. Her thoughts are directed towards the pain that makes her heart ache, and the tears that fill her eyes are not the result of over energetic fingers, but from the memories that are all too plain to her now. These memories make her a different person and Áine is no more, and she grieves that loss, just as she grieves for the memories themselves.

  Máthair Gobnait finishes and stands before her. ‘Your back is already much improved. The skin is healing well.’

  ‘Thank you for your help. And Siúr Feidelm’s.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She pauses a moment. ‘I’ve spoken to Siúr Ethne about the scourge. It was her scourge you used?’

  ‘It was.’ Her voice is faint.

  ‘I know some religeuse follow a path of asceticism and penance and feel the scourge is an integral part of finding God, but it’s not the way here. Such a path is dangerous because it can sometimes lead to extremes where we confuse ego with God.’

  It’s a view that Áine hasn’t considered. Her own speculations of Siúr Ethne’s choices have been drawn solely on her observations and experiences. Observations and experiences that belong to someone she really is no longer. But still, she listens to Máthair Gobnait, mulls over the words and sees that Siúr Ethne could easily fall into that situation.

  ‘I’ve thrown the scourge into the fire. I know that others are just as easily made and applied in secret, though. Can I ask that you will not indulge in such an action again?’

  Áine notices her choice of words, smiles at the subtle innuendo implied by the use of ‘indulge’ and the phrasing of the question. This woman is clever as well as kind. She can bend people to her will with her careful eloquence and compassionate smiles. It is something to be aware of.

  ‘You can rest assured, Máthair Ab, I won’t use the scourge again.’

  There is a pat on her shoulder. ‘I’ll let you get some rest now.’

  ~

  It is some days later, when she is able to walk a little, that Colmán arrives. He finds her sitting on a bench spinning wool. The day is dull and overcast, and there’s a slight edge in the air, one of the many small signals that the seasons are shifting.

  He stands in front of her, legs slightly apart, arms folded. His pose is as a legal representative of the rank of aigne. ‘You are Cuimne,’ he says, his voice firm.

  She looks up at him. He examines her carefully, taking in her uncovered hair, her pale face, her mouth firmly set and lastly, her eyes. ‘You know,’ he says.

  ‘I am Cuimne.’ There is no emotion in her voice, she just states the fact. She notices then his travel-stained clothes, the dishevelled hair. She’s put him off balance now and inside she smiles.

  ‘Your father was one of the Eóganacht of Irluochair near Lough Leane, a king.’

  ‘Yes, a minor king, like your father.’

  ‘And your father’s dead, now.’

  She nods and resumes her spinning because she finds such a routine task can shift her mind from her fear. The anger she keeps, knowing it will nourish her and stiffen her resolve.

  ‘They say you had a brother, too.’

  She raises her eyes, caught by the remark. ‘Who are they? Did they tell you that my mother died in childbirth when we were both small, so that it was just the two of us, so close in age we were nearly twins? It was only when we were fostered that they managed to part us, but still my brother came to visit, when he was able.’ She stops and gasps that she would let that much slip. Her hands start to shake.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. To have both your father and brother die within days must have been terrible.’

  She bites her lip, stung by his pity. She does not need pity. With her decision to abandon her desire to remain unnoticed, unrecognized, she needs resolve and courage. She tries for calm. ‘Did they tell you how my brother died?’

  ‘I talked to your foster family and they explained about your father’s accident. A blow to the head from a fall. Of your brother they said little, only that he was cut down in a fight.’

  She considers his words and knows it is all a matter of perspective. ‘Has anyone said who cut him down?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only that they presume it was one of his father’s men because a few of them disappeared at the time he was killed.’ He narrows his eyes and gives her a careful look. ‘Have you a different story? They did mention that they were surprised when you didn’t appear for your brother’s burial, though men were sent to recall you from your journey back to your foster family.’

  She returns his gaze and strives for composure. The spindle is tight in her hand and her nails are digging into her other palm. It is those very men who went after her she is certain attacked her on the road to An Dhá Chích Danann. Instead of recalling her, they kill
ed the loyal men who accompanied her. And these poor loyal men are now thought to have killed her brother. There is no one else but her to claim otherwise.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks her.

  She looks away. His eyes see too much, and right now, she knows she is on the verge of speaking, despite its potential danger.

  He sits beside her, unfolds her hand from around the spindle and takes it in his own. ‘I know there is something you are keeping back. Some information that is related to your brother’s death, I can see that.’ He gently turns her face to his. ‘You fear something. Tell me what it is.’ His voice is soft, persuasive. All the probing tone of the legal representative is gone. Now there is something more dangerous there.

  ‘I saw,’ she whispers. She chokes on a sob and the terrible images that have been so blessedly well hidden fill her mind now. His arm is around her shoulder and she leans in, thinking that just for a moment she will draw on his strength. She can’t help but linger though, and then finds she can’t pull away. A deep breath gives her no more than an intake of air. It does nothing to help her speak the words that tell the tale of the images. Somehow, though, she manages eventually and tells him what she knows.

  An arm with a sword. That’s what she knows. A man’s arm wielding the sword that kills her brother, cuts him down as he turns his back after a word or two spoken in anger. Those words are innocent by themselves and tell her nothing of the argument. What can ‘enough’ and ‘I will say no more’ become to provoke a slaying?

  This is all she saw and heard when she went to bid her brother goodbye, after he promised to leave the hunt and meet her by the well near the wooded track she took east. The light was poor and the trees thick, but she could hear the stir of horses and men nearby.

  ‘The blame is with me,’ she says softly. ‘I should have called my few men anyway.’ And that is the bitter core of it. That she did nothing but run away. Run to An Dhá Chích Danann for protection before making her way to her foster family to persuade them to help.

  ‘It would have been of little use,’ says Colmán. ‘They would have slaughtered all of you.’