“The more I’m reading and learning, Keelin, the more I’m beginning to think you might be right. Perhaps that’s why you and I entered. Because of a past life,” Brigid mused.
“Maybe that’s why we’ve all come back together in this life. All I know is that everything is happening as it’s meant to be.” Keelin had no doubts about that.
“I wonder which of us was the Reverend Mother then, if that’s the case?” Imelda teased. She’d never been on a holiday like this in her life. She felt so delighted that she was free of her burdens she wanted to hug everyone.
“If it was my turn this time, it could have been you then, and I’d say you were a right ould rip,” Brigid joked, and the pair of them burst out laughing. They were still laughing when the landlady popped her head around the door. “The ferry’s heading up to the pier. I was keeping an eye on it for yae. Ye’ll be away tae Iona after all, ladies. Yae need to pack up.”
A chorus of delight greeted the news and they left the conservatory in a flurry of light-hearted excitement to gather their bits and pieces for the next step on their Magdalene Trail, free at last from all that had divided them.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The sea was emerald green, topped by foamy whitecaps. The sky had cleared. The gloomy rain clouds were now a distant bank of grey out on the horizon. It was what Marie-Claire called a Simpson sky. Patches of blue dotted with white scudding puffballs. Fionnphort grew smaller behind them as the jetty in Baile Mòr came into view, and the abbey to their right, dominating the landscape of the small island of Iona.
“Baile Mòr—big town—it’s the same as the Irish version. Scottish Gaelic and Irish Gaelic are practically the same,” Imelda observed, relieved that she would soon be off the rocking ferry that was ploughing through choppy sea. Still it was a very short journey and she didn’t feel queasy. In fact, she felt quite exhilarated. Free! she thought in awe. Released from the prison she’d created for herself, she felt an unexpected wave of happiness. She wasn’t an outsider with Keelin, Brigid, and Marie-Claire the way she’d always felt she was. Now she truly was part of the quartet. Sharing the truth of their lives with no more secrets and façades. She wished she’d shared her burden years ago. Imelda inhaled the salty sea air, watching the spray dance ahead of the bow as the ferry dipped and rose in harmony with the sea. She felt alive and excited.
“Are you OK there, Mam?” Keelin came and stood beside her at the rail.
“I am now, Keelin. I feel like an awful heavy load has been lifted from me. This is a day I’ll never forget.”
“I’ll never forget it, either. A turning point for us all.” Keelin dropped an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “Mary Magdalene certainly cleared us all today.”
“Keelin, will you tell Armand I’m sorry for those terrible things I said. I’ll phone and say it myself to him on the landline when I get home. I can always hear better when I’m on it,” she said hesitantly. She knew how wounded her daughter had been by her harsh, unkind words to her son-in-law.
“I will, Mam. I’ll be talking to him later when I can get a signal. It’s not great at the moment,” Keelin assured her.
“I… em… I do love you very much, Keelin. I know I wasn’t a good mother. I’ll try my best from now on to make it up to you,” Imelda said awkwardly. “And I’m very proud of you, the way you help so many people in your retreat place in France. That’s a good thing to do.”
“Thanks, Mam.” Keelin swallowed hard, knowing how difficult it was for her mother to apologise, and taken aback but quietly delighted at her praise. “Things will only get better for all our relationships from now on. I’m so glad you’re with us.”
“I’m very glad, too,” Imelda said with heartfelt emotion. She suddenly felt that Larry was very close to them on this trip.
The ferry gave a bumpy shudder as the iron drawbridge lowered onto the ramp and they hastened on deck to disembark.
“So this is Iona!” Brigid stared around her at the picturesque village with its cluster of houses and small hotel. Knots of tourists wandered around, and people sat at outside tables in front of a café, eating and drinking. “Isn’t it pretty? So many Irish nuns came to the nunnery here when it was founded in AD 1200. I read up on it when I knew we were visiting. Seemingly it’s one of the best-preserved nunneries in Britain. I’m dying to see it,” she enthused.
“And I’m dying to see the medieval abbey.” Keelin felt a burst of anticipation. “We have a two-hour window, the captain said, because the wind is to get up again and the ferry could be cancelled. I think we should prioritize those two sites. We can visit the craft shop on the way back and get a take-away tea and sandwich. What do you think?”
“Let the pilgrimage commence.” Brigid smiled, pointing to a sign on the end of a row of stone cottages. “The abbey and nunnery this away!”
They walked up a narrow hilly road, passing a SPAR and craft shop before turning right at a T-junction to turn right again into the nunnery. “Well, that took all of a minute. Big place, Iona.” Marie-Claire grinned as they walked along a stony path to explore the ruins. Part of the church was still upstanding.
“It’s very Irish, too, isn’t it? Those triangular-headed windows and the rib vaulted ceiling can be seen in every church in every small village in Ireland,” Brigid noted, running her hand along the pink-hued stonework. “My goodness, life would have been hard here in the winter. It’s very exposed. Oh look! There’s the cloister. Let’s have a look.” She took off at a clip.
“Good Lord, there’s a Sheela-na-gig on the wall of the refectory!” Keelin pointed to the carving of the naked woman with an exaggerated vulva. “That would have been placed to ward off evil and also used to celebrate the Mother goddess and fertility,” she explained, loving the female energy that emanated from the very stones of the cloister.
“ ‘Saoghal Nam Ban, World of Women,’ ” Imelda read the plaque, illustrating the nunnery as it was. “Look at the dormitory—”
“Oh, and look at this!” exclaimed Brigid. “Seòmar Blátchaidh. The Warming Room. This was where the poor craythurs came to thaw out on cold days. It was the only place where a fire burned. Can you imagine how cold it was here in the depths of winter?”
“Eeeewwww, I like my comforts; I doubt I was ever a nun in any past life, no matter what you say,” Imelda declared, glad the sun was warm on her face, even though it was so breezy. “Now why do you suppose some of those gravestones are bigger than others?” She pointed to a line of flat grey slate slabs in an enclosure at an outer wall. “Did it signify rank? Did the Mother Superior get a bigger slab stone than the ordinary nuns, do you think?” she asked her sister.
Brigid shook her head. “I don’t know the answer to that, Imelda. Maybe some of the nuns were fatter than others. It could be that simple.” She shrugged.
Imelda’s jaw dropped and she broke into chortles of laughter. “ ‘Fatter than others’! You always were funny, Brigid,” she said fondly, and Keelin looked at Marie-Claire and gave a tiny wink, loving that her mother was starting to enjoy herself.
They wandered around, immersing themselves in the history, wishing they could stay longer but knowing their time on the island was limited. The abbey held another treasure trove of discoveries that would have needed a day at least to study everything, but it was the cloister walkway in the medieval part that most resonated with Keelin. “The Cathars were here—look at that sculpture. It’s like the one in Minervois. Remember I took you there, Mère?”
“I do. I remember that beautiful dove sculpture that the sun shone through,” Brigid said.
“Look how they use the dove, here. The symbol of the Magdalene. I know she was on Iona. There are even rumours she’s buried here.” Keelin traced her fingers along a carved pillar. “I’d like to come back and explore that mound we saw. There’s something about it that draws me to it. Pity we can’t stay longer,” she said regretfully, glancing at her watch.
“I thought she was buried in Saint-Maxim
in-la-Sainte-Baume in Southern France.” Brigid looked surprised.
“Not buried, but she is supposed to have lived in a cave there and healed the sick, for part of her life,” Keelin said.
“And what about Rennes-le-Château?” Marie-Claire arched a quizzical eyebrow.
“We’ll just have to go to visit all these places.” Imelda’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got me hooked, Keelin.”
“Have I, Mam?” Keelin laughed. “After all these years! Who would have thought it? But if you don’t want to spend the night and tomorrow here, we’d better get a move on. The wind’s getting up again,” she cautioned, noticing that the sea, though still sparkling in the early afternoon sun, was looking decidedly choppy.
“We’ll definitely come back.” She cast a last glance around the arched cloister, filled with the sound of birdsong and the breeze whispering through the grass.
“Isn’t there an old saying, If you visit Iona once, you’ll come back three times?” Brigid reminded her.
“What a peaceful place,” Imelda said a couple of minutes later, leading the way into a tiny whitewashed stone chapel with a flagged floor, a minuscule stone altar, and a triangular candle stand, tucked in the left-hand corner. They each lit a votive candle, the flames flickering into light and illuminating the ancient wall behind them, casting dancing shadows that became one golden glow. Four very different women, and yet… not so different… joined in a silent prayer of thanks that love had won out over that which had once divided them.
* * *
“Oh wow! Look at that tower. Is this the church? Is that Dervaig across the valley?” Marie-Claire steered the car round a high, narrow bend on the one-track road and saw a pencil-slim white tower in the distance. “How very French it looks.”
“I think so.” Keelin studied the vista ahead intently, thinking how beautiful the small Scottish village looked nestled against a hillside, the round Magdalene tower almost incongruous in its setting.
“It’s quite strange, isn’t it, that the tower features so strongly on Iona and Mull?” Brigid said.
“The name Magdalene means ‘Tower’ in Hebrew. Some say that the prioress’s tombstone on Iona depicts Mary Magdalene with the child of Christ, John Martinus, allegedly born on Iona. If this is true, it would suggest that Anna MacLean knew about this legend,” Keelin told her rapt listeners.
“How do you know all this?” Imelda asked, astounded.
“I’ve been reading about and studying Mary Magdalene for years. I think that’s why I was drawn to a Frenchman who lives in Magdalene country. This is my life’s work. To bring her to the fore and help restore her to her rightful place in the world, as the equal of Jesus. In the Gnostic texts she is referred to as ‘the apostle to the apostles, until she was airbrushed out and branded a fallen woman and a penitent sinner. So now it’s time to restore the balance of the Divine Feminine with the Divine Masculine. We’ve had the patriarchy, and now the pendulum has swung to the other side and men are seen as the enemy. It’s all about bringing back balance.”
“And you really believe that she and Jesus came to Iona and had a child?” Imelda still found it a hard concept to swallow.
“So the Mystery Schools have taught their initiates for the last two thousand years, passing the teachings on from generation to generation. Her story represents the entire regeneration of women. Now it’s all being revealed, Mam. I mean, don’t you think it’s extraordinary to see a white tower on a church on an island off the Scottish coast, and inside a stained-glass window depicting a heavily pregnant Magdalene holding the hand of Jesus? It’s fascinating! Don’t forget we have a Magdalene tower ourselves in Drogheda.”
“I never knew that,” Brigid said, intrigued.
“There are towers all over Europe actually, but this one here is very special.” Keelin was bubbling with excitement as Marie-Claire parked the car outside Kilmore Church and they got out, eagerly anticipating the next stop on their itinerary.
They pushed open the iron gate, walked up the winding path, and entered the tiny porch that led into a small, homely church, filled with light and serenity. The evening sun streamed multicolour rays through the striking stained-glass windows.
They gazed in awe at the window Keelin had so longed to see. Again, in “plain sight” the clues that this was indeed Jesus and a beautifully pregnant Mary Magdalene, depicted in stained glass. A halo with a cross, seen above the window uniquely symbolizing Jesus, the Christ, and below a banner that read: Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.
Keelin googled her notes on her iPad. “That gospel text,” she pointed out, “it’s from Luke, chapter ten, verses thirty-eight to forty-two, where Martha complains of doing all the work while Mary sits listening to Jesus teach—”
“I always felt sorry for poor old Martha. Someone had to do the housework,” Imelda said firmly, having for so long felt that she was very much cast in a Martha role.
“I know.” Keelin laughed. “But there is a theory that Jesus was actually explaining to Martha that women can achieve a higher path with their lives, rather than the traditional role—the path of study and higher spiritual learning.”
“Hmm.” Imelda studied the window.
“Look at their positions: Doesn’t it remind you of the ancient Celtic marriage ceremony of the hand fastening? That would have been very familiar to the people of the isles, and recognized by ‘those with eyes to see’—the truth hidden in plain sight. Look at all the Cathar symbols: the sheaf of corn, the bee, the grapes, the towers, the dove. And look at the beautiful mural of the dove. Her symbol, painted over the pulpit. It’s all much more than coincidence. Esoteric truths are here for all.” Keelin positioned her camera to take a photo.
“It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” Brigid sat on one of the wooden pews and let the tranquillity of the place wash over her.
“Why don’t we have our flask of tea here? There isn’t a soul around. I don’t think Jesus and the Magdalene would mind,” Marie-Claire suggested, gasping for a cuppa. They had bought a flask and a carton of milk in Fionnphort, and the landlady had filled it with boiling water for them and given them a handful of teabags to take with them for their trip.
“Great idea,” agreed Imelda, who was wandering around looking at the intricately carved pulpit upon which rested a Bible. It wasn’t a Catholic church, and didn’t have the solemnity of one, so she felt she could drink tea and not feel she was being too disrespectful.
Marie-Claire went out to the car and carried in the plastic bag with the flask and biscuits, then busied herself pouring out the tea. Keelin opened the chocolate biscuits and they sat companionably enjoying the welcome brew, feeling quite at home in the mystical, magical energy, under the benevolent gaze of the Divine Couple in the beautiful stained-glass window, in a little chapel perched on a hill in the middle of nowhere.
* * *
“I’ve something else to tell ye,” Imelda confessed, her cheeks rosy from the champagne she’d imbibed earlier. The four of them were sitting around the fire in a cosy nook of a hotel in Tobermory, a coastal town not far from Dervaig. They’d eaten dinner and repaired to the lounge for coffee and a glass of Baileys.
Keelin felt a pang of anxiety, waiting to hear what her mother was going to spring on them next. “What’s that?” she murmured apprehensively.
“Ah, don’t worry, it’s nothing serious like earlier,” Imelda chuckled. “Do you know what I did?”
“What?” Marie-Claire grinned. Imelda didn’t realise it, but she was slightly tipsy.
“I treated myself to a bit of Botox and a few fillers!”
“You’re kidding!” Keelin exclaimed, hardly able to believe her ears.
“I knew there was something different about you. Didn’t I say that to you, Mère, that day we surprised Granny in the supermarket?” Marie-Claire exclaimed triumphantly.
“It’s very discreet,” Imelda said proudly. “I went to a surgeon in the Blackrock Clinic. No fly-by
-nights for me.” She smirked.
“It’s so natural.” Marie-Claire peered at her.
“It makes you look very fresh. Did it hurt?” Brigid was curious.
“It did; I’m not sure I’d get it done again. I was done in little over an hour.” Imelda let out a hiccup.
“What made you decide to do it?” Keelin asked, marvelling at her mother’s ability to constantly surprise her.
“Ah… I was feeling down in the dumps after… eh… well, you know, the upset at the party,” Imelda said delicately. “I needed a bit of a lift. Not a facelift now,” she added hastily.
“Well, you look great on it—years younger,” Brigid approved. “I might try it myself.”
“If you decide to do it, I’ll give you the surgeon’s contact details.” Imelda yawned. “I’ll sleep well tonight.”
“Me too,” agreed Brigid, delighted that tonight she would have a room with a double bed in it, and a TV, all to herself. “I’ve really enjoyed these few days. It’s hard to believe we’ve done so much.”
“I certainly got what I came for, and more,” Keelin said, eyes aglow. “My card was so apt.”
“So was mine.” Marie-Claire smiled at her mother.
“Do you want to say, or will we keep it private?” Keelin ventured.
“Mine said Revelation. And the minute I saw the musical notes in Rosslyn, I knew I’ve got to bring Frankie and his business partner over here. It was a real affirmation that their work on the Solfeggio Frequencies is spot-on,” Marie-Claire declared. “What was yours?”
“Sacred Sexuality. What could be more apt after what we saw today? The balance of male and female. The marriage of the Divine Masculine to the Divine Feminine. And the guide in Rosslyn confirmed that the double helix in Rosslyn symbolized the same. Win-win for me.” Keelin gave the thumbs-up. “Mère? Do you care to tell us or would you like to keep it private. No pressure, honestly,” Keelin invited.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 35
