In Praise of the Bees Read online

  ‘You are with us again.’ Máthair Gobnait appears at her side and gazes down at her. Áine can see her clearly this time. The soft grey eyes, the straight nose, almost too long, and the firm lips now pulled back in a smile. A small brown curl escaping the dark veil teases her forehead. But there is something more that draws her to this woman, something in her countenance that shines out. A knowing. That is all she can identify, when she considers it carefully, later. How or what it was she knows, Áine cannot say. She can only feel it reaching out to her, making her in turns comforted and uneasy.

  Áine tries to smile. ‘I am awake.’

  ‘We mustn’t rush the healing.’

  Áine isn’t certain that the words are directed at her or Máthair Gobnait herself.

  She decides to venture a question. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘The moon has waxed and waned since the farmer brought you to us.’

  ‘How can that be?’ It terrifies her how ill she’s been for such a length of time to have passed unnoticed.

  ‘Yes, it’s over halfway to midsummer and you were brought to us just after Bealtaine.’

  Bealtaine. The celebrations for summer beginning and now summer is half over. She forces herself to ask more about her arrival. ‘I was told a farmer and his son brought me here. They had no idea who I am?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Word has spread in Boirneach about your attack, but none have claimed any knowledge of you or who you might be. I am reluctant to make inquiries further afield among other tuath of the Érann and the Eóganacht just yet, until I can be more certain you are in no danger of further harm.’

  The words both reassure and frighten her. That this woman had a care to her wellbeing is a comfort but the confirmation of the danger fights that assurance. ‘You feel I am still in danger?’ She is unable to keep the shake from her voice.

  ‘There is no cause for worry.’ Máthair Gobnait lays a hand on her cheek. It feels cool and dry against her and she closes her eyes a moment against its calming touch.

  ‘I would only take a more cautious approach,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘There is no clear understanding of why you were so sorely injured. It might be nothing more than a random assault for your belongings.’

  Something inside her denies that benign explanation, though she tries to accept it as the most probable. ‘Whatever the cause might be it appears I am not from this tuath.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And nowhere else reports a missing daughter or wife?’

  ‘I am afraid not.’ Her replies are very matter of fact, her voice firm. Is it the deep, rich quality of it that makes the dreadful answers much more bearable? ‘You must not despair. It is early days yet and for now, you have a place here with us while you recover.’

  Áine tests these words and is able to feel some calm. That this woman has taken her in and shown her nothing but kindness is some evidence that she is in a safe place. Her words are as sincere as she can make them. ‘And I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me. I can only hope that someday I might repay all this kindness.’

  ‘I do only what the Lord himself would do.’ Máthair Gobnait gives a mischievous twinkle. ‘Or any other person who has a stranger cross his threshold.’

  ‘Despite what you say, you are a woman of true good nature and your lord is fortunate to have such person in his tuath.’

  ‘My lord is Lord of all. The Christian Lord.’

  ‘How many women are there here in this community?’

  Máthair Gobnait tilts her head slightly. ‘There are eight here living at the moment. Nine including you. Not all are cailecha.’

  ‘Nine women here, the same number as the deer?’

  She smiles at Áine, accepting it as a joke, though Áine isn’t certain she means it as such. ‘Yes, and just as beautiful in their own way. There are the servants too, and the bishop’s client workers, like the wives of the ócaire and bothach, who help out from time to time and share with us their rents. We also have people who come for mass and for healing. Some of them help with tasks on occasion. At the moment we also have workmen constructing sheds and sleeping huts staying with us. They built this Tech Mor last summer and have returned to complete more sleeping quarters and another shed.’

  Áine is taken aback at the number of people that are attached to this community in one way or another. Thinking about such numbers makes her shrink physically, as withdrawing into her sheepskin coverlet will allow her to disappear. That some of these people are men and they’re working in close proximity creates further alarm. Her eyes sweep the room, looking for anything that might contradict this fear and this time she notes the newly fashioned wooden benches around the central hearth. Along the wall to the side, near the door are large water vats, and next to them leans the board that serves as a dining table. Her pallet is near enough to the fire to get some benefit from it, but not too much to feel uncomfortable. On the other side of the fire she can see Siúr Feidelm working quietly on a stool with a young girl, sorting and cutting vegetables that are then deposited in an iron pot, ready for the fire.

  ‘You don’t sleep in here?’ The question pops out and for a moment she is glad to be distracted by a simple matter.

  ‘We house guests here, if the need arises, but it serves all our other purposes, bar sleeping and worship. We have the oratory for the offices and weekly mass.’

  She nods and thinks of the bells, the singing and the humming buzz that must have been praying. ‘The bells?’ She asks about them not because she doesn’t realize they are used in their worship in some ways, but because she wants to hear more about them. There is something about their regularity and the orderly manner of their ringing that draws her, though she could not say why.

  ‘We attend the oratory several times a day to offer our prayers and praise to God,’ Máthair Gobnait says. ‘The bell calls us there for each office.’

  She thinks of the women’s ritual, pictures them rising from their tasks or their beds at the sound of the bell, processing to the oratory to sing and pray in unison. She feels a connection to that idea and reaches out for it, tries to make it grow into a real memory, but does not succeed. Frustrated, she closes her eyes a moment. She thinks of a different tactic.

  ‘How do you worship? What do you pray?’

  ‘You have heard enough from me for now. There is no need to learn everything again all at once.’ Máthair Gobnait pats her arm lightly. ‘Rest now. I’ll ask Siúr Feidelm to give you more broth. That will do you more good at this moment than any words.’

  Áine watches Máthair Gobnait rise and make her way out the door, her strides efficient but unhurried. She speaks softly to Siúr Feidelm before she leaves and disappears into the light that pours through the opening. Áine lays back a moment and then lifts up her bandaged arms. She examines the cloth that is wrapped around her forearms, hands and fingers and holds varying splints in position. All of her right leg and the lower half of her right are also strapped to supports. She tries to ease herself on the pallet and the pain shoots from all directions, including her side and chest. At this moment the wretchedness of her condition becomes truly apparent. She is helpless. She can rely on neither her body nor her mind. There is nothing she can do to defend herself from anyone that might still want to cause her harm, here, wherever they might be. For the present she can only hope and trust that Máthair Gobnait and her community can keep her safe while she heals.

  CHAPTER TWO

  More days than Áine wishes pass before she is even able to sit up. In that time she hears the bell ring at regular intervals, a task she learns is the responsibility of thin, stern Siúr Ethne. After the bell finishes, Áine imagines herself a cailech looking up from her task, or if she is asleep, rubbing her eyes and gathering her thoughts. She hears the soft fall of sandaled feet upon the ground that changes to a slapping when they cross the stone threshold of the oratory and she sees herself among them as they file in. Inside the oratory, in the silence that follows, she pictures M�
�thair Gobnait lighting a special beeswax candle, for she is certain she can smell its pungent grease even lying on her pallet in the Tech Mor.

  The candle is lit, and in her mind the cailecha take a moment to prepare their voices and wait for the signal to begin. It is then she closes her eyes and really feels that she is there. She loses herself in the soothing sounds of their prayer, the songs and even the silent contemplation that follows. Often there is a murmur of words. It is a single voice that tells the story from a holy work she learns only later is the Gospel, the sayings of the Christ they follow and an account of his life.

  Siúr Sodelb’s voice is easy to pick out from the others, it is so pure and rich. When Siúr Sodelb sings on her own, it seems as if Áine has left this world and entered another. It lifts her up, so that she can almost feel her whole body lighten and rise upwards, following the music.

  Rop tú mo baile, A Choimdiu cride:

  Ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime.

  Rop tú mo scrútain I llos ‘s I n-iadche;

  Rop tú ad-chёar im chotlud caidche.

  Rop tú mo labra, rop tú mo thuicsiu;

  Rop tussu damsa, rob misse duitsiu.

  Be thou my vision, beloved Lord:

  None other is aught but the King of the seven heavens

  Be thou my meditation by day and night;

  May it be thou that I behold forever in my sleep.

  Be thou my speech, be thou my understanding;

  Be thou for me; may I be for thee.

  The song invokes a union of spirit of the highest and most divine intensity. But the voice is what made its most perfect message clear. She loses herself in that voice, imagining the possessor as the most perfect of beings; a goddess come here for the privileged to bear witness to.

  She sees Siúr Sodelb at her place with the other women around the large wooden board taken from against the wall for mealtimes to rest on the woven straw support placed there. There is no need for anyone to point her out, she knows Siúr Sodelb can only be the woman with the flawless nose, unblemished skin and polished golden hair.

  The other women take on names and distinctive features, including Siúr Mugain’s broad frame and interest in all things agricultural that mark her as the daughter of a bóaire, and the cheerful, round faced Siúr Sadhbh who takes great care over the girls who do the milking and churning. It is Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Feidelm, who tend her wounds, she comes to know most, since it is they who feed her and occasionally keep her company. About Máthair Gobnait’s background she can discover little more than she already knows, and it is not clear what tuath she came from or who her kin are.

  It is Siúr Feidelm who tells what is known when Áine finds it in her to ask one morning. ‘When she arrived Epscop Ábán granted her the land and encouraged her in her work. He has a monastery not far from here.’ Siúr Feidelm gestures around her. ‘He had this built for her, to enable her to do even greater works here, among our people.’

  ‘He must think well of her then, this holy man.’ Something in her stirs. Is it admiration or something deeper that a woman could compel so much from men in authority without the backing of her family? She has no idea.

  ‘He does, as do the other bishops. It isn’t always the case, you know. But Máthair Ab is a pure woman and much respected by the people.’

  Áine has no doubt that Siúr Feidelm speaks the truth. Her words are always exact and precise in meaning, but Áine has also learned Siúr Feidelm is a local woman, one of too many daughters of a minor noblemen. But Siúr Feidelm is more than content with her lot. In fact Áine can see she thrives here, where she is free to study and brew her herbs, in addition to the tasks of supervising the cooking and the vegetable garden. The vegetable garden especially seems to provide more opportunities for close study and observation, a fact that becomes evident a day or so after her conversation about Máthair Gobnait when Siúr Feidelm offers up a garden slug for her inspection. It is thick and striped.

  ‘Have you ever seen such odd markings?’

  Áine looks down at the dark slug. ‘In truth I can’t say that I have.’

  Siúr Feidelm peers at it closely, poking it a little with her nail. In response it squirms and forms a tighter ball. She remarks on its colour and watches it, probing it curiously with her finger. Áine finds herself smiling at Siúr Feidelm’s enthusiasm and for a moment feels lighter. Who else would notice variations in a creature that eats gardens and marvel at it?

  Siúr Feidelm takes her leave. She says she will not kill the slug, only place it as far from the garden as possible. Such thoughtfulness warms Áine and she feels for the first time safe and secure.

  ~

  When she is able to sit up with a plumped straw-filled bolster to support her, the pain it gives her side is little compared to the sense of satisfaction she feels at her progress. Though she must still submit to the indignity of Siúr Feidelm or Máthair Gobnait feeding, washing her and assisting her eliminations, as well as applying honey to her wounds, she is left unattended and is free to observe more of her surroundings.

  It is then, too, that others are let loose upon her, or at least given more free access to the Tech Mor. Siúr Ethne, her work and personal vocation being clearly centred on keeping things clean and orderly, wields her mighty broom, cloth and bucket of water like an avenger as soon as Máthair Gobnait gives her permission.

  Siúr Ethne’s face and features defy any attempts to mark her age. Her sallow colouring, the skin stretched tight across the bones of her face, suggests someone who is not in her first youth. Her hair, what little pokes out from her covering, is limp and persuading itself to grey. She is not given to conversation and Áine is too intimidated at first to do anything more than hope she remains unnoticed.

  Eventually Áine works up enough courage to ask a question that will not leave her mind. ‘Have you been here with Gobnait long?’

  For a moment Siúr Ethne stops her relentless scrubbing of the deal board propped against the wall. The grain on it is well risen under her effort and all the water she has lavished upon it. ‘I was one of Máthair Ab’s first true acolytes.’ She lays great emphasis on the word ‘mother’ as if to chastise Áine for using only her given name.

  Áine cannot help but note her choice of the word ‘true’ and makes herself remark upon it.

  ‘I am here only for the service and glory of the Lord,’ Siúr Ethne replies. She takes up her cloth and resumes her work, as if to demonstrate how she feels ‘service’ should be interpreted.

  The set of Siúr Ethne’s mouth and her posture make plain her refusal to say anything more, so Áine settles back and watches her work. Once Siúr Ethne finishes scrubbing the table and the long benches, she removes the rushes that are strewn on the floor and replaces them with fresh ones, then cleans away all trace of cobwebs with her broom from every rafter and beam, imaginary or otherwise. Áine is glad that Siúr Ethne’s efforts raise little dust, since she can only guess what might happen if stray dirt should fall on Áine or make her cough. Despite that, Áine is still exhausted at the end of Siúr Ethne’s cleaning spree, if only from watching her expend such a great amount of energy.

  She sleeps again and does not wake until she feels something heavy pressing on her chest, taking her breath. She flails her arms in an attempt to remove her attacker and feels her bandaged hand make contact, though she refuses to open her eyes. A howl pierces the air and she dares to look but can see only the roof above her. She scans the room carefully, panting.

  ‘Méone, be careful.’ Máthair Gobnait draws alongside of Áine, a large bundle of ginger fur in her arms. ‘I’m so sorry, Áine. He has discovered the Tech Mor is a good place for food, hunted or otherwise.’ She glances across where Siúr Feidelm and others are preparing a meal. ‘I’ve kept him from the Tech Mor up to now, in case he should disturb you or your dressings. But he is a wily old thing, and though he is large enough, he can be quick and agile when he wants and slip into the most unlikely places.’

 
Áine gives her a weak smile, and tries to bring her breathing back to an even pace. ‘No, it is my mistake. I was dreaming and felt only his weight.’

  Máthair Gobnait sets the cat down and strokes his back. A loud purring answers her actions. Áine holds out her bandaged hand and murmurs soothing words to the cat. Méone moves towards her, tentatively at first, and sniffs a moment until he decides he will permit further attention and collapses beside her in a large heap.

  ‘His name is Méone? Surely such a sizeable cat cannot have a little meow.’

  ‘He has certainly outgrown that name. There is nothing little about the way he meows.’ She speaks with affection and it is obvious that she forgives any of his transgressions. Áine can understand why. Beside her, he purrs contently, his paws stuffed underneath him, his eyes slowly closing. She pets the cat again and the cat closes his eyes and pushes his head against her bandaged hand.

  Máthair Gobnait smiles. ‘He loves attention and will do anything for it.’

  Áine attempts another pat of the cat. ‘Is it possible for my bandages to be removed soon?’ She looks up carefully under the curtain of her hair at Máthair Gobnait, her breath held.

  ‘I discussed this with Siúr Feidelm and we thought we could take off the splints and rewrap the dressings to allow your fingers more freedom. They should be healed well enough by now, but you will find them stiff at first.’

  Áine tries to move her fingers, testing each one for strength and agility. There is little pain, for which she’s grateful, but the splints are too restrictive to get any clear sense of their condition.