Brigid of Kildare

by Heather Terrell

  “Shall we pray?”

  Her mother nods her acquiescence, and the assemblage kneels. Bishop Patrick leads them in Jesus Christ’s own prayer, then stands and addresses them while they continue to kneel before him.

  “Broicsech, I know your family to be strong leaders of your tuath and ardent Christians. You serve as sublime examples to your people in the saving ways of our Jesus Christ.”

  As Broicsech gives her thanks, Brigid thinks on the cleverness of this Patrick. Patrick, though foreign, understands the Gaelic people well—from his years in Gaelic captivity, she supposes. By referencing the tuath, or kingdom, over which her father rules in all matters material and moral, he subtly reminds her mother that Dubtach is the sacred protector of the people’s lives and their souls. Brigid wonders what Patrick wants that he raises the stakes so high.

  “My monks and I will pass through your lands again in six months’ time. I know your family to be good Christians, but as yet unbaptized. I ask in the name of our Lord that you will consider allowing me to baptize you and your family in a ceremony before your people. Where your family leads, your people will follow.”

  Broicsech is quiet for a time, then answers in an uncharacteristically muted voice: “Bishop Patrick, I vow to you that I will consider your request for myself, my daughter, and my foster son, but I cannot speak to my husband’s willingness for a baptism or his appetite for a public ceremony of the rite.”

  Patrick is silent, but Brigid sees the fury simmering in his eyes. His voice rises in anger to match.

  “Broicsech, I do not ask much of you as a Christian. Nor does God. Consider my ministry to convert the people of Gael. I am bound by the Holy Spirit to work here in Gael and never again see my own kin. I must extend God’s mercy and kindness to the very people who once took me captive, and who made such havoc of my father’s estate. God asks comparatively little of you.”

  Watching her mother offer apologies and promises, Brigid considers Patrick’s statements. She finds him not only clever but convincing. For how could he bear his ministerial burden but for the grace of God? It is compelling evidence that his God must exist. She wonders how Patrick’s words will resound with the Gaelic people, who would rather draw pools of blood from their enslavers than bestow mercy as did Patrick. And she wonders what this God would ask of her.

  iii

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  PRESENT DAY

  The moment Alex feared before every flight finally happened.

  The Transportation Security Administration agent grabbed her bag off the conveyor belt as soon as it passed through the X-ray machine. Inwardly, she flinched as he pawed through it, but outwardly, she smiled at the portly, overworked agent—as if the contents were perfectly normal to carry on board a transatlantic flight.

  The agent signaled for her to walk through the metal detector and join him in the screening station on the other side. “Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked, careful to keep an innocent smile pasted on her lips and her voice even. A well-placed grin or a friendly remark had always warded off this dreaded level of scrutiny before.

  “You realize that sharp objects and knives are prohibited in carry-on luggage, don’t you?” He said it with a patronizing tone as he pointed to the sign making the logical prohibition abundantly clear.

  “Of course, Officer—” She searched for his name tag, but had no luck.

  “Then”—he reached into her black student’s bag, a vestige from her Columbia University days, and pulled out the container of her instruments—“what exactly are these?”

  Knowing how bad they looked, Alex tried to stay as calm as possible. “Appraiser’s tools.”

  The agent fanned the items out on the inspection table. “They look like weapons to me.”

  Alex remained silent, realizing that any defense or explanation she might offer would only ignite the situation. The wrenches, the brushes, the magnification equipment, and the pliers were tiny—indeed, she’d made certain that they fell within the allotted seven-inch limit—but they did look unusual and ominous.

  “You can check these items, but you cannot carry them on board.”

  “No—” Too late, she realized that her protest was too vehement.

  “No?” He arched an eyebrow. Sweeping the tools into his meaty palms, he began walking toward the collection bin for banned items. “Okay, you’ve made your choice. I’ll just confiscate them instead.”

  Alex knew that confiscation meant destruction. “Please don’t take them. I need this equipment for a project appraising medieval relics for a church in Ireland, and I can’t risk their getting lost in the baggage check. I swear they’re just tools.”

  He looked her up and down, trying to squeeze her into some profile and realizing that a tall, blond, Caucasian woman in her early thirties simply did not fit the bill. “Do you have any proof?”

  “Yes,” Alex said. She dug out a business card identifying her as an appraiser of medieval religious artifacts, the letter of commission for her current project, and a completed appraisal for a related project that she thought might prove useful. The latter contained her full academic résumé as well as her photograph.

  The agent stared at the papers, unsure of what to make of her credentials or the detailed description of a ninth-century Germanic chalice. He lumbered off to consult his boss. She watched as they studied her tools and measured each instrument against the seven-inch standard.

  Please God, please God, please God, don’t let them take my instruments, Alex chanted to herself. She knew it was risky—not to say foolhardy—to insist on bringing equipment on her trips. But she’d used these tools for all her appraisals since finishing her doctorate, and she’d experienced an unusual amount of success with them. She was too self-confident to attribute her success wholly to her instruments, but she was just superstitious enough to refuse to leave them behind.

  The agent returned. Although he had broad authority to seize any object he deemed suspicious—and her instruments were certainly more suspect than the average nail scissors—he slapped a fluorescent pink label on her bag instead. “You can keep the tools in your possession until you get on board. Then you have to turn them over to the staff to keep in a locked closet until you land,” he said, as he typed her particulars into a computer.

  Alex didn’t really exhale until she reached the gate for her Aer Lingus flight. She settled into an isolated seat near the windows, and, still clutching her worn bag like a life preserver, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  She opened them to a jam-packed tarmac. A veritable United Nations of airplanes—emblazoned with the white-on-red cross of Swiss-air, El Al’s Star of David, and the bright green shamrock of Aer Lingus, among them—jockeyed for positions. By now, Alex had seen similar sights hundreds of times as she jetted off for her work, but it never failed to infuse her with anticipation over the possibility of fresh discoveries.

  After a moment of indulging in the view, Alex reimmersed herself in her work. Always work. She unzipped her bag and slid out photographs from a hand-labeled manila envelope. She’d reviewed them in the office, of course, but she wanted one last look in the natural light.

  The amateur pictures, with grainy color and poor lighting, showed three liturgical vessels of obvious antiquity: a chalice; a paten, or communion plate; and a rectangular reliquary box. Even the amateur photography couldn’t mask the beauty and rare craftsmanship, not to mention the intrinsic value of the gold, silver, and inlaid gems. The owner of the items—a small convent in the countryside near Dublin—believed the relics to be very old, from the sixth century perhaps, but solving the riddle of the pieces’ exact age and value was her task. Her privilege, she always told her clients.

  The boarding announcement sounded, and Alex gathered up her things. As she shuffled the photos back into a pile, a close-up of the reliquary box caught her attention. She brought it near the window to better capture the dimming daylight and drew her magnifying glass close. The reliquary box
, designed to hold the physical relics of a saint, had a sumptuous gold overlay of a cross bearing the symbols of the authors of the Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—in the corners and the Virgin Mary at the center. Alex sensed some discordant element in its design, though she couldn’t quite place a finger on it.

  The second call for boarding crackled over the speaker. Reluctantly, Alex slipped the pictures back into the envelope, zipped up her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. Leaving New York behind her, she boarded the plane.

  iv

  DUBLIN AND KILDARE, IRELAND

  PRESENT DAY

  The plane took a sudden dip in altitude, jolting Alex awake from a surprisingly deep sleep. She slid open the window shade and gazed out. The plane hovered at the cloud line, a nether place between sky and earth. Until it took another dive.

  They plunged through the cloud layer and entered a world of blackened skies. Alex stared down at the dark chop of the Irish Sea and waited for the first sight of the coast. One more cloud strata, and she saw it. Huge jetties darted out from the craggy shore, braving the rough force of the sea. An incongruous blend of tidy white housing developments and rugby pitches and the crumbling remains of stone structures—both lavish and humble—decorated the shoreline. She loved coming here, and not just because it served up such a rich array of ancient artifacts.

  Finally, finally the airplane touched down, and the landing bell rang with a soft ping. The tired passengers launched themselves into the aisles and reached for the overhead compartments. After working her way through immigration and customs, Alex got into the car waiting to take her to Kildare.

  The car wove through Dublin’s packed morning rush hour, a far cry from the few workaday cars that had trickled into the city center when Alex had first started coming to Ireland years earlier, before the days of the Celtic Tiger. Once clear of the city and its sprawling suburbs, they entered the verdant terrain of most Irish-American fantasies. Sheep and horses dotted the lush countryside, especially when they approached the famous Curragh Racecourse, and the villages provided charming pubs aplenty. But Alex knew that the fantasy—if it had ever really existed—began to disappear when the Irish economic boom changed the traditional landscape.

  The car pulled in at an orderly, picturesque town square, which announced itself as the center of Kildare. The driver, who’d been chatting amiably throughout the ride, pointed to a weather-beaten limestone church sitting on a rise above the square, calling it Saint Brigid’s. From her window, Alex studied the church’s massive central tower, which rose above an impressive nave with double defensive arches, and its attractive green, containing one of Ireland’s famous round towers of disputed sixth-century origins. She remembered reading about the on-site remains of Saint Brigid’s Fire House, thought to be a pagan sacred fire structure Christianized by Brigid herself.

  She’d started to gather up her things when the driver said, “Wait a second, luv. Do you want Saint Brigid’s Cathedral or Saint Brigid’s Church?”

  Alex was perplexed. “I don’t know.”

  “Ah, it’s a common enough source of confusion.” He pointed to the imposing structure she’d been examining through the window. “That’s Saint Brigid’s Cathedral. It actually sits on the land Brigid developed, but it’s run by the Anglicans. The Church of Saint Brigid is around the corner, and it’s run by the Catholics.”

  Her client was a convent, so Alex guessed: “I believe I need the church.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go, luv.”

  He drove around the square and down a small hill. Alex thought how the distance between the Anglican church and its Catholic counterpart was short in length but long in grandeur. The Catholic Saint Brigid’s bore the familiar hallmarks of post–Vatican II architectural overlay—with none of the majesty and historical punch of the cathedral.

  Alex gave the driver instructions to drop her bags at the Silken Thomas Inn and got out of the car. Immediately, she drew her coat around her like a protective blanket against the cool drizzle and wind. The harsh weather made her glad that she’d worn wool slacks, a sweater, and boots.

  Before she even reached the church’s front doors, an older woman wearing the unmistakable black garb of a nun raced out onto the street to greet her. Sticking out her hand, she shook Alex’s hand with a firm grip. “Sister Mary Kelly.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sister Mary. I’m Alexandra Patterson.”

  “Good to meet you, Miss Patterson. I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s talk while we walk, all right?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for Alex’s response before marching off. “Do you know much about our Brigid, dear?”

  Alex’s work mandated that she have at least a decent grasp of most saints’ biographies. She had found, however, that if she allowed her clients to share their stories first, she learned more about the speaker and the pieces she’d come to assess than if she admitted her knowledge from the start. “Just a bit.”

  “Good. Where to start, where to start. The Brigidine legends just abound, liberally, and often incorrectly, mixed in with historical facts, of course. We believe she was born in the middle of the fifth century. Her father was pagan, and her mother Christian, but Brigid embraced Christianity from the start. Some say Saint Patrick himself baptized her.” Sister Mary paused in her words but not her walking, clearly awaiting a reaction.

  “Really?” Alex obliged.

  “Really. Well, her father wanted her to marry, but Brigid would have none of it. She was determined to become a nun, and after taking her vows, she traveled the countryside, converting people as she went. Eventually, she settled in Kildare and built an abbey right here in town. Although our church is not built on the site of her abbey—the Protestants absconded with her actual lands some time ago, so the abbey remains are found at the Anglican Saint Brigid’s Cathedral.” Sister Mary sighed. “Brigid’s one of the great Catholic saints, and she helped Christianity take hold in Ireland.”

  “So I understand,” Alex said. Sister Mary seemed to want validation.

  “Bet you wonder why we’d even consider selling her precious artifacts?”

  “There’s no need to explain, Sister Mary. Our clients have their reasons, and that’s not our business or our concern.”

  “Ah, but I should tell you. I need to tell you.” She broke from her brisk pace and looked at Alex. “People are always demeaning Saint Brigid and her very real miracles and contributions by trotting out the fantastical legends about her—that she turned water into beer for her visitors, or hung her cloak on a sunbeam, or made animals do her bidding. Whether you believe the old tales about Brigid’s miracles or not, we want the people to know that early Irish Christianity had at least one very impressive woman: Brigid. So we’re selling the relics as a necessary measure to combat patronizing talk about a formidable Catholic saint. To ensure that the message is properly delivered and widely disseminated, we need to do it ourselves.”

  “And you need money for that undertaking. Hence the sale of the relics.”

  “Exactly. Money that Rome isn’t exactly clamoring to hand over to our Order of Saint Brigid. Even though Rome’s got money aplenty for other projects.” Sister Mary nodded with satisfaction. “I can see I won’t have to explain things twice to you.”

  Sister Mary led them into a small, nondescript building adjacent to the church. The quiet weekday morning found the church community center empty and peaceful, though postings on the bulletin boards showed it to be a bustling neighborhood hub for the older set, at least. Reaching for the jam-packed key ring at her waist, she unlocked one of the front doors and motioned for Alex to follow her inside.

  The center had that musty, institutional smell that immediately conjured up Alex’s childhood trips to the Sisters of Mercy convent, where her aunt lived. As a child, she’d been scared by the convent’s dark wooden images of Jesus on the Cross, the saints, and the Virgin, but as a young adult, she’d grown intrigued. She’d begun to see sacred images as imbued with a sor
t of power. Not religious power, nor miraculous properties: the secular nature of her childhood home—Protestant father and Catholic mother turned Christmas Christians—made her too skeptical for such belief. No, she began to believe that the images held historical mysteries that she could draw out. And since grad school, she’d built up a track record proving just that point.

  The nun continued talking as she unlocked her office door. Alex liked the tenacity and bullishness of Sister Mary; no passive, “will of God” religiosity for her. “The relics have been kept by our order for well over a thousand years. We don’t know for certain the exact year Brigid entrusted them to us, but our oral tradition tells us that we have protected the pieces since at least the ninth century, when a Viking fleet of thirty vessels sailed up the river Liffey to raid the Abbey of Kildare. We buried them deep in the root system of the famous oak tree at the center of the abbey.”

  Alex waited while the nun genuflected before a small Madonna shrine in the office’s back corner; then she sat in the indicated chair on the visitors’ side of the desk. As soon as it was seemly, she whipped out her notebook and began scribbling down the artifacts’ provenance. “How long did your order hide them under that tree?”

  “The abbey was attacked by the Vikings at least sixteen times before the year 1000. They took anything that looked valuable—covered in precious metals or stones, that is—and destroyed the rest. Since the Vikings were largely illiterate, that meant burning the countless manuscripts stored at the abbey after they ripped off the ornamental covers, among other things. So, for safekeeping, Brigid’s artifacts remained under the abbey’s oak tree until the final defeat of the Vikings, around 1014. At that time, our order determined that the relics could be safely used in the Mass and displayed as an emblem of the Celtic independence and triumph over the loathed Vikings. And we did, for over a century, at least.”