In Praise of the Bees Page 15
‘As they did eventually,’ is her retort. She recalls the slashing swords cutting her men to bits and shivers. Where were their bodies?
‘But not you.’
‘They thought they had.’ She remembers managing to crawl from under one of her men and make her way away from the track. ‘But I think now, they know I am alive.’
‘You are alive and you have the protection of the law on your side. Who is the person who killed your brother?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.’
‘Was there nothing about him that you recognized?’
She pulls away and shakes her head. ‘There is no law that can protect my situation, I think. My father is dead, there is a new king, and my family can find no favour with this king, a distant cousin.’
‘But we can seek justice for you. Your brother is killed and you must have compensation for such a terrible loss. It demands a high price. We’ll find out who has done this and bring the law to bear.’
‘The law? You think I want to enact the law? I want to cut him down as my brother was cut down. He deserves nothing better.’
‘It’s natural you would want to do that, but let me find out more of the particulars, first, though. You are safe here, for now.’ He pauses a moment. ‘What exactly do you remember of your own attack? What number of men?’
‘I rode behind my servant, Ciarán,’ she says. ‘And two of my father’s men were with us when five men came up out of the furze and attacked us.’
‘Did you recognize the men?’
She shakes her head. ‘The light was poor and the men wore bratacha that covered their heads. They pulled me from the horse, and that’s the last thing I remember.’ She looks away.
He opens his mouth as if to say more, but closes it after a moment. Silence settles over them. ‘Have you mentioned any of this to Máthair Ab, or any of the sisters?’ he asks, eventually.
‘No.’
‘Not even Siúr Sodelb?’
She lowers her head and picks up the spindle again. ‘She’s dead.’ She states it as a fact now, though a wail of grief echoes in her head.
‘Dead? When did this happen?’ His voice is full of concern.
She tells him with only a few words, still staring at her spindle. There is no reason for him to see the pain it causes, though she might try and convince herself that these emotions she feels belong to someone else. He says the words that all say when hearing of someone passing. He even pats her hand and tells her that she’s suffered too much loss of late and needs time of quiet industry to allow her soul to absorb it all. ‘I know what I speak of,’ he tells her.
He takes his leave soon after, giving her the promise that he will try to find out more about the circumstances of her father and brother’s deaths and her assault. He cannot promise when he will return, but he’s certain that it will be within the month. She shrugs at those words. She has her own ideas, her own plans to make.
~
She sits staring out across the fields and woods, picks out the sheep in the far field above, little dots with even smaller dots tagging along. Some of the lambs are still young enough to want their mother. Down along, she sees the cows with Siúr Sadhbh and her two young helpers trudging up the hill to them to do the evening milking before Nocturns.
She looks down at the spindle in her hands. Even now, she knows Siúr Ethne will be sitting at the loom in Siúr Sodelb’s place, weaving the wool into cloth for Epscop Ábán’s manaigh and the two fosterlings due soon. She wonders if one of the fosterlings will train in the kitchen with Siúr Feidelm, or learn the vagaries of producing a crop from Siúr Mugain. Perhaps Siúr Ethne will teach one of them the skills of fine sewing and embroidery while she fills their ears with specially selected passages from the Bible. If she had the choice now, she’d choose the kitchens, immerse herself in the safety of the mysteries of garden botany and plant lore, as well as the mundane tasks of counting loaves and sacks of grain. But that is finished. There is no choice before her now. She has hidden behind these women for too long. Once she tells Máthair Gobnait all that’s in her heart, her time here will be done.
Up to now, she’s avoided attending the meals and the offices and avoided all personal conversation by pleading the state of her back. Today, though, she goes to Nones at midday, stands at the back and eases herself down carefully on her knees when the time comes to pray. But she can utter no prayers. She is unworthy of any of the Lord’s grace or forgiveness, for she will never be able to forgive herself for Sodelb’s death, her brother’s death or forgive the man who killed him. She cannot see how it will ever be possible. Wicked and sinful, that’s the person she is now. That’s the person Cuimne is. The woman that was Áine, who loved a cailech above all others is no more. She realizes this fully as they say the final Pater Noster and when the office is finished, she removes her veil.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She finds Máthair Gobnait at her forge, the special hearth set up behind the Tech Mor that few go near, except the young boy who pumps the bellows set in the ground that blows air through to the fire. This place that serves as a site where wondrous transformations of metal occur creates unease among many, and though they understand that Máthair Gobnait wields those transformations through her skill and use of fire, it does nothing to shift the awe and wariness they feel. Máthair Gobnait uses the forge only on rare occasions, to create a sacred vessel, shape a cross, or fashion an item Epscop Ábán might request.
This time she works a simple cross, the hot metal already made liquid in the crucible and poured into the mould to form its new shape. She takes hold of the shape and turns the ends with tongs so easily, it is as if the tongs are extensions of her fingers. She looks up when she hears someone approaching, and her head is limned in light. She raises the back of her gloved hand to her forehead and draws it across to wipe the sweat that gathers there from the heat of the fire. There is no doubt in Cuimne’s mind that Máthair Gobnait, as her name suggests, is indeed a woman of power, an ancient power that all goba who work the forge and metal possess, stretching back as far as the god, Gobniu, himself.
‘Áine,’ she says. ‘Sit over there. I’m nearly finished.’ She indicates a hefty rock that juts from the ground. The rock is part of the hillside that intrudes in various places of the community’s land and now provides a resting place.
She watches as Máthair Gobnait plunges the shaped metal into the small vat of water beside her with the metal tongs she holds, and then, once cooled, places it on the cloth on the ground. The tongs are laid down, the gloves removed, and she walks over and sits down.
‘I’m glad to see that you were well enough to attend Nones.’ She touches her uncovered hair. ‘But I feel it is something more than that which brings you here now, Áine.’
‘Cuimne,’ she says. ‘I’m called Cuimne.’
‘So Colmán told me when he mentioned he spoke to your foster father. He said your father was a king.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your brother was the Táinaiste, until his death.
‘Yes.’
The two sit in silence for a while, Máthair Gobnait content to wait her out. The words don’t come easily. Though she knows Áine is no longer, it’s still difficult to utter the words that make it unalterable. For a few moments she wants to hold on to that feeling that she too is one of Máthair Gobnait’s daughters.
Eventually though, she starts her tale, explains her deep love for her brother and how he was slain, and her part in the events. Her voice drops to a whisper when she tells Máthair Gobnait of her terrible but unalterable fear, and determination to face the fears and unearth her brother’s murderer.
But Máthair Gobnait will not accept these words. ‘If only for your own safety, you must lay aside such thoughts,’ she says. ‘And let time heal your grief and calm your anger and help you to understand that you are blameless in this matter.’
Cuimne knows Máthair Gobnait’s words are full of reason, but such reason is be
yond her. She is a king’s daughter who should fear nothing in the face of what she feels for her brother. ‘I cannot.’
‘You would unearth this person, and do what? Bring him to justice, extract vengeance, or perhaps kill him, though it might even be your kin and knowing that type of murder is of the worst kind?’ asks Máthair Gobnait.
‘I-I would have vengeance.’ Was that what she wanted? She stiffened her resolve. She must do something.
‘They can answer to God. It’s not for you to judge.’
‘They’re not Christians, they answer to me.’
‘They answer to the law, should a case be brought.’
‘No. There is no amount of cattle, no gold or silver or the equivalent of seven cumals in honour price to satisfy my lack of father or brother to provide for me.’ Is that what she believed? The words had come out of her mouth before she knew what she said. She would not back away. She would stand firm.
‘Give yourself time to try and find it in your heart to let this go, to forgive. The Lord does ask us to turn the other cheek.’
‘Siúr Ethne says that God tells us to seek an eye for an eye.’
Máthair Gobnait purses her mouth. ‘Forgiveness is not just for the transgressor, but it also is to heal the one who has been transgressed against.’ She places a hand on Cuimne’s shoulder. ‘Think, child, think.’ Her voice rises and there is a hint of anger in it.
‘Is that what the Church would say? What Epscop Ábán would say? I don’t think so. I can think of no other way but this, Máthair Ab. And for that reason I know I can’t be a part of your community any longer. I must go.’
‘God can be merciful and he would teach us of that mercy. Stay here for a while until the situation becomes clearer. Someone wished you dead, and here you are safe from that danger.’
Cuimne considers her words. She needs some time, in any case, to make her plans, to contact her kin and see how she might best proceed. ‘I will stay a while,’ she says in the end.
Máthair Gobnait rises and moves over to the cloth where the newly created cross lays. She stoops over, picks it up and returns to Cuimne. ‘This is for you. Keep it with you, whatever you decide to do, if only for my sake.’
Cuimne takes the cross from her hand and sees there is a small loop where she can string a cord and hang it around her neck. She knows this is a special gift, a sign that Máthair Gobnait has accepted her as one of the community. ‘I will try,’ she says and gives Máthair Gobnait a wan smile.
~
This time, when she visits the well, it’s not in desperation and hope. Now, she searches for peace. There is nothing surreptitious about her journey; she walks through the faithche entrance and down the well trodden path with a purposeful stride. The limp no longer troubles her. Once she arrives at the well, she pauses to allow a young woman who kneels beside it to complete her own prayers and invocations before she makes any of her own. The woman is fair, her hair nearly the colour of the strip of wet linen she clasps in her hand. For one moment Cuimne thinks the woman is Sodelb, until the woman lifts her head and she sees the rounder chin and shortened nose. She pushes aside the pain and observes the woman’s earnest face, the moving lips and wonders if anyone will hear her prayers.
She’s not seen this woman before, either coming for healing or helping on the farm, but then she doesn’t know everyone, especially women who remain in the safety of their own les. Her needs, her story, are something she can only guess at. That this fairly well born woman risks coming to this sacred site on her own, speaks much for its serious nature, though so near to Máthair Gobnait’s community, under the protection of the Church, many might feel it safe enough, even if they didn’t subscribe to the Church’s beliefs.
The woman rises, and in the one hand clasps her linen strip, fresh from its dip in the well. In the other hand she holds a small earthen jar of water. She nods to Cuimne as she passes by and follows the path away from the well. Cuimne moves forward and kneels down. She casts her mind back for the prayers she used to offer so diligently with her foster mother, a prayer to the Daghda, a prayer to Lugh and most important, a prayer to Anu. The words pour from her now fast and repetitive, invoking protection, a lorica against what she must do. The words uttered, she sits back in stillness, testing her mind and body for the peace she seeks. With peace might come the forgiveness Máthair Gobnait desires of her. She certainly has found no peace in the oratory, where the new grave accuses her every time she is there.
After a moment she grows restless, her mind shifts from the well to the home she left those many years before to be fostered among the Eóganacht of Glennamain. Until her father’s death, she’d been back to her own home only once since that time, when her father’s cousin died of fever. She must have been all of twelve and had noticed her father’s greying beard and her brother’s height and handsome face. Though her father had seemed distracted, he had allowed her to play the harp for him and the rest of the people gathered there for the funeral. It was an old harp, belonging to the family, and its sound so much better than the one she played at her foster home. He’d praised her skill then, learned from the bard at her fosterage, told her she had a fine touch and he was proud that a daughter of his could play such a noble instrument and bring honour to the family. It was then he promised her that one day she might have the harp, take it with her on her marriage.
She’d been happy that day, basking in the certainty of her skill and what was to come in her life. Diarmait, with a laughing tug at her hair, had told her she should stop growing so beautiful, for he would soon have to beat a multitude of men coming to her father to bargain for a marriage contract. This he’d do with great earnestness, he’d told her, for hadn’t Óengus, his foster brother, noticed her. She’d laughed at him and asked him why she would ever marry that bastún, though she blushed with pleasure, flattered. ‘Then you think me nothing but a bastún?’ he’d answered. ‘For I’m the spit of him; we’re a pair with no difference between us but the colour of our hair.’ Perhaps that’s why she found such pleasure in the thought. That she might marry someone like her brother, someone who would tease and joke with her and wish for her company.
And what of such plans now? She looks down at her hands, notes the knotted knuckle on her small finger, one reminder of the change since those days when she was twelve. She flexes her hands and wonders about the family harp with its finely carved pillar and polished soundbox; the harp that should be hers. She thinks of Óengus, a vague figure whose hair she knew wasn’t dark like her brother’s, someone who laughed and teased but was well skilled with a sword. What did he know of her brother’s death? If he was anything like her brother, she is certain that he will help her look for the killer and keep her safe in the process. But these questions and thoughts cannot be posed in a message. Somehow she must find a way to go to him.
~
She turns from her place at the loom when she hears Colmán hail her from the doorway. She’s been weaving for a few hours now and her back is aching, so though the opportunity to stop is welcome, the cause makes her reluctant. She rises to find someone to fetch refreshment for Colmán and it occurs to her that his arrival might be opportune.
It is only the serious cast of his face that gives any hint of purpose of his journey here, and so she is slow to ask him the news. She chides herself that there could be no news that would make her fearful now. With all that she has suffered, what other events could possibly be worse?
‘You are well?’ he asks.
She nods, though it is a lie. Her heart gives regular beats in her chest and she is able to eat, drink and walk about doing simple tasks like weaving, carding and spinning wool, sewing the cloth, fashioning the clothes. She can even measure out herbs for the infusions without serious consequences to give to the people who come to the community for the coughs and wheezes caused by the autumn rains already upon them. But she still cannot attend the offices, bow her head in prayer, or even sing the psalms. There is no forgiveness present in her he
art and no desire to confess its lack again and again.
Her mind, instead of finding peace, has grown ever more restless with the passing days, darting everywhere to seek answers and form plans. Sleep has become an infrequent visitor, especially with the empty place in the cot beside her. She finds it much easier to work at the loom, or sit on the bench and sew while the hours stretch before her and her mind goes racing. Máthair Gobnait says little, and even allows her the extra pine resin candles such work requires. There is no place for her at the hives, not since the swarm, though Máthair Gobnait has only said that her own restlessness would infect the bees and she would rather not have anyone stung.
But Cuimne can see that he understands some of this because his eyes suddenly become sympathetic, though he says nothing of it. Instead, he professes that he is well enough too, and on further questioning from her, says that he believes his parents and wife fared well given everything, though he’s not seen them since he left them.
‘I’ve been to see your cousin.’
‘My cousin who is now king?’ The bitter note creeps in, though she tries to prevent it.
‘Yes, as you guessed, he’s king now, but duly elected by the tuath.’
She frowns. ‘Of course Ailill would have his supporters, who would ensure his election as king.’
He nods. ‘As your father probably had for his election. Wasn’t his predecessor this man’s father?’
‘Yes, but he was less able than my father. He was a simple man, liked to spend time with the herdsmen and the matters concerned with the farm. He wasn’t interested in furthering our connections or expanding our lands. My father said he knew all ends of the cow but couldn’t fathom one contract from another.’
‘That might be true, but Ailill seems capable enough. And he was glad enough to hear news of you.’
‘You told Ailill what happened to me? He knows I’m here?’ She feels a small grip of panic and forces it away.