In Praise of the Bees Read online

  She glances over at Máthair Gobnait and then Siúr Sodelb, her golden hair head caught in the angled light that shines through the oratory door. She acknowledges to herself that in this place she feels safe. The nagging fear that makes her voice a little more than a whisper, holds her back from singing in company, and venturing beyond the faithche, feels less at this moment.

  Epscop Ábán holds up a chalice filled with wine, another work of Máthair Gobnait, this time fashioned not with copper, but with gold. It belongs to Epscop Ábán’s monastery, but he brings it with him to celebrate the mass, a concession to Máthair Gobnait’s part in its making. The wine, he tells them, is Christ’s blood shed for them all in forgiveness of their sins. He says more, too, but it is the idea of shedding blood for someone else’s sins that has caught her mind, and she contemplates that as the other women share in the blessing of Christ’s body.

  Máthair Gobnait gestures to her from her place across the room. It is time. Áine takes up the two sticks that help her walk and makes her way slowly to Máthair Gobnait’s side as the cailecha part for Siúr Sodelb to come to the front. Her own awkward progress makes Siúr Sodelb’s seem graceful in comparison. Áine is glad for it, that they share something more than this deep rooted love of music, at least for now.

  Siúr Sodelb takes her hand and smiles. Áine focusses on that smile and the large transparent eyes that at this moment hold only warmth. After a slight nod from Siúr Sodelb, the two begin their piece. Áine closes her eyes. Her voice is a thread at the start, but she finds her way into the music and it fills out to become rich and strong, matching as much as possible the purity of Siúr Sodelb’s voice. It is a joining at that moment, her voice blending, entwining with Siúr Sodelb’s like the cross that sits firmly on the wooden altar. She loses herself for a brief time, so closely bound up there is no need to think, Siúr Sodelb’s hand clasped in hers and their souls locked in the pure heights of the song.

  It finishes and she finds there is no breath left in her. Siúr Sodelb squeezes her hand. She opens her eyes and looks at the radiant face beside her and smiles. It had been an experience like no other, one so unique, so special it could only be holy. Sacred. She bows her head and gives thanks for it, though she has no idea who she is giving thanks to.

  A small nod and gesture from Máthair Gobnait signals she is free to return to her bench. But for some reason she can’t contemplate the hobble back and feels instead the need to hold on to this moment with Siúr Sodelb and the completeness she has just felt. She gives a small shake of her head and moves closer to Siúr Sodelb, still grasping her hand.

  ~

  Siúr Feidelm places the laden platter on the table beside the bowls of cooked celery and onion and the bread loaves. The haunch of beef, roasted the day before on the spit in the cooking pit in honour of Epscop Ábán’s visit, is ready for carving on its wooden platter. All the cailecha, except perhaps Siúr Ethne, have looked forward to this celebratory feast and now gather around the table, their faces full of anticipation. It is seldom that Siúr Feidelm puts her culinary skills to such use, liberally sprinkling herbs in among the celery and onions set to cook slowly in milk, and the beef, under Siúr Feidelm’s watchful eye, turned so carefully on its spit by the young widow’s boy so that nary a drop of fat falls into the fire. There is even butter for the bread, a luxury that each cailech savours first, after ripping a bread portion apart and spreading a generous daub of it on with her knife.

  The bishop has no less anticipation than the cailecha. He has removed his alb from his thin frame to preserve it against possible stains and attacks his share of bread with energy. After the first few mouthfuls are enjoyed he looks up. A slight twinkle comes into his eyes. ‘Aon scéal agat?’

  It is common enough to ask a person if they have any news or stories to share when meeting. Such news or stories might relieve the tedium of the daily tasks. Everyone knows that in this case, the question posed humorously is part of the routine exchange Epscop Ábán has with Máthair Gobnait. That Máthair Gobnait always responds she has no stories to tell, no news of any worth, is her way of saying that she and the other women live quietly among the people here.

  This time is no different. ‘No news, a thiarna Epscop,’ she says. In her view it is Epscop Ábán who must have the stories to tell, a man who was an Episcopus Vagans, travelling for many years all over Mumu, Connacht and Laigin, founding churches and monasteries. A man with so much experience and years can’t fail to have something to tell. ‘What stories will you share with us today?’

  ‘I have more of a request than a story. But first I must insist that you do have news.’ He looks over at Áine, who lowers her eyes under his sharp, discerning gaze. She has never been this close to him. Before, on the few visits since her arrival, she saw him only in the distance, mounting his horse, or blessing the new calves and lambs in their pens. Now she feels uneasy. Its cause might be the palpable tension and energy he barely manages to contain, but she is cautious nonetheless. She only knows that eyes such as his miss nothing, and at this moment they pin her to her seat.

  ‘Ah, you mean the beautiful praise piece, Um la Mholadh Beacha, Siúr Sodelb and Áine sang today,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘Yes, you’re right. That’s news indeed.’

  ‘Um la Mholadh Beacha. Yes, and how fitting that someone from your community should sing something so named. I’m not familiar with it. Who was it gave it to you? Is it one of Siúr Sodelb’s?’

  ‘Its creator is one of the singers, but not Siúr Sodelb.’

  Epscop Ábán looks over at Áine again. ‘Ah, one of your newcomers.’ He takes in her grey gown that matches the gowns worn by the women, his eyes moving over the worn edges of the wool sleeves and that of the léine beneath. He notes too her hair, the dark curls fully revealed and tumbling in all their glory along her back. ‘Not yet a cailech?’ he asks.

  ‘But welcome here nevertheless,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘She came to us in need of care and she has repaid us in many ways.’

  ‘I have no doubt she’s welcome here, as I am certain that your healing knows no bounds.’ He reaches over and slices off the thinnest of pieces from the roasted haunch.

  The meat is tender and juicy and the cailecha, glad that the bishop has finally taken the first slice, feel able to take their own pieces. Siúr Mugain is especially generous with her knife, whether it’s her strong, well muscled arms that bring more force to her carving skills, or that her labours in the field give her an irrepressible appetite. It gives Siúr Ethne pause though, and with a raise of her brow and meatless fare on her own plate, her disapproval rings out. Despite Máthair Gobnait’s protests, Siúr Ethne refuses all meat and drinks no beer, confining herself to water and the soured whey, like some of the penitential manach. Máthair Gobnait will allow Siúr Ethne some of her ascetic choices, but tries to rein in the most extreme.

  Áine glances at Siúr Ethne’s plate. It is filled only with a spoonful of celery and onion and some unbuttered bread. Áine is certain that she could never limit herself to such an extent. Her own plate contains a generous helping of the celery and onion, the meat and liberally buttered bread. With Epscop Ábán’s scrutiny directed elsewhere, she can relax and eat with enjoyment.

  ‘The healing is my calling from God and I must go where it takes me,’ says Máthair Gobnait in response to the bishop’s comment.

  ‘And that’s where my story comes in today,’ says the bishop. ‘I’ve lately travelled from the dún of Uí Blathnaic at Raithlinn. His favourite son is ill with a wasting disease. He sought my advice, to my surprise. It shows his desperation. I told him of you and now he would like you to visit his son and perform a cure.’

  ‘Uí Blathnaic. Illness can humble even a king, it seems.’

  ‘I know he’s not kindred to the Érainn people here and some may not take it kindly, but it would be a good opportunity for the church if you were to heal his son.’

  Máthair Gobnait smiles at him, her eyes laughing. ‘I will go, of course,
a thiarna Epscop. He is a person in need. As for the people, they know my love and care for them and they will understand that by such an action I am putting Uí Blathnaic in my debt as well as the Church’s.’ She gazes warmly around at the other cailech, some of whom are the very people she speaks about. Siúr Mugain and Siúr Sadhbh nod as if to emphasize her point. ‘I will gather together what I need tomorrow and go then. I’ll take one of you to assist me, as I may be gone a good few days.’ Her glance rests on Áine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She has rehearsed the words in her mind often while she lay in her pallet next to Siúr Sodelb’s, and now, standing in front of Máthair Gobnait, she begins to doubt her decision. They are standing among the beachair, Máthair Gobnait collecting honey in preparation for her journey. On the grass nearby, Méone is curled up in a ball, basking in the early morning light. Áine knows that the unease that follows her around like some anxious lapdog has driven her in part to this decision and brings her here now, but there is also something more. It stems from that feeling she had when she sang with Siúr Sodelb. She wants more of that. She needs more of that.

  She hesitates a fraction and stares at the wrought copper cross that hangs round Máthair Gobnait’s neck, trying to remember the thoughts and words she’s composed. Máthair Gobnait looks at her expectantly. She draws a breath. ‘I’ve been thinking. That is to say, I’ve given this much thought. About the community. I would like to ... the women here, the community...the sisters, they’ve been very supportive. I’ve found great comfort here.’

  Máthair Gobnait regards her patiently. She removes the veil from her face and slips off the protective gloves. ‘I’m glad that you’ve found comfort here.’

  Emboldened by these words, Áine carries on, her words assembling in a more coherent pattern. ‘I would like to become a part of the community. I feel more at home here among the sisters than I would in any other place. Here, my lack of memory causes myself and no one else any ill. In return, I would be happy to contribute to the community in any manner you wish.’ She gestures to the bees. ‘I’ve watched you with the hives, seen how much care you give the bees. It’s something I would enjoy helping you with, if you need it.’

  Máthair Gobnait scans her face slowly, missing nothing. ‘I have no doubt of your sincerity, or the strength of your desire,’ she says finally. ‘I do wonder, though, at its source. You say you find great comfort here, and I’m glad, but that’s not a reason to become a cailech.’ She gives her a warm smile, her eyes full of understanding.

  Perhaps it is that last statement that prompts Áine to protest; that gives her the certainty and focus that she found so elusive moments before. ‘I’m sorry, I phrased my request very poorly. What I mean to say is that I have watched all of you very carefully over these past months, I see great faith and dedication in the manner in which you work and worship, and it touches me deeply. I feel during these times something more, something greater than myself is at work. It wasn’t until today, when I heard mass with all of you in the presence of Epscop Ábán, that I realized that something was God. In that moment I sang with Siúr Sodelb, it seemed as though He was present. I felt such wonder and love. Surely that’s a sign God is calling me to become a member of this community?’

  Gobnait studies her. ‘You felt that during mass?’

  Áine nods. Tears gather in her eyes for a moment.

  ‘I see.’ She puts her hands in her sleeves, pensive. ‘I think there is no doubt God is at work here in some way. And I would welcome you, my dear, without hesitation, if I knew it was with an open heart and spirit. My concern is that with your lack of memory I can’t be certain your heart and spirit are open and desire this step.’ She withdraws her hands from the sleeves and rests them on Áine’s shoulders. ‘What I will do is consult with the bishop and Uí Blathnaic further. Perhaps with more digging, they might determine who you are. In view of that, I would ask you to accompany me to see Uí Blathnaic.’

  ‘Me?’ Her heart races. The fear is present now, strong and unmistakeable. ‘Siúr Sodelb would seem the better choice,’ she says.

  Gobnait gazes at her calmly and gives a gentle smile. ‘I’m asking you,’ she says. ‘Siúr Sodelb seldom ventures outside of the faithche, let alone as far as Raithlinn.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m ready for such a step either,’ she says. The very thought of riding or walking a track or across an open field nearly steals all the breath from her. She doesn’t know who it is she fears, or even what, only that she can’t leave the safety of this place.

  It is as though Máthair Gobnait knows her thoughts. ‘You mustn’t feel frightened. Cadoc will be with us. I wouldn’t have proposed it if I thought it was unsafe.’

  Áine looks at Máthair Gobnait, notes her calm expression, the kind eyes and tries to take comfort. Perhaps her fears are unreasonable. Máthair Gobnait seems to think so. She gives a nod. ‘I will go, of course.’

  Máthair Gobnait pats her hand. ‘Good. Now there are things to arrange. If you would go to Siúr Feidelm and collect the herbs, salves and honey she’s prepared, I’ll tell Siúr Sadhbh to get the horse ready.’

  She pulls the sheer veil from her head and adjusts the thicker veil underneath. Áine can see the fine threads of grey in among the dark locks that betray her age and for a moment it shocks her to think this precious person would succumb to time. It is her spirit that has no age, Áine thinks before she takes up her sticks to complete her errand. She stops and turns back to Máthair Gobnait. ‘May I call you máthair?’

  ‘Of course. ‘If it feels right to you.’

  ‘They all call you Mother. Even those from Boirneach and further afar.’

  ‘They do. It is an honour.’

  ‘I would see you as máthair without that.’

  Máthair Gobnait smiles and it reaches her eyes. ‘I’m glad you do.’

  ~

  The horse’s pace is easy enough, limited by the simple cart that carries them and the roughness of the track. For now Cadoc, Máthair Gobnait’s servant, leads the horse. For speed’s sake it is Fionn who pulls the cart and not the small capall they normally use. He is left behind for others to use if needed.

  The journey will take at least two days and a night and that in itself is enough to cause Áine’s anxiety to rise. She looks at Cadoc’s broad back and knotted muscles and tries to draw comfort from them. Her left leg and hip ache already with the jolting ride, but that she can bear. Beside her, Máthair Gobnait bumps against her periodically as the cart bounces along, a reminder that this holy woman has substance.

  It’s some time before Áine can relax enough to take notice of her surroundings. She finds they have descended from the hill, passed countless rocks and clumps of furze and rush. The morning is still young and she can smell the golden furze flowers, a scent that’s strong for this time of the year. It’s not long before the air is filled with the damp woody scents of the forest that threads its way along the banks of the Sullane River. The smell is welcome, because it promises some cool shade after the sun, surprisingly strong at this time of day. Or perhaps she feels the heat because of the anxiety and strain of being out in the open, vulnerable to any peering eyes. She wipes her brow with her sleeve and longs for the trees’ shelter.

  ‘The day will be hot,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘And the river looks inviting. Shall we stop for a drink in a while?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. Just a small one.’

  Perhaps it’s out of pity for Áine’s flushed looks, because their journey is long, but before the sun reaches its apex, they pull up beside the river. Máthair Gobnait climbs down from the cart with Cadoc’s aid and the two in turn help Áine. Cadoc leads the mare to the river’s edge so she can drink. Máthair Gobnait follows them and strokes Fionn, murmuring endearments.

  ‘You’ve had the horse a while?’ Áine asks.

  ‘I have. Fionn brought me here with Cadoc.’ She smiles at Cadoc, and he nods silently, his weathered face lighting up for a moment. His hair, more grey
than brown, shows his years, but he still stands firmly and his stride is long. A distant kinsman of Máthair Gobnait’s, Cadoc is never intrusive; he is calm waters, soothing and full of reassurance in his silence. Áine feels no threat.

  ‘Fionn came with me from my father’s place.’ She pats the horse and laughs. ‘She was young then. We both were.’

  ‘Do you miss your home?’

  Máthair Gobnait turns to regard Áine. ‘This is my home now. I do of course miss my father, but my life is full. I have many blessings to count.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  Máthair Gobnait shakes her head. ‘She died when I was young.’

  ‘And you had no desire to marry and become a mother yourself?’

  ‘I have wed. God is my husband, my father, my guide all in one. Who could find a more fortunate situation?’

  ‘And the women are your family.’

  ‘I see you understand.’

  ‘It’s that I would wish to share.’

  ‘It is a precious thing to share, but it is not for everyone. And you might already have a family that are searching for you, missing you.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that and I don’t think my mind would change.’

  Máthair Gobnait sighs and reaches up to push aside a stray lock from Áine’s face. ‘I am glad to hear you say that, but we must give you more time. And first you must be baptized as a Christian.’

  ‘Baptism?’

  ‘Water poured over you. You will be cleansed of all sin and reborn into the Christian Church.’

  Áine falls silent, captured by the idea of rebirth. She has made a new beginning, a rebirth of sorts, and this baptism would only confirm it. There can be no doubt now that she is on the right course. She asks Máthair Gobnait the particulars of the ritual, knowing that her questions indicate more about her past beliefs than she cares to show.